The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Fagan opened his eyes. Frankie was pointing up at the TV screen.

  “Hey,” Fagan called out. “How do you turn up the sound on this?”

  Iggy appeared at the door.

  On the TV screen, Dominic de Vaux stood at a lectern with microphones arrayed in front of him. Iggy found the remote control and sound filled the room.

  ‘Builders and archaeologists from the De Vaux International Foundation, working on the renovation of the Abbey Saint Andre, close to the site of the Papal Palace in Avignon, in Southern France, have made one of the most breathtaking discoveries, perhaps that mankind has ever made. They have discovered an ancient document, a manuscript. Early research suggests that it is some form of final testament. Perhaps by someone awaiting his execution. It has been suggested that these could be the final words of Jesus Christ’s most important disciple, Simon the fisherman - Saint Peter himself. This document, from the initial translations, would appear to describe the final days of Christ’s life.

  ‘We have been going through a rigorous process of authentication. Initial carbon dating has put the origin of the document at around 65 AD. Which is when history tells us, Saint Peter was crucified in Rome. This document appears to contain his final testament as he awaited his death. Not only does it provide us with absolute proof that Jesus Christ actually did exist, but crucially it describes his crucifixion,’ De Vaux paused, ‘and his resurrection.’

  Lights were flashing, questions were shouted from the audience. De Vaux held up both hands and leaned closer in to the microphones. ‘Please, I realize you all have questions, the whole world will have questions, but let me say just this. As a mark of deep respect to the late Pope Salus, the De Vaux Foundation is donating this document, this scroll of Simon Peter, to the Vatican. And,’ He held up his hands once more as the shouting from the audience increased. ‘as a mark of respect and recognition of Pope Salus’s work to bring understanding between all religions, we intend to make the document available for research and scrutiny to experts and academics from all faiths. This is a discovery for the whole world. It points to a significant time in all our histories. It should be researched as such, as a genuine part of everyone’s heritage.’

  The room erupted in chaos. De Vaux smiled towards the cameras, then turned and disappeared.

  The four of them stood, stunned, staring at the TV screen.

  “What in hell is going on?” Fagan said.

  “I’ve no idea,” Frankie said. “If what they have is what Brother Thomas found at the Monastery of Saint Martial, then it is a fake.”

  “But they just said the carbon dating had been confirmed,” Walter said.

  “Carbon dating can be faked,” Fagan said.

  “But they’re opening it up for anyone to research it,” Walter continued. “The first thing they’ll do is carbon date it independently.”

  “We must be missing something,” Frankie said.

  “I think I’m missing a lot,” said Iggy. “Up to now, I’ve been doing all the talking. I think it’s time you started talking to me.”

  Iggy sat on the floor and rolled himself another cigarette, while Fagan told him the whole story. He still kept a few pieces to himself, especially regarding Blanchet.

  “So there it is,” he said finally. “Which bring us to here. And what?”

  Iggy looked across at Fagan. “I think I need a drink.”

  He stood up and disappeared into the back of the house, then reappeared a few moments later carrying a tray with a large bottle of Grappa, and four glasses. He placed the tray on a low table and proceeded to pour a measure into each glass. “If we want to understand them, we have to think like them.” He handed out the glasses, then sank his Grappa in a single gulp. He looked across at Frankie. “I believe it was you who said - We must be missing something. That has to be the key.”

  “But things don’t match up,” Frankie said. “They are holding supposedly the most important document in the history of mankind, and are offering to make it available for scrutiny by a multi-faith team of experts. They have the whole world’s attention. But from what we know, all they have is an elaborate fake. What is the sense in that?”

  Iggy topped up everyone’s glasses, while they sat around in silence.

  “There’s only one explanation.” Iggy finally announced. That got everyone’s attention. “No one is ever going to see it.”

  “What do you mean?” Walter asked.

  “They build it up, emphasizing its authenticity, its provenance, its priceless historical value. Then they destroy it, probably in the most devastating fashion possible.”

  “Why would they do that?” Walter shook his head in disbelief.

  “De Vaux is creating a crisis,” Iggy said.

  Fagan had a sudden vision of a war strategy class. Admiral Abraham Lancaster standing at the front of the class. “It’s a false flag operation.”

  “False what?” said Walter.

  “False flag, create a crisis but make it appear to be created by your intended enemy. Encourage public outrage and reaction. Then present a solution that before the crisis would not be acceptable, but now appears the most natural response possible.”

  Iggy nodded. “It’s based upon something called the Hegelian Dialectic, but I’ll spare you the details. Hitler used it during the 1930s. He burned down the German Chancellery and blamed it on the opposition, then used it as justification for arresting and imprisoning his main political enemies.

  “If you believe the rumors, Pearl Harbor was another example. President Roosevelt supposedly knew about the Japanese attack months before, when they cracked the Japanese communication codes. But he didn’t warn his commanders in Hawaii, in fact, all the US aircraft carriers were conveniently far out to sea when the attack took place. He wanted to get into the Second World War sooner rather than later, but eighty percent of the American people were against it. The very next day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, three million men signed up to fight.

  “There have been others more recently,” Iggy said.

  “Such as?” Walter asked.

  “9/11.”

  Fagan shot a hard glance at Walter.

  “You cannot really believe that?” Frankie said.

  “There you go again,” Iggy said, “You think I’m crazy. Well maybe I am, but look at the evidence, the expert opinion. No metal support structure for a building had ever been destroyed by fire. It simply doesn’t get hot enough. Yet, on that day, three buildings appeared to do just that.”

  “Three?” Walter said. “There were only two.”

  “There was also building seven. That’s where they controlled it all from.”

  “Controlled what?”

  “The only way to bring down buildings in that fashion is by controlled explosions. Listen to the experts, its all documented online. And what happens next? Congress signed the Patriot Act. The biggest trampling on the constitution in its history. And the Government got away with it with hardly a whimper of protest. Simply because they were protecting law abiding citizens.”

  “Are you saying the Government did it? That’s all conspiracy theory, nut stuff.” Walter gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Iggy.”

  “That’s what you’re meant to think. It’s the big lie - no one would ever believe their government would do that. Anyone who protests is simply put in the camp with the conspiracy theorists - and they’re all crazy.”

  Fagan looked across at Walter, but Walter would not meet his eye.

  “But why would they do that?” Walter said. “Just to pass some government bill? Look at the cost of the aftermath to 9/11 - Iraq, Afghanistan, the human cost, look at the chaos in the world today.”

  Iggy nodded. “I’m not necessarily saying the Government did it. They may just have acted upon it. But when it comes to why, you said the key word - Chaos.”

  “Are you saying the Imperium was behind 9/11?” Frankie said. “Why?”

  “Let me qu
ote the words of someone in ancient Rome who held Imperium, Marcus Tullius Cicero. Cui Bono.”

  “To whose benefit?” Walter said.

  “Let’s start with the cost to the American taxpayer of the after effects of 9/11. It’s estimated at somewhere between four and six trillion dollars. But you have to ask yourself, who was this vast amount of money paid to? Who benefited?” Iggy paused. “The answer is simple - the banks, who financed the wars - the defense contractors, who supplied more and more sophisticated, and expensive, weapons - the oil companies, supplying oil at an ever increasing price - the security companies like De Vaux’s outfit, Excalibur, as conflicts have become more and more outsourced, and a myriad of smaller companies feeding around them. And guess who owns these banks and companies, or at least has controlling interests?”

  “The Imperium?” ventured Walter.

  “Well through them, the Templar Families, who are once more manipulating and controlling world events. Think of the unrest in the world today, a simmering powder keg just waiting to go off. If 9/11 was worth five trillion dollars, what would World War Three be worth?”

  “Hold on, you’re doing things to my head,” Walter said. “Is this just about money?”

  “No,” Iggy shook his head. “It’s about power, and the Imperium’s ultimate goal is ultimate power, a New World Order, a new Roman Empire.”

  “But what is going on here, with De Vaux?” Fagan asked. “What crisis is he trying to create?”

  Iggy took out his battered tobacco tin and started to roll another cigarette. “Well, De Vaux is donating this scroll to the Vatican, and in two days time, it’s the Pope’s funeral. Now, if some Islamic extremist bomber got into Saint Peter’s Basilica and destroyed what purports to be the greatest Christian artifact of all time, along with the Basilica of St Peter and. . .” Iggy left it hanging.

  Fagan shook his head. “Not only will it be nigh on impossible for a bomber to get inside the Vatican. But, and as a Catholic, it pains me to say this, even if they did, it wouldn’t set the world on fire. Sure there’d be outrage, but if I’m totally honest, it would soon be filed away as just another tragedy and within weeks would be forgotten.”

  They stood there, saying nothing, the TV blaring in the background.

  “What if the religious part of this is just a sideshow,” Frankie said. “What if this is about someone saying goodbye to an old friend.” She walked over and pointed to the TV screen. “If an Islamic extremist bomber got into St. Peter’s Basilica with him inside it.”

  They all looked up at the familiar face filling the TV screen. It was a rerun of a previous transmission. A CNN banner read.

  ‘The President will attend the funeral of his friend, Pope Salus I.’

  “Now that would make a difference.”

  59

  Murano, Venice Lagoon.

  Fagan held out a hand. Frankie took it and stepped on to the vaporetto. She looked him in the eye as if she was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it and made her way to the back of the cabin. Fagan followed and sat down beside her. Neither spoke as the boat pulled away from the jetty.

  The fog had cleared at last, but darkness was creeping in across the lagoon. Fagan contemplated the light from the boat as it danced across the waves carved by the bow. The decision had been made. Now it was time to act. There were just the two of them. They had agreed back at the boatyard. This was the best way. They had to tell someone, someone who could do something. They had no hard evidence, but they had to make someone listen. De Vaux was planning to assassinate the President of the United States, at least that was their assumption. That had to get someone interested.

  Fagan had finally said what everyone else was thinking. He had to go back to Rome. He had to find Commissario De Mateo, tell him everything he knew. De Mateo would be in charge of security at the Holy Father’s funeral. He would have to act. He couldn’t take the risk of doing nothing. Of course, De Mateo would have to hand him over to the Rome police. But that was inevitable anyway, and he knew that Julio would ensure he got a fair deal.

  Frankie was the backup, which was the part of the plan she disagreed with, and explained her mood. She wanted to accompany him to Rome, but he wasn’t giving in this time. He had insisted. It was time for her to go in - back to the DGSE. She still had contacts, people who trusted her. She had to try to persuade her bosses that she wasn’t crazy and there was a credible threat out there. The DGSE had a safe house in Milan. She would make her contact from there.

  Hopefully, their two pronged attack would make someone listen, make someone take some action. The vote had been three to one, but eventually, she had agreed.

  Walter had stayed behind with Iggy. Their plan was to lie low. If Fagan and Frankie’s efforts didn’t have any effect, then they would do what they could with Iggy’s underground network and publish it to the world.

  Fagan looked at his watch. They had an hour to get to the railway station.

  “Remember, call me as soon as you get to Milan.”

  “Joseph, anyone would think you cared about me.”

  Fagan gave her a grin. “Of course I care about you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I’ve forgotten how many times you’ve saved my life in the past few days.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Fagan thought he detected a trace of disappointment on her face.

  “I think we are even on that front,” she said.

  “I mean it. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

  “Maybe that is why I should be coming to Rome with you. Walter and Iggy will take over if anything happens to us.”

  “Frankie, you and I both know, Walter and Iggy would be blowing the whistle on what had already happened, not what is about to happen. They won’t have time to stop anything. Now, we agreed. This is the best way.”

  Frankie shrugged. “I had to try.” She looked out across the water. “It has been a crazy few days. But somehow, it has not been all bad.”

  “You really are an optimist.”

  “Always. When this is all over, I hope we can stay in touch.”

  “I’ll be sure to write from prison.”

  She shook her head and gave a wry smile. “You never let down that guard, do you? We never get to see the real Joseph Fagan. Sometimes I wonder if you are hiding behind that collar. I think I told you before. You are a cynical man for a priest.”

  Fagan stared down at the deck. “I’ve taken off my collar, and I’ll not be putting it on again.”

  “Joseph, no.” Frankie seemed genuinely shocked. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve stepped too far over the line to go back.” Fagan glanced down the boat to the other passengers, but they were all oblivious to them. “Maybe you’re right. I was hiding behind it. Maybe I tried to bury what I once was. What else could I do? I sometimes struggle to remember that young soldier, full of pride and optimism. I’ve done a lot of bad things, things that I’m not sure will be forgiven.”

  “We’ve all done things we regret. It is what we do about them that matters. And it seems to me you have been doing as much as you can. You have no reason to hide, Joseph. Just be who you are.”

  “I’ll try to bear that in mind.”

  An awkward silence sat between them, broken only by the soft putter of the engine and the splash of the waves.

  Frankie reached out and squeezed his hand. “We are going to sort this out.”

  Fagan looked down at her hand. He didn’t push it away. Instead, he contemplated the floor, letting the awkward silence persist, struggling for something to say but coming up with nothing.

  The boat bumped into the dock with a jolt.

  “Fondamente Nove.” The boatman called out.

  People were up and moving. Frankie stood up and turned to leave.

  “Frankie.”

  She stopped and looked back at him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He reached out and pulled her into his arm
s. She looked up at him, uncertainty in her eyes.

  He smiled and gave her a squeeze.

  “You take care out there.”

  They walked along the dock, side by side, an uncertain silence sitting between them. A series of yellow streetlights illuminated their way along the cobbled pavement running along the waterfront. A narrow, arched bridge in front of them spanned a canal that disappeared into the depths of Cannaregio. Three figures moved out of the shadows as they stepped on to the bridge. The one in front held an automatic pistol pointed directly at them. Fagan recognized the ever-present smirk.

  “Well, well, Joe Fagan. Been a long time.”

  “Not long enough for me.”

  “Now then Joe, is that any way to treat an old comrade in arms?”

  “I seem to remember last time we met you put a bullet in my chest.”

  Eugene Blanchet rubbed a finger along the scar on his cheek. “You didn’t exactly leave without saying goodbye.”

  “Does that make us even?”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  “Taking us will make no difference. It’s all coming apart. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Blanchet’s smirk grew into a wide smile. “You have no idea. The organization I work for has a network and resources you would not believe. It picked you up when you arrived at the station and was able to sift through all its information to pick you up again from the security camera down at the dock. You hid your face, but the two of you, and your fat friend were unmistakable. We just waited for you to come back. We have people sweeping the island as we speak. We’ll soon have your fat pal and any other of your friends. We don’t need to speak to them. They’ll just disappear.”

  Fagan could see the Blanchet was enjoying it.

  “You see in the end, Joe, you never stood a chance.”