The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  “So far, so good.”

  “Only just. I did wonder for a moment back there.”

  “If I’d shoot?”

  Frankie gave him a tired smile. “If we would make it. Walter saved our lives. Another half an hour and they would have been digging our graves out in the olive grove.”

  “Do you have to be so graphic?”

  “It is the image that springs to mind.”

  A few rusted farm implements hung on the barn wall, but the main thing that occupied the space of the interior was a large rectangular lump, covered with a waterproof tarpaulin. Fagan walked over and pulled the tarp free to reveal a late model Mercedes GLE SUV. The farm belonged to a friend who spent most of his time out of the country. They rented the barn for such a moment as this. They had left the house with nothing, but here in the back of the SUV, they had everything they needed to step into a new life.

  They had prepared for this eventuality when they had first arrived. The escape route, their escape kit, and this, the getaway car, hoping beyond desperate hope that this day would never come.

  7

  Apostolic Palace, Rome.

  The newly appointed Cardinal Brennan looked at his watch. It was time for his meeting with the Cardinal Secretary. He should have been feeling good, but recent events had squashed all that flat.

  After Roberto had brought him the excellent news of the location of Joseph Fagan, and he had dispatched a team of brothers to dispense with them, it seemed that at last, he could clear the decks for what was to come. But that had ended in disaster. They had lost two brothers, and another was badly injured, and to make matters worse, Fagan and the woman he was living with had disappeared. And now to complete his misery, Father Juergen had called with even more bad news.

  Carlo had gone missing.

  Maybe it was nothing, perhaps he would just turn up. Carlo was a geek in his small cybersecurity team, separate from the central IT Group. He had inherited two guys, Roberto and Carlo, when he had arrived. Well, there had been three, but he had gotten rid of Father Walter as soon as he could. He had to admit they were useful, they provided him with a level of information that was essential to staying on top of his job, and on top of all of those who had their own agendas when it came to dealing with the Holy Father. But it also meant they had access to information that he would prefer they didn't. The problem with secrets was, they had a habit of becoming no longer secrets. One day he would have to deal with that — and them.

  The Cardinal Secretary of State’s office was on the same floor in the Apostolic Palace as the Papal Apartments. Brennan took the short walk down the marbled hall. The unease stirred like an acidic cocktail in his stomach. Meeting Cardinal Carlucci was never one of his favorite activities, he was never sure if the outcome would be good or bad. But this time it felt worse, this time there was so much more at stake.

  He remembered when the Cardinal had turned up in Chicago. He had been Bishop for over a year after his hurried departure from Rome, and things had seemed to be going well. The Cardinal had sat across from him in his office and taken a cigarette from an elegant gold cigarette case. He did not ask permission to smoke but then Carlucci was a Cardinal, more than that, he was Cardinal Secretary of State of the Holy See. After the initial chit-chat and Vatican gossip, the Cardinal had smiled that conspiratorial smile that Brennan had come to know so well. He could remember quite clearly that uneasy feeling he had, that things were about to change.

  ‘You remember when you first arrived in Chicago, the Grand Master sent you a message.’ The Cardinal had paused as if challenging him. But then continued. ‘One day he would call on you again.’

  Brennan remembered it well.

  ‘That message came from me.’ The Cardinal brushed a trace of ash from his black silk robe with his immaculately manicured fingers. ‘On his behalf of course.’ The Cardinal had fixed him with his stone grey eyes. ‘And now my dear Paul, that time has come. That is why I am calling on you now.”

  His next words changed his whole life.

  “Paul, I have a plan for you. The Grand Council has a plan for you. A position has become vacant in the Vatican.”

  The thought of a permanent position in the Vatican was beyond his wildest dreams. But then Cardinal Carlucci had gone on to shock him even more.

  ‘Unfortunately Archbishop Locari,’ The Cardinal had smiled again, ‘has been caught with his trousers down once too often.’

  Luscious Luigi, as the paparazzi like to call the devilishly handsome Archbishop, was one of the Vatican’s highest-profile celebrities.

  ‘They should be grateful he was caught with a woman,’ the Cardinal had continued, then dismissed it with a wave of his hand. His eyes narrowed as his face became serious. ‘However, we will now need a replacement.’

  ‘But Archbishop Locari is. . .’ Brennan remembered he had been too shocked to even say his title. His inability to finish the sentence was not lost on the Cardinal.

  ‘Yes, Paul. I want you to become the Holy Father’s, Private Secretary.’

  He was not sure how Carlucci had arranged it, what strings he had pulled, or what promises had been made, but within weeks he had been elevated to Archbishop and installed here in the Apostolic Palace. A position in which Cardinal Carlucci firmly guided him. He reported weekly, sometimes more often, at the same time, the Cardinal would give his guidance. Or as the cynic may say, he gave his orders.

  Even by his own standards, Brennan had done well. He had struck up an immediate rapport with the Holy Father and had slipped comfortably into the work. The Pope’s age was beginning to show, and he seemed to really appreciate Brennan’s guiding hand. And now here he was, the Pope’s indispensable right-hand man.

  He remembered the first time he had been assigned to the Vatican, under Cardinal Vogler, the previous Prefect of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. That had not ended well. Brennan had a brief vision of the late Cardinal lying on the cobbles beneath the balcony of his office after he had pushed him over. He even remembered the words the old bastard had called out as he fell. ‘Diablo Exspecto’ — The devil awaits. He often wondered if that was true. He stopped outside Cardinal Carlucci’s door. Maybe he was waiting inside.

  Brennan’s daydreams were cut short as the door opened unexpectedly, and a slim, dapper, man in a civilian suit stepped out. Doctor Tomasino Scassorsi, Director of Pulmonary and Critical Care Medicine at the nearby teaching hospital and the Holy Father’s personal physician, smiled and held out his hand.

  “Permit me to offer you my congratulations, Cardinal Brennan.”

  Brennan took his hand. “Thank you, doctor. I’m sure I don’t deserve it.”

  “Nonsense, the Holy Father has rewarded you for your excellent work. I know he relies heavily on you. I will let you get inside,” the Doctor continued. “I was just updating Cardinal Carlucci on the Holy Father’s condition, and I know his Eminence has a very tight schedule today.”

  He did not wait for Brennan to speak but gave a brief nod of his head and was gone. Brennan watched as Scassorsi disappeared down the corridor. He was acutely aware that the doctor had not actually said anything about the Holy Father’s condition. It always seemed strange to Brennan that the Pope’s physician was unable to talk about his patient with his personal secretary, but he could discuss him freely with his Secretary of State.

  Brennan knocked and entered Carlucci’s office. The Cardinal Secretary of the Vatican State sat behind a grand polished oak desk. He waved Brennan to a seat. There was no smile this time.

  “No doubt you saw the doctor just leaving. We have a problem. The Holy Father’s emphysema has become markedly worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Doctor Scassorsi believes he only has a matter of months.”

  Brennan pondered the implications. Carlucci didn’t wait for him to reach his conclusions.

  “Which means our timescales have moved.”

  8

  Tuscany, Italy.

>   Fagan caught the road sign and took the off-ramp, dropping down and turning left under the highway bridge. He kept going straight, onto a narrow road running up into the hills.

  They had crossed the border from France into Italy about an hour ago. He had felt the slight twist in his gut as they had slipped across. It was the first time he had been back since they had left, with the Imperium hard on their heels. So many memories were here — so much pain. Caused by one man, in particular, Dominic de Vaux. A man intent on creating his own private version of Armageddon. He had seen himself as some kind of Messiah, leading the world into the promised land, believing the Bible had shown him the way. The only problem was he intended to set the world on fire to do that.

  Fagan’s thoughts were not the forgiving kind he had learned in seminary. He sincerely hoped the man was burning in hell.

  He glanced across at Frankie. At first, he thought she was sleeping, but then he realized she was staring out of the window, watching the rugged Tuscany countryside slipping by the window, in the fading, early evening light.

  “Are you okay?”

  She continued to look out of the window. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “Will it always be like this? Every time we settle down, every time we feel safe?”

  “I wish I knew the answer to that. But we’re safe now, and we’re together, that’s all that matters.”

  She reached out a hand and squeezed his arm. “Of course, you are right. I am sorry.” Her French accent seemed to be more prominent when she was stressed. “There is a part of me that is sad, but then there is a part that is so angry. We had something special in that house. There were days I could even forget they were looking for us, that they even existed. And then one day they come along and tear it all apart. Sometimes I want to find the person who is behind all this and put a bullet in their brain.”

  “Get in line.”

  “Will they ever stop looking for us?”

  “What is important is not to let them dictate the way our lives will be. We have to go on despite them. There will be another place. As long as we’re together.” Fagan looked across and gave her a cheeky grin. “I’ve always wanted to see New Zealand. Maybe I’ll become a sheep farmer.”

  Frankie face brightened into a smile. “Hmmm.”

  “Can you see that?”

  “I can see you riding a horse, wearing a hat with a wide brim, your shirt open and sweat running down your chest.”

  “Frankie,” Fagan gave a wiggle on the steering wheel.

  She laughed and punched him gently on the arm.

  Fagan focused on the road ahead which had now begun winding in tight curves as they climbed higher into the hills. It was another half hour before he turned off and followed a narrow track until it ended. A farmhouse was perched on the hillside looking out across the valley.

  He brought the car to a halt as a tall, slim figure appeared at the farmhouse door. As always whenever he saw him, with his sharp features, his long hair parted in the middle and his gold-rimmed spectacles, Fagan was convinced he was looking at John Lennon’s long-lost brother.

  “Iggy,” he called out as he climbed out of the car.

  The man stepped forward peering through his spectacles, and his face broadened into a smile. “Thank God. You made it.”

  Fagan nodded. “Just about.”

  He took Iggy’s outstretched hand in both of his own, then pulled him in and gave him a hug. Iggy accepted it briefly then pushed away looking sheepish.

  Frankie got out of the car and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Iggy seemed a little uncomfortable, but he did not back away.

  “Have you heard from Walter?” Fagan asked.

  Iggy nodded. “He called about an hour ago. He managed to get out of Rome without a problem. He should be here anytime.” He spoke with the educated accent of America’s North East.

  “Did he say what this was all about?”

  “You know Walter. He prefers a log fire and a large glass of good red wine before he unburdens. Come inside. It gets cold up here when the sun goes down. I’ve got a fire going.”

  The sweet smell of burning olive wood greeted them as they stepped into a large living area. It had rough plastered walls and a whitewashed ceiling with exposed wooden beams. Terracotta tiles covered the floor, and a substantial stone fireplace was built into the far wall, where a healthy fire burned in the grate.

  Iggy showed them to a bedroom up in the attic where they dumped their bags. There was a small bathroom where they quickly freshened up. Fagan walked out into the bedroom. Frankie was looking out of the gable window. There was a magnificent view across the valley as the sun finally slipped out of sight, but Frankie didn’t appear to be seeing it.

  “Are you okay?” Fagan asked.

  Frankie shrugged. “I woke up this morning in paradise. The biggest problem I had, was what was I going to do in the garden. And now?”

  Fagan moved up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “We’ll get back there. You’ll be back in your garden. I promise.”

  Frankie was about to speak, but Fagan pulled her in close and put his mouth to her ear. “Don’t say it. Just trust me.” He kissed the smooth white skin of her neck. “Come on, Iggy will wonder what we’re getting up to.”

  They headed downstairs. Iggy stood by the crackling wood fire, the aroma of herbs and slow cooking meat drifted in from the kitchen.

  “Smells good,” Fagan said.

  “Walter’s favorite.” Iggy grinned and poured them each a glass of red wine. He held up his own. “I’m sorry the circumstances are what they are, but it’s good to see you both.”

  Frankie held her glass to his. “To friends.”

  They had not seen him since they left the house on the Venice lagoon and stepped into a nightmare. The house they had forced him to leave in a hurry. They fell into small talk. Fagan quickly told him about their journey over the last two years, and Iggy told them his story. He and Walter had hidden in a bird watching hide he had in the salt marshes, and after Walter had left for Rome, he had slipped into the underworld that he often frequented, staying under the radar until things had died down — literally. Eventually, he had ended up here. Luckily his parents had left him well taken care of, so buying the place was not a problem.

  “I’m sorry it all came down to this.” Fagan waved a hand at the room. “If we had not turned up at your door that day, you would still be back in Venice.”

  “You don’t know that.” Iggy shrugged. “I think I once told you, one day they would catch up with me. It was just a matter of time.”

  “I still feel responsible.”

  “That’s probably the priest in you.”

  “I’m not a priest anymore.”

  “I heard.” Iggy drained his glass but didn’t comment further.

  The awkward silence that followed was broken by the sound of a motorcycle as it roared into the yard outside.

  “That sounds like Walter,” Iggy said, and they headed for the door.

  The unmistakable figure of Walter, dressed in biker leathers and crash helmet, climbed off a large Harley Davidson with black paintwork and gleaming chrome. He pulled off his helmet and shook his dark curls free. Frankie leaped onto him as he turned around.

  Walter swung her around, laughing. “Thank God you’re safe.”

  “Oh Walter, we were worried about you too.”

  “You know me. I’m indestructible.” He gave her a squeeze and a smacking kiss on the cheek, then placed her back on the ground.

  Fagan stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his large friend. “You had me worried for a moment. And by the way, you were right. We only just made it out.”

  Walter closed his eyes and hugged his friend. “Thank God.” He stepped back, brushing a hand through his curly mop. “You managed to get away clean?”

  Fagan smiled and nodded towards Frankie. “Thanks to the lady’s elaborate escape plan.”

  Walter looked across at her and grinned. �
��You’re a lucky man, my friend.”

  Fagan slapped him on the back. “Tell me about it.”

  “Nice bike,” Frankie said, taking a closer look at Walter’s magnificent machine.

  Walter stepped up to it and stroked the chrome covered gas tank. “The appropriately named ‘Fat Boy’. Except in my case, it’s ‘Fat Girl’. I call her Delilah. She’s a dream. The only lady I’ll ever have in my life.”

  “You have me,” Frankie said.

  “You’re already spoken for.” Walter burst into a cackling laugh.

  “Have you had a windfall?” Fagan said. “Or maybe you’ve been raiding the Vatican piggy bank.”

  Walter shrugged. “Gift from a grateful nation, you might say. I was invited to lunch at the US Embassy in Rome. A sort of thank you for you know what.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Of course they couldn’t officially thank me, even though I did save the life of the President. Officially it didn’t actually ever take place. But the food was good. USDA steaks two inches thick, and all the deep fried onion rings you could eat. But they saved the best until last. Delilah here was the dessert.”

  “You deserve it,” Frankie said. “Are you’re going to let me have a ride?”

  “Tomorrow.” Walter looked across at Iggy. “I hope you’ve got something to eat in this place. All this talk of food has reminded me I’m starving.”

  Iggy smiled. “Your favorite, rabbit stew and homemade pasta.”

  Walter clapped him on the back with a huge hand. “Iggy, you’re a star. Lead me to it.”

  9

  Tuscany, Italy.

  Iggy’s rabbit stew was delicious. Walter had waded his way through two heaped platefuls, and not left a morsel. After clearing the plates and sharing the washing up, they sat around the fire, each with a glass of Iggy’s excellent red wine.