by Neil Howarth
The Final Pontiff
The Armageddon Trilogy - Book 2
Neil Howarth
For Gigi
for every single day
Also by Neil Howarth
The Doomsday Legacy
The Foo Sheng Key
The Simeon Scroll
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
1
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 somewhat 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 o
wn 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 roaring 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?
2
St. Peter’s Basilica, Rome (A week later).
The final notes of the Vatican Sistine Chapel Choir seemed to hang like the fading toll of the bells in the magnificent dome above them. Its eleven tenors, nine basses, and thirty boy choristers fell silent, and the ceremony proper began. The Consistory, the Pope’s formal meeting with the College of Cardinals, was simple, in stark contrast to the magnificence of its setting, the Basilica of St. Peter.
There was only a small crowd to witness the ceremony. The prelates were gathered in front, dressed in their crimson robes, the color a graphic reminder that as Cardinals they were called to be faithful to Christ, his church, and the Pope, to the point of shedding their blood. Which in this day and age was a distinct possibility. Together they sang the ‘Our Father’ and moved into the recital of the creed and their special vow of obedience.
The Holy Father sat on a gilded throne before the Papal Altar and directly above the bones of St. Peter. Bernini's majestic Baldacchino canopy, towered high above him, delicately set upon its four gilded bronze, spiral columns. Its magnificence served only to highlight the slight, almost fragile figure beneath it, dressed in white and wearing his gold-trimmed Papal Mitre.
Now the ceremony for the individuals began. The Holy Father smiled as the next prelate in line stepped up and knelt before him, bowing his head. He was a tall man with the early onset of greying hair, which considering the age of his illustrious company was something remarkable. He was much younger than any of his colleagues. In fact, he was about to become the youngest Cardinal in modern times. He had grown a well trimmed goatee, since his last assignment to the Vatican. The mustache was still dark, but the beard was streaked with grey. He liked it. It reminded him of an actor he had seen in a number of movies. His hair was brushed straight back and unfashionably long for an Archbishop, especially for one stepping up to take his Cardinal's red hat. But he represented the new Church, the radical new faith. He was destined to identify with the youth of the modern world and lead them into the future. That was the path that God had laid out for him. To show them the way. He was the future of God's Church.
The Holy Father set a trembling hand on the crimson zucchetto the prelate wore and uttered a short prayer. Then he ceremoniously placed a red biretta, the four-cornered hat, firmly on his head. He took the newly appointed Cardinal by the shoulders and leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek then took his hand and fitted the gold episcopal ring on his finger, its intricate gold etching depicting the crucifixion of Jesus, designed specially to the Holy Father’s instructions.
“Receive the ring from the hands of Peter and know that your love for the Church is strengthened by the love of the Prince of the Apostles.”
The Pope handed over the traditional titular scroll, officially a papal bull assigning the new cardinal as the honorary pastor of a church in Rome and therefore a member of the clergy of Rome.
His old eyes twinkled and his face creased into a broad smile. “Congratulations, Paul. I am so happy for you. I know the Church will see great things from you.”
The newly elevated, Cardinal Paul Brennan looked up and beamed a broad smile at the Supreme Pontiff. “Holy Father, I only hope I can serve in his name.”
“Have no doubt about that. Trust in the Lord, he will guide you.” The Pope squeezed his hand in both of his then moved his attention to the next in line.
Cardinal Brennan returned to his place as if walking in the clouds. He looked up at the frail Pontiff sitting on his golden throne, and the thought that flicked into his mind gave him an adrenalin rush of pure excitement.
When the individual part of the ceremony was finished the Holy Father gave his homily, in a quavering voice, ending with the words.
“My dear brothers, newly created Cardinals, the journey towards heaven begins in the plains. In a daily life broken and shared, spent and given, in the quiet daily gift of all that we are. Our mountaintop is this quality of love, our goal and aspiration is to strive, on life’s plain, together with the People of God, to become persons capable of forgiveness and reconciliation.
“Today each of you, dear brothers, is asked to cherish in your own heart, and in the heart of the Church, this summons to be merciful, like the Father.”
The Sistine Chapel Choir began again, singing the Marian anthem, Ave Regina Caelorum, as the newly appointed Cardinals filed out behind the faltering figure of the Pope. There seemed a tension in the procession as if each one was prepared to catch the Holy Father if he stumbled.
Brennan saw the face of Cardinal Secretary Carlucci, waiting for him at the door as the procession filed past. Why was it the man who was responsible for placing him here in this glorious place, to receive this most prestigious honor, should make him feel the way he felt now? There was an old saying, The Devil is in the detail, and he had the feeling that he had yet to get to the detail that went with the gifts that Cardinal Giancarlo Carlucci was bestowing.
“Congratulations, Cardinal Brennan,” Cardinal Carlucci smiled, “Your Eminence. You certainly look the part.”
Brennan stepped out of the line and nodded a forced smiled. As always he was looking for the true meaning in Carlucci’s words, and as usual, was struggling to find it. “I will try to live up to it.”
“I am sure you will. This is just the first step. In many ways, it all starts from here, so prepare yourself.” He glanced at his watch. “I must go, I have urgent business with the Holy Father. We will talk about it later.” Cardinal Carlucci gave another imponderable smile then turned and hurried after the retreating retinue of the Holy Father.
Brennan watched him go, all joy of the ceremony now extinguished. He turned to leave and caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows. Brennan moved towards him, glancing around, but everyone appeared to be focused on the retreating Pontifical party.
“Your Eminence.” The man stepped into the light and bowed his head. He had caught on quickly. He had close-cropped blond hair and steel-blue eyes and wore the dark robes and Roman collar of a priest, though the cold look in his eyes hinted at much more than that.
“Father Juergen.” Brennan was sure the priest was not here to congratulate him. The bad feeling that Carlucci had left him with, took a turn for the worst.
The priest confirmed it.
“We may have a problem.”
3
Trastevere, Rome.
Enzo’s bar sat on the corner of a small, flat cobbled, piazza, tucked away in the back streets of ancient Trastevere. Despite its ivy draped facade, its fa
ded pink terracotta roof tiles, and even the promise of authentic Rome inside, it usually managed to stay hidden from the average roaming tourist. At least for most of the year which suited the man who sat at the only table on the narrow back-terrace.
His wrinkled suit bore the odd faded stain of the bar owner, Maria’s famous Ai Fiori di Zucca pasta sauce, but the Roman collar he wore beneath his black shirt, was pristine white. His generous frame overflowed the plastic chair he was seated on, which, like the suit, strained under his weight. A half-full glass of red wine sat close to hand, although noon was still an hour away, and a top-up was available from an earthenware jug sitting beside it. The chair squealed in protest as he leaned forward, a foul-smelling Italian cigarette stuffed in the corner of his mouth, his eyes screwed up against the smoke, while he tinkered with the innards of a state-of-the-art mobile phone.
