The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  The rider on the first one held up his hand as Fagan skidded to a halt. His eyes darted quickly around, looking for the best escape route, but the policeman seemed to lose interest in him. Fagan could see motorcycle police were blocking off the roads on both sides of the main highway.

  “Cosa sta succedendo?” Fagan called out.

  “Il Presidenti degli Stati Uniti.” The cop shouted back. “The road is closed until the President’s car passes.”

  “Shit,” Fagan looked around, but there was no other way across the intersection. “Can you let me through, I just need to cross. Please, it’s urgent. I’m in a big hurry.”

  “Too much hurry,” the cop called out. He looked at Fagan then tapped a finger to his helmet, then pointed towards Fagan’s helmet-less head and shook his finger. Fagan gave an apologetic shrug. He peered past him letting his eyes race up the hill.

  There was no sign of the SUV, no sign of Frankie.

  76

  The Vatican, Rome.

  “Sorry we’re all the way out here, but office space is at a premium at the moment, and this was the only place they could find for me. Still,” Father Brennan gestured at the rather grand, high ceilinged office. “I’m not complaining about the accommodation.”

  They were seated in his office. He had poured them coffee from the automatic coffee maker and was now sitting directly across from Walter, looking relaxed.

  “Now then, Walter. Tell me what this is all about.”

  Walter took a sip of his coffee then started to tell the story. He ran through it from the beginning, from what he knew and what he had been told, right up to the current time.

  “They took Frankie right in front of the security gate. It shows you what influence they have. Father Joseph went after her, and sent me to find Commissario De Mateo, to tell him what I knew.”

  “And you’re sure about this bomb? I can’t believe that a man like Dominic De Vaux would be involved in something like this. It’s just unbelievable.”

  “I’m as sure as I can be. And De Vaux is definitely involved.”

  “Okay, I’ll go directly to Commissario De Mateo and tell him all you’ve told me.” Brennan stood up.

  “I’ll come with you.” Walter got to his feet.

  “No, it’s best if you stay here. With all the security it’s better if I go alone. I have the relevant security clearance. Once I’ve spoken to the Commissario, I’ll send someone to get you.”

  Walter nodded reluctantly and sat down as Brennan left the room, closing the door behind him. Well, that was that. He had done his part. He wondered how Joseph was fairing and if Frankie was alright. Still, she was a feisty one. Her captors might just live to regret that action.

  He was dying for a cigarette but he remembered he had left his pack on the table in the cafe when all hell had broke loose. An image of Frankie sprang into his mind, then of Joseph racing after her on the motorcycle. He prayed to God they were alright.

  I really need a cigarette.

  Brennan was a smoker. Walter searched the desktop in a vain hope he might find a stray pack, but there was none. He got up and walked around the desk. He tried the drawer but it was locked.

  Dear God I so want a cigarette.

  He felt desperation kicking in. He spotted a small pot of paper clips on the desktop. He quickly grabbed a couple and bent them straight and went to work on the lock, not a skill normally found in a priest, but he had had a checkered life. Angus McLintock had taught him this when he was fifteen. He had had cause to put the skills to use a few times over the years. He felt the growing pangs for a nicotine boost clawing at his throat. None seemed as desperate as now.

  The lock gave and he pulled open the drawer. His heart soared as he spotted a pack of Marlboro, tucked away in the corner. He reached for it but his eye caught something else. He picked it up and suddenly his pangs for a cigarette disappeared. It was a mobile phone, nothing unusual about that. Except he was sure this was Luca’s mobile phone. He switched it on and entered Luca’s pin code.

  XXX666

  He allowed himself a little smile. But that was soon wiped away as the phone let him in. What was Father Brennan doing with Luca’s phone? Surely it should have been amongst Luca’s possessions which had been returned to his office. But as he had told Joseph, and he could clearly remember now, there was no phone amongst them.

  That was enough, his craving for a cigarette was gone. He shoved the phone in his pocket and headed for the door. He crossed the office and grasped the door handle. He turned and pulled. Nothing happened. The solid door rattled on its hinges, but it still didn’t budge. It was locked.

  “Don’t panic Walter old son.” Walter spoke out loud as if that would stop the fear he felt rising inside him. He moved over to the window. A large weeping willow blocked the view across the lawns to St. Peter’s beyond. He unlatched the window and opened it, then leaned out. The office was one floor up, a good twenty feet from the ground. If he jumped from this height, even on to the grass below, he was liable to simply make a large hole in the ground.

  The stonework below him was old but still retained the smooth, elegant craftwork of its medieval stonemasons. There was no way down that way.

  A crazy thought entered his mind. A memory from when he was a boy, and the daring escapades they had got up to in one of the few parks in his part of the city. But there was a big difference between a nine year old boy, even if he was a little overweight, and a thirty-eight year old, two hundred and forty pound, priest. Still, it was either that or stay and wait for whoever was going to come through the door next.

  He pulled across a chair and stepped up, then squeezed himself into the open window frame. The weeping willow stood just a few feet away, its festooned branches reaching out towards him. This could all go horribly wrong.

  He glanced towards heaven. “Remember, it was all your fault.”

  He struggled to maneuver his massive bulk through the window, then like popping a cork, he launched out into space.

  The willow branches slapped and scratched at his face as he crashed through, his hands desperately grasping for a grip. His hand caught onto a branch, broke free then clutched on to another. He managed to grab a hold with his other hand, and the whole tree dipped alarmingly under his weight as he held on. The ground rushed up towards him. Then, it rapidly slowed as his face came closer to the grass below. Walter let go, and the willow tree whipped back upright, probably never to fully recover from the experience.

  He hit the ground with a smack and lay there gasping for breath, fully expecting armed guards to surround him at any moment. He struggled to his feet and stretched tentatively. There appeared to be no permanent damage. One of the benefits of having significant natural padding. He sucked at a cut in the palm of his left hand that stung like hell, and moved further under the tree, trying to hide his generous body behind the slender trunk of the willow.

  The rear of St. Peters was directly in front of him. An expanse of lawn and manicured shrubs and trees spread out between them. He knew there was only one way he was going to get to see Commissario de Mateo.

  He set off at a waddling run, heading directly across the lawn towards the Basilica. He was halfway across when the first one appeared, out to his right, then another, running to cut him off. He prayed to God they wouldn’t shoot first and ask questions later. Two more appeared directly ahead. They were shouting, holding out automatic weapons, pointed at him. He stopped and held his hands high above his head. The one in front advanced towards him, an automatic pistol held firmly in both hands. “Down on the floor, flat - now.”

  Walter did as he was told.

  “Is there a problem?” He said flashing a nervous smile.

  77

  Della Vittoria, Rome.

  “How long?” Fagan called out to the cop.

  “Ten minutes,” the cop shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Fagan looked across the intersection. The SUV was long gone. It was pointless waiting. He weaved the bike through
the traffic and crossed over into the other lane. He opened up the throttle and headed back down the road.

  There was a tight knot at the base of his gut, and he was sure he was going to throw up. He took a deep breath from the rushing air and tried to let the steady vibration of the bike take him down a notch.

  If they had done things the way he had wanted, he would have been taken at the Vatican gate, and she and Walter would have been free to go after De Mateo. They would have stood a much better chance, and she wouldn’t be . . . But that was not Frankie, not the way she wanted it. No, she had to do things her way. Stubborn, arrogant, infuriating - smart, beautiful.

  A face seemed to catch in his consciousness as he drove past the long line of cars stacked up in the opposite direction. It was almost like an afterthought, like a video replay. An SUV, black, like the one that had taken Frankie. The driver’s side window open and a face, that arrogant smirk - Blanchet.

  Fagan had to struggle with his instinct to hit the brakes, but he rode on forcing himself not to show even the briefest brake light. The road dipped, and he dropped it down through the gears and began to slow. He brought the bike to a near halt, then wound his way back into the stationary traffic. Frustrated drivers honked their horns as he worked his way in, but frustrated horns were blasting up and down the line, so he was drawing no particular attention. He eased his way up between the cars until he reached the top of the rise. He could see the SUV, stationary, three cars ahead.

  The doubt nudged into his head. What if he was wrong? What if it was just his imagination? A black SUV, one of probably hundreds in the city at this time. A fleeting glance of a man with a bald head and him willing it to be who he wanted it to be. But he had to follow what his instincts told him. He had to believe he was right.

  Otherwise, he had lost her.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Fagan could see all the way down to the intersection as a wave of motorcycles and police cars with blue and red flashing lights, swept past, followed by a line of limousines, then more police cars and motorcycles. The police riders blocking the way waited until the last of the Presidential motorcade had passed, then raced off in pursuit.

  The traffic began to move again. Fagan kept himself a few cars back from the SUV, ready to dart after it, if it turned off. The road divided and the traffic started to thin. Fagan hung back, without losing sight of the vehicle up ahead. It turned off onto a narrow road. Fagan followed. The SUV climbed a hill, then its brake lights flared, and it turned into the driveway of a villa on the hillside. A large metal gate slid aside allowing it to move inside. Then the gate closed behind it.

  Fagan pulled over and parked the motorcycle on the opposite side of the road at the bottom of the hill. He left the bike and made his way up through a copse of olive trees and scrub bushes. He found himself just the right spot — good cover, with a clear view of the villa.

  The place was surrounded by a wall about six feet high with security cameras positioned at strategic locations.

  Frankie was in there.

  He had worked out what he needed to do. He had to take a big risk - for them both. But it was the only way he was getting inside.

  He slipped out from his cover, crossed the road, and stepped in close to the wall. Every instinct was screaming to him that he was too exposed, that he needed to step back. But the old Joe Fagan knew this was the right move. The only move.

  He saw the man coming in rapidly from his left. The man stopped and brought up an MK16 assault rifle. This was the moment the dice roll ended. Fagan did not move.

  “Hands high - slowly.”

  Fagan did as he was told. He let his eyes scan out to his right. The visitor’s companion appeared, just as he knew he would. He was carrying the same type of weapon. It was pointing directly at him.

  78

  Central Security Office, Vatican Gendarmerie, the Vatican.

  Commissario De Mateo ground out his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray and stared into the dregs of yet another cup of strong Italian espresso. His grandmother used to read coffee dregs, and tea leaves too. She had been quite famous in the little town in the foothills of the Dolomites where she had lived, and he had spent his childhood. He often wished he had inherited her gift. He wondered what future he would see for himself in this cup now.

  He stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. It was all about to begin. He had already had a call to say that the President’s plane had landed and was on his way. He had been at his desk since 4 am, with a big enough day in front of him, without having to scrape Cardinal Vogler off the pavement along the way.

  As if he could use that right now, before the biggest day of his life, the Holy Father’s funeral, a guest list that was a Who’s Who of world’s leaders, the whole of the Vatican Roman Curia, the Vatican Conclave, and the President of the United States thrown in. And he, Julio de Mateo, was personally responsible for their security.

  He had known Cardinal Vogler reasonably well, at least as well as you can know any man who kept himself to himself, and conducted himself in that rather aloof manner that he had. But in the Cardinal’s official capacity they had interacted a lot. Cardinal Vogler had not the easiest of jobs, but he had seen him carry out his role as the Prefect of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, the Grand Inquisitor, with determination and energy. He had always struck De Mateo as a man of great inner strength. Not the kind you would expect to commit suicide, even after the devastating loss of a man he knew Cardinal Vogler respected greatly. Especially when he was due to lead the funeral ceremony inside Saint Peter’s Basilica in less than an hour from now. Still, that part was a headache for the Camerlengo to worry about.

  De Mateo had been appointed responsible for the Pontiff’s personal security by Pope Salus himself when he was elected three years ago. In that time he had overseen the Holy Father’s personal safety at home and abroad. He had accompanied him on half a dozen foreign trips, from South America and the United States, to Australia and the Philippines. He had even stopped one attempted assassination from a deranged, born again Christian. But for the most part, it had been just routine security, prevention rather than defensive action. Now in the space of a week, he had the death of his friend, Father Luca, the murder of Father Luigi in Trastevere, made all the more interesting by the implication of Father Joseph Fagan, an involvement he knew was far more complicated than it seemed. Then had come the shocking death of Pope Salus, seemingly from a heart attack, although he knew him to be an incredibly fit man.

  He had wanted an autopsy, but the Roman Curia wouldn’t allow it. That in itself was not unusual. It was the normal tradition. This was the Vatican. The shoes of the fisherman had to be filled. The holy institution had to move on, it didn’t need scandals, though enough of those came its way regardless. The irony was, it was Cardinal Vogler’s job to deal with them when they did come along. It had kept him extremely busy.

  And now the Cardinal had committed suicide, or so it seemed. De Mateo looked at the file contents, spread out across his desk. If he was still a homicide detective from the Central Questura in Milan, he would have all of these items pasted up on large whiteboards, scribbled notes beside each one, arrows pointing from one to another. He would have a team scrutinizing it, proposing theories, chasing down leads. He would have men out on the streets, looking for links, looking for clues.

  But he wasn’t that man anymore. He was in charge of Vatican security, and he had a massive day in front of him, and not a single man to spare to look into any of this. The Curia would expect him to write it up as suicide and move on.

  His phone rang. Yet another problem to deal with.

  He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and shook his head.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  This day could finish him for sure. He gathered up the items on his desk, stacked them back in the file and locked it away in the bottom drawer. When this was all over, maybe he’d get a chance to look at it again.

  79r />
  Cells, Vatican Gendarmerie.

  Walter lay on a narrow bed in a tiny cell. He didn’t fit. His body hung over the side, and his feet stuck out from the end. He didn’t fancy spending the night in here. In fact, he didn’t fancy spending any time in here at all.

  He was in the basement of the central security office of the Vatican Gendarmerie. Two floors above him was the main surveillance center, where all the security camera feeds came in. From there they could observe any part of the Vatican and the surrounding area. Commissario de Mateo had to be up there.

  He had taken a gamble, he reckoned the easiest way to get De Mateo’s attention was to get arrested inside the Vatican grounds, but under suspicious circumstances, not just for being where he wasn’t supposed to be.

  He could have been wrong about Father Brennan. Maybe he locked him in his office as a precaution. Maybe he really was going to see the Commissario, and he would turn up with De Mateo when he came to find out what he was up to, running through the Vatican gardens on the day of the Pope’s funeral. If De Mateo came. If he came in time.

  A key scraped in the lock, and the metal cell door swung open with a creak.

  “Father Walter.” Commissario de Mateo stood in the doorway. He looked tired.

  Walter sat up on the bed.

  De Mateo folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “I have always known you were a little strange, not what I would expect from a priest, but Father Luca always assured me your heart was in the right place. What would he say if he saw you now?”

  “I’d like to think that this whole thing would have been a lot easier if he had still been around.”