by Neil Howarth
“Oh, God.”
He glanced up towards heaven and muttered an apology, then wound up the throttle and took an immediate right turn. The car screeched around the corner behind him. He made a left, then a quick right and right again. The Vespa maneuvered well but had nothing like the speed of the car, which was catching him every time he hit a straight stretch of road.
Up ahead a group of people were gathering. He knew this street, and what was just beyond. He jammed open the throttle, leaned on the horn and headed straight for them. The people scattered across the street, scrambling to get out of the way. He heard the car behind hit the brakes to avoid them, and Walter took his chance. He did his best to lose some speed then took the scooter straight on to a set of stone steps leading down to the level below, rattling hard across them, almost bouncing off as he went. He was sure the old scooter would shake itself to bits. He hit the bottom, with a thump that strained the ancient suspension to its limits, but miraculously it survived. The scooter wobbled, but Walter managed to keep it upright.
He headed down a side street, the tiny engine screaming. He didn’t look back, just turned at every opportunity he got. He risked a glance behind him. The street was deserted. He appeared to have lost them, but for how long?
He headed west, a particular destination in mind. Expecting at each intersection, the car to scream into view. He crossed the Tiber, feeling at his most vulnerable as he reached the center of the bridge. He made it safely to the other side and parked the scooter in an alley. He was still a mile from his destination, but he was taking no chances.
He climbed off the scooter and stood, clinging on to the wall, his massive frame trembling like the beginning of an earthquake. Come on Walter, no worse than the Gorbals on a Saturday night, he told himself, recalling his youth and his native Glasgow.
He gradually regained control and set off, flitting from doorway to doorway, street corner to street corner, surprisingly nimble on his feet for such a big man. Eventually, he recognized the street he was looking for. Midway along he stopped, descended some steps, and pounded on a door, then kept on banging. Finally, cursing sounded from inside. The door rattled against a chain and opened a crack. A face he recognized peered out.
“Walter, what the fuck? Do you know what time it is?”
“Sorry, to come bothering you at this Godless hour, old son, but I need sanctuary.”
36
Patras, Greece.
The ferry docked shortly before noon. Fagan and Frankie collected their gear and made their way ashore. The bus station was a short walk from the ferry terminal. Fagan bought tickets, and they climbed onboard a battered wreck of a bus and chose a pair of seats near the back. People began getting on, and soon it was more than half full. Eventually, the driver arrived, he climbed into the front seat and started the engine. The old bus shuddered to life and pulled out of the bus station.
Frankie fell asleep immediately, leaving Fagan to contemplate the countryside floating past the window. The road followed the northern coast of the Peloponnese. A steady array of olive trees and pale yellow oleander drifted by, but they soon became a blur.
He didn’t want to be making this journey but Walter was right, he couldn’t stay in Rome. A heap of memories he thought he had buried forever bubbled up from the depths of his past. And out front, crystal clear in his mind, a man with a bullet scar on his cheek, staring right at him - smiling. And with it, a certain realization that he and Blanchet would have to settle their old score before this thing was over.
Frankie grunted beside him. Her head had dropped on to his shoulder. The sweet smell of her perfume drifted over him. Who was this woman? She had barged into his life, seemingly taking control, disturbing all the pieces he had neatly tucked away. Did she affect everyone whose life she swept through? He knew one thing, she wouldn’t be affecting his. He reached out a hand to push her head aside, but her hand came up and rested on his. He looked down, her eyes were closed, but her face was smiling. She opened one eye. “Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“Spending the night with a woman?”
“Why should it?” Fagan said, maybe a little too fast.
“You are a priest, your vow of celibacy.” She opened both eyes and studied his face. “Is that a problem?”
Fagan pushed her gently aside and sat up. “I think we’ve spent enough time talking about me. Why don’t we talk about something else?”
Frankie sat up beside him. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Let’s talk about you.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “If you won’t talk about your classified self, tell me about Jean-Claude. I take it you were close.”
Frankie seemed to consider it for a moment, a slight smile playing on her lips. “He wasn’t just my brother. We were twins - we shared a womb for nine months. That gives you a certain bond. He was five minutes younger than me. I guess I never let him forget it.
“Our father was a Colonel in the French Army. He met our mother when he was stationed in North Africa, they fell in love and were married.
“I think I told you my father was a Jew and my mother was a Muslim. He never converted, but I think my mother was okay with that. I know she loved him very much.
“She died when I was ten. It broke my father’s heart.”
Her eyes glistened with tears.
“Father brought us up, him and a string of nannies. He gave us as much time as he could, but it was hard for him. He really loved us. I know that. He was the one who called me Frankie. He would sing this old American song, Frankie and Johnny, especially for me and Jean-Claude. I suppose I worshipped him. He died when I was sixteen.” She stared at a spot above Fagan’s head, giving herself a moment.
“When we were at school, and we were in many, I was usually the one defending Jean-Claude. In fights, that is. We were seen as half-breeds, mulattos, which made me fight even harder. I always tried to take care of him, except for the one time he needed me most.” She smiled at some distant memory. “When we were young we always wanted to save the world. But Jean Claude was always a gentle soul. Someone who believed deeply in justice.”
“And you?”
“I suppose I wanted to be like my father. But back then women soldiers had somewhat limited opportunities.”
“So you decided to become a spy.”
Frankie shrugged. “There have always been female spies.”
“Mata Hari?”
“I always thought more along the lines of Violette Szabo.”
Fagan smiled. “Carve Her Name With Pride.”
“You know your spies.”
“I like old movies.”
The bus terminated at Kiato on the Gulf of Corinth. From there, they were able to take a train directly to Athens airport. They arrived barely in time to check in. They had only carry-on luggage, so they grabbed their boarding passes and headed for the gate. As they hurried through the terminal, Fagan tried calling Walter, but he only got a message saying the number was unavailable.
Walter - don’t go AWOL on me now.
He sent a hurried text message - ‘Call me!!’
The flight was uneventful, and they landed smoothly at Ben Gurion airport two hours later.
Fagan stood in the queue at passport control. He knew that all uses of Vatican passports were reported back to the Vatican authorities, so he used his US passport, entering as plain Joe Fagan. Tourist.
Fagan smiled at the woman behind the counter. She didn’t smile back. She studied his face and the screen in front of her. She tapped away on the keyboard. Fagan hoped she didn’t notice the unusual amount of sweat on his face. Eventually, she stamped the separate immigration form he had opted for, to prevent an Israeli stamp in his passport.
Frankie was waiting as he emerged.
“No problems?”
“Everything was fine,” Fagan said.
They made their way out into the crowded terminal. A tall, good looking man with dark curly hair, stepped
out of the crowd and swept Frankie up into his arms. He swung her around while Frankie laughed wildly. Something stirred inside Fagan as he looked on, something that disturbed him. Frankie had said she was calling a friend from Athens airport, someone who could help them. He found himself wondering what kind of friend.
“Ari,” Frankie called out breathlessly. “You are a sight for my very tired eyes. How are Sami, and the children?”
“They are well and are dying to see you.”
Frankie turned to Fagan. “Joseph, this is my great friend, Ari.” She turned back to Ari. “Joseph here, is actually Father Joseph Fagan, personal friend to the Pope himself.”
“I am impressed.” Ari gave him a firm handshake.
Fagan did his best to smile. “You have to forgive her.”
“Oh, I do, all the time.”
Frankie slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Ari is married to a Palestinian, so he knows about religious and political obstacles in life.”
Ari laughed. “Take no notice of her. My wife is as bad as her. Come on, I have a car outside.”
Ari and Frankie headed out, chatting together animatedly. Fagan followed behind, a troubled look on his face as he recognized what had stirred inside him.
37
Tel Aviv, Israel.
Ari’s car was parked out front on a double yellow line. He was obviously a man with clout. As Fagan climbed into the back seat, Ari had his arms around Frankie in the front. Fagan tried to look away but Frankie turned before he could. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Ari looked up catching Fagan’s gaze.
“Excuse us, Jean-Claude was my friend too.”
Fagan suddenly remembered Frankie’s brother.
Ari let her go and started the car. He drove them to a pleasant suburb with rows of white houses and well tended gardens. He turned in to one of the driveways, kiddies’ bikes were abandoned in front of them. As they climbed out of the car, the front door of the house opened and a tall, slim woman, with long dark curly hair, bounded out. She grabbed Frankie in a bear hug, and the pair of them leaped around the driveway screeching and hugging. Finally, they settled down, and the woman’s face became serious.
“Frankie, I was so sorry to hear about Jean-Claude.”
Frankie nodded, struggling to hold it together.
Ari wrapped his arms around the two of them. “I have such happy memories of him. Every time I came to Paris, he always took me to such great restaurants. He was such good company, and he had such crazy friends.”
Frankie’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Yes, they were the craziest.”
“Frankie.” The woman spoke, looking across at Fagan and then back at Frankie. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“I am sorry. Joseph, this is my longtime best friend, Sami.” She looked back at Sami who had a wide smile plastered across her face. “Sami, may I introduce Father Joseph Fagan.”
Sami tried her best to hold it, but the smile seemed to solidify on her face. Frankie burst out laughing. “Sorry to disappoint you.” She turned to Fagan. “Sami is always trying to marry me off.”
They moved into the house and Sami took Frankie off to see the children who were already in bed.
“Beer?”
Fagan looked up at Ari, who was holding out a bottle.
“Thanks.” The bottle was ice cold and the beer deliciously refreshing.
“So how long have you known Frankie?” Ari appeared a little uncomfortable.
Fagan wasn’t sure how much Frankie had told him.
“Let’s see what day is it - Tuesday. Almost a whole week.”
Fagan grinned, and Ari smiled nervously. They made stilted small talk before Frankie arrived to save them.
Sami served them her homemade Hummus and warm pitta bread, while she disappeared into the kitchen to prepare the main course. Ari handed out more cold beers, and they sat on the sofa, drinking straight from the bottle.
He looked across at Frankie. “I did some checking on your friend, Brother Thomas,” Ari said. “Apparently he was a regular visitor, or should I say visiting academic, to the École Biblique in Jerusalem.”
“Any idea what he was doing there?” Frankie asked.
“Among other things, he was an expert on the Qumran scrolls, the Dead Sea scrolls as many call them.”
“Is that what he was working on?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is it possible for us to go there?” Fagan asked. “Maybe we could talk to someone who knows what Brother Thomas was actually doing.”
Ari nodded. “I have a contact. I will get in touch with him first thing in the morning. See if he can arrange something.” Ari took a slug of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “On the phone you mentioned the De Vaux Foundation. I did some checking on them. They are big donors to the Ecole Biblique. But I had a friend ask around a bit, on the inside of that world. See if he could find any dirt. What he had to say was quite interesting.” Ari seemed to ponder the thought for a moment. “There is a rumor. It is just a rumor. And I must stress, even though they are primarily a Christian organization, and this is a Jewish country, they seem to have the support of a lot of some very important people here. So I would recommend you tread carefully.”
Frankie smiled. “Come on Ari. My beer is getting warm.”
“Well, the rumor is, the Foundation have a little side line going on. It seems they are involved in illegal smuggling of religious artifacts out of the Holy Land.”
“Nice one,” Frankie said.
“Is it rumor, or is it gossip?” Fagan shook is head. “The De Vaux Foundation is an internationally respected body, one of the world’s leading authorities and restorers of religious antiquities. Smuggling is hardly their style.”
“I don’t know,” Frankie said. “I am sure Dominic de Vaux would not be above that. A man like him is used to getting what he wants.”
“Do you think that was what Jean-Claude was investigating?” Ari said.
“Religious artifact smuggling would fit, and maybe explain why he had to be really sure of his facts before he said anything about it.”
“But even if your brother had published, so what?” Fagan said. “Embarrassing for a prestigious organization — yes. A few red faces, some abject apologies, a few dismissals, and some more Foundation money spread around. In a week or two, it would be all forgotten. Hardly something to kill for.”
Ari had a thoughtful look on his face. “I guess it would depend on what you are smuggling.”
Sami arrived with the food and placed steaming dishes on the table. The aroma was wonderful.
“Sami is absolutely my all time favorite cook,” Frankie said as they sat down at the table. “And this is her piéce de resistance, Maftoul.” She indicated a large steaming dish. “Rolled balls of steamed bulgar wheat, served with the most incredible lamb stew and chickpeas. I can assure you it is delicious.”
Frankie was right, and Fagan was starving. He demolished his serving and allowed Sami to serve him seconds. He polished the plate again before he declared he couldn’t manage another morsel.
Afterward, Ari served an excellent Cyprus brandy. While he, Sami, and Frankie, talked about old times. Sami and Frankie had a tearful moment recalling Jean-Claude, and the three of them burst into laughter.
Frankie smiled through her tears across at Fagan. “Sorry, you must think we are crazy.”
Fagan shrugged. “Well.”
“And he would be right,” Sami called out.
“So how did you guys all get together?” Fagan asked.
“Sami and I worked together in Paris,“ Frankie said.
“Fellow spies?” Fagan asked.
“We worked on the Middle East desk. Ari was seconded in from Tel Aviv.” She raised her eyebrows. “The subject of much speculation.”
“Yes, was he married?” Sami giggled.
“Sami’s friend, Marise, was the office matchmaker, she set it all up. She had seen Jean-Claude come and pick m
e up a few times. She knew he was my brother. She planned that Sami and Jean-Claude would match up and Ari and I would get together. Only I already knew that Jean-Claude was more interested in a boy called Pierre who worked in his office. And Ari had already fallen head over heels in love with Sami, but was too shy to say anything.”
“He still is.” Sami laughed, and Ari flashed her a dumb smile. She caught Frankie’s eye then glanced across at Fagan, a broad smile on her face. “What was it that Marise used to say?”
Frankie gave her a questioning look, then suddenly shrieked. “No, you are not telling that.”
“Come on.” Ari goaded her on. “What did she used to say?”
Sami had a grin on her face. “What was it now? All the best looking men are either gay or priests.”
For a moment no one said anything. Fagan studied the bottom of his glass. He glanced up at Frankie. She looked embarrassed.
Ari broke the awkward silence. “Really?” he called out to his wife.
“Never fear, darling.” Sami moved quickly on. “Marise forgot the last part. - or married.”
“You just saved your own life.” Ari wagged a finger, and they all burst out laughing.
“Dear Jean-Claude, I miss him every day.” Tears spilled out on to Frankie’s cheeks. She dabbed at them with a tissue and stood up. “I am sorry, I am a little tired. I think I will say goodnight.” She hugged both Ari and Sami, then Sami led the way upstairs to the top floor where she pointed out rooms on opposite sides of the landing.
Sami held up her hands. “I was not sure what arrangements. . .”
The two of them burst into girlish giggles.
Fagan interrupted. “I’ll say goodnight, and thank you once again, Sami, for a wonderful meal.”
Fagan took the room nearest. He could hear them whispering excitedly as he closed the door. He leaned with his back against it and recalled the feeling that had disturbed him back at the airport. It had only been a brief pang, in the instant that Ari had swept her into his arms. But he recognized it just the same, the curse of Jezebel - jealousy.
