by Neil Howarth
“Konrad,” De Vaux stood up, a feeling of relief swept through him. “I am so glad you are here, we have much to talk about. I know they are upset,” De Vaux held up a hand. “But there were circumstances we could do nothing about.”
“That’s not quite the way they heard it.”
“Look, we can survive this. It is a setback. But we can recover. Already I have ideas, even the beginning of a plan. We can come back stronger.”
Krueger nodded his head. “You’re right Dominic. The Imperium can survive this. Unfortunately, without you.”
“What? They cannot do that. They must challenge me in the Grand Council. Let me speak to the Grand Master. He has faith in me. I will make him understand.”
Krueger tightened his lips. “I’m afraid the Grand Master had a stroke last night. He’s in intensive care.”
The look of shock on De Vaux’s face quickly faded to one of resignation. “What a coincidence. And may I ask who is in charge?”
“Come on Dominic. You know who.”
“Ah, it all becomes clear.”
“The rules dictate that while the Grand Master is incapacitated his deputy takes over - Lawrence Percival. And unfortunately, you have seriously pissed him off. You have made him look bad in front of the Grand Council, and you are his main rival for the top job.”
“But he cannot do this. While the Grand Master is alive, it has to come from him.”
“It seems the Master has been speaking to Percival.”
“And I suppose, the only person who knows what he has been saying is Percival.”
“Exactly.”
“So what happens now?”
“You know the Council’s attitude to failure.”
De Vaux shook his head. “Surely, Konrad, not you. We can work this out.”
“Of course not, Dominic. You’re my friend.”
De Vaux allowed himself a smile. “I knew I could rely on you.” He looked up, and the smile froze on his face. A figure appeared in the doorway. He was tall, blonde, and handsome, and wearing a priest’s cassock and Roman Collar.
“Juergen,” De Vaux pleaded as his young protégé stepped into the room. “Listen to me. I will work this out. I will still be the next Grand Master, I promise you. You and I, we have so much to do together.”
Father Juergen appeared totally unmoved. He raised a gloved hand, holding a silenced automatic. The weapon spit once and De Vaux staggered back on to his chair, then was silent.
Krueger shook his head. “Okay Juergen, clean it up, as we agreed.” He looked at his watch. “We have another appointment in Paris, in an hour.”
He walked out onto the terrace and gazed out across the lake. The mausoleum stood serene in the morning sunshine. Dear Dominic would now get his wish to lie beside his beloved Micheline. He felt a certain sadness, tinged with something else. His old mentor was gone. But such was life. Krueger had grown up taking opportunities as they came, and now - what an opportunity.
90
Church of Santa Clara, Tiburtini Hills, Rome.
The three of them sat around Father Roberto’s kitchen table drinking coffee. Frankie had a heavily strapped left ankle. It had been x-rayed, and the doctor had declared it badly sprained but not broken. The painkillers he had prescribed had put her out for a good eight hours in Father Roberto’s spare room, which made her the only one who had had any sleep to speak of. Fagan had spent an uncomfortable night on the sofa and Walter had been interrogated by the police, the US Secret Service, and the Vatican Gendarmerie until the small hours of the morning.
“What time did he say?” Fagan said, already knowing the answer.
“Ten o’clock,” Walter said.
Frankie squeezed Fagan’s arm. “It will be all right. After everything that has happened, they have to understand.”
“As far as the police are concerned, I killed a man. I need to answer for that.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door.
Walter stood up and answered it. “Commissario De Mateo, good morning. Please come in.”
De Mateo stepped into the room. He wore his usual suit and tie, but he looked ragged and weary. “Good morning.”
Walter remained at the door looking uncomfortable. “Well, I’ll leave you folks to your little chat.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him.
“Coffee, Commissario?” Fagan asked.
De Mateo nodded and sat down, while Fagan poured him a cup from the coffee pot. De Mateo spooned in sugar and took a sip.
“By the way,” said Fagan. “This is Miss Lefevre, actually Special Agent Lefevre, of the French DGSE.”
Mateo’s wearied face broke into a broad smile. “Actually, I know all about Agent Lefevre.” He looked at Frankie. “I have had half a dozen calls from your office already this morning.”
Frankie gave him a fixed teeth grimace. “Ouch, I bet that was interesting.”
“You could say that. I spoke to a Monsieur Le Grande.”
“Jaques, yes. He is a good man. You can trust him. But you did not speak to my boss, Charles Messenian?”
“It would seem your boss has disappeared.”
“Now there is a surprise,” Frankie said, not surprised at all. “Dear Charles has some explaining to do.”
“I am sure your organization will track him down.”
“Unless the Imperium finds him first.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Father Roberto smokes in here,” Fagan said. “So I guess it’s all right.”
De Mateo offered his cigarettes, Fagan declined, but Frankie accepted. De Mateo lit both of them and sat back. “So, I have heard the story from Father Walter’s perspective. I would like to hear it from your side?”
“There’s a lot to tell.”
“I have all morning.”
Fagan started at the beginning, from sitting with Luca in Enzo’s bar, a lifetime ago, to the final struggle with Blanchet in the icy depths of the lake. Frankie chipped in with the odd piece here and there while De Mateo listened patiently. He made the odd note in a small black notebook and asked the occasional question, but for the most part, he sat back and listened, the ever-present cigarette burning between his fingers.
Finally, Fagan looked across at De Mateo. “And that’s it. Make of it what you will.”
“An interesting story.”
“Did you find Blanchet out at the lake?” asked Frankie.
De Mateo nodded. “The police fished him and the pilot out, early this morning. They are treating it as a flying accident.”
“And the bullet holes in the fuselage?” Fagan asked.
“We will leave that to the accident investigation board.”
“But we have him now,” Frankie said. “De Vaux. It all links back to him. We have the evidence.”
De Mateo pondered the two of them. “One of the calls I received from your Monsieur Le Grande, gave me some news on Monsieur De Vaux. It would seem our billionaire, media magnate, committed suicide early this morning. Managed to shoot himself in the head.”
“He didn’t seem like the kind of man who would commit suicide,” Fagan said.
“From what you have told me, nothing in this whole story is what it seems.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows. “I am sure the Imperium gave him a helping hand.”
De Mateo gave a noncommittal shrug. “Who knows. And more important, who cares? Certainly not the Vatican. It would appear that they would like to see this whole mess buried. Like it never happened.”
“And the Americans?” Frankie asked.
“As far as they are concerned, the President is safe at home, and the rest of it is just a local matter.”
“What about Brennan?” Fagan asked. “He was De Vaux’s inside man. He murdered the Holy Father. Blanchet told me.”
“Yes, and Blanchet is dead.” De Mateo looked Fagan directly in the eye. “The Holy Father was someone very dear to me, as I know he was to you. I still feel as if I failed hi
m. I promise you, if I could get my hands on Father Brennan, I would put a bullet in his head myself and take the consequences. But he has dropped out of sight. I suspect he will surface again in the United States. But without any evidence, he will be untouchable. And I am sure even my new found friends in the Secret Service will not be able to help me with that.”
“Surely Walter can prove that he was involved,” Frankie said.
“Apparently Father Brennan reported back to the Swiss Guard who Walter had originally spoken to. He said he had tried to contact me, but I was unavailable. So he told one of the security guards the story, and that was that. The security guard passed it up the line, but by then it was all over.”
“Don’t tell me. The security guard was from Excalibur.”
De Mateo gave a resigned smile. “What did you expect.”
“So he’s going to get away with it,” Fagan said, knowing what De Mateo said was true but still not willing to accept it.
De Mateo shrugged. “For now.”
“So is that it, is it really all over?” Frankie asked.
“Not for me,” Fagan said. “I need to turn myself in. There’s still a warrant out for my arrest.”
Frankie interrupted. “Surely not, Commissario.”
“Well technically, Captain Pulvo of the Rome police is insisting that the charges still stand. But the fact is, there is no body for the crime you did commit, and no one actually knows you committed it.” He gave Fagan a knowing look. “I have studied the evidence for the murder of Father Luigi and to be honest, a decent lawyer could blow cannonballs through the case. It will probably never get to court. However, between now and then, Pulvo will insist you are arrested and held.”
“You mean put in prison,” Frankie said.
“It’s all right.” Fagan reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’ve endured worse.”
De Mateo shook his head. “Unfortunately, there lies the problem. We were talking about the fate of Dominic de Vaux and the reach of this organization, the Imperium. I have been doing some investigating of my own. I have contacts, people in the know, especially now that my new best friend is the head of the United States Secret Service. It is all whispers, and there is no hard evidence, but the Imperium is rumored to have its fingers everywhere - big business, the justice system, in Washington, even in the Administration itself. And right now they are pretty upset with you.” He fixed Fagan with a serious look. “The truth is, if you gave yourself up, I could not guarantee your safety, no one can.”
“And what about Frankie and Walter?”
“Well,” he looked across at Frankie. “I would suggest you return to Paris and take whatever punishment your boss has in store for you. Don’t worry I put in a good word.”
Frankie gave him a knowing smile but didn’t say anything.
“And Walter,” Fagan asked.
“Well, technically Walter’s involvement never happened, beyond his little interaction with Brennan. As I said, the Vatican wants everything carefully swept under the carpet, and as far as the Americans are concerned, nothing ever happened.”
“So what do you suggest I do?”
“A long sabbatical, somewhere far away.”
“I could go back to Africa.”
“I am told their reach is far. I would recommend you stay away from anywhere you have been associated with in the past.”
Fagan gave a resigned smile. He had been here before, on the run, constantly looking over your shoulder, never sure if your life would last till the end of the day, or even to the next minute.
De Mateo stood up. “I need to get back to the Vatican. There is still much to do.” He held out a hand. “I wish you luck, and I hope one day we can meet again, in better circumstances.”
Walter reappeared as De Mateo’s car headed down the hill.
“All tidied up?”
“Not really,” Fagan gave him a quick précis of their conversation with the Commissario.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Walter, you are a priest,” Frankie said.
Walter gave an apologetic shrug. He and Fagan moved back inside, but Frankie decided to give them some space and stayed outside for a smoke.
“What will you do?” Walter said as he closed the kitchen door.
“Survive.”
“If anyone can, it’s you. But you don’t have to give up the collar. You can still be a priest. You’re a good man. The Church needs you.”
“No, I’ve gone too far, stepped too far outside.”
“You had no choice.”
“Maybe he made the choices for me. You’re always telling me he lights our path. Besides, maybe he showed me another path.”
Walter smiled and looked towards the door. “She is a very special lady.”
Fagan nodded. “It feels right. What about you? What will you do?”
“I’m the local hero. Saved the world, saved the church. Unfortunately, it’s all a state secret, so I’m not supposed to talk about it. But between you and me, I’ve been told I can pretty much pick my own job. They’re not going to make me a Cardinal or anything like that, well, not yet, but apart from that.” Walter gave a generous grin.
“You deserve it. It was smart, wrapping up the scroll cabinet in kitchen foil.”
“Well, the theory was sound. We had turned off the signal repeaters, so I knew whatever signal coming in would be very weak. I just needed to block out what was left.”
“So, you’re a genius.”
“Unfortunately, I found out that when the power went off and Pietro restored it, the other guard went around checking everything and he found the repeaters were switched off, so he switched them back on again. I doubt my little trick would block a full strength signal.”
“What are you saying, Walter?”
Walter smiled and pointed upwards with his finger.
Fagan shook his head. “Your glowing scroll. It was probably from some chemical they had treated it with to preserve it.”
Walter kept on smiling.
“You don’t really believe it was . . .”
Walter cocked his head to one side. “A miracle? I would like to believe he intervened. Now the scroll is disintegrating, and there’s hardly any of it left. The official word is that exposure to the environment caused it. The rumors are already circulating that it was a fake and the Vatican is playing the whole thing down. But maybe it had played its part.”
“Walter, I know you wanted to believe in it.”
Walter shrugged. “Brother Ademar believed he was writing down God’s words. Maybe he was. Anyway, scroll or not, we still have what we always had.”
Fagan gave him a questioning look.
Walter’s face broke into a wide grin. “Faith my friend, we still have faith.” Walter’s face became serious. He took something from his pocket and handed it to Fagan.
“What’s this?” Fagan said looking at a cellphone in his hand.
“It’s Luca’s phone.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I found it in Brennan’s drawer in his office. He was the one listening in on Luca. No doubt it was he who pointed him out to Blanchet when he . . . And the scumbag is going to walk.”
Fagan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “His time will come. And I promise when it does, I’ll be there waiting for him.”
Frankie reappeared, and Walter announced he had to get back. She and Fagan both gave him emotional hugs and Walter ended up blinking back the tears. “Stay in touch - both of you.”
They watched him drive away, balanced precariously on his ancient scooter.
“So what now?” Frankie said.
“I don’t know. It looks like I’m set for an uncertain journey.”
“Then it is one best not traveled alone.”
“Frankie, you know how I feel about you, but you heard what De Mateo said. They’ll be coming after me. Maybe I should disappear for a while, just until things quieten down. I think you’re better going back. The DGSE will tak
e care of you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Frankie gave him a cynical smile. “Maybe my old boss has disappeared but who knows who is left.”
“Okay,” Fagan held up his hands in submission. “But my way is not going to be any less risky.”
“Do you not want me to come?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Frankie wrapped her arms around his neck. “Anyway, you need someone to look out for you.”
Fagan looked back into her eyes. “It could turn out to be a rather short journey.”
Frankie leaned her head to one side and fixed him with her deep brown eyes. “You remember what was the last thing in Pandora’s box?”
Fagan’s face broke into a broad smile.
“Yes,” Frankie said. “Hope.”
91
O'Hare International Airport, Chicago.
The Boeing 747 glided up against the jetway and came to a halt. Passengers were moving, almost before the ‘fasten seat belts’ lights were extinguished, grabbing bags from overhead lockers, squeezing towards the exits. He waited for the rush to die down before retrieving his carry-on and making for the first class exit.
His stomach was a tight knot as he emerged into the terminal and made his way to immigration. His back felt sticky with sweat, his heart thumping like the bell toll of doom, as he waited for the immigration official. Eventually, the man handed him back his passport, and he walked through into the main baggage hall. He had only carry-on luggage, so he made his way straight through to the arrival lounge.
He spotted the man who was meeting him, holding up a card with his name on it. Beside him stood a uniformed policeman. He took a deep breath and moved towards him. The man’s face was grave.
“Father Brennan? I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
Brennan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
The man was dressed in priest’s garb. His serious look continued. “I’m Father Robert, from the Archbishop’s office. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Brennan didn’t say anything but glanced nervously at the policeman.
