by Neil Howarth
He swapped hands and worked on the fingers of his other hand, then started to climb again. His reach was becoming even more restricted, and now each time he extended an arm, pain shot through his side. He thought he heard a sound above him, but maybe it was his imagination. He was climbing on autopilot, sheer willpower pushing out each arm and leg.
“Joseph.” Her voice seemed to float in on the wind, as if she was climbing beside him, urging him on.
“Joseph.” Something touched his hand. Despite the numbing cold, he was sure he had felt it. He realized he had been climbing with his eyes closed. He opened them, and Frankie’s face looked down on him, like an angel in the darkness.
“Are you all right?”
“A walk in the park.”
“Come on, there is a ledge here, we can rest a little.”
Frankie helped him to scramble onto the ledge. It hollowed back into the cliff face giving a slight shelter from the bite of the wind.
“I hope you remember your survival training,” Frankie said opening her arms.
Fagan put his arms around her and clung to her. Mixed aromas of damp, salt, and sweat filled his head. And deep within in it was a soft, sweet fragrance that was her.
“Are you okay?” Frankie called into his ear.
“Yes, I was just thinking, this survival technique was never quite the same in the Navy SEALs.”
She looked into his face and touched her nose on his. “Now don’t get over excited, it wastes energy, and we have still to get to the top of this cliff.”
“How far to go?”
“I think I can see the top,” she said peering upwards. “Maybe twenty feet. We should move, if we stay here any longer, we might never move again.”
A strange thought entered Fagan’s head.
Would that be such a bad thing?
She stood up and flexed her legs and arms, then studied the cliff above them. The moon was obscured by cloud but cast enough of a glow to illuminate the sheer cliff face. She pointed above her.
“I think this is the best way.” She turned towards Fagan, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Stay close,” she said and began to climb.
Fagan was in shock, standing on a narrow ledge on a cliff, a hundred feet above the boiling ocean in the middle of the night, with a grin on his face.
“Joseph,”Frankie’s voice came down from above. He quickly pushed his jumbled emotions aside and reached out for the rock face.
The elation didn’t last long, soon what warmth he had recovered was gone, his fingers were numb, scrabbling for a grip in the darkness. His left side especially was now a constant hot blade of pain.
Frankie stayed close, calling out encouragement and instructions. The cloud had thinned slightly, and the visibility seemed better. He could see Frankie above him now, and a tantalizingly short distance above her, what looked like the top of the cliff.
He pushed hard with his leg and eased himself closer to Frankie. He could see her legs and bottom, lithe and perfect, straining in the climb.
The rubber sole, a foot above his head, slipped out and kicked him in the face. The night exploded in bright white lights.
He instinctively tightened his grip on the rock face, but his supporting foot slipped, then the other and he was dangling in the darkness, supported only by two frozen blocks of meat and pain beyond belief coursing through his body.
Was this God finally telling him what he thought of his grand plan? Did it end here?
A face seemed to appear out of the darkness, as if to answer him. His old SEAL instructor. He could hear his words as clearly as if he was on the cliff face beside him.
‘You panic, you die.’
His foot somehow found a purchase below him. Then his other found a better one. He held on for a moment to calm himself. Then he did panic - Frankie. He looked up.
She was there, like an angel looking down on him, a concerned look on her face which faded to an embarrassed smile.
“Sorry.”
The final ten feet seemed as if they would finally finish him. But eventually, he scrambled over the edge and lay there gasping for breath. Frankie pulled him to his feet. Fagan groaned as she pulled him up. She put her arms around his neck. Fagan wrapped his own arms around her, oblivious to the pain and held her tight, feeling their joint body heat seeming to fight back against the cold.
“For a moment there.” She looked up at him, concern in her eyes.
“Just one?”
She gave a gentle shake of her head. “Joseph, can we stop playing games now?”
Fagan looked into her face. “What games?”
She reached up and kissed him, and kept on kissing.
In that moment it seemed as if all the pain and stress and heartache of the past days drained away, in that one wonderful moment, a moment that deep inside he did not want to end — ever. When it did finally end, Fagan wasn’t sure if it had lasted an instant or half a lifetime.
Frankie looked up into his face. “I could get used to that.”
So could I, Fagan thought, his emotions racing, as if he was soaring high above the ocean. He gazed back into her eyes. “Hey, one step at a time.”
“Joseph,” she smiled, “ever the cautious one.” Her eyes seemed to focus beyond him, and her expression changed.
Fagan turned his head and saw it.
The Abbey sat higher up on the summit, where the cliffs rose to their peak. A deep orange glow emanated from within its walls, lighting up the night around it.
Flames were consuming the Abbaye de Saint Bernadette.
There was nothing they could do. The Abbey’s entire southern side was bordered by a steep inland cliff, running directly between where they stood and the Abbey itself. It looked like a major trek to even reach the base of the cliff, and neither one of them was in any shape to climb it.
They made their way slowly across the back of the island, down on to the beach facing the mainland. The tide was already departing into the darkness, taking with it its mortal pickings for the night. The sandy stretch before them was a myriad of glistening pools and dark undulations in the dim moonlight.
“According to the guidebook, there are dangerous quicksands out there,” Fagan said.
“Would you rather take your chances on the causeway.” The first distant sound of sirens drifted in, clear on the night air. “If we go that way, we can take our pick between the police or De Vaux’s men.”
They started out across the sand, Fagan leading the way. “Don’t stay too close to me. If I fall in, I need you on solid land to help me get out.”
“Well be nice to me, or I might leave you in there.”
“Why is it I find it difficult to resist your charming ways?”
Frankie mock punched him in the back. “When you are up to your neck in quicksand, you will see how charming I can be.”
Fagan led the way keeping to the hard banks and avoiding the areas where the seawater pooled, trying to take the most direct route between the island and the mainland beyond. They were more than halfway across when the first fire engine appeared out from the dark band of trees, siren screeching, its blue and red lights blazing bright against the night sky, as it raced out on to the causeway. Two cars followed rapidly behind with blue lights flashing.
Fifteen minutes later they made it to dry land and took to the road. They sheltered in the trees a couple of times as a series of fire engines, police cars, and other support vehicles raced past.
At last, they were alone, walking along the middle of the narrow tree lined road, linked arm in arm, like lovers wandering home after a long night on the town. A set of headlights appeared behind them, and they moved into the tree line and waited.
A battered old truck appeared in the moonlight. Frankie stepped out into the road and waved her arms. Brake lights flared behind it, and the truck rumbled to a stop beside her. An old farmer leaned over towards the open passenger side window and spoke in unintelligible French, at least to Fagan. But Frankie o
pened the door and climbed in. Fagan squashed in beside her on to a single bench seat.
It was a bit of a squeeze, but the farmer didn’t seem to mind. He appeared to be as equally old and battered as the truck. He and Frankie struck up an instant relationship, and they chatted away none stop at little that Fagan could understand. He sat, squeezed against the door, the freezing wind blasting in through the open window. He tried to close it, but no matter how much he wound the handle the window would not budge.
Almost an hour later the farmer dropped them at the entrance to the small airport. Fagan remembered the place from his previous visit. Frankie blew a kiss in through the open window. The old farmer cracked a smile that said his whole day was made and drove off.
The airport terminal building appeared deserted. They tried the main door, but it was locked.
Fagan looked at his watch. “It’s only five thirty.”
Frankie pointed across the road to a simple Perspex bus shelter. Inside the shelter was a row of red plastic seats. Frankie settled on to a seat, tucked her feet in beneath her and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“I could use a cigarette,”
“It’s bad for you.”
“Isn’t everything?”
“So what were you talking about, you and the farmer?” Fagan eased on to the seat beside her.
Frankie gave a Gallic shrug. “Oh, things.” She gave him a wistful look. “He and his wife have been married for forty years. They have five children and fifteen grandchildren?”
“I thought I said one step at a time.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows.
“You can take a lot of steps in forty years.”
68
The Palace of the Holy Office, Rome.
Cardinal Vogler stood on the balcony outside his office. The sharp chill of the fading night suited his mood. He usually loved this moment of the day, before the city woke. There was a serenity, almost a tangible holiness that hung above the eternal city, with the floodlit dome of St Peter’s Basilica etched against an ink-black sky. It stood like a guardian angel watching over the still sleeping city.
But this particular morning he felt none of that. He had spent the previous day confirming his findings, they had proved accurate. The implications shocked him to his soul. It was not just about what had taken place, it was about what was to come. Today this holy city faced probably its greatest challenge. And he was its chosen defender.
He turned his head at a sound behind him. Father Paul Brennan stood at the open Palladian windows.
“Ah, Paul, you are awake. I am glad you could make it. Are we all set for the big day?”
“I was on my way to the Camerlengo’s office when I got your message. All the arrangements are in place. I’m sure it’s going to be a magnificent ceremony, a fitting tribute to Pope Salus.”
“Yes Paul, I am sure it will be. There was something I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Anything I can help with.”
“I have been reviewing the security tapes from the Papal apartments on the night when the Holy Father,” he paused as if searching for the right words. “Met his end.”
Brennan gave the Cardinal an enquiring look. “Your Eminence? The Holy Father suffered a heart attack. I thought the matter was closed.”
“It is important that we have a clear record of events. The biggest surprise to me was the last person to leave his apartment.”
Brennan looked at him impassively.
“It was you, Paul.”
“I didn’t realize I was the last. But I told Commissario De Mateo when I made my statement. I had been to see the Holy Father that evening. I had planned to return to Chicago the next day, and I wanted to thank him for his faith in me and assure him I would not let him down.”
“Yes, William always did see the best in people.”
“What else was there to see?”
“I have been trying to work that out. What was there to gain by taking a great man’s life? Someone whose purpose had been only to work for peace and harmony.”
“Your Eminence, I’m afraid I’m not following you.”
Vogler gave a slight smile. “Oh, I think you are. I’ve examined it from every angle. In the end, there could be nothing else. It had to be that damned scroll. And I choose my words carefully because I believe, as Salus did, it is the work of the devil, weaving his evil ways through the ambitious and the greedy. Men like Dominic de Vaux, and like you, Paul. What did he promise you? Go back to Chicago, take the bishop’s place? After a decent time return here to take your red hat? And beyond that?”
“I will be rewarded when the time is right.” The innocence was now gone from Brennan’s face.
Vogler shook his head. “I think not. It is my job to defend our faith, and that is what I intend to do.”
“How? Have you told De Mateo?”
“Not yet.”
“You have nothing to tell him, no proof. So I was the last person to leave the Papal apartments, so what? I have already told De Mateo that.”
“I admit it took me a while. But in the end, it is all about details. There could be no autopsy, but I made sure that De Mateo did a thorough investigation of the external evidence. I have seen the chemical analysis of the Holy Father’s coffee cup remains. No sign of any foreign substance, just plain black coffee. But sometimes it is about what is absent that is important.”
Brennan gave him a slight smile. “I’m sorry you’ve lost me.”
“I am not sure what you gave him, but it probably worked quickly, and while the Holy Father was struggling for his last breath, you must have washed out his cup and poured a small amount of coffee back into it. But you forgot an important detail. You did not add the sugar. Unfortunately, for you, one of the Holy Father’s few weaknesses. Three heaped teaspoons without fail.
But the chemical analysis of the contents of his coffee cup showed no sign of sugar. And when I order a post mortem to be carried out, which I now have the authority to do, I am sure that the contents of his stomach will not match the contents of the coffee cup. A cup with a clear set of fingerprints from the Holy Father, and from you Paul. Damning evidence.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” Brennan had a look of arrogance on his face. “We are the instruments. The future is written in the Bible for all to see, but men like Salus chose to ignore it. We are following His word.”
“Who’s word are you referring to? God’s, or his cast down angel?”
“Maybe he was cast down for a reason. Maybe he is about to be forgiven.”
“Such arrogance. It ends here. You are finished, and so is De Vaux. I intend to have that abomination of a scroll burned, and let it rejoin the devil, in hell.”
Vogler moved towards the door, but Brennan blocked his way. The Cardinal was not a short man, but Brennan stood inches above him. His hand shot out and seized Vogler’s throat, his other hand grabbing hold of his vestment. He pulled the Cardinal in close to him and stared down into his face. “You’re right Cardinal. It ends here - for you.”
Vogler struggled, but he was not a man of physical strength. Brennan pushed him hard up against the balustrade. His face only inches from that of Vogler.
“When God judges us, He will look to those of us who took a stand, who made a difference. Who followed His word.”
“Tell that to the devil when you see him.” Vogler managed to utter, his eyes blazing with anger.
“You first.” Brennan took a step back and lifted Vogler’s struggling body from the ground, then with all the strength of both arms, hurled him out into space. A brief cry emerged from the falling Cardinal.
“Diablo Exspecto.”
The words seemed to echo across the empty Piazza.’The devil awaits you.’
Brennan smiled. The old bastard could be right. He glanced over the edge of the balustrade. He could just make out the pathetic figure of the Cardinal, lying broken on the deserted cobbles below. He heard a movement behind him and quickly turned around. Fat
her Mengen stepped out on to the balcony.
“I told you he suspected.”
“Well, it’s done now.”
“What if he told someone?”
“He told no one.”
“But . . .”
“No buts. You have a job to do, and so do I.”
69
Appian Way, Rome.
The vehicle was heavily armored, a secure six wheeled transport, half Humvee, half truck, with thick bombproof glass in the few windows it had. It was painted in matt black with a gold emblem emblazoned on the side, a chainmail hand gripping a large, erect broadsword with an elegant, filigree running down the blade. Beneath it were the words,
Excalibur Security.
It had collected its precious cargo from a private jet at Ciampino airport, just south of the city. There was little or no traffic on the new Appian Way at this time, but outriders on motorcycles, running out front and in the rear, kept the road clear.
The vehicle crossed the Tiber and turned into the Via della Conciliazione. The magnificent dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica was lit up in the distance, as if heralding their arrival. The dream of a 12th century monk was about to come true — The Simeon Scroll was finally coming home.
Porta di Sant’Anna, The Vatican.
Father Paul Brennan stood in the doorway of the Vatican guardhouse, just inside the Porta di Sant’Anna. It had rained earlier, and the cobbles were slick and shining in the glare of the security spotlights. He studied the recent arrival now illuminated and stopped at the security checkpoint. He found himself holding his breath.
The Swiss Guards on duty were dressed in their best purple and gold livery, ready for the day ahead. Two men got out of the vehicle, one dressed in black combat gear, leather boots and wearing a heavily armored flack jacket. On his sleeve was a badge with the same emblem as the truck. The other man was a priest, dressed all in black with a simple dog collar. The security guard showed his credentials to the Swiss guard, then handed over the paperwork. The guard began checking the details against a sheet on a clipboard he held in his hand.
