by Neil Howarth
“Two? Do you mind if I ask who the other visitor was.”
The Mother Superior nodded. “A young man, a priest, came last night. He was sent from the Vatican. He had news of an old friend of hers. It seems he had passed away. They had not seen each other for many years, but they had been close.”
Fagan wanted to say something, but he knew he had to let Frankie play this out.
“I think the news was too much for her,” the Mother Superior’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “She was already very weak. The priest seemed a very nice young man. He took her a cup of camomile tea and sat with her. She passed on during the night.”
“Did this old friend of her’s work in the Vatican?” Frankie asked.
“No, no. But he and Sister Eileen had something of a reputation. A good one I might add. They were honored by the late Pope John Paul II for their incredible work and bravery.”
“What did they do?”
The Mother Superior gave a wistful smile. “That was something else that Sister Eileen liked to keep a secret.”
Sister Claire arrived with the tea, and they drank it in an awkward silence.
“Well, now you must forgive me.” The Mother Superior glanced at a fob watch attached to her tunic. “At this hour I spend some time alone in the chapel.”
They all stood, and the Mother Superior shook their hands. “I am sorry you had a wasted journey, but please reassure your mother, Sister Eileen is now in a much better place.” She waited until they had stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll bid you a good day. Sister Claire will see you out.” She indicated the way they had come then disappeared in the opposite direction.
They followed the younger nun along the passageway.
“Sister Claire,” Frankie spoke.
The young nun stopped and looked back.
“Do you think it would be possible to see Aunt Eileen’s room before we leave.”
Sister Claire shook her head. “I’m sorry guests are not allowed in the sister’s rooms.”
“Please, I’m sure it can’t hurt, and my mother will feel much better if I can tell her a little about how Aunt Claire lived.”
Sister Claire glanced in the direction that the Mother Superior had disappeared. “Five minutes,” she said with a slight conspirator’s smile. “I’ll be in big trouble if the Mother Superior finds out.”
Fagan got the feeling that this would not be the first time Sister Claire would be in trouble with the Mother Superior.
The young nun led the way along a side passage and up a winding stair then stopped in front of a simple blue painted door. “This is,” she paused. “This was, Sister Eileen’s room.” She opened the door. “It is also the last chance you’ll get to see it like it is. I have orders to pack up Sister Eileen’s things and a courier will pick them up this afternoon.”
“A courier?” Frankie said.
“Apparently the Holy Father is very upset about losing Sister Eileen. We are to send her belongings directly to the Vatican. The sisters are speculating that the Holy Father intends to beatify her. Sister Eileen is going to be a saint,” she said with a beaming smile.
Fagan was about to say something, but Frankie butted in. “That would be wonderful.”
Sister Claire stood to one side and allowed them to step inside Sister Eileen’s bedroom. The room was small, barely longer than the narrow single bed that was positioned under the solitary window and only slightly wider. There was a sink in the corner, and the side wall was decorated with a single simple cross and a single picture frame holding a photograph.
Fagan recognized the Grand Altar in St. Peter’s Basilica, and then the man, Karol Józef Wojtyła. He was dressed in his familiar white soutane and white zucchetto and known to all the world as the late Polish Pope, John Paul II. Not unusual to find such a photograph on the wall of a devoted sister’s room. Less usual were the three people stood either side of him with beaming smiles on their faces. Two priests and a Nun. Father Patrick Brennan had changed little in the intervening years, especially from the stock photo that Walter had dug out which had obviously been taken before the ravages of cancer had set in. He was guessing, but he would bet money that the smiling Nun, was Sister Eileen O’Monahan. There was another Priest, a young man, younger than all the rest.
“This looks interesting.” He stepped in to get a closer look.
But Sister Claire was looking nervous. “I really think we should leave now.”
“One last thing.” Fagan pulled out the iPhone that Walter had given him. “Let’s have a quick photograph. I’m sure your mother would appreciate that, Frankie.”
Frankie gave him a quizzical look but smiled anyway. Fagan positioned her and Sister Claire against the wall. “That’s great.” He held up the phone and hit the zoom getting a full shot of the photo on the wall. “One more.” He smiled and reset the zoom and took a shot of Frankie and Sister Claire.
“There we go.” He showed them the picture on the screen. “I could send you a copy.”
Sister Claire gave a nervous smile. “I’m not sure that would be such a good idea. Now we really must go.” She hurried ahead of them out the door.
Fagan took a last look at the photograph on the wall then stepped out into the passageway and closed the door behind him. Sister Claire and Frankie were already disappearing down the stairs. He headed after them. They said their goodbyes at the main entrance and headed for the car.
“I just hope it wasn’t us who caused what happened to Sister Eileen,” Frankie said.
“I think it was you who said. If we can find her, so can they.”
“But why?”
15
Inchydoney Island, County Cork.
“So, is this the run part?” Frankie asked.
They had headed back on the road to Clonakilty and driven for a while in silence, Fagan letting the thoughts run through his head, trying to put some sense to it all.
“Something like that. If we head for the airport, maybe we can get a flight out today.”
“And be back at Iggy’s place in time for Walter’s dish of the day.”
“I can think of worse things.”
Fagan glanced in the mirror. The car was still there. A dark-colored Mercedes sat behind them on the road but keeping its distance. He had noticed it earlier, shortly after they left the convent. But that was not unusual, the road was narrow and gave little opportunity to overtake. He tried speeding up gently, but it stayed with them. He followed a sweeping bend and reached a straight stretch. He gently eased back on the accelerator allowing the car to slow, and giving the Mercedes the opportunity to overtake. But it made no attempt. It seemed happy just to sit there.
“I think we’ve got company.”
Frankie looked over her shoulder. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve tried a couple of things. I don’t think they’re bothered too much that we know they’re there.”
“What should we do?”
“I didn’t see any turnings on the way out here, but it’s only a couple of miles to Clonakilty. If we can get there then maybe we can shake them.”
“So let’s do it.”
Fagan stepped hard on the accelerator and the car shot forward. He was suddenly glad they had shelled out for the BMW. Initially, they pulled away but pretty quickly the Mercedes caught up, but it still made no attempt to overtake. Dry stone walls lined each side of the road giving them no easy exit.
Fagan glanced in his mirror. “I don’t like this. They’re too damned happy.”
“Putain,” Frankie cursed.
Fagan looked back at the road and knew the reason why.
A large six wheeler garbage truck was thundering towards them, driving down the middle of the road. As the distance between them closed, smoke billowed out from its wheels as the driver hit the brakes and it swept broadside, blocking their way.
Fagan stamped on the brake and came to a screeching stop inches from the truck. Men were already out on the road, automatic weapons in the
ir hands. Fagan instinctively reached for the gun that wasn’t there. He heard the Mercedes come to a halt behind them, then the slam of doors. A man holding an Uzi machine pistol appeared at the driver’s window and indicated for them to get out.
There were three of them from the Mercedes and two from the truck. They wore black ski masks and gloves and knew precisely what they were doing. Fagan and Frankie were bundled into the back of the Mercedes, a driver got behind the wheel and another in the front passenger seat. The one in the passenger seat held a silenced automatic, a Heckler and Koch by the looks of it. A professional’s gun. It was pointed directly at Frankie.
The car moved away, and the man removed the leather glove from his freehand with his teeth and pulled out a mobile phone. Fagan recognized the thick gold ring he wore on the hand holding the phone. It was fashioned in a crown of thorns — The Legion of Jesus.
The man quickly took a photograph of each of them. He punched away at the screen, then thumbed in what appeared to be a speed dial number then waited a moment.
“We have them.” He spoke in Italian. “Did you get the photographs? I just sent them.” The man listened then nodded. “No problem,” he said and hung up the phone.
The driver glanced across at him.
“As we agreed,” the passenger said.
He took off his ski mask and shook his curly black hair. He had a dark Mediterranean look. He now had his orders, and he obviously no longer cared about them seeing his face. Which did not bode well for them.
One thought stuck out in Fagan’s mind, amidst the jumble of options and alternatives that tumbled through it. Brennan had no idea they would turn up at the convent. He had left a hit team in case anyone came to visit. Not only was he determined to shut up Sister Eileen and whatever secret she held, but also anyone who came looking.
They turned away from the coast and followed a narrow lane. After about a mile, they emerged onto a wider road and headed in the direction of a mass of dark clouds gathering in the distance.
Appropriate, Fagan reflected.
From what he remembered of the map, they were heading towards the main headland. He also knew there was nothing in this direction but the Atlantic Ocean. He glanced across at Frankie. She was staring out of the window. He reached out and took her hand.
“Hey,” the man with the gun called out switching to English. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
Frankie gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, then let it go and went back to staring out of the window. He knew she was preparing herself for any opportunity that could present itself. He had to do the same.
It began to rain again, splattering in large windswept splotches against the windows. The car turned off the main road, and Fagan caught sight of the grey seething mass of the ocean. This was not the calm waters of the bay, this was the deep rolling waves of the Atlantic, thundering into the shore, no doubt waiting to carry them away.
They turned onto a track that ran up to an old lighthouse standing on the cliff edge. It looked abandoned, its paintwork cracked and fading. The car stopped.
“Okay, out of the car.” the man indicated with the gun. Fagan climbed out as one of the other men pulled up in their hired BMW. All very nice and neat. Which left three of them with guns behind them, and a cliff and the angry looking Atlantic Ocean ahead.
The one without the ski mask stepped forward and pointed the gun at Fagan. Fagan let him come closer. The man took two steps then stopped.
“Walk.”
He obviously was not coming any closer, so Fagan did as he was told and walked down an old cinder track towards the cliff edge. The track petered out and became lush green grass. Fagan continued walking. He stopped a few feet from the edge. He could see the drop was at least forty feet, to where the ocean crashed in steep Atlantic rollers onto the exposed rocks below. If the rocks didn’t kill you, then the ocean would certainly finish the job.
“I said walk,” the man called out.
Fagan turned around. The rain felt cool against his face. “Are you going to make me?”
The man extended his arm with the gun.
“Go ahead, shoot me.”
The man seemed suddenly unsure of himself.
“What’s the matter, don’t want to use a bullet? Will it mess up your plan? Your strict orders.” Fagan was goading him. “A couple of bodies washed up on the beach with bullet holes in them will bring a lot of questions. Maybe it will lead them to the convent and maybe some unwanted questions about Sister Eileen. Not quite the nice clean in and out you were looking for.”
This was not what the man wanted. He could see that in his eyes. Fagan looked towards Frankie. The two men still wore ski masks. One stood close to her. His pistol pointed at her head. The other stood back by the car. His gun pointed in their general direction. Fagan’s man took a step towards him, his gun arm still extended but careful not to get in too close. Fagan stood square up to him, his back to the cliff edge.
“Take a step back,” the man said.
“I already told you. Shoot me.”
The man smiled. “I do not need to shoot you. Gino,” he called across to the big man standing by the BMW. “Throw the girl off the cliff.”
The man headed towards Frankie. Fagan wanted to shout out, but he had to let it play out. He had to leave it to Frankie. She waited until the last moment. The big man stepped up and reached out to grab her. The other man released his grip on Frankie, and she moved — fast. She struck out hard with the sole of her shoe, making solid contact with the big man’s right knee. It gave with an audible crack above the sound of the rain and the ocean. The man screamed and fell to the floor, but Frankie was already turning to the one with the gun.
So was Fagan.
He stepped forward, pushing aside his man’s gun hand, and gripping his wrist. He twisted hard, but the man held onto the gun. Fagan feinted to the right then stepped out hard to the left, yanking on the man’s arm and swinging it out from his body with every ounce of his strength, desperate to avoid the arc of the gun as it tracked him around. Fagan let go. The man seemed to run off the edge of the cliff. He discharged two rapid shots as he flew out into space. The bullets went wide. Then he disappeared with a high-pitched scream. The rain suddenly intensified and swept in to claim him.
Fagan caught sight of Frankie. She was wrestling with the other man for his weapon. The big man on the ground was clearly in pain, but he lifted his gun and took a shot at Fagan. Obviously, their no-shooting plan was out the window.
The bullet buzzed past his head. Fagan went down and kept on rolling. He came up as Frankie jabbed a straight knuckled hand, hard into her man’s throat. The man fell to his knees as she grabbed his gun. The big man had changed his aim for Frankie, but she was already moving, and the bullet went wide. Fagan charged at him. The man saw him coming and snatched off a shot that bit into the turf close to Fagan’s foot. Fagan pushed himself forward, but this time the man had time to make sure of his aim. The black ski mask suddenly blossomed bright red, and the man fell back and lay still.
Fagan looked across at Frankie. She was holding the other man’s gun.
Fagan rushed forward and pulled her into his arms. “I thought for a moment there. . .”
She looked up at him. “Just for a moment?” Her face lit up as she smiled. Her hair was soaked and plastered to the side of her head. Tiny rivulets of rain streamed down her face. But in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he could ever imagine.
The fear gripped him again, and he held her even tighter.
He finally pushed it aside and let her go.
“Come on, let’s get this cleaned up.”
He stepped towards the edge of the cliff and peered over. There was no sign of the man who had taken the plunge.
They manhandled the two men into the front seats of the Mercedes. Fagan leaned in through the door and put the gear change in neutral, then released the handbrake. He closed the door and moved to the rear. He and Frankie pushed hard. The vehi
cle started moving. They gave it a final shove, and the car took off on its own, quickly gaining momentum on the slight slope running down to the cliff edge. The Mercedes bounced once, twice, then seemed to leap into space and pause, then dropped rapidly out of sight. Fagan heard it crash onto the rocks below but didn’t stop to look. The local police could think whatever they wanted. He did not intend to hang about and find out.
They jumped into the BMW like a pair of drowned rats, Fagan in the driver’s seat, and headed back for the road. He headed back towards Cork. He was well aware that the men who had driven the garbage truck were still out there.
“What next?” Frankie asked.
“We get out of the Emerald Isle as quick as we can and disappear. You realize that was a hit team back there, not just a casual watcher in case someone turned up. They were also Legion of Jesus. Did you see the ring?”
“How could I miss it.”
“Sister Eileen was not just a loose end in Father Patrick Brennan’s past. She was a significant part of it.”
“So, how are we going find out what made her so dangerous?”
“Maybe this has something to do with it.” Fagan pulled out his phone and handed it to Frankie. “Check the first photo.”
Frankie clicked on an icon and studied the photo that appeared on the screen. It was a zoomed in shot of the photograph on Sister Eileen’s wall.
“I guess this is a younger version of Sister Eileen and Father Patrick. I also recognize the man in the white smock.” She tapped her finger on the smiling face of Pope John Paul II. “But who is this other man,” she said enlarging the image to get a closer look at the face of the younger man, dressed in the black garb of a priest.”
“I think that’s what we need to find out.”
16
Manchester, England.
The waiter brought a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese for Frankie and a spaghetti bolognese for Fagan. They were in a small Italian restaurant in the airport that served Manchester in the north of England. They had flown in an hour ago. Fagan looked through the window across the passageway at the flight information screen. The flight to Milan was due to leave in an hour. The screen said it was on time.
