by Neil Howarth
But Lawrence Percival was far from happy. He did not look well. He was the picture of a man under stress. His corpulent body strained at the expensive suit he wore, and his face was flushed purple and red from too much Bourbon and too much blood pressure. He was certainly a man under pressure, and from the look of him, the whole thing was about to burst. Which was not something that bothered Krueger, apart from the fact that he needed to be better positioned if he was going to take advantage of the Grand Master’s demise.
“Grand Master, how can I help.”
“Your election to the Senate comes at an opportune time, and I’ve already been busy on your behalf.”
Krueger did not like the sound of that.
“We have been losing influence with the current, somewhat unpredictable administration,” Percival continued. “We have some crucial issues that need careful guidance through the house. You will head up a team of like-minded senators.” Percival gave a sickly smile. “All supporters of our cause. Your acceptance is about to be approved onto the Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee.”
Krueger winced internally. Percival’s pet subject, shale oil. About as exciting as watching oak trees grow.
Granted it looked like a brilliant move at the time. But shale oil drilling had a problem, the costs. It needed oil to be trading at over $50 a barrel to make a profit. The Imperium under Percival’s direction had manipulated the world oil price, forcing it down to $20 a barrel, which had sent many shale oil companies bankrupt, allowing Imperium companies to sweep in and make a major killing. Now that oil prices had moved back up again, with a little help from the Imperium, these companies were now making healthy profits, and their stock price was booming. Plus the Imperium’s market share was dominant without being a monopoly. It was a brilliant tactic but not a great long-term strategy. There was too much risk. The fracking technology used to extract the oil was, to say the least controversial, and the promised technology developments that would reduce oil drilling and production costs had been slow in coming, and in some cases had not materialized at all. Dominic had always said that Percival excelled at tactics, but he was no visionary.
“Grand Master, I may be speaking out of turn, but I know there are other members of the council who share my concern. This shale oil strategy, acquiring land here in the US and overseas, with shale oil reserves, snapping up oil drilling companies, is too much of a risk. The Grand Council appears to be putting all its efforts and a lot of money and resources into it. If the price of crude should drop drastically, which looking at predictions, it certainly could, these shale oil fields will no longer be financially viable.”
Percival did not hide his irritation. “Konrad, when I want your opinion on this council’s strategy, I’ll ask for it.”
Krueger felt he was in it now and needed to say his piece. “What about Grand Master Liebeman’s vision. He foresaw all of this, and he had a plan to deal with it all. We appear to have cast it aside.”
Percival pinned him with a red-eyed stare. “Tread carefully, Senator, you and I may have a history that gives you a certain latitude in our dealings. But have no doubt. I sit in this chair, and as Grand Master, I make the decisions. Remember, I was the one who had to pick up the pieces after your predecessor’s disaster? While you and he were out there looking for some miracle, some divine messiah to step down from heaven and carry us into the promised land, I had to hold everything together, right here. With the chaos going on in the Middle East, I had to withdraw and consolidate, using what I have relied on all my working life. Understanding the markets, seeing an opportunity, a weakened opponent, moving in at the right moment and making a killing. That is what I’ve done.
“The Imperium’s strategy on controlling the world’s supply of oil is just one of many initiatives, but it remains central to our grand plan, and I can assure you, the shale oil market is an essential part of it. When the time is right, and we have this market by the throat, we will move again and make Charles Liebeman’s dream a reality. And the only miracle we will require is that someone does not step in and screw it up — again.
“Meanwhile, we have technology developments underway to bring the cost of production down, and your job is to sit on the Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee, grease the wheels, and keep things moving in our favor. That’s why your position in the Senate is crucial to our success.” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “I could almost say it all depends on you.”
There it was, the downside. Krueger had to smile. He looked out through the window at the domed roof of the Capitol building standing clear against the skyline. Percival was hedging his bets and lining up all the blame to fall on him if things didn’t work out the way he had planned.
He turned back to the Grand Master, but Percival had already dismissed him and returned to studying the document on his desk.
Krueger knew there was little point in arguing. The situation to him was clear. There was no longer room at the Grand Council table for both of them.
At the moment Percival was riding a wave. But it would only take a slight wobble to pitch him into the deep. What was it that Dominic always said?
Patience before you pounce.
He stepped out into the outer office. The girl was still there behind the desk, still smiling. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the display. It showed the caller as ‘Unknown’. He stepped out into the corridor then hit answer.
“Senator Konrad Krueger speaking.”
“Senator Krueger, so nice to speak to you.”
“Who is this?” Krueger did not recognize the voice, but the man spoke English with a foreign accent.
“Senator, I am Cardinal Giancarlo Carlucci, Secretary of the Vatican State, we haven’t met, but we have, or should I say had, a mutual acquaintance — Dominic de Vaux. He always spoke very highly of you. I would like very much for us to meet. I am sure you will find it to your immense benefit.”
27
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Frankie had stopped at a late night drug store, a wad of cash changed hands, and she had emerged with antibiotics, painkillers and all the sterile dressings she needed. They found a small hotel on the outskirts of the city and got the last vacant room. She cleaned and dressed Fagan’s wound, while he called Walter and gave him a rundown on what had gone on. He asked him to find out what he could about Colonel Vladij and asked him to keep an eye on Father Miloje.
“Ouch,” Fagan gave a cry. “Steady, I’m an injured man.”
“I thought you were a rough, tough, Navy SEAL.”
Fagan caught the look in her eye and smiled.
They could only get a room with a single bed but they squeezed in together, and despite the strapping around his chest and less than fifty percent use in his left arm, they held onto each other as if the other was the only thing that was real. Their lovemaking had a certain desperate urgency to it.
Afterward, they stayed entwined, Frankie fell asleep, but Fagan hung on to her, well into the early hours, a fear deep inside him that if he let go she would drift away and he would never get her back.
He woke early and dosed himself with painkillers and antibiotics. He took a shower, standing half in, half out of the water trying to keep his dressing dry. He stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror. Maybe it was his shaven face that was different, but he looked pale and drawn. He lifted his arm gingerly. Pain shot across his chest as he reached above his head.
He got dressed and headed out into a chilly morning. The sun was creeping up from behind the mountains, casting bright sunshine into the valley. He zipped up his jacket against the cold wind and crossed the road to a coffee shop, directly across from the hotel. He ordered strong black coffee and walked out to the terrace. It was sheltered from the wind but caught the sun from the mountains.
Fagan sat out at a table overlooking the old town. Last night, he had said they were not leaving, but what did that mean? Getting to Father Milosh after la
st night’s fiasco would be impossible. He took out his phone and called Walter.
“I was just about to call you,” Walter said as soon as he answered.
“Have you got news?”
“I have, and it’s not good.”
Somehow Fagan knew what he was going to say.
“Father Milosh suffered a cardiac arrest at four o’clock this morning. They were not able to revive him.”
Fagan had a vision of the priest, the previous morning in the square, playing chess in the sunshine, a smile on his face, so full of life. And now he was gone — and so was his secret.
“I’m sorry Joseph, but maybe it’s time to come back. Let’s rethink this.”
“We’re not coming back. The answer to all this is here. I know it. Did you find anything on this Colonel Vladij?”
“Some bits. As you said, he’s awaiting trial in the Hague. Nothing new on that front, as you pointed out, the main prosecution witness is dead, and they don’t appear to have a replacement. There is one thing though. This war crimes commission comes to an end in six days time. If there is no new witness in that time, it looks like he’ll walk.”
“How very convenient.”
“Joseph, maybe you’re reaching too much, maybe there is no link between this Colonel and Father Patrick, or this man they saved. Apart from the fact that they were all near this place, Bretsnia, at the same time.”
“There has to be a reason Brennan has killed three people closely linked to this place. Including his own father. And besides, we don’t have anything else. We need to find out more about Father Patrick’s time in Bosnia.”
“Unfortunately the answer to that lies behind half a dozen well-constructed firewalls inside the Vatican network.”
“Have you had any word from Carlo?”
“No, but I’m hoping that’s a good thing. I have a bunch of friends reaching out to try to find him.”
“Well be careful,” Fagan said.
“I will.” Walter paused. “So what are you going to do?”
Fagan looked down at the old city nestled in the bowl of the mountains. This was a country with deep scars and even darker secrets.
“Where are you going next?” Walter’s voice sounded far away.
Fagan looked up towards the vast swathe of green rising into the distance, climbing up towards the snow topped peaks beyond.
“We’re going to have to go back to where it all began. And a bad feeling is telling me, we’re not going to like what we find.”
28
The Vatican, Rome.
Cardinal Brennan slammed the cellphone onto the stone windowsill. He fumbled a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. His hands were shaking. He lit it and stood by the open window, blowing smoke out across the Piazza while the thump of his heart threatened to end it all here.
The news from Father Juergen should have been what he had been waiting for, the priest in Sarajevo was dead. But he had not been alone when Juergen had shot him, and he had not died immediately. Fagan had been there.
What had the priest told him?
Fagan now had links to all three of them, his adoptive father, Sister Eileen and now Father Milosh. Whatever it was, he knew Fagan would not let go. He clenched his fists in an effort to take control.
Why couldn’t the man just die?
He gazed out onto the square, looking for the solid base to steady himself. Bernini’s masterpiece, its semi-circular colonnades of Doric columns and statues, symbolizing the outstretched arms of the church embracing the world. And safe in its arms, people were out there queuing up to see the beauty beyond, the majestic Basilica of St.Peter, the magnificence of this church.
He took a deep breath. He could not weaken now. His resolve had to remain strong. Cardinal Carlucci intended to make this the greatest holy citadel on earth, and he had pledged to help him make that happen. Before they were finished, they would be queuing ten-fold greater to get into this place. To get into this church. That was a pledge he would not back away from.
He should have ended Fagan a long time ago. He should have insisted. But before he had not been in any real position to do anything about it. Then Fagan and the girl had disappeared off the face of the earth. Until Roberto had found them again. They should have had them at the house in the South of France. But that had been a fiasco.
It seemed that everyone was conspiring against him. It was what he had expected from Carlo, but Roberto, especially Roberto, someone he had helped and nurtured. He had told Roberto they were on a mission for God, but the ungrateful little bastard had stabbed him in the back. Well he had better deliver, or he would soon learn what retribution was and so would Fagan and the girl. He was not prepared to let them mess up everything he had worked so hard to build, everything that was yet to come.
God had a plan for him, he knew that. He took a frustrated drag at his cigarette. Why was he not intervening now? Why was Fagan still out there? But that was frustration talking. He knew the answer, and he had to stay calm. God was challenging him, as he always did. He did not lead, that was not how he worked. All the Lord did was light the way. It was up to him to seize the moment, to take the steps and follow the path laid out and illuminated before him. He knew what he had to do.
He looked down at the cellphone still clutched in his hand. It had a neat crack across the screen. Now was not the time for this whole thing to start coming apart.
He crushed out the cigarette and closed the window, then moved over to his desk and opened the drawer. It was still there, in the box it had been delivered in, along with the simple note that accompanied it.
Brennan reached in and took out the item. A simple cellphone. It had arrived two weeks ago. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing like as sophisticated as the one he had just destroyed — cheap, a prepaid local SIM card. It was what was known as a burner phone. The instructions in the note attached to it were simple. One call was all it had taken. One call and this nightmare had begun.
He flicked on the phone, it was fully charged, it had come with its own charger. He had good coverage, five bars. The number was preprogrammed in. He hit call and waited. He found himself holding his breath. It seemed to ring forever before the voice answered. It was a voice he had tried so hard to eradicate from his memory. But here he was, about to make a deal with the devil.
Eventually, he found himself able to speak.
“We have a problem.”
29
Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Fagan gave Frankie the news about Father Milosh, and he told her his plan. She didn’t argue. Fagan paid the hotel bill, and they headed out. They didn’t go back to their original hotel. They had all their essentials, and Frankie shopped for some clothes and a couple of backpacks while Fagan waited in the car.
Frankie drove, as they headed east in a steady climb out of the valley. The wound in Fagan’s chest was a dull throbbing ache despite the double dose of painkillers he had taken. He lifted his arm and stretched tentatively. Pain shot across his ribs, even with the gentle movement.
“How is it feeling?”
“Sore.”
Frankie gave him a knowing smile. “It did not seem to bother you last night.”
Fagan looked across at her. “Please, I’m a sick man.”
Frankie shook her head. “How far is it to Bretsnia?”
“According to Google, another couple of hours to Visegrad, then another hour or so from there.”
Fagan tried to dispatch the pain in his chest to a part of his mind that was behind a locked door. It was a technique that he had learned, not as a Navy SEAL but when he was studying to become a priest.
He focused on the road ahead. Tall trees crowded in on both sides and the mountains seemed to step in ever closer as they continued to climb. He sat back watching the landscape slip by, wondering if they were moving any nearer to an answer. Because at the moment every step they made forward seemed to open up more questions.
“From what I have re
ad, there are places up there that have not accepted the war is over,” Frankie said after an hour of silence.
“Been doing research?”
“It was in a magazine I was reading back at the hotel. There is also a big problem with unexploded landmines. There are still lots of them up here.”
“So don’t wander away from the main tracks.”
“Have no worry,” Frankie flashed him a smile. “If I am going up with a big bang, I will be standing right next to you.”
Fagan’s cell phone rang, and he hit the button to put it on speaker phone.
“Walter,” Fagan said recognizing his caller ID. “I hope you have some good news.”
“Unfortunately nothing good. But I do have some breaking news.”
“Why do I get the feeling you are not going to make my day.”
“I can only tell it like it is. I’ve been doing some nosing around. Trying to explain why suddenly this is important, why after twenty-five years Brennan decides to kill all these people. I still have some contacts on the inside. We still meet up in the chat rooms.”
“And?”
“I said the press would be crawling all over Brennan after his appointment as Cardinal and what the future could hold. Well, it gets worse. There are rumors. Well more than rumors, it’s a fact. The Holy father has emphysema, and he is dying.”
“Are you sure?”
