The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  “Father Muller?” Brennan stepped out of the security office and held out a hand to the priest. “Father Paul Brennan, we spoke on the phone.”

  “Father Paul, how nice to meet you at last. I must say it is quite a relief to finally arrive. Despite the security, I have been a nervous wreck since we left Avignon.”

  “Not to worry, it’s safe now.” Brennan turned to the Swiss guard. “Can we move the vehicle inside, please? Its cargo is extremely valuable.”

  The guard nodded to his companion, and the security barrier was lifted. He pointed to a space just inside, and the vehicle moved through and parked.

  “We have a special place for it,” said Brennan. “We’ve converted the mausoleum below St Peter’s bones. Beautifully appropriate don’t you think. At the moment the arrangements are temporary, but we have big plans befitting a permanent home for the Simeon Scroll.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  Brennan led Father Muller through the pedestrian side of the security gate. He pointed to Muller’s name on the Swiss Guards visitor’s sheet, and the guard behind the desk tapped away on his keyboard then checked the priests face against the one he had on record. He handed over a pre-prepared security pass. Brennan looped the attached ribbon over Muller’s head, and they headed over towards the security vehicle.

  The rear door was already open, and two security guards were manhandling a wooden crate, about three feet by two, and a foot deep.

  “Please be very careful with that,” Brennan said. “It is extremely delicate and immensely valuable.”

  Father Muller smiled. “I have been berating them ever since we left the Abbey.”

  “I’ll show you the way,” said Brennan.

  “Hold it,” a voice called out from behind him.

  Commissario De Mateo stepped out from the security office. “That box needs to go through x-ray and bomb detection security.”

  “Commissario, that’s ridiculous. Have you any idea what’s inside it?”

  “Father Brennan, I am fully aware what is inside, and I know it to be far more explosive than any bomb. Which is why we must be absolutely sure when we bring it inside this highly secure facility, that it in itself is secure.”

  “But the x-ray, it could damage it. This is an extremely delicate document. It’s almost two thousand years old.”

  “Father Brennan, I am assured by the experts I have consulted that it will not harm it.”

  Brennan was beginning to panic. He turned to Muller. “Father Muller, tell him.”

  “It is alright. The gentleman is absolutely right. The scroll will not be harmed.”

  De Mateo stepped forward and held out his hand to Muller. “Commissario De Mateo, Vatican Gendarmerie.”

  “Father Gerhard Muller.” The priest said and shook his hand.

  “I can assure you we will take great care of your cargo.” De Mateo nodded to one of his own men who led the way to a covered area in the corner.

  A guard appeared with a large black Labrador on a chain lead. The security guards set the crate on the ground, and immediately the Labrador began sniffing, running back and forth. At the same time, the guard held out a device with a calibrated meter on the front. He pressed various buttons and ran the device slowly over the outside of the box.

  Brennan could only watch. He had no idea what arrangements De Vaux had made, all he knew was he had to get this box inside. He should have been back in the States by now, ready to step in as the next Bishop of Chicago. But De Vaux had other ideas.

  He remembered the first time he had met him. He had attended an exclusive conference in Boston. A gathering by invitation only. He remembered the glow of pride he had felt to be invited. It meant he had been noticed, singled out. The people attending were the chosen ones. Dominic de Vaux was giving the keynote speech.

  He remembered being utterly captivated by this man as he laid out a new vision, a new future for the Church. It was a war out there, as real as any military action in Iraq or Afghanistan. They all had to be soldiers in that fight, prepared to fight to the death if necessary. He remembered De Vaux’s closing words.

  ‘Lead or follow, you can choose, but get out of the way, because we’re coming through.’

  And then had come the Holy Father. A good man, but standing in the way of progress, holding back that vision of the future. So the sacrifice had to be made, and the task had fallen to him. He had prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness and awaited his judgment. Maybe he was about to hand it down.

  He watched as the guard finally completed his examination and stood back.

  “Okay, put it on the x-ray machine.”

  The security guards carried the crate over to the x-ray machine, installed only the previous day as the advanced security measures were put in place for the Papal funeral. They placed it on the conveyor belt, and the box disappeared inside. Two men sat at the side of the machine studying two separate screens for what seemed an age.

  De Mateo’s phone rang. He answered with an irritated, “Si?”

  Brennan could see the shock on the Commissario’s face. He seemed to grip the phone even tighter. It appeared that someone had found the late Cardinal.

  “I will be right there.” De Mateo looked across to the security guard in charge.

  “It is clean, Commissario.”

  De Mateo nodded then turned and walked quickly away.

  Father Brennan wasn’t sure if he was going to faint.

  The scroll was in.

  70

  Brest, Brittany.

  Fagan opened his eyes. Frankie stood in front of him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Fagan stretched tentatively and let out a groan. “I have only one pain. Unfortunately, it covers my whole body.”

  “Here, take some painkillers.” She handed him a small pill container and a plastic bottle of water.

  “Yes, nurse.” Fagan flashed her a smile, then did as she asked.

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven o’clock, the place has just opened. It seems it is not our lucky day. Today is a public holiday, and the first flight that can get us to Rome does not leave until midday.”

  “That’s no good, it will be all over long before we get there.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve found an alternative.”

  Fagan shook his head. “I know you believe you can do anything, but what did you have in mind, stealing a plane and flying us out of here?”

  “Something like that.” Frankie gave a simple shrug. “The man behind the desk told me there is an air charter company on the other side of the airport.”

  “And you can fly a plane?”

  “Of course. I got the home phone number of the owner. I think I woke him up. I told him I was conducting an investigation regarding drug smuggling on private aircraft out of North Africa, and if he did not get out to the airport in half an hour, I would pull his license and shut down his whole operation.”

  “Has anyone ever told you, you can be a real bully?”

  Frankie bared her teeth, then turned and headed for the terminal.

  Twenty-five minutes later, a balding, slightly overweight man arrived, looking disheveled and more than a little guilty. Fifteen minutes after that, Frankie emerged with the keys to a single engine, turbo-charged Cirrus SR22. An excellent aircraft she assured him.

  She had left the owner shell shocked in his office, having slapped her DGSE identity, and her private pilot’s license on to the desk between them, along with a handwritten and entirely fictitious note demanding the immediate hire of the aircraft and authorizing payment by an obscure Government department.

  They visited the office in the base of the small control tower and filed the flight plan details. Now Fagan sat beside Frankie in the aircraft cockpit, a confusing array of instruments and controls laid out before them.

  “Are you sure you can fly this thing?” Fagan spoke into the microphone of the headset he wore.

  “Of course I can, my instructor said I was
a natural.”

  “Are you so good at everything?”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave him that smile.

  Fagan felt himself flush like a young boy.

  “Shall we go?”

  Frankie studied the weather report and a list of radio beacons she would use along the route, then ran through an instrument checklist. Her fingers danced across the control panel, and the single engine roared into life, vibrating through the aircraft. Frankie spoke into the microphone and received an all clear to take off. She looked across at Fagan and nodded, then gunned the engine and released the brakes.

  Dawn was already breaking as they rose effortlessly from the runway. Frankie seemed completely at ease as they climbed gently into the morning sky. She kept the course heading west, keeping their height low until they reached the coast. As the ocean appeared, she banked the aircraft into a wide climbing turn. Below them, Fagan could see the island and the smoldering ruins of the Abbey. Three fire engines and what appeared to be four police vehicles were parked in the car park, the closest they could get to the Abbey. Figures and equipment were scattered around the still smoking building, but the fire seemed to be extinguished.

  Frankie set the aircraft’s course to the southeast and continued to climb. Fagan strained his neck to look back on the once magnificent Abbey. Now it was just a blackened hulk, fading away below them.

  Was this De Vaux’s plan for the whole world?

  The Vatican, Rome.

  Father Paul Brennan stood in front of the ancient, carved oak door of the Camerlengo’s office. He paused before he knocked, as if studying its intricate woodwork, a single question foremost in his mind. He was all too aware he had challenged God to stop him, to prevent him from continuing on this path. Was He about to do that now? The answer, in all probability, lay beyond that door.

  He knocked, and a voice from within called for him to enter.

  Cardinal Angelo Mordeli, Camerlengo to the late Pope Salus I, looked up at him from behind a grand writing desk that matched the craftsmanship of the office door. “God is unhappy with me about something.” He shook his head. “First Cardinal Vogler decides to take his own leap of faith. The Lord alone knows why. Now I have a problem with you.” He pointed a nicotine stained finger at Brennan.

  Brennan awaited his fate.

  “It seems the Bishop of Chicago has taken a turn for the worst, and you must leave immediately. Your flight departs at six o’clock, which means, unfortunately, you will miss the funeral. But no matter.” He dismissed it with a flick of his fingers. “My secretary has your ticket. I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.” The Cardinal didn’t shake hands, just waved him away.

  Brennan stepped out of the office and looked up to the heavens. God was smiling down on him. De Vaux was right, the vision which had so captured his imagination was now unfolding before him.

  Roma Urbe, Northern Rome.

  Frankie set the plane down gently on the single airstrip at the small airfield of Roma Urbe, to the north of the city, shortly before noon.

  “Why don’t you get some coffee.” Frankie pointed towards the small terminal building. “Technically, coming from France, there is no passport control or customs. But I have some admin work to do.”

  Fagan watched her as she wandered off, still with a spring in her step. He felt guilty that he had managed to get a couple of hours sleep, while Frankie had done the whole five and half hour flight without a rest, including a stop for fuel at the tiny airport of Le Luc Le Cannet, in the south of France.

  The terminal building was small but functional, but he found a bathroom and washed as best he could at the sink. He wandered back out into the terminal and spotted a cafe in the corner, tucked beneath the stairs. He sat down at the little bar and ordered an espresso. He caught his reflection in the mirror on the back wall.

  Did he look different?

  He had cleaned himself up up a little in the bathroom, but he was still in need of a shave, and his clothes were a mess. But that wasn’t it, was there something else about him? They might be dead by the end of the day, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. The thought seemed to float across his mind.

  Was this what love was like?

  “Hey handsome, do you know that man?” Frankie appeared in the mirror beside him.

  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  Frankie climbed on to the stool beside him, and the girl behind the counter took her order.

  “All sorted out?” Fagan asked.

  “Yes, I paid our landing fees and sent a message to the aircraft owner. I told him where his plane was, and that if he came for it, he could submit his bill for his expenses, along with the hire fee.”

  “And will your boss pay?”

  “Not a chance. But somehow I have the feeling our friend may just come and collect his plane and forget all about it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Everyone is guilty of something. What I told him back there was true. Drugs are coming in from North Africa in private aircraft flying under the radar and landing at any number of small airfields along the coast of Western France. That, along with a whole host of other smuggling activities. Somehow I don’t think our friend would like to invite an investigation team to come and crawl all over him and his company.” She smiled at him in the mirror. “Maybe he will feel it is his civic duty.”

  Fagan glanced at his watch. “We don’t have a lot of time. The funeral service begins at three. Presumably, they’re going to detonate this bomb sometime after that. So we need to move.”

  “I had a message from Walter.”

  “When? Is he okay?”

  Frankie nodded. “He is fine.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Where do you think?”

  71

  Trastevere, Rome.

  They walked through the door of Enzo’s. It was still early, and the place was deserted apart from Maria polishing glasses behind the bar.

  She looked up, and a broad smile creased her generous face. “Padre Joe.” She called out and waddled out from behind the bar. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. Fagan winced but didn’t push her away.

  When she looked up at him, her face was wet with tears. “I have been so worried about you. The police were here saying very bad things about you. I know they are not true.” But the look in her eyes told him she needed him to confirm it.

  “Maria, I didn’t do any of those things.”

  The smile on her face widened, then her eyes moved across to Frankie, and it disappeared. “Padre Joe?”

  “It’s alright Maria. She’s a friend.”

  Maria looked unsure.

  “We’re looking for Walter.”

  She allowed the smile to creep back.

  Walter was sitting out on the back terrace.

  “Joseph, Frankie, dear God, I thought you were dead.” He struggled out of the aluminum chair he was wedged in and wrapped his arms around Fagan.

  “Aah,” Fagan let out a groan as Walter proceeded to squeeze the life out of him.

  Walter released his grip, a concerned look on his face. “Are you all right?”

  Fagan tried to take a breath. “I will be. Just a couple of bruised ribs.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.” Walter turned to Frankie “I hope there’s no such problem with you.” He lifted her off the ground in another bear hug.

  “Walter.” Frankie shrieked.

  Walter put her down looking slightly embarrassed. Maria appeared behind him beaming, with a jug of house wine and three glasses.

  “Enjoy,” she said.

  Walter pulled up a chair and poured himself a glass. He held up the jug to Fagan who shook his head. “Not for me.”

  “Me neither,” Frankie said.

  Walter shrugged. “Oh well.” He drained the glass then refilled it. “We saw them put you on the plane from one of Iggy’s cameras. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “It’s a long story, and we
need to concentrate on the here and now.”

  “Where is Iggy?” Frankie asked.

  “He’s gone dark. He has a bird watching hide out in the salt marshes, in the Laguna Morta, with enough provisions to last him a month. It’s completely self sufficient with its own generator and more technology than you can shake a stick at. He can jack into a satellite link and communicate completely anonymously, with anywhere in the world. We stayed there overnight then he arranged a lift for me from a local fisherman, who took me to the mainland.” Walter glanced up somewhere above him and shook his head. “I stole a car and drove back to Rome. I reckoned that was the safest route.”

  “Don’t worry,” Fagan said. “You’ll have an interesting session at your next confession.”

  Walter flashed him a frozen smile.

  “Were you able to get in to see Commissario de Mateo?” Katya asked.

  “I wish. The place is like Fort Knox down there. You need special security passes to get in. Our normal passes won’t cut it. It’s got even worse after this morning’s event.”

  Fagan gave him a questioning look.

  “You won’t have heard. Vogler took a leap off his balcony early this morning.”

  “What?” Fagan was genuinely shocked.

  “Did he jump or did he have help?” Frankie said.

  “I think maybe he’d served his purpose,” Fagan said. “De Vaux was cleaning up loose ends. We’ve already seen some of that. Maybe that’s what Vogler was.”

  “It doesn’t help us get in to see De Mateo,” Walter said.

  “I’m sure if I turn up at the door,” Fagan said. “They’ll arrest me and then I’ll get to see him.”

  “Yes, when it’s all over,” Frankie said. “When it’s too late.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I try to see him. I have my DGSE credentials.”

  Walter raised his eyebrows but said nothing.