The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  Termini, Rome.

  Frankie sat in the back of a taxi - alone. She had followed Aldo through the twisting back alleys until they emerged on to a bright main street. He had stepped out into the traffic and flagged down a cab. She had climbed into the back seat and shuffled over to let him in, but Aldo had slammed the door then turned and ran. She tried to get the door open to follow him, but the driver had already pulled away. By the time he stopped and demanded to know what she wanted, Aldo had already disappeared. She gave the driver a destination and sat back.

  A strange feeling knotted her insides and filled up her consciousness, like some black beast hiding in the darkness. A single thought imprinted in her mind.

  The taxi dropped her off by the Spanish Steps. She flitted through the backstreets, putting distance between her and her last known position. She eventually found a small hotel off the tourist track. The man on the desk eyed her suspiciously but seemed to have no problem accepting cash. She paid him in US dollars. The money disappeared straight into his pocket.

  The room was surprisingly neat and functional, with a single window looking out on to the street. She walked over and peered out. It was already late, and the streets below were deserted. The last few hours seemed like a blur. Her gut was still a tight knot. That single thought still in her mind - Joseph.

  Had he escaped? She knew he could take care of himself, when pushed. She imagined him wandering the streets alone. A vision of him appeared in her head, and something stirred inside that troubled her.

  She was worried about him. Why not? He was in danger. He was a friend, a good man - a priest. But a small voice at the back of her head, a voice she knew well, was telling her something different. A vision of her friend, Sami, popped into her head. Sami could always read her like a book, as if she could tap in directly to that voice. And Sami was looking at her now and giving her that knowing look.

  Blanchet sat at a corner table shoveling Linguine alle Vongole into his mouth. He was not particularly hungry, but he understood the soldier’s need to take on energy reserves. They were in a small trattoria on the corner of Via Palestro, close to where they had lost the woman and the priest. He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. “Any word?”

  Marco, sat on the other side of the table, his cellphone to his ear. He shook his head. “Hey Luigi,” he spoke into the phone, “have you seen Gino? I thought he was right behind us when we climbed out of the sewer.”

  “No, we have been looking for him,” the man on the other end of the phone said. “Toni thinks he stayed in the sewer. Gino was behind us down there. Maybe he saw something? Anyway, I have sent Toni to look for him.”

  “Okay, call me when you find him.” Marco shook his head and put the phone on the table. “That brother of mine, I will swing for him one of these days.”

  “We don’t have time to go chasing after your wayward brother. He’s probably in some bar or chasing one of his endless string of women. We have to find the priest and the woman. I need every man you have out there looking.”

  “That is what we are doing. I have people in all the train and bus stations and all the airports, as well as eyes and ears on the streets. We are totally covered. Have no worries. We will find them.”

  Blanchet poured himself a glass of wine. He did not offer any to Marco. “There’s a big bonus in this for you, if you find them.” He took a large swig from his glass and looked across at Marco, the smirk a little more pronounced. “When you find them.”

  Marco’s phone buzzed on the table top. He picked it up and checked the caller ID.

  “Luigi, tell me.”

  The knuckles on the hand holding the phone whitened visibly as his grip tightened. He listened to the caller without speaking, then hung up. His eyes were suddenly wet.

  “What is it?” Blanchet asked. “Have they found them?”

  Marco shook his head. “They found Gino. He is dead. His neck was broken.”

  “Oh man, I’m sorry.”

  “Toni thought he stayed down in the sewer. He went after something. It had to be the priest. He took out Carlo back in the Church, and now Gino.” Marco slammed a hand onto the table, splattering Blanchet’s wine over the red and white tablecloth. “I am going to find that son of a bitch, and when I do, I will cut him into little pieces.”

  “Marco,” Blanchet looked at him across the table. “Let’s get paid first.”

  53

  Rome, Italy.

  Fagan had jogged for what seemed like an age through the sewers. Eventually, he had found another service tunnel. This time the manhole cover had shifted, and he had slipped out into a back alley. He had no idea where he was.

  He had flitted through the back streets and alleys, putting as much distance between him and Blanchet as he could. At one stage he had climbed on a bus and sat at the back watching through the window as it made its way through the lesser known parts of the city. When the bus had gone as far as it could go, he had got off and found this small bar down a side street.

  He sat at a table in the corner. A Luca lookalike came out from behind the bar. He was short, slightly round and he had a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. It was like Luca standing in front of him. Fagan brushed aside the vision and ordered a small jug of house red wine. Luca would have approved.

  Too many things were tumbling through his head, too many emotions tugging at his heart. Another man’s life taken. Would it never end? And Frankie, that was the most troubling emotion of all.

  In some small way, he knew that getting on that bus and letting it take him as far away from her as possible, was something inside him telling him what he must do. Was it fear? Was it guilt? Or was it something else? Whichever it was, now was not the time to dwell on it. He had to believe that Aldo would take care of her, that they would disappear into the shady underworld that it seemed, all of Walter’s friends inhabited. He would get Walter to make contact as soon as he saw him.

  Besides, Frankie could take care of herself.

  The barman appeared and placed a small earthenware jug on the table. Fagan filled his glass. He was glad of the distraction, but he still couldn’t shake the image. A face, clear in his mind, at the top of the steps outside Aldo’s, the scar like an ugly black slash under the subdued light of the street lamp. It was like his two separate lives were joined together by this man. Starting from the day the CIA had come calling.

  He was flattered at first. They had special work, needing his special skills. It was sanctioned directly by the President. He would be serving his country in its most dire hour of need. They courted him, flattered him, told him he was the best - and he was. This was the start of the blank space in his military history.

  The job was quite simple - take out the enemy, wherever they were. He was good at it.

  In the early days, he didn’t think about it. He was doing this for his country, an essential and necessary task. But things change.

  He remembered when he had first joined the military. He had been so proud taking his oath.

  To defend the constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  But nothing stays the same. Things did change. It seemed he had gone from proud soldier to simple assassin without noticing, removing whoever his boss decided. In the aftermath of 9/11, the enemies had multiplied. And in his own particular line of work, those enemies were increasingly domestic. The powers above him defined who the enemy was.

  But whose enemy?

  He had tried to not think about the targets, though that was becoming increasingly difficult. Then came the last hit, a man who had served his country on many foreign battlefields and in the corridors of the Pentagon. Fagan knew him. Admiral Abraham Lancaster had pinned the Navy SEAL Trident on his chest. The man was a legend amongst the SEALs, all of his men would have gladly followed him into hell, and Fagan was no exception.

  He had stood in the kitchen of ‘Abe’ Lancaster’s Georgetown townhouse, pointing a gun at him. The Admiral had lived alone since his wife
died and there were just the two of them in the house.

  ‘So it’s come to this.’ The Admiral had poured himself a drink. ‘I don’t suppose you want one of these.’ He had sipped at his bourbon. ‘It’s Fagan, isn’t it?’

  Fagan was staggered that he remembered him.

  The Admiral had shaken his head. ‘Don’t worry, son, you’re following orders, they don’t tell you why. Hell, I never explained any of the orders I gave.’ He had swallowed the last of his bourbon and placed the glass on the kitchen counter. ‘Okay soldier, I’m ready. I always stayed loyal to my oath, and so should you. Do your duty.’

  ‘Sir, this isn’t right. I’ve never questioned an order in my life, but I can’t do this.’ He had holstered his gun. ‘Maybe I’ll have that drink now.’

  The Admiral had poured them both a generous shot and held up his glass. ‘The only easy day was yesterday,’ he said quoting the SEALs unofficial motto. They had clinked glasses and sunk the bourbon in a single swallow.

  ‘They’ll send someone else after me.’ the Admiral had said. ‘But you, you’re a bigger problem. They’ll not forgive you for this.’

  ‘I know that, but I’ll take my chances. I guess I knew this moment was coming. I’ve known for a long time. I’ve been following orders but not following my oath. It’s time for things to change.’

  The Admiral had held out his hand. ‘Good luck, son. And thanks.’

  Fagan could remember his grip to this day.

  He had taken a risk going back to his apartment, but he figured he had a little time. As it turned out, he was wrong. Blanchet was waiting for him. He had been fast in those days but so was Blanchet. He had taken a bullet in his right lung, but he had left Blanchet lying on the floor, his face a bloody mess. He had thought he was dead. He should have taken the time to make sure, but all he cared about was getting out. And that’s what he had done.

  He had arrived on Willam’s doorstep, bleeding to death and William had taken him in. That day, one life ended, and another began.

  But it wasn’t easy. They were looking for him, the CIA, Homeland Security, it seemed like he was more wanted than Osama Bin Laden. William had told him he had discovered there was one man in particular who had turned up in all the places he had been, someone who seemed determined to find him. William had shown him a photograph. The wound had healed, and the scar and the now characteristic smirk were in place. It was Blanchet, and he was very much alive.

  At the time, going after Blanchet was not an option, though every urge and fiber in his body wanted that. But there were too many people out there looking for him. He needed to disappear. So he had followed William’s plan. It was a hell of a plan. He had joined the Seminary.

  He tried to focus his mind on William. What had really happened to him? He knew William was a fit man, he had no history of heart disease, and if Blanchet was involved, then nothing was as it seemed. But subtlety was not Blanchet’s strong suit. A bullet in the head was more like his signature.

  If someone had murdered William and made it appear like a heart attack, it had to be someone closer to home, someone with direct access. Father Brennan had already warned that William had enemies inside the Vatican. Fagan had his list of suspects for that.

  Was that where De Vaux came into it? Fagan had seen people like him before. People who believed that money and power gave them the right to take whatever they liked, to exploit the weak, trample on their lives, their dreams. These people believed they were untouchable. Bullies, whether it was in the schoolyard or in the big wide world, pushing people around. But inevitably, one day someone would push back.

  Fagan sat contemplating his wine. He reached up and touched the Roman collar at his throat. He had tried so hard to be faithful to it, to honor it. But what he had done in the last few days meant he no longer had the right to wear it.

  He pulled the collar free and dropped it on the table in front of him. What he had to do next would be the old Joe Fagan, not the priest. This was a fight they had started, but unless God struck him down along the way, it was a fight he was going to finish.

  54

  The Palace of the Holy Office, Rome.

  St. Peter’s square was packed with weeping mourners, well wishers, and curious spectators, as the limousine swept past and turned into the Piazza del Santo Ufficio. It stopped at the main door of the Palace of the Holy Office, and Dominic de Vaux stepped out.

  Cardinal Vogler was waiting for him when he arrived at his office. Julius Mengen closed the door and left them alone.

  “Your Eminence, let me offer my most sincere condolences.”

  Vogler nodded.

  “The Holy Father and I didn’t always see eye to eye,” De Vaux continued, “but he was a good man, and I did understand what he was trying to do. Unfortunately, I did not agree with the price he was prepared to pay.”

  Vogler shook his head. “Many in the Curia shared that view. But he has been taken from us now, and the Church must move on.” Vogler gestured towards an elegant leather backed chair.

  De Vaux sat down and looked across at the Cardinal. “Have you ever considered that maybe God thought he was moving too fast, and decided to call him home?”

  “It is not for us to speculate on such things. The Lord takes according to his own plan.”

  “But he does lay the path for us to follow. And to me that path is clear.”

  De Vaux proceeded to lay out the plan. It was a plan for the scroll. It had little to do with God, and everything to do with Dominic de Vaux.

  “Monsieur de Vaux, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I believe we would be better served to wait until after the Holy Father’s funeral. The end of one chapter so to speak, and the beginning of another.”

  De Vaux studied Vogler across the magnificently carved desk. The elegant woodwork reminded him of the cabinet, somewhere in the Vatican warehouse, ready to house the scroll when it arrived. A simple Trojan Horse, waiting patiently to play its part, while all eyes were on the golden prize.

  “My dear Cardinal, I told you there were others in the Foundation pushing for a more overt approach, an open disclosure. I have to tell you. Their decision has been made. There will be an announcement imminently. The Foundation has already sent your press office the details. I trust the Curia will be prepared for it.

  Venice, Italy.

  Venice appeared like a mirage floating across the lagoon. Fagan had a sudden vision of Luca. They had spent some happy times here. It was Luca’s favorite holiday destination, and he and Walter would often join him for a few days of eating, drinking, and lots of Luca’s philosophy.

  He had spent the night in a small hotel a short walk from the bar he had stopped in, but he had slept little, the same single thought tumbling through his mind - Frankie. But deep down he knew he was right about it. He had to do this on his own.

  The high speed Frecciargento, Silver Arrow, crossed the Via Della Liberta, the road and rail bridge across the lagoon, and swept into Santa Lucia station just before noon. Fagan stepped onto the platform and pulled up the hood of the thick jogging top he wore. He had managed to buy some jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of trainers from a morning market before catching the train. He had dumped his priest’s clothes in a garbage bin down an alley. He could not help thinking that maybe it was an appropriate end for what he had made of that part of his life.

  He made his way to the Vaporetto stop and stepped onboard a water-bus, then sat patiently as it worked its way steadily along the Grand Canal. He got off at the Palazzo Grimani and followed a pathway that took him back from the main canal between the old buildings and across a narrow bridge. The church stood on the other side of a small square, the sun reflecting on its simple, faded pink facade. A memory of Luca tugged at Fagan’s heart, at just the sight of the old place. It was a rather famous church, a painting of it by JMW Turner, hung in the Tate Gallery in London. What Walter had described as ‘His’ house - The Church of San Luca.

  Fagan crossed the small square and entered a m
odern building, jammed into a row of traditional Venetian buildings. The restaurant was on the top floor. Fagan spoke to a waiter dressed in a black and white striped T-shirt. The man nodded then led him out onto a covered roof terrace that looked out over the square and the church beyond. He pointed to where a man and a woman were seated at a table, a bottle of red wine and half filled glasses in front of them. The man wore a broad, black fedora and dark glasses. Fagan walked over.

  “Where did you get that ridiculous hat?”

  Walter looked up and smiled. “Joseph.” He lifted his sunglasses and let his eyes look him up and down. “Dressed for the occasion I see.”

  Fagan looked across at his companion. “Frankie, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Frankie didn’t look happy. “I’m fine. No thanks to you.”

  “Frankie, listen, I couldn’t follow you. They were shooting at me.”

  “And this morning, you went looking for me?”

  “Look, I reckoned Aldo would take care of you. I thought it was for the best.”

  “So you dumped me. And as it turns out, Aldo dumped me too.”

  Fagan flashed a threatening look at Walter. Walter stared into his wine glass.

  “I’m sorry,” Fagan said.

  “Just remember, I am not here for you. One time you might look over your shoulder and find that I have dumped you.”

  An unfamiliar barb poked at Fagan’s gut. He did his best to not let her see it.

  “Joseph, please sit down,” Walter said. “You’re making me nervous. Try the prosciutto. It’s to die for.” Walter poured him a glass of wine. “Children please, let’s just have a pleasant lunch.”

  “How did you find Walter?”

  Frankie sipped her wine and contemplated him. “I am a trained professional, trained in observation.”