The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  A face floated above him, even though he knew his eyes were covered. It was a face from his time in the seminary. Father Patrick, a rather enlightened priest from County Clare. He had taught him a meditation technique that he had used often since. He could hear his soft Irish voice as if he was sitting in the room with him. ‘As priests, we spend a lot of time talking to God, praying. But sometimes you just have to sit back and let Him talk to you.’

  He tried to let his mind disappear into that peaceful tranquillity, even though a part of him was vaguely conscious that his whole body was fighting and struggling in some wild, destructive death rite. The voice spoke to him again, the final reassurance. ‘When He decides your time has come, He will tell you.’

  He was hardly aware it was over, but suddenly the rag was removed, and he was coughing and choking and begging. Blanchet appeared in front of his face.

  “One last time?”

  Fagan shook his head, gasping for air. He gulped another lungful and started to laugh, a hysterical crazy laugh, a manic stare locked in his eyes. Blanchet slapped him hard across the face. Fagan began to cough uncontrollably, genuinely struggling for breath. Blanchet nodded, and Fagan felt his bonds loosening. Hands helped him up into the sitting position, shoved his head forward and slapped him on the back.

  The coughing eventually subsided. Fagan spit water and mucus on to the floor. He took a deep breath and looked up at Blanchet, then shook his head.

  “That’s the joke. After everything we did, after everything we had found, we couldn’t prove a damned thing. We didn’t have one single piece of evidence. We couldn’t tell anyone. We had nothing to tell.”

  He wasn’t sure if Blanchet didn’t believe him or just wanted to take out his frustration, but either way, he went back to beating the crap out of him. But by this time Fagan was too far gone, and he slipped into blissful unconsciousness long before Blanchet had finished.

  San Marco Square, Venice.

  Damned priest.

  Who did he think he was, pushing her into the garbage?

  Frankie kept it up, cursing under her breath. She sat inside a small cafe, a few alleys away from San Marco Square. She had bought a change of clothes, found a tiny hotel, and taken a shower. She was now washed and dressed, a cup of espresso in front of her, cursing Father Joseph Fagan. While ever she kept it up, she held it back — what was really scaring her.

  Of course, he was right. One of them had to get away. This was his sacrifice. He did it for a reason. Part of her wondered if there was perhaps another reason. But she knew why he had done it. She had to go in, tell her story — their story. It was their only chance.

  She looked down at her last purchase — a prepaid cell phone, convenient, untraceable, and disposable. The man in the shop, who had not attempted to conceal his lustful intentions, had put it together for her and checked it out.

  ‘I get off in an hour,’ he had said, a hopeful glint in his eye. ‘Maybe we could take a coffee.’

  She remembered what she had said. ‘My husband is waiting for me.’

  She stared into her coffee. Husband, fat chance of that. Many men had pursued her over the years, and she had fended them off with ease. Jean-Claude always told her it was because they never measured up to their father. Maybe he was right. She had had men, but it was always on her terms. She had always remained independent, focused on her career. Then this crazy priest stepped into her life. She remembered the moment on the vaporetto when he had pulled her into his arms. For a just moment, she had wondered what he would do.

  She picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. She waited as it rang. There was a click and a brief silence.

  “Allo?” A male voice asked.

  “Jean-Pierre, it is me.”

  “Frankie? Where are you? I have been going crazy. Everybody has been going crazy.”

  “It is a long story.” It felt comforting to be using her native language again.

  “We found your car. It was burned out completely. I thought you were gone.”

  “Jean-Pierre, listen to me. Someone tried to kill me. They were in an official police car. They looked like the real thing.”

  Jean-Pierre was quiet on the other end. Then, “I told you to stay out of Jean-Claude’s affairs. That was going to bring you only trouble. He was messing with some seriously connected people.”

  “And I was never going to do that.”

  “Did you find anything out?”

  “More than you would ever believe.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I think it is best I don’t say. I need you to talk to Messenian.”

  “Frankie, I am not sure about this. The boss is acting as if you are top of the most wanted list.”

  “I need you to smooth it over.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Tell him Jean-Claude was right about Dominic de Vaux.”

  “What?”

  “Just tell him that. I will wait for you to call me back.”

  “Frankie?”

  “I have to go,” she said and hung up the phone.

  She felt a little guilty. Jean-Pierre worshipped her. And she, well she loved him dearly, but not like that. She also knew she took advantage of him. She promised herself she would be nicer to him in the future.

  She ordered another espresso, resisted a grappa but lit another cigarette. Three cigarettes later her phone rang. She picked it up. There was no caller ID.

  “Allo?”

  “Francoise?”

  She recognized the voice of Charles Messenian, her boss. He always called her Francoise, despite everyone else calling her Frankie. She always felt it was to put her in her place.

  “Chef,” she finally spoke. “Oui, C’est moi.”

  “Francoise,” her boss’s voice was calm. “We have been so worried about you.”

  “I got caught up in some things.”

  “So Jean-Pierre tells me.”

  “He told you about Dominic de Vaux. Jean-Claude was right about him, and it gets worse, much worse.”

  She told him quickly, everything she had.

  “Francoise, you must come in.”

  “But what are you going to do? This is urgent. You need to contact the Americans, and the head of the Vatican’s security.”

  “Francoise, we will deal with it, I can assure you. But we also need to fully debrief you. I will send someone to collect you. Tell me where you are?”

  Frankie looked at the phone. She knew she was not going to the safe house in Milan, or back to Paris. Her boss was not going to like it, she would be in deep shit, but then she already was. She had done her part. She had passed it on. Now she had to find Joseph.

  “Francoise?”

  She could hear his voice, urgent now, but she did not reply. She hung up the phone and stood up. She dropped some Euros on the table and left.

  She wound her way through the alleys, heading back to the hotel, the plan forming in her head. She crossed over a narrow bridge and paused for just a moment. She held out her hand and dropped the phone into the canal’s grimy depths.

  62

  Priory di Sant Agustino, Isola dei Lebbrosi.

  The chefs had been flown in from Paris to honor the occasion. They had not disappointed. Now the meal was finished, the tables and wine glasses had been cleared and replaced with elegant, cut glass snifters of finest Napoleon cognac and small white cups of Italian coffee.

  De Vaux let his eyes wander around the table. As was often the case, there were some invited guests. Usually from the fringe organizations that fed into the inner council, often individuals desperate for a permanent seat at this table. It was an all male enclave. Some would not approve, but that was their way. There were no robes or fancy gowns. They didn’t believe in the fairy tale dressing up claptrap of many of the so called, secret societies. Instead, they were all dressed in finely tailored dinner suits, with black, neatly tied, bow ties. The Imperium was about the future, not the past.

 
; Lawrence Percival banged on the table with his spoon and stood up. “Brothers, silence please, the Grand Master would like to speak to us all.”

  There was a rumble of approval around the table as Percival sat down, which quickly settled back to a respectful silence as the old man began to speak.

  “Gentlemen, excuse me if I don’t stand, but these old legs of mine have already given up the ghost.” He gave a tired, humorless smile. “Brothers of this esteemed council, honored guests, I have asked you all here tonight because we are on the verge of our greatest achievement. As you all know, I, as Grand Master, challenge individual members of this council to develop and propose to this forum, new and radical strategies to move us towards our ultimate goal. We have before us a great opportunity, an opportunity to take our grand vision a giant leap forward. I will ask Dominic to take the floor and explain the details.”

  Dominic de Vaux studied the faces around the table as he got to his feet. A mixture of curiosity and anticipation, and of course, Lawrence Percival, sitting next to the old man, a murderous look on his face, directed straight back at him.

  “Grand Master, fellow brothers, when we met a week ago I talked of an opportunity and a brief period of time in which, if we grasped that opportunity, the rewards would be enormous. As you will have seen from events on the news, we have been successful in our first objective. The obstacle has been removed.”

  A polite applause broke out around the table. De Vaux could see that Percival did not join in. He held up a hand, and the audience fell silent again.

  “But I also pointed out that it, in itself was not enough. I spoke about the need for a crisis, a catalyst to fuel our true objective.” De Vaux paused, savoring the moment.

  “Two days from now a terrorist organization, ostensibly sponsored by Iran, will assassinate the President of the United States and a large number of Western leaders in the Basilica of St Peter, in the Vatican. The United States, in possession of irrefutable evidence of this, will respond to this act of war, with a series of tactical nuclear strikes on strategic targets in and around Tehran.”

  The room erupted, arguing, shouting. De Vaux had to bang on the table to get attention.

  “Gentlemen, please. All your questions will be answered in due course. But first, you may ask how I know the United States will act in this way? I’m sure that Dick here,” he indicated the slim, balding Chief Advisor to the Secretary of Defense seated halfway down the table, “will give us his opinion. But please first, let me introduce our special guest, General George Hathaway, current member of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff. I will let him explain.” De Vaux nodded to a man seated halfway down the table. “General.”

  A stout figure got to his feet. He had piercing blue eyes and close cropped grey hair. He was not tall, not physically imposing, yet the effect was there just the same. He was dressed in a dinner suit like all the rest, but still, unmistakably, he was a soldier, a soldier who had known command. He had risen as far as he could in the military, and to many, with his record and battlefield honors, that would have been enough. But not for General George Hathaway. More than anything, he wanted to sit on this council, and he was prepared to do anything to achieve that.

  “Grand Master, gentlemen, thank you for inviting me here tonight.” He spoke with a slow southern drawl. “Before I get into the details, let us be clear on the enemy we face. Let us take a look at the battlefront.

  “On the left, we have the Russian Federation, flexing her muscles, taking any opportunity to gain and expand her energy resources and borders. To the right, China, as always seeking any opportunity at all. And in the center, we have the jewel in the crown, the enemy, the Islamic Republic of Iran. Which despite the US Administration’s best efforts, is soon to become a nuclear power.

  “The Pentagon have had a detailed plan for a tactical nuclear strike on Iran since 2005, and every year since, we have been working to refine our capability to execute that plan. Today we are in the perfect position to do that.

  “I can assure you, an act of aggression such as Dominic described, will result in the plan being deployed. We are confident that within five days of the first strike, the enemy will be defeated and crying out for terms.”

  A rumble spread around the room. Percival was the first member of the council to speak out.

  “General, thank you for coming to speak with us today. But I have to ask, what do you think Russia and China will be doing while this is going on? Not to mention the other Arab States.”

  The General smiled. “If I was them, I’d be crapping my pants.”

  The table tittered with laughter.

  “But seriously, the Russian Federation has concentrated on building their ground troops and armored capabilities, believing the next war would be fought on the ground in a series of local tactical skirmishes. We have focused our efforts on technology, on our tactical nuclear strike capability. Many said it would not be possible. There would be too much contamination from nuclear fallout. Well, our development and the tests we have carried out have proven our position.”

  “Don’t the Russians have the same?” A member down the table asked.

  “The Russians have some tactical nuclear capabilities but nothing as effective or as sophisticated as ours.”

  The attention of the audience was now total.

  “Gentlemen, we can wage a tactical nuclear war and win.”

  “But what about Global Nuclear War?” Percival interrupted again. “Mutually assured destruction?”

  The General shrugged. “Oh sure, we’ve been staring across the table over that one for the past sixty years. They have not pushed the button yet, and they still will not. No, the Russian Federation will back off. They will be forced to go back to spending money they don’t have, to try to catch up with our capability. And the Chinese, well they’ll do what they always do. They’ll make a deal that’s beneficial to them and move on.”

  “What about Syria?” another voice called out. “How will the strike affect that situation? And ISIS, won’t this open the doors for them?”

  The General didn’t appear in the least bit perturbed. “Syria and ISIS will get a clear message. We are not pussyfooting about any longer. We will be at war. Not a politically correct tango.”

  “And the other Arab States?” The man down the table persisted.

  “They, my friends, will watch while we redraw the map of the Middle East, and change the world forever.”

  The buzz in the room increased, but General Hathaway persisted.

  “We will establish a safe zone in Iraq, protected by troops on the ground and superior air power. Within which communities can survive and flourish. A zone protected by state of the art tactical nuclear weapons and the latest technology in missile defense. But not a temporary refugee camp. We will build cities, schools, universities, communities, businesses, and industry. This will be the Golden Zone, the new Middle East, Utopia. A new Metropolis, or should I say Petropolis. Because this will become the hub for worldwide oil distribution. We will ship in oil from all the neighboring states, and we currently have a pipeline construction underway that will bring oil and gas from the Caspian sea.”

  “Why do we want to do that?” Percival interrupted, “why don’t we pipe it directly to Europe.”

  “Maybe I should ask Dominic to answer that.” He turned to De Vaux, “As this is your vision of the future.”

  De Vaux stood up, smiling broadly for the audience. “Gentlemen, let me acquaint you with a few facts. The oil and gas market in Europe is slowing, growth over the next few years is projected to flatten. Conservation, regulation, pricing, alternative sources, all causes. The days of gas guzzling in Europe are over.

  “As I’m sure the two gentlemen down the table from the oil cartel will tell you, the growth market for oil and gas lies to the east. India, China and South East Asia, that is the future, and we are ideally placed to supply it. Let me point out another fact. Oil in the ground is worthless. An obvious fact but still true. Unl
ess you can get it to market, it is worth nothing. And the Imperium owns worldwide oil distribution. You don’t sell it, if not through one of our distribution companies. And we will only buy from our own oil distribution points. That’s why the surrounding states will ship their oil through us. Our Petropolis, as the General called it, will be the hub for worldwide oil distribution.” De Vaux could see he had the table’s full attention. “As someone once said. It really is all about oil.”

  De Vaux looked across at the General and smiled. “I’ll let you continue, General.” He sat down, and General Hathaway got back to his feet.

  “So gentlemen, I was talking about our golden zone. Impregnable, surrounded by a one hundred mile dead zone, patrolled by squadrons of drones where nothing moves without permission and stringent security checks. You will be either inside or outside. And if you are outside, you are either an ally state or an enemy, with nothing to look at but the desert. If you resist in any way, you will be destroyed.”

  “I thought you said this would be over in five days?” Another voice called out.

  The General smiled and shook his head. “Forgive me, let us not confuse tactics with strategy. The Grand Master has asked me to develop a military strategy for a new world. That is certainly what I have been discussing with Dominic. What is about to unfold is the first step on a long journey.”

  Percival shot a withering look towards De Vaux. De Vaux met him with a knowing smile. Percival glanced across at the Grand Master, as if sensing the sands shifting beneath him, but the Grand Master’s eyes were firmly on the speaker.

  “This will not happen in five days or even five years,” the General continued. “Gentlemen, this is a twenty-five year strategy. There can be no dissenting, no resistance. It has to endure. No political party can achieve that. Only the Imperium can do it. Only the Imperium can ensure policies are put in place that will last longer than any political administration, beyond any inter-party squabbles on the Hill.”