by Neil Howarth
“The bishop passed away during the night. I’m to take you directly to the archbishop. The officer here will provide a police escort.”
Brennan suddenly felt light headed and he staggered, relief flooding through him.
“Are you alright Father?” The policeman grabbed hold of Brennan’s arm to steady him.
“Yes, I’m fine. A little jet lagged I think.”
He let his eyes look upwards. His prayers had been answered.
He had slipped away from the Vatican amid the chaos, expecting the tap on his shoulder at any moment. But he had made it through the airport at Fiumicino, and then here, coming through immigration, he was convinced the authorities would be waiting for him.
Father Robert allowed the policeman to walk on ahead, as they stepped out into the cold Chicago morning. He turned back towards Brennan, a slight smile on his face.
“The Grand Master sends his congratulations on your appointment. He expects great things of you and asks that you not forget.
“One day he will call upon you again.”
The Final Pontiff
Coming Soon
Father Paul Brennan is back in the Vatican, and he is on his way up.
When Walter stumbles on a mysterious link to a secret, hidden in Brennan's past, he unwittingly puts his, and his friends' lives in danger.
The story of the Armageddon Trilogy continues as Fagan and Frankie are hounded from their farmhouse hideaway in the South of France, by a deadly group of religious fanatics, and thrust onto a desperate journey to discover what Brennan is hiding. It takes them to an ancient Priory on a windswept clifftop in Southern Ireland, and from there to the wild mountains of Bosnia. There they are forced to step carefully through the minefield of its war-torn history, on a quest to uncover a dark secret, buried for the last twenty-five years beneath the bones and memories of its painful past.
A secret that can bring all of Brennan’s dreams crashing down.
A secret that could finally set them free.
Read the first chapter
The Final Pontiff
Read the first chapter
Brooklyn, New York City.
The watcher was there again.
The man saw him as he paused on the top step of the coffee shop, standing over by Mario’s deli on the far side of the street, watching him through the reflection in the shop window. He did not allow his eyes to linger. Instead, he clutched his tall Caramel Macchiato in his gloved hand, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the flow of the morning commute.
He ducked his head against the bite of the wind whipping down 9th Street and battled his way forward. Winter had clung on late this year, and he was wrapped up well against the cold. His thick overcoat reached almost to his ankles, and his knitted woolen hat was pulled down firmly over his ears. His matching scarf, tied around his neck in a bulky knot, hid the priest’s dog-collar beneath it, making him anonymous amongst the hurrying morning crowd — unless you knew who you were looking for.
He paused as he reached Charlie's Bakery, the smell of freshly baked bread floated out through the open door. Charlie's blueberry muffins could usually tempt him inside, but today he had no appetite and was more interested in the reflection from the shop's entrance window, which was angled to the street. His watcher had stopped at the bus stop on the other side and appeared to be watching him openly.
He had noticed him yesterday, first on his way to the church and twice on the way home. A level of observation not quite what you would expect from a simple priest. But when you had spent half your life in some of the worst hotspots and hellholes on the face of the earth, you learned how to identify a threat. And even here after twenty years working in the seedier parts of this neighborhood, among the street gangs and those struggling for survival on the edge of so-called civilization, that instinct never went away.
Maybe he was getting paranoid in his old age. He had nothing to offer any would-be mugger, and what threat a retired priest could be to anyone, he failed to understand.
The coffee shop was halfway between his apartment over by Prospect Park and Saint Mary's on 6th street. It had become his usual stop on his morning walk to the church, now that he was no longer the parish priest. The bishop had been telling him gently, it was time for a younger man to take over, ever since . . . well. He had finally conceded and given over his on-site accommodation to his successor.
But he was not done yet. So he made the walk every day regardless of the weather and helped out in the church and the care center next door. It was preferable to sitting in his apartment staring at the wall, waiting for the Lord to come and claim him. He had turned seventy-five this past December, but he still needed to get out and at least try to make a difference, just as he had been doing all his adult life.
According to his oncologist, he would not be doing it for much longer.
He kept himself on the edge of the crowd, moving at what was now his rather unsteady sedentary pace. The chemo had damaged the nerve endings in his extremities and walking was like having sponges fixed to the soles of his feet. The walk seemed to be just a little more of a struggle every day, and he knew that would not be getting any better.
He allowed the morning rush to crowd past him as they scrambled onto whatever fate the day would bring them. He caught the reflection of the man in a department store window. He had crossed over and was now a few yards back from him, hovering there, hiding in plain sight.
He was tall and looked fit. His demeanor reminded the priest of a soldier he had once known, many years ago in Africa. He wore jeans and a jogging top with the hood pulled up over his head, his face nothing more than a dark shadow within. The priest resisted the urge to turn and confront him. Forty years ago maybe it would have been a different story — maybe. Instead, he moved on, trying to ignore the fear gnawing at his gut.
The morning traffic was backed up, clogging the street as he reached the corner. Irritated horns and over-revving engines emanated from the impatient vehicles, like discordant notes from some dystopian orchestra, their condensed exhaust fumes rising like smoke from perdition in the morning chill.
A rumble echoed up from the steps that led down into the subway station. The priest gazed across the madness he called home. Maybe he was crazy too. He could have taken the F-train, instead of walking. There was a station over by the park, and it could drop him only a block from the church. But somehow that felt like giving up.
He waited while the lights allowed the traffic on 7th Avenue to pass. He half turned to his left. A large truck labored up the incline towards him, its engine straining as the driver held his foot down, trying to cross before the lights changed. He allowed his gaze to wander across the faces of the crowd behind him. There was no sign of the man. Part of him wanted to believe that he had imagined it, but the part of him that had protected him all these years, the part that had kept him alive, told him he was out there somewhere.
But why?
He was sure there was someone from his past who held a grudge, he had ruffled enough feathers over the years. Rescuing souls from chaos was not done without stepping on toes, and behind every misery, there was usually someone reaping the profits. But that was all a long time ago, and besides, most of them were already dead.
His mouth was dry, his breath ragged. Something poked at the back of his mind. Was this real? Or was it his own paranoia, and the lingering effects of the chemo he had stopped a month ago? The constant fuzz inside his head that clogged, like cotton wool in his brain had only slightly diminished, and it was still difficult to concentrate.
He glanced at the people around him, each locked in their own little world, their eyes fixed ahead, seemingly oblivious to anything or anyone outside of their own personal domain — as if he did not exist. Which only heightened the level of isolation he felt. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.
The lights changed to red as the truck hit the crossroads, its driver keeping his foot hard on the gas and the engine roarin
g as it thundered on. It seemed to roar like a wild beast inside his head. He tried to focus on the 'Walk' light, waiting for it to illuminate, still clutching his macchiato coffee as if it was his last grasp of reality.
Something lightly brushed the middle of his back. His breath caught in his throat. He began to turn, but the touch became a sharp thrust. He stumbled out into the road. The roar was louder now. He turned his head. The beast was almost upon him.
The truck wheels shrieked in protest like a scream inside his brain as the driver stamped on the brakes. The priest raised his arm in pathetic defense. The thundering truck filled his vision. In its center the driver, a look of utter terror on his face. And in that instant, before his world erupted in bright white light and unbelievable pain, one final thought flashed through his mind.
Why now?
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The Doomsday Legacy
The Secret to the World's Salvation or its Darkest Nightmare
When his uncle, a retired CIA agent, turns up dead on a train in Eastern Europe, international war photographer, Mason Bradley is caught in the middle.
The Russian Mafiya and shady factions of the CIA believe the former agent was carrying something of vital importance. But where is it now? They suspect that Bradley knows the answer, only he doesn’t, and his only way to stay alive is to find it and use it as a bargaining chip for his life.
Bradley begins a journey into a shady world where money, greed, and deception, are the deadly currency in the battle for ultimate power, a world of dark secrets, where life can be snuffed out with the snap of unseen fingers. The action moves from the United States, through Europe to St. Petersburg, and the heart of the Russian Mafiya, then to the far north, to the frozen wasteland of Siberia, and a secret still kept long after the demise of the Soviet Union. Bradley struggles to stay one step ahead of his pursuers, as one by one, his every avenue of escape is closed.
But perhaps Mason Bradley has some dark secrets of his own.
Checkout The Doomsday Legacy on Amazon by clicking on the link.
The Foo Sheng Key
The Middle East teetering on the brink of war.
One man willing to push it over the edge. A man with great wealth and power, prepared to plunge the whole world into chaos in the simple, selfish act of revenge.
And a twelve year old boy who stands in his way.
The key to a dangerous secret
Jai has a happy life as a novice monk in a Tibetan monastery, protected from afar by his mother, an important Chinese scientist. Until one day his happy life is shattered. Soldiers attack the monastery, killing all inside except for Jai, who escapes into the snow.
Jai, unknowingly, has become the vital key in a deadly secret, and his pursuers want him desperately - Dead or Alive.
A deadly chase across the roof of the world
Jai finds himself alone in the vast mountainous wastes of Tibet, with the Chinese Security Service and dark factions of the CIA not far behind. But so also is his father, an American, who years before turned his back on his wife and son and thought he would never see them again. Now he has to step out from his past, face his demons, and make one last effort to put things right.
Can Jai escape his pursuers and stay alive? Can he survive in the savage mountains of Tibet, and will he ever find his way home again?
Visit Amazon to find out more about The Foo Sheng Key
Acknowledgements
As always there are many people to thank.
My wonderful editor, Sam Llewellyn, who, as always, helped me transform a woeful first draft into the finished polished story.
Thanks to Phil and Dawn Wheelhouse for the detailed, line by line review, which as always revealed many flaws.
To Francisco (Kiko) Navarro for his flying instructions.
To many people who have helped me along the way with suggestions and ideas, some intended some not.
Finally as always, thanks to my wife, Gigi Esmilla Howarth, talented artist, friend, mentor, proofreader, and the most wonderful wife. You show it every day, often when I don’t deserve it.
A quick note on some of the background of the Simeon Scroll.
Those of you familiar with the Northern France coastline may recognize similarities between the Abbaye de Sainte Bernadette and Mont St Michel, in Normandy, which was indeed the inspiration for my fictional abbey, after a wonderful five days my wife and I enjoyed in a small hotel just across the water from the Abbey. I removed the tourist bits and moved it around the corner from Normandy to make it face the Atlantic Ocean, and of course, added the sinister parts that don’t exist in the original.
For those of you interested, Brother Ademar, the medieval forger did actually exist, though his main achievement was to quite successfully (for a while) produce documentation that St. Martial was one of Jesus’ disciples. When this was finally debunked, he disappeared on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and was never seen of again. I just picked it up from there and thought what if.
Finally on the main premise of the story. Firstly, this is a work of fiction. All the characters and the story are from my imagination. However, I do like to tread the fine line between the truth or what could be the truth, and my fictional interpretation. In that regard, I was looking for a conspiracy theory where I could say, what if that were true.
Does the Deep State really exist? Could an organization like the Imperium take control, manipulate our lives, and orchestrate a New World Order?
Surely, only in fiction.
The theme continues and develops in the next two books in the trilogy.
Neil Howarth – Andalucía, Spain
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Copyright
The Simeon Scroll
Copyright © 2016 by Neil Howarth
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
