The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “Cheers,” she said and took a sip.

  Fagan contemplated his Scotch then looked at her. “So, how do you get hold of a sophisticated bugging device? When I asked Captain Jacquot back in Brest about you, he said it was classified. Who are you, French Security Service?”

  Frankie gave a half smile. “Something like that. But as Captain Jacquot said, that is classified, so let us talk about you. How does a Navy SEAL, a national hero, winner of the Navy Cross, become a Roman Catholic priest?”

  “You’re well informed.”

  “It is what I do.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have all night.”

  “I think we’ve spent enough time talking about me. I’ve got an early start in the morning, and I’m tired. So if you wouldn’t mind getting off my bed.”

  “Father Joseph, we are just getting started. I looked into your background. It was impressive and mystifying. An impeccable military record, then a blank space and nothing. Even I was not able to crack that one.”

  “I prefer to keep it a blank space.”

  “But what is even more intriguing, how someone with a blank space for a past, becomes a Roman Catholic Priest?”

  “I think I told you I’m tired. I suggest that in the morning you go back to Paris and forget all about this.”

  Frankie shook her head. “These people murdered my brother, and I have no intention of letting them get away with it.”

  “I should tell you that Captain Jacquot and I had an interesting chat. He told me about your brother.”

  Frankie’s lips went tight. “You try to be nice to someone.”

  “I’m sorry, but I read the police report. It said your brother was a reformed alcoholic. People fall off the wagon. They do it all the time.”

  “My brother was not an alcoholic.”

  “Why don’t you try telling me the truth? It might help.”

  Frankie seemed to focus on a point somewhere above Fagan’s head. He could see tears glistening in her eyes. “He was not an alcoholic. He chose not to drink.”

  “There’s a big difference.”

  “You have to understand my brother. He was a journalist. About ten years ago, he had been out, a journalist’s lunch. They were celebrating a big story. He had a few glasses of wine but nothing excessive. He was driving home, and a young boy ran out in front of him. The car struck him. The little boy died in Jean-Claude’s arms. From that moment on, Jean-Claude never touched another drop. He blamed himself for the child’s death, even though eyewitnesses reported that the boy had run out into the road without looking. It made no difference. The boy’s death continued to haunt him,” she paused, “for the rest of his life.”

  “What if something made him change?”

  Frankie shook her head emphatically. “Not Jean-Claude. Stubbornness runs in the family.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “The post-mortem blood-tox screen showed his alcohol level was so high he would have barely been able to stand, never mind drive a car.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Simple. You take a rubber pipe and force it between the victim’s teeth to hold the mouth open. The rubber is important, to prevent damage to the teeth. Then you pour the alcohol down the victim’s throat. In this case, it was whiskey, something that Jean-Claude hated, even when he was drinking. You pour it slowly, to prevent the victim from vomiting. You allow the alcohol to absorb naturally into the bloodstream. Once the subject is intoxicated, well . . .” She gave another shrug and blinked back the tears.

  “You seem remarkably well informed.”

  “It is my job.”

  “And that’s classified.”

  Frankie gave him a tight lipped smile.

  “So why would someone do that to him?”

  Frankie stared into her glass. “Jean-Claude was an investigative journalist. It was his life. When he went after something, he never let go. I believe in the end, it is what got him killed.”

  “What was he working on?”

  “Jean-Claude was not one to give too much away. But I know he was working on a story involving the De Vaux International Foundation.”

  “That’s who’s sponsoring the Abbey out on the island. I would have thought the Foundation would be the subject of a glossy magazine, not a major story from a serious investigative journalist.”

  “You would think so, but I know, because Jean-Claude asked me to do some background checks for him.”

  “On what?”

  “Not what, who.”

  Fagan raised his eyebrows.

  “The founder, Dominic de Vaux. Have you heard of him?”

  “Who hasn’t? Billionaire, philanthropist, owner of the largest publication and media conglomerate in the world. He’s made it his life’s work to give all his wealth back. In particular, he’s using the Foundation to rebuild the historical context of the Catholic Church. Preserving ancient documents, relics, restoring churches and holy sites, and along with it, supposedly, the reputation of the Catholic Church.”

  “I suppose you’re a fan.”

  Fagan shrugged. “What do they say? Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

  Frankie gave him a cheeky smile. “Father Joseph, you really are a cynic.”

  Fagan shrugged. “What did you find out about him?”

  “Not a lot. But there are rumors, about how he made his money, his influence in the Catholic Church, but it’s hardly more than gossip.

  “I’m a priest. I’m used to listening to gossip.”

  “He studied at Harvard, after the Sorbonne. He married an American fellow student whose father owned a provincial newspaper and started working for him. His father-in-law died under somewhat suspicious circumstances.

  “De Vaux took over the running of the newspaper, and within a year he had negotiated a takeover by a larger enterprise. Within two years he was running that. It was just the start. Five years later he was the largest newspaper owner in the US, and then not too long after that, the largest in the world. Along the way, he added satellite and cable TV, magazines, software, Internet companies. A few years ago he bought into a small security outfit that was making its name in post war Iraq. No one quite knows why. But that small outfit is now Excalibur Security, the largest private security company in the world, and De Vaux is the chairman.”

  “His own private army,” Fagan said.

  “It gets better. His first wife committed suicide, and he remarried, a French woman, Micheline Dubois, a wealthy socialite, outspoken member of the intelligentsia, and darling of the avant-garde.”

  “Sounds like quite a woman.”

  “Oh, she was. According to the rumors, she gave him a vision and put him in contact with all the right people to make it a reality. Two years later, she was dead from cancer, leaving behind Dominic de Vaux, the enigma.”

  Fagan sipped at his Scotch and thought about it.

  “So, De Vaux has a vision, a billionaire’s vision, and he lives it through his Foundation. What was it about the Foundation that your brother was so interested in?”

  “I don’t know, he never told me. Jean-Claude would never reveal what he was working on until he had double checked, even triple checked, his facts. Especially as often when he published he had to defend it in a libel court.

  “I did some checking through a friend. The last call that Jean-Claude received was from the public phone at the hotel in Le Bouquet, La Belle Bernadette.”

  “And that’s why you were there when I turned up.”

  Frankie nodded. “I spoke to the owner, Sebastian. He knew Brother Thomas. It seems our monk had a little secret. He liked a glass of wine on his way home from choir practice in the town. And the bar of La Belle Bernadette was his drinking place of choice.”

  “Rather a tenuous link?” Fagan shook his head. “So, I come back to my original question. Why did you come after me in Rome?”

  Frankie’s face became serious. “You were in Le Bouquet to investigate the
death of Brother Thomas. Then the monk, Brother Lucien turns up dead. They tried to kill me. It seemed logical you could be next.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I think my friend Luca was next.” He told her quickly about him, but he held back the part about Blanchet. “So,” he said finally. “Are you here to warn me, or to use me as bait?”

  Frankie studied him, a slight smile on her lips. “Father Joseph, you are a very cynical man for a priest.”

  29

  Avignon, France.

  His name was Muhammad. He had worked in wood all his life, as did his father and grandfather. He had learned the skills as a young boy working in their workshop in the back streets of Tehran, and had honed and polished them over the next sixty years, to be what he now was - a master craftsman.

  He was not a good Muslim, not since his wife had died. He prayed only twice a day, though that is not what he told the Imam. He had a weakness for a glass of red wine at the end of a long day, at the little bar just a short walk down the hill. It also provided a brief respite from the loneliness of his empty cottage. The bar owner was a sympathetic soul and told him that Allah would forgive his little indiscretion. Muhammad suspected he had a secret of his own.

  His wife had been French, but she was also a Muslim. They had grown up together in Iran, or Persia as it had been called back then. She had lived across the street. Her parents were teachers. They had not really approved of him, but his wife was a headstrong woman, and she always got what she wanted.

  He and Latifah had married and were happy, but when the Shah fell and the Ayatollah returned and their world changed rapidly, they had left and settled here in France. Life had been good. Allah had smiled on them and granted them a son. He was a good boy, bright and talented. He played the piano, and his mother was convinced that one day he would be a great concert pianist. That was before everything changed.

  He had gone off to the Conservatory full of hope, but what he became was unrecognizable. He had been brought up a Muslim, but one of peace and love, not the nineteen-year-old radical who had quit his college and set out on a new path. Latifah always said he had fallen in with the wrong crowd, despite having Muhammad warn their son of the dangers lurking out there. But it always seemed to Muhammad that the boy was clear on what he wanted. He wanted to go to Iraq to fight the infidel.

  Why Iraq? He had asked his son. There is no love between Iranians and Iraqis.

  We are fighting a common enemy for a common good he had said.

  Less than a month after he left, a man appeared at the door to tell them their son was in paradise. Maybe he was, but his mother was in hell. It broke her heart and sucked the life out of her. Muhammad did not recognize the woman he buried less than six months later.

  He had tried to move on, but it was hard, and maybe it was the glass of wine at the end of the day that helped him along. But he was feeling good tonight. Perhaps it was the extra glass. It had been a bit of a celebration. They had come earlier that day to collect the finished article and paid him in cash, crisp, clean euros. They had inspected his work thoroughly but had been satisfied, even complimented him on his work. It had been a demanding task, precise specifications, intricate workmanship. They had insisted on the best aged oak, which had made him happy. He loved to work with the finest materials. He had carved each piece with delicate care and precision, grooving and jointing. All the pieces had fit together perfectly, as he had expected. Then he had polished it lovingly for hour after hour, until it had reached a soft but fine sheen.

  They had asked for many special features, grooves and recesses cut into the back of the frame. To house specialized security equipment, so they had told him. He had asked if they wanted him to fit the glass, but they had declined. The glass also had to meet specific technical requirements and would be installed by a specialist. They had not told him what it would contain, but it had to be something grand. They had even paid him a bonus, for nothing at all - tell no one, was all they had said. That was easy. He never talked about his work anyway. It was too personal to him.

  His knee was playing up tonight as he hobbled up the slight incline, a dull ache from the onset of arthritis. He felt a little breathless and slightly light headed from the wine. Maybe Allah did not approve after all.

  He was in the narrow lane that ran up to the top of the village, where his workshop stood attached to the small cottage. Car headlights swung into the lane and started up the hill. He did his best to get into the side of the road, but there was no pathway, and each side was lined with high brick walls. He could tell the car was driving too fast. The roar seemed intensified between the walls. He turned to look back. His hand held up in front of his eyes to protect them from the glare of the full on headlights.

  “Idiot,” he called out, but it was a useless gesture.

  Then the fear gripped him, and he turned and tried to run. It was little more than a stagger with his bad leg. A fierce, numbing blow struck him hard in the lower back, and he was flying through the air. For a brief moment he felt nothing, then he hit the ground, and the world exploded in a splintered flash of bright lights and intense pain.

  Thankfully he did not feel the crunching of his bones as the car ran directly over him. It did not stop or even brake, but continued on and disappeared at the end of the lane, leaving Muhammad’s lifeless body laying only yards from his workshop.

  30

  Fiumicino Airport, Rome.

  Fagan sat in the toilet cubicle, praying. Not his usual practice but he had prayed in worse places than this. He had entered the terminal building in casual clothes and a baseball hat, with a small backpack over his shoulder, then made his way directly to the men’s room and locked himself in one of the cubicles.

  He was now dressed in his best priestly garb - waiting.

  He glanced at his watch. Walter had said to stay out of sight until the last minute. This was about no queues and timing. Someone had tried to kill him at the confessional, someone who knew his name, so there was no doubt that it was him they wanted to kill. And presumably, they still did.

  He checked his watch again - time.

  He stood up, flushed the toilet for the benefit of any onlookers, and headed out into the main terminal.

  He approached the check-in desk. There was no one else queuing. He handed over the ticket that Walter had arranged for him to pick up, and his Vatican passport. The woman behind the counter looked at his ticket and frowned.

  “You’re a little late, Father. Technically the check-in is closed.”

  “I’m sorry, I was delayed at the Vatican. I had urgent last minute business with the Holy Father. It’s essential I make this flight.”

  She picked up the phone and gave him her best Customer Service smile. “Don’t worry Father, we’ll get you onboard.”

  A security guard appeared in an electric vehicle and whisked him through security and all the way to the departure gate. The last few people were passing through as they arrived. He thanked the security guard and joined the end of the remaining queue.

  He checked his boarding pass. Walter had worked his cyberspace magic and had bumped him into first class. It was vital that he sat at the front of the plane. He looked up and glanced at a cleaner wielding a mop, just a little way down from the gate. He was a thick set man and now fully concentrated on mopping the floor, but Fagan was sure, at the moment he had looked up, the man had been studying him.

  He made his way on board, and the flight attendant led him to a seat by the window. He stowed his backpack and sat down. He gazed out across the tarmac as the rest of the passengers settled down. One thought in his mind.

  Walter don’t let me down.

  Eventually, the aircraft doors were closed. His cell phone rang, as if on cue. An attendant shook her head and started walking towards him.

  He answered the phone. “What,” he said in an overloud voice. “But I’m on the plane.”

  The attendant reached his seat. “Father, I’m sorry, but you must switch that o
ff.”

  “Young lady I have a Papal emergency.” He pulled out his Vatican passport. I am an emissary of the Holy Father. Unfortunately, I have been recalled urgently to the Vatican.”

  “But Father, we have already sealed the aircraft.”

  “I must speak with the pilot immediately.”

  The woman looked unsure but finally nodded. “Wait here, I’ll speak to him.”

  Moments later the pilot arrived.

  “Captain, I am most dreadfully sorry about this, but I have received an urgent message from the Holy Father himself. I must return to the Vatican immediately. This is a diplomatic emergency. I want to cause you the minimum disruption, but the Vatican will ground this aircraft if it has to. I can call, and you can speak to someone in the Holy Father’s personal office.” He held up his phone.

  The pilot looked at him then at his watch. He shook his head. “That’s alright, Father.” He nodded at the attendant. “Open the door.”

  “God bless you, Captain, I will mention your assistance to the Holy Father when I see him.”

  The pilot cracked a handsome smile. “Then give him my best wishes.”

  Fagan stepped back out on to the jetway, and the door closed immediately behind him. He moved further inside then staggered and grabbed hold of the handrail.

  “Are you alright, Father?” A ground attendant hurried to his assistance.

  “I’m sorry, I came over rather light headed. I received some shocking news.” Fagan leaned against the wall of the jetway and allowed himself to slide down to the floor. “Could you get me some water?”

  “Just rest there, Father, I’ll get a doctor.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Just a little water please.”

  The woman disappeared, and Fagan watched as the aircraft pulled away from the pier.

  Onboard the plane, sitting back in tourist class, one row behind where Fagan’s original seat had been booked, a man pulled out his cell phone and switched it on.