The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  “Word is he won’t make it to Christmas. So as you can imagine, the scramble is on for who will replace him, the campaigns have already begun.”

  “So, the place will be chaotic for the next week. I’m sure you have the latest gossip.”

  Walter gave a chuckle. “Of course there are the usual favorites. Cardinal Carlucci, though supposedly he has declared himself unavailable. As usual, he will play the ‘Kingmaker’ or should I say the ‘Popemaker’. He is usually the one pulling the strings in the Conclave. There’s Cardinal Schroeder, though my man tells me he is not looking too happy right now. And of course, the South American contingent is backing Cardinal Rodriguez.”

  “So what’s new?”

  “There are rumors of a dark horse.”

  “Who?”

  “Well the word was, Cardinal De Vere from Paris, but he appears to have stumbled recently when someone disclosed the details of the money he spent from his department budget on his own personal apartment. Of course, Cardinal Carlucci is the man who knows where every cent is spent in the Vatican. So I’ll let you draw your own conclusions from that. But it seems that someone has stepped into Cardinal De Vere’s place.”

  “Are you going to tell us who it is?”

  “You remember all the speculation about a future Pope in the making. Well, what is the old saying? — The Future is Now.”

  “You don’t mean?”

  “I do. Our good friend Cardinal Brennan.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Fagan said. “Besides he’s far too young. They would never get that through the College of Cardinals.”

  “I would have said the same about Cardinal De Vere. Okay, he’s ten years older than Brennan, but not too long ago, he would have been regarded as too young. But times change. Until his recent downfall, he was seen as a likely successor. I would normally say putting Brennan’s name forward was just sensationalism, someone stirring the pot. But I have it on very good authority that Brennan has powerful backing — Cardinal Carlucci.

  “From what we know, Carlucci was behind Brennan’s return to the Vatican, and now it looks like we know why. We were wondering why Brennan was important in Cardinal Carlucci’s grand plan. Well here it is, and it makes Cardinal Brennan a serious and a very dangerous contender.”

  “Do you really think he could get away with that?”

  “Don’t underestimate the Cardinal Secretary. When the Puppet Master pulls the strings, the whole Vatican dances. My contact has his ear close to what’s going on, and I can tell you this is a serious challenge.”

  Fagan had a sudden vision or was it a nightmare. The man who murdered William, and was responsible for the death of Luca, smirking from the Pontifical Throne. The beast stirred deep inside him. “This man murdered Pope Salus, for God’s sake. And he’s not only getting away with it, they’re letting him step up on to his throne. I swear, I’ll strangle him myself before I let that happen.”

  “You’d never get close,” Walter said.

  “But it does make some sense,” Frankie butted in. “It could explain all the desperate moves that Brennan is making. If he really is a candidate to be the next Pope, the media are going to be all over him. Their headlines are about to come true. This is the biggest sensation since Donald Trump woke up and found himself in the White House. Brennan has to be hiding something big, something that would put all his ambitions in jeopardy. Something he would be willing to kill his adoptive father for.”

  “Brennan would strangle his own mother if it meant being the next Pope,” Walter said. “So pushing his adoptive father in front of a ten-ton truck. Just another step up on the Papal ladder.”

  “But what is he hiding? What has this place to do with him?” Fagan said waving his good arm at the forested landscape. “Has he ever been here?”

  “Maybe it is not actually Brennan’s secret,” Frankie said. She glanced across at Fagan and gave a slight shrug. “Maybe, it is his father’s.”

  “But—” Fagan started to say.

  “No buts,” Frankie cut in. “Let us look at it. This man they had to save, who was he? What did they do to save him? These were dangerous times, desperate times. Whatever it was, it could taint Brennan, at a time when he needs to be squeaky clean.”

  “When it comes to the issue of the new Pontiff,” Walter piped up. “The conclave will find any excuse to exclude a candidate.”

  “So, we need to give them that excuse.”

  “But it doesn’t change anything,” Fagan said. “We have to stick to our plan. We have to go back to where all this began.”

  30

  The Vatican, Rome.

  Cardinal Carlucci stood on the balcony of his Vatican apartment looking out across the Piazza San Pietro. The dome of the Basilica seemed to glow in the morning sunshine. No one would ever understand that its glory was all the glory that he had ever needed. Those who saw him as the mover and shaker, Il Marionettista, would never understand, never really accept, that he would not sit on the Papal throne. And that was his choice, or rather the choice that God had made for him. He was working to HIS plan, and in that, the role for him was clear. To lay it out, put the players in their places, set out the pieces and ensure that the battle unfolded as intended. He could not do that, with all the world’s attention on him and usually with the whole of the Curia plotting against him. He could not do that from the Papal throne. That was why he had to have someone else to be that man, to play that role, to take the steps that he laid out for him.

  Carlucci felt something brush against his leg. He looked down and smiled. He reached down and picked up a smokey blue Persian cat. The cat purred as he tickled him under the chin. Carlucci was known as a man with a wicked sense of humor. It was well known that in Christian demonology, Beelzebub was one of the seven princes of Hell. So that is what he had christened the cat. He felt it a daily reminder of the battle he fought. Beelzebub looked up at him, with his brilliant copper eyes. He understood.

  Carlucci had had a busy morning so far and had the same still to come. There was a certain knack required in influencing the College of Cardinals. You had to lead them along but have them think that they were making all the decisions. Persuading them they needed a younger man on the throne of St. Peter was not something they would swallow easily, but swallow it they would. He just had to show them the way.

  The previous evening he had hosted a dinner for Cardinal Luis Rodriguez from Argentina, the biggest influence on the South American Cardinal’s conclave vote.

  Of course, he did not like it, he had his own dreams of wearing the fisherman’s ring. But that was fine, a little obfuscation in the early rounds was no bad thing. What he did get was an agreement, that if it was clear Cardinal Rodriguez would not make it, he would urge his block to follow Carlucci’s lead. Of course, there was a reward in it for the Cardinal, there always was. It was the secret to Carlucci’s success.

  He heard a movement in the apartment behind him and turned around as Monsignor Pepadelli appeared at the open French windows. He had a set to his demeanor, and a look on his face as if he had tasted something unpleasant, that could only mean trouble.

  Carlucci had been hoping for a few more minutes respite before he headed back into the chaos within the hallowed walls.

  “Luigi.” Carlucci stepped back inside his apartment. Even here there were too many prying ears and eyes. “What troubles you?”

  The Monsignor was panting heavily, he had obviously been hurrying.

  “Take a seat, Luigi,” Carlucci said with a wry smile. “We cannot have you expiring on us. You are too valuable for that.”

  The cleric dabbed his brow with a pristine white handkerchief and lowered himself into an elegant gold brocade armchair. “Your Eminence, you asked me to watch out for anything unusual, any anomalies.”

  Monsignor Pepadelli worked in the Administration of the Patrimony of the Holy See, a fancy name for the Vatican accounts office, and he was Carlucci’s ears and eyes on the money flow in and out of the Vatic
an. He knew what every member of the Curia and the Vatican administration spent, both officially and unofficially, and therefore so did Carlucci. It had been the source and the secret of Carlucci’s success when he controlled the Vatican finances and remained a major key to his current influence and power.

  “I think you should see this.” He handed Carlucci a folded sheet of paper.

  Carlucci studied the document. It was a bank statement for a small, obscure account used for ad-hoc payments. It also belonged to the Holy Father. Carlucci raised his eyebrows and chewed on his upper lip as he studied the item that Pepadelli had highlighted with a yellow pen.

  “When did you get this?”Cardinal Carlucci stood on the balcony of his Vatican apartment looking out across the Piazza San Pietro. The dome of the Basilica seemed to glow in the morning sunshine. No one would ever understand that its glory was all the glory that he had ever needed. Those who saw him as the mover and shaker, Il Marionettista, would never understand, never really accept, that he would not sit on the Papal throne. And that was his choice, or rather the choice that God had made for him. He was working to HIS plan, and in that, the role for him was clear. To lay it out, put the players in their places, set out the pieces and ensure that the battle unfolded as intended. He could not do that, with all the world’s attention on him and usually with the whole of the Curia plotting against him. He could not do that from the Papal throne. That was why he had to have someone else to be that man, to play that role, to take the steps that he laid out for him.

  Carlucci felt something brush against his leg. He looked down and smiled. He reached down and picked up a smokey blue Persian cat. The cat purred as he tickled him under the chin. Carlucci was known as a man with a wicked sense of humor. It was well known that in Christian demonology, Beelzebub was one of the seven princes of Hell. So that is what he had christened the cat. He felt it a daily reminder of the battle he fought. Beelzebub looked up at him, with his brilliant copper eyes. He understood.

  Carlucci had had a busy morning so far and had the same still to come. There was a certain knack required in influencing the College of Cardinals. You had to lead them along but have them think that they were making all the decisions. Persuading them they needed a younger man on the throne of St. Peter was not something they would swallow easily, but swallow it they would. He just had to show them the way.

  The previous evening he had hosted a dinner for Cardinal Luis Rodriguez from Argentina, the biggest influence on the South American Cardinal’s conclave vote.

  Of course, he did not like it, he had his own dreams of wearing the fisherman’s ring. But that was fine, a little obfuscation in the early rounds was no bad thing. What he did get was an agreement, that if it was clear Cardinal Rodriguez would not make it, he would urge his block to follow Carlucci’s lead. Of course, there was a reward in it for the Cardinal, there always was. It was the secret to Carlucci’s success.

  He heard a movement in the apartment behind him and turned around as Monsignor Pepadelli appeared at the open French windows. He had a set to his demeanor, and a look on his face as if he had tasted something unpleasant, that could only mean trouble.

  Carlucci had been hoping for a few more minutes respite before he headed back into the chaos within the hallowed walls.

  “Luigi.” Carlucci stepped back inside his apartment. Even here there were too many prying ears and eyes. “What troubles you?”

  The Monsignor was panting heavily, he had obviously been hurrying.

  “Take a seat, Luigi,” Carlucci said with a wry smile. “We cannot have you expiring on us. You are too valuable for that.”

  The cleric dabbed his brow with a pristine white handkerchief and lowered himself into an elegant gold brocade armchair. “Your Eminence, you asked me to watch out for anything unusual, any anomalies.”

  Monsignor Pepadelli worked in the Administration of the Patrimony of the Holy See, a fancy name for the Vatican accounts office, and he was Carlucci’s ears and eyes on the money flow in and out of the Vatican. He knew what every member of the Curia and the Vatican administration spent, both officially and unofficially, and therefore so did Carlucci. It had been the source and the secret of Carlucci’s success when he controlled the Vatican finances and remained a major key to his current influence and power.

  “I think you should see this.” He handed Carlucci a folded sheet of paper.

  Carlucci studied the document. It was a bank statement. It was a small obscure account used for ad-hoc payments. It also belonged to the Holy Father. Carlucci raised his eyebrows and chewed on his upper lip as he studied the item that Pepadelli had highlighted with a yellow pen.

  “When did you get this?”

  “I have just discovered it. I came to you with it immediately.”

  “You did the right thing, Luigi. Now I need you to find out every last detail about it.” He held up a manicured finger. “And I mean every last detail. Then report back to me as soon as possible.”

  The cleric nodded still regaining his breath.

  Carlucci looked at him. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Pepadelli struggled to his feet and disappeared through the apartment’s grand entrance door, muttering to himself. Carlucci watched him go, conscious that the chaotic world outside was about to descend upon him once more.

  He took a deep breath allowing the beauty of his surroundings to bring a moment of calm. The delicately patterned 16th-century marble floor, and the high, antique wooden ceiling edged in gold leaf, in contrast to the simple beige walls and light green curtains. A few priceless works of art hung on the walls. They gave him the most pleasure of all.

  Many complained that his apartment was too grand, too ostentatious. But this was the Vatican, it was here long before he had come along and if his plan worked out, it would be here long after he was gone. Just because the Holy Father chose to stay in the Domus Sanctae Marthae next door, which was little more than a Bed & Breakfast, that was his own personal choice. Carlucci was happy here, there was a tranquillity here, amongst the art and the elegance that helped him to focus on the task he had been given. From what Pepadelli had just shown him that task was demanding of him once again.

  He glanced towards a door in the far wall. It led to an adjacent private chapel. He would have gladly spent an hour in there but time and events were pressing. He walked over to the open French windows and lit a cigarette before he finally succumbed to the madness outside his door.

  He thought about the bank account. Of course, the Holy Father did not use it personally, but his personal secretary would, on his behalf — or not.

  “My dear Cardinal Brennan,” he said addressing himself towards the Basilica. “What are you up to now?”

  “I have just discovered it. I came to you with it immediately.”

  “You did the right thing, Luigi. Now I need you to find out every last detail about it.” He held up a manicured finger. “And I mean every last detail. Then report back to me as soon as possible.”

  The cleric nodded still regaining his breath.

  Carlucci looked at him. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Pepadelli struggled to his feet and disappeared through the apartment’s grand entrance door, muttering to himself. Carlucci watched him go, conscious that the chaotic world outside was about to descend upon him once more.

  He took a deep breath allowing the beauty of his surroundings to bring a moment of calm. The delicately patterned 16th-century marble floor, and the high, antique wooden ceiling edged in gold leaf, in contrast to the simple beige walls and light green curtains. A few priceless works of art hung on the walls. They gave him the most pleasure of all.

  Many complained that his apartment was too grand, too ostentatious. But this was the Vatican, it was here long before he had come along and if his plan worked out, it would be here long after he was gone. Just because the Holy Father chose to stay in the Domus Sanctae Marthae next door, which was little more than a Bed & Breakfast, that was his o
wn personal choice. Carlucci was happy here, there was a tranquillity here, amongst the art and the elegance that helped him to focus on the task he had been given. From what Pepadelli had just shown him that task was demanding of him once again.

  He glanced towards a door in the far wall. It led to an adjacent private chapel. He would have gladly spent an hour in there but time and events were pressing. He walked over to the open French windows and lit a cigarette before he finally succumbed to the madness outside his door.

  He thought about the bank account. Of course, the Holy Father did not use it personally, but his personal secretary would, on his behalf — or not.

  “My dear Cardinal Brennan,” he said addressing himself towards the Basilica. “What are you up to now?”

  31

  Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Fagan was studying his iPhone. “This app of Walter’s is pretty good. It’s better than Google Maps. There’s a lot more detail in the remote regions.

  “That’s great if you have network coverage, but that is not a satellite phone, so without cellphone or Wifi coverage it won’t work.”

  “You’re a bundle of fun this morning.”

  Frankie gave him a smile and concentrated on the road.

  They had been driving for a couple of hours when the road began to fall away before them. They emerged suddenly from the trees into a broad limestone valley, like stepping out into the sunlight. The road turned sharp left and ran alongside a wide, turquoise green river.

  “According to the map, this is the river Drina,” Fagan announced. “There is a town up ahead. We cross the river there and follow the road east.”

  They ran into the small town of Visegrad, a quiet little hamlet clustered around the river with an ancient, multi-arch bridge at its center.

  “I was reading about this place this morning,” Frankie said. “It has quite a history. That is the famous Bridge on the Drina from a book by a Nobel Prize-winning author. It is a world heritage site. Apparently, this place has a checkered history going back a long way, but especially during the Bosnian war. The Serbian border is not far from here and this area over the years has always been in dispute. This is now technically the Serb Republic, it is not a country just an administrative region, but still something of a bone of contention with many of the locals, especially the Muslim population.”