The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “No, really,” Walter gave a nervous smile. “I mean really strange.”

  There was a rattle of sliding bolts and the clunk of locks. The door opened slightly, and the face appeared, the man’s eyes flicking from one to the other, then searching out behind them. Eventually, he stood back and opened the door. He did not say a word. Walter led the way in.

  Fagan got his first proper look at the man. Tall as himself but skinny as a bean pole with long, lanky hair and round gold rimmed glasses. He seemed of indeterminate age, anywhere between fifty and seventy, but like many of Walter’s crowd, he appeared to be stuck in some kind of time warp. He looked like a distant relative of John Lennon. Knowing Walter’s friends, maybe he was John Lennon.

  Fagan caught the dank reek of neglect, mixed in delicately with the briny tang of the lagoon as he stepped inside. Iggy did a final surveillance of the local area then ducked back inside and slammed the door shut. He proceeded to lock up, bolts top and bottom, a check chain, and two mortise locks.

  A single light bulb struggled to illuminate what looked like a workshop. On the far side was a narrow dock, open to the water and barred from the outside by a double wooden gate.

  “Iggy, let me introduce my friends, this is Joseph Fagan, a fellow priest, and this lovely young lady is Francoise Lefevre. My friends, may I introduce Ignatius Buckingham. But all his friends call him Iggy.”

  Fagan had not told them of his decision. He didn’t tell them now. Being a priest could often help people to talk. He hoped Walter’s friend was a religious man.

  Frankie stepped forward and held out her hand. “Hi, my friends call me Frankie.”

  The man studied her outstretched hand then took it limply and gave a brief shake. He muttered something then headed off into the depths of the building.

  “I think he likes you,” Walter said.

  They climbed a creaking, wooden stair. The first floor room reminded Fagan of Aldo’s place back in Rome, without the smell. Three laptops sat side by side on a low, wooden table and three large TV monitors were mounted at strategic positions on the walls. One screen was showing CNN while another showed the French news channel, France Vingt-Quatre, both with the sound muted. The other screen showed a number of views of the surrounding area from strategically placed surveillance cameras.

  “I see you like to keep an eye on what’s going on,” Fagan said.

  “I keep myself to myself. I expect others to do the same.”

  “Now then, Iggy.” Walter jumped in. “We realize your time is precious. We need your advice.”

  The man still seemed vaguely irritated. “I agreed to see you because Walter and I are fighting the same fight. So, if there’s something I can help you with, why don’t you tell me about it.”

  “We’re interested in a man called Dominic de Vaux,” Fagan started in. “We know the public story, but we’re interested in the not so public story.”

  Iggy appeared to ponder that for a while then walked over to the window. “Do you see the island out there?”

  The others crowded to the window behind him. The fog was finally clearing. Vessels could be seen making their way across the lagoon. Fagan stood at the back looking out. A lump of land sat out near the horizon, almost lost in what remained of the mist.

  “Out there on the edge of the salt marshes, in the Laguna Morta is the Isola dei Lebbrosi - The Island of the Lepers. It is also the home of the Priory di Sant Agustino, a seminary for the brightest hopefuls of the Legion of Jesus. And the organization’s European headquarters.”

  Fagan vaguely remembered the Abbot at the Abbaye de St Bernadette was a member of that organization. He had said it was something close to his heart.

  “They’re already the fastest growing religious organization in the United States, and they’re catching up fast here in Europe.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” Frankie asked.

  “Unfortunately,” Walter said. “The Legion of Jesus make the Jesuits look like descendants of St Francis of Assisi.”

  “So I take it these people are bad news.”

  “The worst,” Walter said.

  “What is lesser known,” Iggy said. “The man and the money behind the Legion of Jesus is a certain Dominic de Vaux.” He turned to face them. “I’ve been studying them for quite some time. They’re fanatics. They employ subversion and brainwashing. They especially target the younger generation. They’re in schools, colleges, and youth organizations, pushing their doctrine. Get them young, indoctrinate them early. Get them to tell a friend, who tells a friend. It’s viral marketing, and it’s effective as hell. In the US I got a little too close, and I can tell you their retribution is not very Christian. Which is one of the reasons I ended up here.”

  “Somewhat of a coincidence that you move here and the Legion of Jesus turn up in your backyard,” Fagan said.

  Walter gave him a withering look.

  Iggy shrugged. “What do they say, keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer. Which brings us back to Dominic de Vaux. He has his fingers in many pies. He’s behind most of the right wing political parties in Europe and a mover and shaker in Brussels. Of course, his power inside the Vatican is well known. There are those who call him the Grey Pope, lurking in the shadows, pulling all the strings. He has the money, the political power, and as Chairman of Excalibur Security, the largest private army in the world, he also has the military clout.” Iggy turned back to look at them. “And worst of all, he’s connected to the most powerful and dangerous organization on the planet.”

  “What organization would that be?” Fagan said.

  Iggy moved away from the window. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

  Fagan and Frankie sat on a faded, broken down sofa and Walter found an armchair. Iggy sat cross legged on the floor. He pulled out a flat tin, flipped open the top, and began to roll a cigarette. He seemed in no hurry to get on with his tale. He licked the edge of the cigarette paper and sealed it, then lit it from a battered Zippo and exhaled a plume of smoke into the room.

  He pondered the bluish haze that hung about his head.

  “Have you ever wondered? Is there something out there, some secret organization behind the government - beyond the government, manipulating corporations, controlling economies, orchestrating world events - shaping things for their own ends?

  “Some call it the Shadow Government, the Deep State, the ninety percent of the government iceberg that is never seen.”

  Fagan glanced over at Walter and raised his eyebrows. Walter gave him a tight shake of his head.

  Iggy caught it and smiled. “Crazy stuff, eh. You might think it’s far fetched, but you’ve heard about them. They’ve been around a long time. President Eisenhower referred to them in his farewell address as the Military-Industrial Complex. The current favorite is the New World Order. But they go under many names, the Illuminati, the Templars. Stories about them abound, most of them pure fiction, but as with all of these things, there is a little truth in there. They hide under many guises, the Freemasons, the Knights of Malta and Columbus, Opus Dei. They hide in the shadows of all these societies. And through them, they have people inside governments, judiciaries, and major corporations.” He looked at Fagan. “And religious bodies. What is important, is that they do exist, and they have control.”

  He took a long draw on his cigarette. “They see themselves as rulers of a new Empire. They call themselves the Imperium.

  “It’s taken from a Latin word - Imperare. It translates roughly as power to command. In ancient Rome, it referred to the sovereignty of the state over the individual. It was a power held by certain individuals in the highest echelons of Government. Only the Imperium are beyond the Government, a higher power.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Fagan said.

  Walter gave him another withering look, but Iggy only smiled.

  “They’re an exclusive club - bankers, industrialists, oil companies. And through Dominic de Vaux, they even have their own private army. But they are just
the inner circle, the ruling council. At the pinnacle are the families.”

  “Sounds like something out of the Godfather,” Fagan said, avoiding Walter’s gaze.

  Iggy dismissed it with a shake of his head. “I can assure you, the organization they control is far more dangerous than the Italian or the US Mafia. Their names are familiar to us all, mainly for their philanthropic works, charities, the arts. But also for the wealth they represent.

  “Their bloodlines reach back through old Europe. When the Templars were destroyed, their families fled with their money and scattered across Europe. Their wealth enabled them to establish banks and money lending facilities. They also began investing. When the New World opened up, they went there too. They knew opportunities when they saw them, and they had the money to acquire what they needed.

  “Over the centuries these Templar families came to own the main banks and the essential trading companies, the oil companies, the defense companies, and the engineering companies who serviced it all. And inevitably their children became, or controlled, the people who became the Governments, who controlled the world where the oil companies and the defense companies and the engineering companies do business.”

  “Sounds scary,” Walter said.

  “Their motto is Ordo Ab Chao - Order out of Chaos.”

  “And you’re saying Dominic de Vaux is a member,” Fagan said.

  “De Vaux is more than a member.” Iggy ground out the remains of the rollup cigarette in a glass ashtray. He looked up and smiled.

  “He’s their golden boy.”

  Iggy let them contemplate that while he rolled another cigarette. “You can have all the money, all the businesses, and industry, even control of the economy. But if you don’t have control of the man in the street, you have nothing. You see the masses have a secret weapon more powerful than anything the Imperium have — it’s called free will.

  “Which gives De Vaux a unique position inside the Imperium.

  “He has excellent media reach. He is pulling the strings of most of the right wing political parties in Europe, not to mention his influence in the Vatican. He has a universal message for the people — Fear.

  “Fear of foreigners flooding across their borders, taking their jobs, breaking into their houses, attacking their families, attacking their faith. He is always seeking to divide because that is where chaos breeds.

  “The Imperium sees religion as a major tool, their primary weapon against free will, the best way to control it and direct it. But not passive religion. Oh no, they are determined to show that Muslims are not the only ones willing to die for their faith.” Iggy looked directly at Fagan. “Walter and I have had this conversation before. Let’s not confuse Religion with Faith. You’ve been on the inside. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Let’s not get into that debate right now,” Fagan said. “You were about to tell us about De Vaux’s grand plan.”

  Iggy allowed a smile to creep into his face. “To understand a man like De Vaux you have to look at what drives him. He’s a Catholic. A far right wing Catholic. His Foundation is determined to rebuild the Catholic Church. But for him, it’s not about religion. It’s about power. De Vaux doesn’t want to get closer to God.

  “He wants to be God.”

  Iggy let out a plume of smoke and nodded towards the window. “Out there in the salt marshes is a bird sanctuary. I’m even a member of the Trust that oversees it. We have many cameras out there, tracking migration, observing behaviors. But I have some cameras of my own. Only they’re not pointed at the birds. I can track everyone who comes and goes from the Isola dei Lebbrosi. The last couple of days have been particularly busy. It would seem that today is the seminary’s graduation day. And who do you think is giving the prizes?”

  “Dominic de Vaux?” Fagan said.

  Iggy nodded. “He arrived yesterday afternoon. Six more private jets have landed at Marco Polo Airport since nine a.m. this morning.”

  “That’s not unusual for Venice airport.”

  “All the occupants took motor launches out to the Priory. That’s some big guns for prize giving.”

  Fagan nodded towards the window. “Maybe there’s more to it than prize giving.”

  57

  Priory di Sant Agustino, Isola dei Lebbrosi, Venice.

  The assembly took place in the great hall. Its vaulted ceiling, with its delicate artwork and sculptured columns, provided the perfect canopy to the ceremony. Hundreds of candles were lit to illuminate the chamber, their scented wax giving a sanctified aroma to the occasion.

  A large stage dominated the front of the hall. In the center stood the Superior of the Order, dressed simply in a black habit with a plain wooden cross hanging from a row of beads around his neck. His gold, Legion of Jesus pendant, pinned above his heart, was the only break from the simplicity of his dress.

  A young man knelt before him similarly dressed. Spread out beneath him, was a large white flag with a red cross. Lined up behind, in the great hall, stood his fellow graduating students, all dressed in black garb with their Legion of Jesus pendants providing a striking relief to the black assembly. Behind them, in neat lines, were the rest of the Priory’s seminary students.

  A magnificent set of Murano, stained glass windows filled the complete back wall from floor to ceiling, providing the perfect backdrop.

  A single monk stood either side of the Superior, each dressed in contrasting white habits. Each held a flag, one the yellow and white flag of the papacy, the other a black flag with a dagger and red cross above a skull and crossbones. The young man repeated after the Superior, the words of the order’s motto, IUSTUM, NECAR, REGES, IMPIOS.

  Dominic de Vaux stood to the side of the stage, reflecting on the words. ‘It is just to exterminate impious or heretical kings, governments, or rulers.’

  How very appropriate.

  The Superior presented the kneeling man with a dagger. The young man grasped the bare blade and pressed the point to his heart. The Superior, still holding the hilt of the dagger began to speak.

  “My son, heretofore you have been taught your duty as a spy, to gather all statistics, facts, and information in your power from every source. To ingratiate yourself into the confidence of the family circle of Protestants and heretics of every class and character, as well as that of the merchant, the banker, the lawyer, among the schools and universities, in parliaments and legislatures, and in the judiciaries councils of state. And to be all things to all men, for the Pope’s sake, whose servants we are unto death.”

  The young man began to recite his oath.

  “I, Juergen Meyer, now, in the presence of Almighty God, do renounce and disown any allegiance as due to any heretical king, prince or state, or obedience to any of their laws, magistrates or officers. . .”

  Dominic de Vaux had previously handed out the prizes at the graduation ceremony. He smiled with pride for this young man, his own protégé, the outstanding student of his class, the leading valedictorian, and now inducted into this special order. He had big plans for Juergen. He gazed with pride at his creation. The young man and this establishment.

  He had purchased the island through the Foundation five years ago. The priory was broken down and derelict, and he had spent almost as much again, painstakingly renovating it into this magnificent institution, populated with the order’s finest and most loyal teachers and mentors, turning out the brightest and most dedicated soldiers of Christ. This allowed him to cherry pick the very best. The rest he could put out on the front line, gathering and growing, and keeping the masses in line. But these, his chosen few, he had special tasks for them.

  The young man came to the end of his oath. “In testimony hereof I take this most holy and blessed sacrament of the Eucharist, and witness the same, with my name written with the point of this dagger dipped in my own blood and sealed in the face of this Holy Covenant.” He took the dagger and made a short incision at the base of his thumb on his left hand, allowing his blood to flow.
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br />   The Superior placed a hand on the young man’s head and uttered a short prayer. He took back the dagger and handed him a small white towel. The newly inducted member of the order stood to his feet holding the towel to his bleeding hand. He was tall and handsome with an athlete’s physique, his blond hair close cropped, and his eyes, a piercing blue.

  De Vaux stepped forward and grasped the young man by his shoulders. “Congratulations, Juergen.” He drew him in close. “We have much to do, many places to go, you and I. Can I count on you?”

  The young man’s blue eyes shone with pride. “Absolutely, Monsieur De Vaux, I am a servant of the order, whatever you ask. I am yours to command.”

  “I will call you soon.”

  The young man turned to receive the applause of the audience, then descended into the main hall to join his fellow graduates.

  A man appeared out of the wings. “Monsieur De Vaux, it is time.”

  De Vaux nodded. He took a last look at Juergen, watching him bask in his glory. He had big plans for him. He had all the ingredients he was looking for. Keen intellect, sharp, incisive mind, and a devotion bordering on fanatical. And most of all, an obedience to carry out whatever task he was given to achieve their ultimate goal.

  A true warrior of Christ.

  58

  Murano, Venice Lagoon.

  “What do you see?”

  Fagan stood outside in the chilled afternoon wind, looking out across the lagoon. The mist had crept back in, and the island had slipped away. Frankie had appeared at his side.

  Fagan gazed into the gloom. “Fog.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d like to know what’s going on, on that island.”

  “Prize giving?”

  “And what else?”

  They wandered back inside. Iggy and Walter had disappeared somewhere in the depths of the house. They sat on the sofa and Fagan closed his eyes. Iggy had given them a glimpse into this mysterious organization, the Imperium. He wasn’t sure he believed it, not all of it. Of course, there were rumors about this stuff, but how much of it was wild imagination?