The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “You know him?”

  “Joe Fagan? You might say so.” Blanchet let his finger play along the scar on his cheek. “Let’s just say, he and I have some serious history. I often wondered what happened to that sonovabitch.” Blanchet shook his head. “A goddamned priest, hiding in plain sight.”

  “Look, I know about his background, but now he’s just a washed out priest.”

  “Paulo was not the smartest guy on the block, but he knew how to handle himself. Fagan disarmed him and shot him with his own gun. That sounds like the old Joe Fagan to me.”

  “What happened was just a conditioned reflex.”

  “Some reflex, like a cobra striking.”

  “Yes, and what do you do to kill a cobra?” De Vaux gave Blanchet a steely stare. “You cut off its head.”

  “Just be careful it don’t bite you first.”

  “Which is why I hired you. Luckily, Fagan turned up to get on the plane at Fiumicino. So let’s do it right this time. Let’s get him far away from Rome. Once he gets to his destination, you can do with him whatever you wish. After all, Mogadishu can be a perilous place.”

  Blanchet’s expression didn’t change. “I got more bad news on that. I had a call from Dubai when the flight stopped over. Fagan wasn’t on board. It seems he caused some commotion back in Rome just before they took off. He pulled some diplomatic privilege, and they let him off the plane.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Wonderful.” De Vaux shook his head.

  Blanchet didn’t respond.

  “From now on I need you on the ground,” De Vaux said. “I want you to take personal control of this. I need action.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “I suggest you find Joseph Fagan - and kill him.”

  34

  The road south from Rome.

  The traffic was heavy in places, but Frankie weaved the bike skillfully between the slower moving cars and trucks, and when the road opened up she opened up the throttle and sped ahead. Fagan sat behind her and hung on. He felt a strange discomfort in how pleasant it felt.

  They reached Brindisi with an hour to spare.

  “What will you do about the motorcycle?” Fagan said, as Frankie parked it in a side street.

  “It belongs to a friend of mine in Milan. She will report it stolen.”

  It was a short walk to the ferry terminal. Their tickets were waiting at the ticket desk.

  They stood at the rail as the ferry shuddered away from the dock and headed out to sea. Fagan watched as the Italian coast faded into the evening haze. He couldn’t help thinking the cozy cocoon of life he had built over the last few years was fading with it.

  Walter had booked them a cabin. It was a tiny space with a set of bunk beds, a small table, and a built in bench seat.

  “Cosy,” Frankie said.

  Fagan could see Walter’s grinning face. “Someone’s idea of a joke. I’ll see if I can change it.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Why draw attention to ourselves. It is only one night.”

  Famous last words thought Fagan.

  “Hungry?” Frankie asked.

  “Starving.” Fagan realized he was.

  She had bought food and drink at a Deli on the seafront. She unwrapped foil parcels and placed them on the table. There was bread, meats, salad, and cheese.

  Frankie looked up at Fagan, “All kosher, this time.” She poured red wine into plastic cups and picked up a chicken leg. “Bon appetit.”

  Fagan sat down and bowed his head. “Lord, thank you for blessing us with this food, and please protect us on our journey.”

  Fagan looked up. Frankie had a wistful look in her eyes.

  “My Father had a favorite piece of music by Mendelssohn. We played it at his funeral. It was called Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage.”

  Fagan lifted his wine cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Frankie did the same and took a sip. She studied him across the rim of her paper cup. “So, we have a long journey. What are we going to talk about?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your family.”

  “That’s all boring stuff. Now your life, that is much more interesting.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we eat and then get some sleep.”

  “Joseph, you really are no fun. Let me see.” She stroked her chin and smiled. “Why don’t you tell me about you and the big man himself.”

  “You mean God?”

  “Why don’t we start with the Pope?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything interesting about my relationship with William.”

  “First name terms with the Pope. That is pretty interesting for a start.”

  “Not really, I’m friends with William, but when I’m with Pope Salus, the Holy Father, that’s an entirely different thing. Cardinal Vogler told me the William I knew was gone, but that’s not true. He’s still in there, fighting his corner. He cares about the Catholic Church, but he cares more about the people in the world. And that’s why God chose him to be the Holy Father, and it’s a big part of why I’m a priest.”

  “See, now we are getting to the interesting part.”

  “You’re the one who’s been reading my personal files.”

  “The official version. I would prefer the real story from you.”

  Fagan stared into his paper cup, the red wine the color of blood. He wanted to say no, but found himself talking anyway. The confessional, all over again.

  “I was twenty-four years old. I’d just graduated as a Navy SEAL. I was so proud when they pinned that SEAL Trident on me. I was in the middle of group training when things blew up in Somalia. I was shipped straight out. Mogadishu, the capital, was a war zone.

  “As soon as I arrived, I was assigned to an existing team, and we were given our mission. A priest at a Catholic outpost way up country needed to be brought out. Word was, the order had come directly from the President, and he had been asked personally by the Pope himself. This was my first live Op as a SEAL. I was scared, but the adrenalin was pumping, and I couldn’t wait to get out there.

  “We took off in a Black Hawk helicopter, six of us in the team. I was the rookie. They put me by the door. I can remember watching the landscape below us, parched scrub, outcrops of trees and thorn bushes for mile after mile.

  “Then everything happened real fast. I took years trying to reconstruct it in my head. I remember hearing someone shout ‘Incoming’, then a huge bang. It felt like someone had kicked me out of the door. I don’t remember falling, next thing I knew, there was a massive explosion. I opened my eyes, and I was hanging in a tree. A branch had snagged my flack jacket and left me dangling in space.

  “I cut myself free and dropped to the ground. I found the Black Hawk, but it was a blazing wreck. All my team were inside. I tried to get into it but the heat was too intense, and I could see that no one had survived.”

  Fagan paused and sipped his wine. The images were still clear in his head.

  “I tried to activate my GPS locator, but it must have been busted when I landed in the tree. The primary radio was inside the burning helicopter, so I had no means of communications. I suppose I should have found my way back to base. But I was a Navy SEAL, and this was my first Op. There was no way that I was not going to carry it out.

  “I knew I wasn’t far from the Church mission. We’d been making our approach when we were hit. So I relied on my training and tracked it down. It wasn’t difficult. The daylight had gone, but the whole mission and its surroundings were burning. Flames lit it up like some surreal Roman Polanski movie. When I got there, it was like stepping into hell. Bodies were everywhere - then I found the first nun, and then the kids, they’d been hacked to pieces and left there for the dogs to feed on.

  “I remember falling to my knees and throwing up.

  “And then I heard it. Floating in above the crackle of the flames - singing. It seemed far away. It was a hymn, being sung by what sou
nded like a church choir, like the one I had sung in when I was a kid. For a moment I thought I was dead. I hadn’t survived the crash. At any moment a bright light would appear.

  “I staggered to my feet. I might have been one step away from hell, but what I was seeing was real. Then the singing stopped. I remember, I started running around the place like a crazy man, searching in every building. I desperately wanted it to start again as if it was some kind of peace from all the horror that surrounded me. And suddenly it did.

  “All things bright and beautiful.

  “Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can hear it clearly, those beautiful voices, and I can still see the horror.

  “I started running around again. There was a small dirt square surrounded by burning huts, and in the center was a small structure. I’ve dug many of them since. It was a well, and the singing seemed to be coming from inside. I ran over, pulled out my flashlight and shone it inside. It was like an oasis of heaven in the middle of hell. The well opened out like a bell. The dirt floor was dry with a dark hole in the middle. A priest, a youth, and ten little black faces were looking up at me.” Fagan closed his eyes. “It was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

  Fagan took a long gulp of his wine and paused. “That was the first time I met William Tsonga. He was impressive even back then. He’d worked in the Vatican, a golden boy destined for great things, but he had insisted that the Holy Father give him two years in Africa, to allow him to be a priest, just for that short time. After that, he promised he would dedicate himself to the Holy Father’s cause. The Pope agreed.

  “William had been out there at the mission for a year and a half when the world caught fire.”

  “And Navy SEAL, Joseph Fagan, rode in on his shining bright charger and rescued them.” Frankie topped up their wine.

  “More like stumbled in, and crawled out. It took five days, the kids couldn’t move too fast, and they were exhausted by the end. But we finally all made it to the Kenyan border.”

  “And you were the big hero. I read the official report, though I much prefer your version. They gave you the Navy Cross, impressive.”

  “I suspect William had something to do with that. I think the Pope at the time whispered in the President’s ear.”

  “Friends in high places. Now Pope Salus owes you big time.”

  Fagan emptied his paper cup and put it down on the table. “No Frankie, you’ve got that all wrong. I owe him.”

  “But you saved his life.”

  Fagan flashed her a smile. “And he saved my soul.”

  35

  Testaccio, Rome.

  Walter lived across the river from Trastevere in a more affordable part of town. He parked the scooter in the small parking space outside the Deli, directly across from his apartment. The lady who owned the place smiled at him through the window. Walter gave her his papal wave in return. She always seemed to like it, and she continued to let him park there.

  God moved in mysterious ways.

  He crossed the street and took a nervous glance in each direction. Nothing seemed out of place. He climbed the stairs to his shoebox-size apartment on the third floor. It wasn’t much, a single room with a tiny kitchen and an even smaller bathroom with a shower stall and toilet. Walter was always telling people it had been designed explicitly so he could take a crap and shower at the same time.

  The only good thing about the place was the broadband access - top of the range, high speed fiber optic, courtesy of a friend of his who had then made all trace of him disappear from the provider’s customer records.

  He took the laptop out of his shoulder bag and placed it on the desk. He had been to see his friend Aldo. Aldo was a strange guy even in Walter’s eyes. On the one hand, he was a slob, but on the other, he was a computer slob, and a genius to boot. Aldo had given him a piece of software that he swore would allow him to ghost his way into any network.

  He sat down and tapped away at the keyboard, each set of keystrokes going deeper, gradually peeling away the firewalls, one by one, penetrating each layer of security on the De Vaux Foundation network. He tapped in another line then smiled at the result. “Aldo, you’re a genius.”

  Trastevere, Rome.

  The one called Marco crossed the road and got into the car. He looked across at his brother. The remains of the pizza they had shared earlier were smeared across his sibling’s chin, and halfway up his face. “Gino, you’re a mess.” He pushed a paper napkin across to him. “Clean yourself up.”

  His brother started dabbing at his face. “Did you get through?”

  “Cell coverage around here sucks, but the old lady in the Pizzeria let me use her landline. Blanchet is not a happy man, which means he is not happy with us.”

  His brother seemed to flinch at the thought.

  Marco shook his head. “It seems the priest was not on the plane.”

  “What did he do, jump out?” His sibling flashed a white toothed grin.

  Marco clenched his fist and looked at his dumbshit brother. He had promised their dying mother he would take care of him, and he swore to God, one day he would.

  “Blanchet wants us to pay our fat friend a visit, and find out.”

  Testaccio, Rome.

  A small red icon appeared on the screen of Walter’s laptop and began flashing. The building he lived in was old and had very little maintenance done on it. Which meant that almost every floorboard creaked. But Walter wasn’t taking any chances. He had installed a pressure pad on the top step. “Shit,” Walter stared at the flashing icon. No one visited him here - ever.

  Panic rose like a wave inside him, threatening to paralyze him.

  Breathe, Walter old son. Breathe and get the fuck out.

  He forced himself out of the chair and picked up his leather satchel, pushing the laptop inside as he went. He switched out the light and moved over to the window. He used it often to get to the roof, so it opened with hardly a sound. The building had an old fashioned wrought iron fire escape. He placed his satchel on the platform outside the window then pushed his bulbous body through the confined space of the window frame and struggled out. He glanced back inside as he heard a sound.

  Someone was trying the door.

  Below the alley was dark. Too dark for him. He closed the window picked up his satchel and headed upwards. A muffled bang and a clatter told him the door had provided little resistance to his visitors. Walter hurried on.

  A familiar sound floated out of the darkness as he stepped out on to the roof. It was the reason he came up here often. Luigi, the building manager, kept pigeons in a large wooden coop. He allowed Walter to sit up here, listening to their cooing and calling as if they were talking to him.

  He walked forward slowly. The pigeon coop gradually emerged out of the gloom. The birds burst into an excited cackle and cawing as they sensed his presence.

  “Now, now my darlings. It’s Uncle Walter.” He cooed in a gentle whisper as he reached the door and stepped inside, but his heart was racing like a train.

  He continued his gentle banter, calling each one by name, and gradually they settled down to a low level babble. Walter slowly made his way to the back, to a small, doorless storeroom stacked with large bags of seed and a pile of straw. He eased himself inside with some difficulty and lowered his bulk down on to the straw.

  The fire escape ladder rattled. Walter held his breath. Then came the scrape of boots on the roof. The pigeons went crazy, calling and crying. A beam of light from a flashlight played across the interior of the coop, which excited the pigeons even more and they were now flying wildly about the cage, which thankfully obscured Walter, crouching in the tiny compartment at the back.

  The light disappeared, and eventually, the birds quietened down and settled. Walter waited another ten minutes, then struggled out from his hiding place. He didn’t know if the excitement had swollen his blood vessels and hence his body mass, but it seemed tighter getting out of the rear compartment than getting in. He managed to push himsel
f free, like a cork from a bottle, and the birds started up again. He stood there in the darkness in the middle of the coop, waiting for discovery. But eventually the birds settled and he was able to make his way out.

  He crossed the roof, his eyes now accustomed to the dark and found the ladder to the fire escape. He descended slowly, reaching the platform outside his apartment and stopped. Inside, was his life. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he would never see the place again. He was tempted to get back into the room and pack a bag. But it was far too risky. He gave up a silent prayer and made his way down to the street level.

  He stepped down into the alley, and stood in the dark, reluctant to move. He knew he had to, but his feet seemed determined to stay rooted to the spot. He willed his first foot forward and eventually made it to the end of the alley. The street beyond was deserted. He could see his Vespa parked on the far side.

  He took a deep breath and stepped out. He reached the other side of the street without incident and climbed on to the scooter. It still had an old fashioned kick start. “Please, my dearest darling Vespa, don’t let me down.” He kicked down hard. The engine struggled listlessly. Walter glanced around, panic racing through him. A thought seemed to emerge from the chaos that was the inside of his head. Fuel. He had forgotten to switch on the fuel. Joseph was right. It was time to invest in a new one.

  He reached down and turned on the fuel flow then looked up towards the sky. “Lord,” he whispered. “I know I’m a worthless, useless priest, but just this one time.”

  He kicked down hard, the engine caught, faltered, then roared into life. Walter gave up a silent prayer and took off down the side street. At the end, he pulled out on to the main road and glanced in his mirror. A car’s headlights switched on as it pulled out on to the road behind him.