The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

Blanchet nodded to his two companions, and they stepped on to the bridge and approached them, both similarly armed. Blanchet stood back, keeping an eye and his gun on them.

  “But you Joe, and your friend here, are going to take a little ride across the lagoon. Someone is dying to meet you.”

  Fagan glanced around, quickly taking in his surroundings. The waterfront path was deserted except for the five of them, but the waterway was still alive, just feet away from where they stood. A long, narrow barge, filled with garbage approaching the bridge. The possibility of jumping flicked through his mind, but he would be a sitting target. And what about Frankie?

  The man closest to him moved in and jabbed the gun painfully into his side.

  “Move.”

  “Be careful with Marco, Joe,” Blanchet called out. “The man you left with a broken neck in the sewer, back in Rome, was his brother.”

  Fagan avoided the look from Frankie.

  Marco was a head shorter than Fagan but thickset and very sure of himself. His face was pure hatred. But hatred, Fagan could handle. It was Blanchet he was worried about. He was a different proposition altogether.

  The man closest to Frankie grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She went with the momentum, moving in fast, and kicked him hard below his kneecap. The man shrieked in agony. She grabbed for his gun hand. Marco half turned as the man cried out. Fagan jabbed hard with his elbow into Marco’s ribs. He stepped in close, swinging around and driving his right fist into the man’s gut. Marco dropped to his knees gasping for breath. The gun clattered off into the shadows. Fagan followed up with a sharp boot in the midriff. Marco doubled up and pitched forward on to the cobbles.

  Fagan shot a glance towards Frankie. She was struggling, holding on to her man’s gun hand. Fagan moved in fast and grabbed his wrist. He twisted hard. It broke with an audible crack. The man cried out and dropped the gun. Fagan caught it as it fell, then jerked him in close, wrapping an arm around his neck. He caught a glimpse of Blanchet. He was standing like an independent observer, looking faintly amused. Fagan swung around the gun and Blanchet stepped back into the cover of a doorway.

  Frankie had moved back close to the low wall of the bridge, shielding herself from Blanchet with Fagan and his dance partner. Fagan dragged the man with him and moved up close to her.

  “You know what you have to do.”

  He saw the doubt in her eyes. He tried a reassuring smile, but inside fear gripped his gut. It was not fear for himself. “Take care.”

  He pushed her hard with his gun hand. She seemed to hang there briefly, frozen in time. Then she disappeared over the wall with a screech.

  He did not wait to see if she was okay. His man was still groaning and had begun to spin away from him. Fagan pulled him in, his arm tight around his throat. He held the gun out in front, seeking out Blanchet. Blanchet had stepped towards the wall of the bridge. Fagan could see the garbage barge chugging on its way down the canal.

  Fagan drew a bead on Blanchet’s head. For a moment he hesitated. It was only a moment but enough for the man he was holding to recover and struggle hard, pulling off his aim.

  Blanchet’s gun arm extended towards the barge.

  Fagan snapped off a shot. Blanchet’s hand flew in the air, and the gun disappeared into the canal. He dived for cover. Fagan got off two more shots, which kept him in his hole.

  Fagan’s head exploded.

  He dropped to his knees and knelt there swaying. He looked up to see Marco standing over him, his gun in his hand, seemingly deciding whether to hit him again. The man started to sway, then Fagan’s whole world began to turn around him. He pitched forward onto his face, the hard cobbles cool and welcoming on his cheek. His last conscious sense was the fading chug of the garbage barge disappearing up the canal.

  60

  The Laguna Morta, Venice.

  The buzzsaw cut deep into his skull, making long, sawing thrusts that vibrated through his whole body. Something was pressed against his face. The smell was familiar, leather, and something else - wood polish. Fagan opened his eyes. The leather was blue and looked expensive. He eased himself up, which was a mistake. He rocked forward violently and had to grab to steady himself. It took a moment to orientate himself. He was on a boat, a high speed boat by the amount of buffeting.

  He stood up, and immediately regretted it. His brain zapped out shock waves of pain. He grabbed for support and stood for a moment, letting the pain settle. He was in a wood paneled cabin. A wide window looked out over the buffeting bow. Behind him a set of wooden steps ran up to the deck above, from where light flooded down, allowing him to make out the rest of the cabin. He was alone.

  Frankie - The last he had seen she was disappearing over the wall of the bridge. He had calculated on the garbage barge breaking her fall. Frankie covered in garbage. The thought almost made him smile - almost.

  “I see you’re awake,” a voice called out behind him.

  Fagan turned around. Blanchet stood at the top of the steps looking down at him, his right hand heavily bandaged.

  “I hope the hand doesn’t hurt too much,” Fagan said.

  Blanchet gave him that smirk. “And me thinking you were a priest. It seems you’ve not forgotten your old skills.”

  “You should thank me for not completing the job.”

  “And I do, but it’s something I expect you to regret.”

  The noise of the engine died, and the boat slowed. One of Blanchet’s men herded Fagan up on to the deck. They came in beside a stone dock, men appeared and tied up the boat. Blanchet led the way ashore. The one called Marco brought up the rear.

  A broad, tree lined driveway led up to the main entrance of a grand old building, which was illuminated, fairylike, in the fading light of the evening, like something out of a Harry Potter movie.

  “Welcome to the Priory di Sant Agustino,” Blanchet said.

  He ignored the main approach and followed a path around the side of the building. He pushed open a small wooden door and had to duck to get inside. Fagan did the same.

  They followed a dimly lit stone passageway to a room with a large wooden desk and leather chairs. Marco pushed Fagan into one of the chairs.

  “I’ll let my boss know you’re here.” Blanchet disappeared through the door.

  Marco leaned against the wall, a silenced automatic in his hand. He looked like he was in the mood to use it. Fagan did a quick survey of the room. There were no decorations on the wall, no gadgets on the desk, no potential weapons, and no windows. The only way out was through the door. If he was going to make a move, it had to be now.

  Footsteps echoed outside, and a tall man dressed in a dinner suit stepped into the room. His face looked better on TV, but Fagan had to admit he was a handsome devil.

  “Well, well, my meddlesome priest. It is such a pleasure to meet you at last.” Dominic de Vaux spoke in perfect English, with a soft Gallic accent. “Pity your beautiful friend was not able to join us. But not to worry, she will not get far. We have people combing the streets, watching the causeway and the water taxies.”

  “She’s a lot more resourceful than you think.”

  “Hmmm, we will see if she has more success than you.”

  “You won’t get away with it. It’s all unraveling as we speak.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Religious artifact smuggling from the Holy Land. What do you call it - repatriation? Brother Thomas and his discovery.”

  De Vaux raised his eyebrows. “You intrigue me.”

  “Not as intriguing as the fact that it’s a fake,” Fagan said. “A forgery. Do you really think you are going to convince anybody?”

  De Vaux’s handsome face broke into a smile. “The secret to deception is to fool the right people, at just the right time. I am a newspaperman, I built an empire based on that principle. We only need to keep up our little charade for a few days.”

  “Do you think you’re going to get away with blowing up your piece of fake junk in the middle of St Pe
ter’s, with the President of the United States inside?”

  “Well, well, you do have a vivid imagination. We are going to have to have a serious talk with you. And by the way, it is hardly junk. Some would say it is a masterpiece. And soon it will become a legend.”

  “It’s still a fake.”

  “Who is to say that? Brother Ademar always believed that God spoke to him and told him what to write. He believed he was writing down God’s words. He knew the world was not ready for his message, so he took it with him to his grave, hoping one day someone would find it.”

  “The Secret of the Keeper.”

  “Exactly, Brother Ademar wrote a letter telling of a scroll that told the real story of Christ. He persuaded an old friend, a monk visiting the Holy Land, to take the letter back to France. But not to reveal it, instead to pass it on, from generation to generation, until the time came that the Church was in crisis, then it would be revealed. Almost a thousand years later, Brother Thomas found the letter in the archives at the Abbaye de St Bernadette and then spent the next twenty years looking for the Secret that lay with St Martial. Quite poetic do you not think?”

  “Not for Brother Thomas,” Fagan said.

  De Vaux ignored his barb. “Of course Brother Ademar never envisaged that we would have technology like carbon dating which would make all his intricate plans and his exquisite craftsmanship irrelevant. But I was determined they would not go to waste. The crisis that Ademar spoke about in his letter is upon us now. And I intend to take full advantage of it. I intend to give people back their faith.”

  “So you can exploit it?”

  “You may jest, but a few days from now the tide will turn. We will see a Holy War unfold like the world has never seen.”

  “And Brother Thomas, Brother Lucien, Father Luca Baldini,” Fagan paused. “Jean-Claude Lefevre. Were they all in the way of your grand plan?”

  “The greater good.” De Vaux dismissed it with a flick of his hand. “I had to get Blanchet to deal with them.”

  Fagan shot a look at Blanchet. The smirk broke into a grin. Fagan felt the anger surge through him. He pushed hard out of the chair, but Marco stuck his gun in his ribs and pushed him back.

  Fagan took a deep breath. “And Pope Salus? What about him? He was a good man, a great man and you . . . ”

  “Salus was a dreamer, but he had become a problem. His crazy dream was starting to become a reality. People were starting to listen. Peace in the world? Faiths living in harmony with each other? Salus was prepared to bargain away our faith to achieve it.”

  “What do you care about faith? All you and your Imperium care about is power. You should remember - The meek shall inherit the earth.”

  “The meek will do what they have always done. Do as they are told and look to the Government to protect them.”

  “With the Imperium pulling the strings. So what happens next? You vaporize your scroll along with the President of the United States and half the world’s leaders?”

  “Do you believe in destiny?” De Vaux’s face was serious. “The Bible has written our destiny. It predicted this day.”

  “The Bible predicted many things.”

  “If you read it carefully you will see it speaks of an event like this in the End Times prophecy. You are a priest, you know about the End Times.”

  “I’m well aware what the prophecy says.”

  “Then you know that God is speaking to us, loud and clear. The End Times are upon us, and we have planned for it. I can guarantee, when the history books are written, it will show this was the turning point, just as the Bible predicted. Not the end of the world, but a new beginning.”

  Fagan shook his head, suddenly everything was clear.

  “It’s the Middle East. You’re going to use the assassination of the President as an excuse to attack the Middle East. What will it be? Iran? The hawks in Washington have been itching for that for a long time. But it won’t end there. The Middle East is a powder keg. You’re liable to start World War Three.”

  De Vaux’s face was set in a smile.

  “But you know that,” Fagan said.

  “The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, the stars will fall from heaven, and the power of the heavens will be shaken. The Bible called it the Final Conflict.”

  “You really are crazy.”

  “Some would say that, but then they said the same of all the great leaders throughout history. But that matters little. Our destiny is already written. We just have to step forward and play our part.”

  “And who are you, Petrus Romanus, the final Pope? Or the new Messiah?”

  De Vaux ignored the barb and looked at his watch. “I would love to stop and chat, but I have a pressing engagement.”

  “You won’t get away with it. The place will be locked down tight as a drum. You won’t be able to smuggle a pin past the Vatican security and the US Secret Service.”

  De Vaux gave a smug smile. “Think of this, Father. The End Times Prophecy will have been brought to fruition by a simple Muslim carpenter. Rather appropriate don’t you think? It sort of brings things full circle.” He glanced again at his watch.

  Fagan shook his head. “It’s too late. The word is already out there.”

  “You do underestimate me. I have eyes and ears everywhere, inside the Vatican and in all the corridors of power, watching and listening. And do you know what I hear?”

  De Vaux held up his thumb and finger in a perfect ‘O’.

  “Nothing. There are no whispers, no signs of panic, no change of plans. Because no one knows anything.”

  “Give it time.”

  “Oh, I intend to. Meanwhile, I will let Mister Blanchet here have a quiet word with you. It would seem that you have rather upset him. That hand of his looks very painful, and I fear your little tête-à-tête will be equally so. If you have any influence up there,” he pointed upwards with his finger. “Now would be the time to use it.” He gave Blanchet a slight nod then disappeared through the door.

  Blanchet stood in front of him, a distinct pleasure showing on his face. “Well Joe, you were once a Navy SEAL. I hope you did well on your SERE training.”

  61

  Priory di Sant Agustino, Isola dei Lebbrosi, Venice.

  Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape - SERE. It had been an essential part of SEAL training. They were taught skills and techniques in every area. But there was a part of SERE training that had scared the hell out of all of them, including Fagan. It was part of the SERE legend, talked about in revered tones at the bar by wannabe recruits, whispered about between the new trainees at night as they lay in their bunks. But there was one thing about it. It was something you never forgot.

  They took him to a small cell. He was expecting it as they manhandled him through the door, but it did not stop the sudden panic seizing him as he saw the apparatus laid out in the center of the room. He dug his fingernails, hard into the palms of his hands and struggled to hold on, waiting for it to pass.

  They say that waterboarding is simulated drowning, that’s not true. It’s not simulated at all. It’s the real thing, just controlled and very slow.

  But Blanchet was going to have his fun first. He stripped off his shirt. Fagan could see he had kept himself in better shape than he had. Blood had seeped through the bandage on his wounded hand, but even with one hand, Fagan knew that Blanchet had all he needed.

  Marco stripped off Fagan’s jacket and shirt, then tied his wrists with a rope that he looped through a steel hook in the ceiling. He hauled on the rope until Fagan was up on his toes, then tied it around a metal cleat on the wall. They called it softening up. It didn’t feel like that on the receiving end.

  Blanchet took his time, punching and jabbing, seeking out the painful places. Fagan tried not to cry out, but in the end, he used it to channel his anger. And all the while Blanchet kept on pounding. Fagan had a fleeting revelation before he passed out. He was finally getting old.

  When he woke there was jus
t a moment of calm, of nothing at all, then the pain rushed in, and the nightmare returned. He was already strapped to the bench. His feet raised up above the level of his head. His arms and legs totally immobile.

  Blanchet leaned forward and pushed his face in close. “Welcome back, Joe. Now we come to the fun part.”

  Fagan tried to remember what he had been taught. The first reaction is panic, the gag reflex, overreaction to this phase can lead to terminal hypoxia. If you can make it past this part, it’s a matter of how long you can hold on. The average back in his day was about fifteen seconds. He had gone to thirty. But never more. It sounded a short time, but it had seemed like a lifetime. It was a self defeating exercise anyway. The instructor had been clear on that.

  If you hold out long enough - it will kill you.

  They pushed a rag over his face. He tried to slow his breathing. He could feel the cold water flowing across his face, running into his mouth, and up his nose. He tried closing his mouth, but it caused the rag to block his nostrils and his attempts to breathe. He tried taking in small gulps of air, but the water seemed to run straight up his nose filling his nasal cavities. The agony was intense. He struggled to hold back the sheer panic while his whole body fought to pull himself free.

  It seemed like forever, but in reality, was just a few seconds before the water stopped and the rag was pulled aside. Blanchet’s face appeared in his vision.

  “Now then, Joe, I need to know all the people you have told about us.”

  The mucus draining from his sinuses gathered at the back of Fagan’s throat. He used every ounce of effort he could muster and launched a huge gob into Blanchet’s face. Blanchet did not even wipe it off. He stood up and nodded to Marco. And it began again.

  This time it was longer. By the time he came up, he was yelling and screaming, blurting out incoherent words. Somewhere amongst it all, a voice was talking to him, questioning, probing. He knew they had to take him down another time if he was going to convince them. Could he do it without cracking completely? The rag covered his face once more, and the whole thing started over.