The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  Roberto felt he was walking a narrow plank over the fires of hell. One false step and . . .

  Which brought him to here and how had he got himself into this mess? But he knew the answer to that. And it was for a ridiculous reason.

  Daylight Saving Time — The date when the clocks change and the fact that had caused all of his problems. The change date is different in the US to Europe.

  Father Juergen had given him his instructions, and then he had disappeared. It had become shockingly clear later, where he had gone.

  Roberto’s task had been simple. He had the details of six traffic cameras, they were all to be put out of action for one hour. He was also given the specific date and time. He had hacked into the traffic system in New York at the designated time and got the shock of his life. The time on the running video was an hour ahead of what he expected. It was nine o’clock in the morning in New York. He was supposed to shut off the crucial cameras for an hour at eight, and now he had missed the window. He discovered afterward that the clocks in New York had already advanced for Daylight Saving Time, but in Europe, they were not due to advance for another week.

  He had checked back through the footage, and things got worse. He did not know who the old man was, but the man behind him, the one who had pushed him in front of the oncoming truck, was someone that Roberto definitely recognized, even though his face was hidden. He knew the build. He knew the way he walked. And he knew he was in trouble.

  But there was no way that Father Juergen or Cardinal Brennan could know about the file. Only he and Carlo knew, and maybe Walter. . . and who else? Roberto suddenly felt the urge to be sick. He had to find Carlo and make all this go away.

  He reached the far side of the square and entered through the small oak door. He paused at the top of the steps that ran down into the darkness. The man in the video was down there — Father Juergen. Fear painted a terrifying image of him in Roberto’s mind, down there in his subterranean cave, all in black, hanging upside down from the roof of his cave like a vampire bat, waiting for him.

  Roberto shook the image out of his head.

  He still could not believe he had done it. He should have deleted all the files, and that would have been the end of it. But something inside him had made him copy the footage first before he deleted all the copies on the traffic system.

  He was supposed to be doing God’s work, but when he saw the footage and the man who had pushed the other into the path of the oncoming truck, he began to wonder. Which side were they on? — Literally. Whichever it was, it seemed that a little this world insurance might be a wise move.

  He was so wrong about that.

  He started down the darkened stairs, the feeling of dread gripping his gut as if he was descending into hell.

  Father Juergen’s lair was in darkness apart from the flame of a single candle perched on a wooden table, flickering from the slight draft that came down the passageway. Father Juergen was not hanging from the roof. He sat at a table as if waiting for Roberto to appear.

  “Father Juergen, you called me.”

  The priest looked across at Roberto but didn’t speak. At first glance, Father Juergen did not appear to be the man that Roberto knew he was. His youthful good looks seemed to fit with the priest’s garb he wore. That was until you looked into his eyes.

  Something groaned in the darkness behind him, and Roberto, his sight now becoming accustomed to the gloom, could make out a bloodied figure huddled against the wall. He had no need to see his face. He knew who it was — Carlo.

  Roberto’s innards turned to liquid.

  Something stirred to his right, and Cardinal Brennan stepped into the glow of the candlelight.

  “Roberto, so glad you could make it. We have been having a little chat with Carlo here. He has been very forthcoming, and I have to say, I’m very disappointed. It would seem you have not been totally honest with us.”

  “Eminence,” Roberto blustered. “I can explain everything.”

  “Oh Roberto, I doubt it.”

  “Eminence please,” Roberto was sure he was about to faint. “There were technical reasons. I had to remove the file, and before I could delete it, Carlo stole it. He sent it to Father Walter.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  Roberto’s heart was thumping hard at a rate that surely it could not sustain. His mind was racing even faster. He knew all the smart skills in the world were worth nothing if he did not come up with something in the next five seconds.

  Then suddenly it was there, he was talking before the idea was fully formed. “You once told me I had value to you. As long as I kept delivering the information you needed.”

  “And?”

  “I think I can find Father Walter.”

  “Think?” Brennan shook his head.

  “I CAN! I can find Father Walter. I am sure that will lead you to the other two.” He blurted it out before he had it all worked out in his head. “It will not be easy, he is smart, but I know I am the only one who can do it.”

  Cardinal Brennan gave him a particularly nasty smile. As if the thought amused him. “So find him. They tell me you’re a genius when it comes to computer technology. It’s time for you to show it. And Roberto,” he paused to ensure he had Roberto’s full attention. As if on cue, Carlo groaned in the darkness. “You’ve seen what happens to those who are disloyal. Let me assure you the only thing that prevents you from joining your friend back there is your continuing value to me. Should that ever stop,” Brennan left it hanging, but the implication was clear.

  Roberto nodded, not sure how he was going to deliver what he had just promised. He turned and scuttled for the door, still afraid he would drop dead before he reached it.

  Brennan watched his pathetic figure disappear then turned to Father Juergen.

  “We have to assume they know, or at least are about to. It’s time to start covering our exposure.”

  11

  Tuscany, Italy.

  Something stirred in the darkness. He strained his eyes, trying to make out its form, but it remained elusive, just out of sight, lurking in the shadows as if it was studying him. Then as he watched, it slowly emerged, still keeping its face hidden. He could make out its body, half human, half beast, thick ridged scars etched on its blackened skin, as if the pain of every act, of every deed, was carved into its sinews. It had the firm, muscle toned body of a man. But there was more than that. And as it moved closer, edging out into the half-light, he recognized it, as if he was staring at a picture in one of the books he had studied in his days in the seminary. Its appendage was spread out behind it like a demonic halo. Its black, velvet wings seemed to shimmer and shine. Then just as rapidly the image began to fade as if the darkness was reclaiming it. He wanted to reach out, to grab hold of it, see it for what it really was, but his arms were rigid by his sides. He could do nothing but watch it recede into the shadows.

  Fagan opened his eyes, the remnants of the dream still running around in his head. He desperately tried to hold onto the pieces, but they faded away quickly, as they always did.

  Daylight was beginning to seep in through the window, casting a dim illumination into the room. He stared up at a cracked and peeling, plastered ceiling. It took him a moment to realize where he was. It was a bedroom on the first floor of Iggy’s place.

  Fagan looked across at Frankie sleeping beside him, her body beneath the single sheet stirring gently with each peaceful breathe. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to pull her in close and hold her in his arms. But he did not want to wake her, to disturb the peace that was wrapped around her. At that moment she seemed so fragile. The thought of anything happening to her terrified him. It was all starting over again, he knew it, and everything he was doing was putting her at risk.

  He sat up and swung his legs out of bed running his hands across his face, trying to shake the final pieces of the dream out of his head. It was a dream he had had often in the last two years, more in the early
days and thankfully not so much since they had been in the house in France. Maybe that was because there he had found some kind of peace.

  But the peace was gone, and this time he knew the dream was back for a reason.

  Fagan walked out of the shower toweling his hair and looked down at Frankie’s still sleeping figure. He leaned over her and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. She smiled but did not open her eyes. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and slipped out through the bedroom door, closing it quietly behind him and descended the open staircase into the main living room.

  He caught the aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon drifting out from the kitchen. He found Walter standing at the stove frying eggs, with another pan of bacon sizzling on the back ring.

  “Up early,” Fagan said.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been up for hours, doing some digging and talking to Aldo.”

  “And?”

  “Let’s eat first and talk later.”

  Iggy arrived with his arms full of freshly baked bread and paper bags stuffed with flour dusted pastries from the local bakery. Walter scooped fried eggs onto a plate and grabbed another piled up with crispy bacon, and put them in the middle of the table. The three of them sat down and tucked in.

  Fagan looked across at Iggy who was munching on a fresh croissant.

  “I’m sorry for imposing on you like this, I know it puts you at risk.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Iggy dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I deal with that every day. They drove me out of my home in the States and the place I had in Venice. No doubt one day they’ll drive me out of this place too. Either that or carry me out in a box. But while I’m still here, alive and kicking, I’ll keep fighting them.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. We’ll get out of here as soon as we can. Not that we don’t appreciate your hospitality. But I’m hoping Walter has some good news.”

  He looked across at Walter. His friend was unable to speak, owing to the fact he was stuffing a fat sandwich, made from thick slices of focaccia bread, a fried egg, and slices of bacon, into his mouth.

  “Is there anything left for me?” Frankie wandered into the kitchen, dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt top, and sat down at the table.

  Walter stood up, still chewing and wiping egg yolk from his chin with a paper napkin. “What can I get you, fair lady. A nice omelet? I have some wonderful mushrooms that Iggy picked early this morning. And a few flakes of unbelievable white truffle. How does that sound?”

  Frankie poured herself a mug of coffee. “Walter, that sounds divine.”

  They finished breakfast in silence then took their coffee out on the terrace. There was only a slight breeze and the morning sunshine cast a warm glow across the Tuscan hillside.

  “So,” Fagan said. “I hope you found some answers.”

  “Well, some. But I also found a lot more questions. I started looking into Brennan’s adoptive father. I tried to look at his history, but that was none existent. At least what I could get access to. But I was able to get something of his recent history. I told you I couldn’t sleep last night, so about midnight, that would be around six pm, New York time, I called up the lady who had been his housekeeper.”

  “How did you get her number?” Fagan asked.

  “It was in the police report from when they interviewed her.”

  “Aldo breaking more laws?”

  “Actually he has a cousin in the NYPD. He hacked his account. Anyway, I called her up and said I was speaking from the Vatican. She, like a good God-fearing Catholic, unlocked some doors for me. She told me Father Patrick was retired but still active in the Church and the local community. It seems that everybody loved him. He could go into the roughest most dangerous areas of the city, and nobody would touch him.”

  “Well someone did,” Fagan said.

  Walter pulled a face. “I know that. I asked her if she knew Paul Brennan. She told me she did, but more through Father Patrick than anything else. According to the housekeeper, Brennan and his father had not actually seen each other for some years. Apparently, Father Patrick always said his son’s calling to God was far too important, and he had no time for his other family. But he was very proud of his son and constantly talked about his achievements.

  “But the strangest thing of all was what she told me about the state of Father Patrick’s health. It seems the good father was suffering from stage four prostate cancer. He would have been lucky to see the end of the year.”

  That stunned them all into silence.

  “So why kill him?” Frankie was the first to break it.

  “Maybe his father had not told him he was dying,” Fagan said.

  “According to the housekeeper, Father Patrick knew he was getting close to the end and had called his son to tell him. She said he had hoped that he would come and see him, one last time.”

  “And did he?” Fagan asked.

  Walter shook his head. “No, at least not as far as she knew.”

  “Okay, let’s say we go along with this theory, that Brennan knew his adoptive father was dying, but went ahead and did this anyway, or at least was behind it. What does that give us?” Fagan asked. “Why would Brennan have his adoptive father killed when he already knew he would be dead soon?”

  “Do we know it was really him? We’re just speculating at this point.” Iggy finally spoke.

  Walter opened his hands and shrugged. “As I said before, we’re just looking where the finger points.”

  “Which brings us back to why,” Frankie said.

  “Maybe there was something that he didn’t want his father to talk about,” Walter topped up his coffee and held up the pot, but the others declined. “Whatever it was, it had to be something that had suddenly become very important to Brennan.”

  Fagan looked across at Walter. “You’re the one close to what is going on in the Vatican. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

  Walter gave a shrug. “Well, his recent elevation to the College of Cardinals would increase interest in him. He is now Cardinal Brennan, the youngest Cardinal in modern history and an American. The popular press are loving it. Apparently, the Roman Catholic movement in the US is seeing quite a bounce in interest. Rumor has it, he is about to be on the cover of Time Magazine with the headline — Is this the man to save the Catholic Church?

  “They are even talking about him being a future Pope in the making. Can you imagine that? A future American Pope? That is big news, and also means the press will be crawling all over him and every aspect of his life, present, and past.”

  “The timing tells us one thing, but it doesn’t tell us what he is trying to hide,” Fagan said.

  “If there is any dirt to be found, you can be sure the press will dig it out.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Fagan said. “With his dubious past, surely some of that mud has stuck.”

  “Don’t hold your breath on that one,” Walter said. “But it could explain why Brennan is so keen to clean up any little secrets he might have lurking in his past.” Walter took a gulp of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back off his hand. “Anyway, I did some more digging. When I ran out of avenues to pursue with Father Patrick, I turned to the son, Cardinal Paul Brennan. There’s not a lot that we don’t already know. Adopted when he was seventeen and brought up by Father Patrick.”

  “Seventeen, is that not a little late for an adoption?” Frankie said.

  Walter shrugged. “Hard to say without knowing the full circumstances. But we do know that Father Patrick was his Godfather, so that was probably a factor.”

  “Can you not find out something about his birth parents or about his life up to when he was seventeen?” Frankie asked.

  “That’s extremely difficult. Aldo did some digging but came up with nothing. As I said last night, if I had access to the Vatican network, things would be different. If there is something online, I would be able to find it. But as that is not going to happen, we would be better off fin
ding someone who knew him from that time. Of course, that was over twenty-five years ago, difficult to find witnesses to that period.”

  “Is that it? A dead end?” Fagan asked.

  “I did find this.” Walter picked up his laptop and put it on the table. He opened the lid and hit a key, then turned the screen so the others could see.

  “What’s that?” Fagan squinted at some kind of official document displayed on the screen.

  “This,” Walter said with a triumphant smile, “is a copy of Paul Brennan’s adoption certificate.”

  “Very nice,” Fagan said. “But I’m not sure what that gives us.”

  Walter was undeterred. “You may notice that on it, is the signature of a witness. A Sister Eileen O’Monahan.” Walter looked at the two of them. “Isn’t that what we need — a witness?”

  Fagan was staring at the image of the document.

  “If we can find her,’ Walter said. “Maybe she could give us some answers. I’ve already asked Aldo to start looking for her.”

  “Let’s hope we’re in time,” Frankie said.

  Fagan gave her a quizzical look. “For what?”

  “If Brennan thought it was important enough to kill his adoptive father to cover up something in his past, why would he stop there.”

  12

  Tuscany, Italy.

  Fagan stood out on the terrace leaning against the wooden rail, gazing out across the vast sweep of the valley below. Occasional farmhouses dotted the hillside, surrounded by clumps of tall cypress trees. Already they were fading into the shadows as the night crept in silently across the eastern hills.

  Was this tranquillity or just another illusion?

  Inside him, a fierce battle raged. Every rational, logical thought in his head, every instinct in his body, told him they should run. Everything he learned as a priest, every aspect of his training, all the years he had spent dedicated to God, cried out to him. The thoughts he was harboring, the darker ones, were wrong. He had to be logical about this. It could not be about revenge, though he desperately wanted it to be. Brennan was responsible for taking away his closest friends, and he would give anything to put an end to him. But now Frankie was here, the only positive thing in his life, and he had to protect her beyond all else. Whatever they did next had to be about that one thing.