by Neil Howarth
“So how?”
“I remembered the chat room Aldo used to contact Walter. It was a simple matter to put out a call for WeeWilly, especially when it was Gorgeous Gloria calling.” She gave Walter a knowing wink.
Walter looked sheepish and took a large slug of red wine.
The waiter appeared with a basket of assorted breads and a large bottle of San Pellegrino and took their order.
Walter took off his hat and eyed Fagan across the table, his face grave. “Joseph, I was devastated to hear about the Holy Father. I don’t have words to tell you. . .”
“It’s all right. I don’t have the words either.”
“He was a special person. To me, he was the Holy Father, my boss, the leader of our church, but he was your friend.”
Fagan nodded, yes, his friend, and he had let him down. He finally found his voice. “You know he was murdered.”
Walter shook his head. “Joseph, can you be sure about that? I know we all thought he was fit as a butcher’s dog. But . . .”
“No buts Walter. Someone killed him.”
“Will there not be a post mortem?” Frankie chipped in.
“Not a chance,” Walter answered before Fagan could. “The Curia would never allow it.”
Fagan could see the confusion on Frankie’s face. “There is never an autopsy on the Pope. As far as they’re concerned the Pontiff is gone, for whatever reason. They have to concentrate on finding his successor, and there should not be even a whiff of scandal.”
Walter looked like he might add something, but instead, he selected a large chunk of olive focaccia from the bread basket and attacked it as if he had not been fed for a week.
“His Reach-Out program was not popular in the inner circle.” Walter kept on talking through a mouthful of bread. “They found it far too radical, too big a step.” He paused for a swig of his wine. “I’ll guarantee his successor will be much more conservative. Dancing much closer to the puppet master’s tune.”
Frankie’s eyes opened wide.
Walter shrugged. “It’s no great secret. Not if you’re inside the Vatican. There are people in the shadows pulling the strings.”
“As a good Jewish girl, I am shocked.”
“As a good Catholic boy, how do you think I feel?”
“So Walter,” Fagan said. “You’ve got your ear to the Vatican dirt line. What’s going on?”
“What you’d expect - Chaos. There’s speculation about who will succeed Pope Salus. Cardinal Vogler is the current hot favorite. Also, the buzz about the scroll is growing. There are even those who are saying that God punished Salus because he tried to suppress it.”
“Why would God punish him for trying to suppress a fake?”
Walter almost choked on a mouth full of Focaccia. “You mean?”
Fagan glanced across at Frankie. “You haven’t told him?”
Frankie shrugged. “I thought I would leave it to you.”
“Need to know again?”
Frankie just smiled.
“Joseph?” Walter was getting frustrated.
Fagan took a sip of wine, then told him the story, and the secret of Brother Ademar.
“So the De Vaux Foundation repatriated a fake. The Final Testament of St Peter is a 12th century scam.” The disappointment was evident on Walter’s face.
“That’s what it looks like, and the knowledge of that is what got Brother Thomas killed. And it seems like they’ve been tidying up ever since.”
“But what can they do with a fake?” Walter asked. “Maybe they don’t know it’s a fake.”
Fagan shook his head. “The Foundation has had plenty of time to carbon date it. They know it’s a fake.”
“So what are they doing?”
“It was important enough to murder the Holy Father, so it has to be something big.”
“But do we know that to be true?” Walter asked.
“Oh, it’s true. I’ll bet my life on it,” Fagan said.
Frankie looked across at him. “You might just have to do that.”
The food arrived, and Walter dug into a plate full of fat sardines. Fagan wasn’t hungry, but he picked at a salad. They ate in silence, and the waiter cleared the table before Fagan finally spoke.
“So how did you end up in Venice?”
Walter shared the remains of the wine between their glasses. “You asked me to look into the De Vaux Foundation. Most of it is common knowledge. An international philanthropic foundation focused on the restoration of the Catholic Church and its heritage. Your little tale about smuggling, or repatriation of antiquities, is interesting but not surprising. It’s the man behind it that’s interesting, Dominic de Vaux. Most of his background is well known and well promoted. Wealthy entrepreneur, dedicated to using his wealth to make a better world. Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? Nothing particularly remarkable about that. But there are rumors, cyber gossip.”
“About what?” Fagan asked.
“Earlier I mentioned the puppet master in the shadows pulling the Vatican strings. Well, prime suspect number one is a certain Dominic de Vaux.”
“That is no surprise.” Frankie butted in. “I know he was responsible for my brother’s death. I am sure Brother Thomas was going to reveal the truth about this scroll to Jean-Claude.”
Walter was about to say something but Fagan cut in.
“Let’s focus, Walter. Tell us about De Vaux.”
Walter puffed out his generous cheeks. “Word is, the Curia were taking more notice of De Vaux than they did of the Holy Father. Now the Holy Father has gone, you can bank on his replacement being on the end of De Vaux’s puppet strings. Which brings me to here. I said there were cyber rumors about De Vaux, talk of shady associations with some very shady organizations.”
“And do we know anything about these organizations?”
“No,” Walter said. “But I know a man who does. The man I came to see lives out on the edges, in the shadows, some say he’s a ghost.”
“Sounds like one of your normal crowd, Walter.”
Walter gave him an indignant look. “Joseph, sometimes I feel you don’t appreciate me.” He shook his head but continued anyway. “Nothing is going on in the dark underbelly of the world of politics and power that he doesn’t know about.”
“You mean he is a conspiracy nut,” Fagan said.
“Joseph,” Walter gave him his best choirboy look. “Have I ever let you down?”
Fagan smiled but said nothing.
“He’s proved to have been accurate in the past. Anyway, I’ve been in touch. He says he can see us in the morning.” Walter eyed the empty wine bottle. “That’s looking rather sad. Shall we have one for the road?”
“Walter, we need to concentrate.”
“That’s what I was planning on doing.” Walter gave him a hurt look. He picked up his phone. “I’ll confirm with Iggy.” He held up his hand as the phone on the other end answered. He spoke briefly then hung up and put the phone on the table.
“Right, we’re on,” he said.
Fagan looked at Walter’s phone on the table. “Tell me something, Walter. If someone wanted to eavesdrop on me, what’s the best way to do that?”
Walter gave him a querying look.
“Indulge me.”
The big man shrugged. “Easy. Hack your phone.” He held out a dinner plate hand. “Here. Give it to me.”
Fagan handed over his cellphone. Walter removed the back cover, then pulled out a laptop from a bag he had beside the table. He connected the two together with a wire and some cable clips, and his fat fingers danced across the keyboard. He studied the screen for a while then shook his head. “Nah, clean as a whistle.” He put the phone back together and handed it to Fagan.
Fagan put it in his pocket. “Maybe it was Luca’s phone.”
“What?”
“Just trying to put the pieces together. It was something that Frankie said to me.” He looked across at her. “Someone knew that I was meeting Brother Lucien bac
k at the Abbey. I was wondering if someone could have hacked Luca’s phone.”
“It’s interesting that you should say that.” Walter waved at the waiter and pointed at the empty wine bottle.
“Why?”
“Two reasons. On that last day, Luca had a new phone. I remembered because I asked him about it. He said he had lost his old one.”
“Did he say where he got his new one?”
Walter shook his head.
“What was the second reason?”
“I was in the office, the day you left for Israel. The police had returned Luca’s belongings. They were in a box on his desk. I was looking through them. I guess I was trying to hold on to him. The thing was, Luca’s phone was not in the box.”
Fagan looked across Frankie. “They had been listening in from the start. And it was happening on the Vatican end of things.”
“Father Brennan told us he was worried,” Walter said. “He warned Luca to be careful.”
“Well, we know what happened then.”
“So who was it?” Walter asked.
“I have a very short list.” Fagan shook his head. “Luca and William never stood a chance.”
Walter had suddenly gone pale. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Dominic de Vaux is a powerful man,” Frankie said. “He has an extremely long reach.”
“Well I can promise you, it ends here.” Fagan had a strange look in his eye.
“What are you planning to do?” Walter finally found his voice.
“I’m going to make De Vaux pay for what he did to William and Luca. I promise, I’m going to send him to hell.”
The waiter appeared with a new bottle of wine and topped up the glasses. Walter grabbed his glass and took a large glug. “Well, let’s talk to my friend Iggy. See if he can help us with that.”
“Can we find a hotel?” Frankie suddenly announced. “I need a bath.”
“I think we should stay away from hotels,” Fagan said.
“You should stay at the place I’m staying. It’s well out of the way.” Walter seemed happy to change the subject. He gave a conspiratorial wink. “And they’re very discreet.”
Fagan discreetly pointed a thumb and a forefinger in the shape of a gun directly at Walter.
Walter broke into a wide grin. “Relax, there’s no problem. No one knows you’re here.”
55
Dominic de Vaux’s private jet.
“Turn on CNN.” De Vaux recognized Konrad Krueger’s voice on the end of the phone.
The Dassault Falcon was at 40,000 feet. But when it came to communications, De Vaux’s private jet was as well equipped as Air Force One. He picked up the remote control and the large flat screen on the cabin wall burst into life. The President of the United States stood at a lectern with the presidential seal, speaking into a host of microphones.
“Pope Salus was a man who dedicated his life to peace. He focused on valuing the differences between us, and the common needs and values we all share. He sought to bring about a world where we could all live together in peace. I was lucky enough to know him personally and call him my friend.
“Our friendship goes way back before he was the Pope and I became the President. So not only am I shocked, as is the whole world, at his passing but personally I have lost a dear friend. I promise, here and now, I will keep on working on that common path we shared, to achieve his vision of peace in the world.”
The President paused midst a host of flashing camera lights and shouted questions. He held up a hand. “But before that, I intend to travel to Rome, and say a final goodbye to my old and cherished friend.”
De Vaux muted the TV sound and spoke into the phone. “Excellent Konrad, will you be there tomorrow evening?”
“Not invited, I’m afraid. But I’m sure things will go well for you. Call me if you need me.”
De Vaux hung up the phone.
He had continued on directly from Rome on the next leg of his journey. Cardinal Vogler had still been smarting when he had left his office, which was just what he planned. He looked at the screen still showing the President and allowed himself a smile, mentally making a tick against another step in his grand plan.
The Falcon touched down at Venice’s Marco Polo airport with barely a bump. It quickly lost speed and taxied into the VIP terminal. The main door dropped open while the three Pratt and Whitney jet turbines were still winding down. Dominic de Vaux descended the steps. A VIP official met him at the bottom and whisked him through the VIP terminal.
He emerged minutes later on to the water taxi dock.
Blanchet stood beside a sleek, powerful, motor launch. “Welcome to Venice, Mister de Vaux.”
De Vaux did not greet him.
Blanchet ignored it and handed De Vaux a slim iPad. “I have some news.”
De Vaux took it and stepped on to the launch. Blanchet followed him onboard and nodded at the man at the wheel. A man at the rear untied their mooring, and the powerful twin engines burst into a throaty roar as the boat surged out on to the lagoon.
De Vaux sat down on a sumptuous leather seat and studied the iPad. It appeared to be footage from a security camera. “Where was this taken?”
“We found him to start with on a security camera at Termini Station in Rome, but we tracked him down to Santa Lucia train station, here in Venice. That was taken at midday today.”
De Vaux raised his eyebrows. The picture had frozen on a man wearing a jogging top with the hood up and zoomed in on his face. “You sure this is him?”
“Facial recognition software says it is, with 98% certainty.”
“And is the software reliable?”
“It should be, I believe you’re selling it to the CIA.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“We will soon.”
“And the girl?”
“Next video, Marco Polo Airport, mid-morning.”
De Vaux flicked on to the next video. “What are they doing here?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were following you.”
De Vaux fixed Blanchet with a steely glare. “Let me know as soon as you find them. This time I want no mistakes.”
Blanchet met his stare, the ever-present amusement on his face. “Monsieur De Vaux, for a million dollars, you can count on it.”
56
Fondamente Nove, Venice.
A chilling morning fog shrouded the Fondamente Nove waterfront, obscuring any view out onto the lagoon. Walter had been down to the pier to check that the vaporetto was still running, and had been assured it was. They had spent the night in a small guesthouse in the Cannaregio Sestieri, the most northerly district of the city. Walter’s mysterious friend had agreed to meet them at ten, at his home on the island of Murano. So they sat huddled in a tiny cafe on the waterfront, drinking espresso.
The long slim craft finally nudged its way out of the gloom and came alongside. The three of them showed their tickets and climbed onboard. Apart from one old man who sat in the middle of the cabin, they were the only passengers. Fagan sat on a plastic seat up at the front, looking out of the window. Frankie and Walter stood at the top of the steps in the rear, taking a smoke. The fog was beginning to thin, but it still hung low over the water, obscuring Fagan’s view of the island he knew was out there. A mournful foghorn echoed across the water, and the ghostlike apparition of a vaporetto glided past in the opposite direction, on the edge of his vision.
“Penny for them?”
Fagan looked up and found Frankie standing there. “Just trying to see through all this.” He nodded towards the mist. “De Vaux is out there, somewhere, but what is he up to?”
“Let’s hope Walter’s friend can make some sense of it.”
Fagan shrugged. “Don’t you sometimes want to turn your back on this and just run away and hide?”
“What together?” She gave him a cheeky grin.
“I didn’t mean. . .”
“You’re a strange man, Josep
h Fagan.”
“So you’ve finally figured me out.”
Frankie punched him playfully on the arm.
A bright, white shaft knifed out through the gloom, lighting up the cabin. Then a tall white lighthouse appeared out of the mist, as if a curtain had been pulled aside.
The boat slid quietly into the vaporetto stop, a bright orange sign with black letters announced Murano - Faro. The boat bumped alongside the wooden, floating jetty as the engine went into reverse. The three of them stepped ashore, and the ferry immediately took off again. Walter waddled off in the lead quickly disappearing into the fog. Fagan and Frankie hurried after him.
They weaved through a maze of alleys and pathways, running alongside the back street canals of Murano. A view into the past, what Venice had once looked like before it became the glitzy, commercialized, tourist paradise that was now on show in the Piazza San Marco and the Grand Canal.
They crossed a narrow bridge and emerged back on to a secluded area of the waterfront. The mist was beginning to recede out across the lagoon. Black headed gulls screeched in the sky above them, whirling on the eddies of the wind. They reached an old boatyard, sat back from the water. Its battered gates were locked. Walter found a gap in the wooden fence and squeezed through. The others followed.
The ancient wooden building had probably been quite beautiful once, but whenever that was, it was a long time ago. Now it seemed to gaze sadly across the lagoon, as if searching for a life that was gone. Broken down hulks of gondolas and water taxis were abandoned around the yard, ghostly memories of past glory.
“Iggy,” Walter called out.
A face appeared at an upper window but stayed in the shadows.
“Who’s that with you?” A voice called back.
“These are the friends I told you about. They need to talk to you.”
The face seemed to be studying them. “Bottom door.”
They moved in close to the building and stood waiting.
Walter turned to them. “Now, Iggy can be a little strange. So be warned.”
“Walter, all your friends are strange,” Fagan said.
