The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  “They’re probably watching us from behind those curtains.” Fagan pointed at a squat, single story cottage by the side of the road.

  “Stop it.” Frankie slapped him on his bad arm.

  Fagan yelled.

  “Sorry,” Frankie held a hand to her mouth.

  Fagan gave her a mock pained look.

  Frankie flashed an apologetic smile.

  “Anyway,” she said moving on quickly. “That is what I read. It all seems so peaceful now.”

  Fagan gazed out on the passing buildings. “Question is, what is it hiding?”

  The ancient bridge turned out to be for pedestrians only, and they had to drive through the town before they found a road bridge to cross the river. Once on the other side, they climbed rapidly again, heading east.

  It was another hour before they reached the town of Bretsnia. It was barely more than a village, sat on the border between Bosnia and Serbia. Over the years the border had shifted back and forth around it, over which the locals had bickered and fought and inevitably killed, leaving a town with a somewhat nervous disposition and a split personality.

  Frankie parked the car in the town square.

  Fagan stepped out and looked around. “Let’s see what we can find out?”

  “Let us see what I can find out.” Frankie pulled out an ID for the French TV News Station, France24.

  “Don’t tell me, your friend again.”

  “I have a complete set. CNN, NBC, BBC.”

  “And what about me?”

  “You are my driver. Injured driver.”

  Fagan touched his forelock in deference. “Where do we start, my lady?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I am hungry. Shall we try this place over here.” Frankie pointed to a small bar in the corner of the square.

  The place was not the most welcoming that Fagan had seen. It had a few weather-beaten plastic tables outside, beneath a worn and tattered awning that flapped in the mountain breeze. Its paintwork was faded and peeling, and the sign above the door was barely legible.

  “Hardly the Hotel de Paris,” Fagan said.

  “Maybe just the place to get some local gossip.”

  They stepped through the front door and took a moment to adjust to the darkened interior. Two men at the bar gave Fagan the hard stare, but the main focus of their attention was Frankie.

  The bartender was the size of a grizzly bear with a grey beard and a riot of curly grey hair.

  “Good morning,” Fagan said. “Do you speak English?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you serve food?”

  “Of course.” The man gestured to the empty tables. “Take your pick. I will come and take your order.”

  They found a table in the corner and the barman wandered over. “We don’t get many visitors out here. You with the press, TV?”

  “Yes we are, France Vingt-Quatre,” Frankie said waving her France24 ID badge.

  “You are a little late for the circus. They were all here last week. The place was crazy.” He gave a shrug and a smile. “But good for business.”

  “We are here doing some follow-up. Maybe you would grant us an interview?”

  The man glanced back towards the bar. “I am a busy man. Time is money.”

  “Of course we would pay you for your time. A hundred dollars, American?”

  The man stroked his beard. “Euros.” He flashed a smile. “Hundred Euros.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can we order some food first,” Fagan intervened.

  “Of course.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Today’s special, very good. Cevapi, local dish. My wife, she is very good cook.”

  Fagan glanced across at Frankie then back at the barman. “No pork?”

  The man gave Frankie a knowing look and shook his head. “No pork.”

  His wife turned out to be an excellent cook, and the special was delicious. Skinless sausages of minced lamb, barbecued to a dark crispy finish then smothered in a puréed spicy red pepper sauce. They devoured the food in silence, and the barman left them alone while they ate. When they had finished, he cleared the plates then wandered back over. He placed a bottle of red wine and three glasses on the table and sat down. He proceeded to pour the wine into the glasses.

  “You will like this. It is our very best.”

  “That is very kind of you.” Frankie picked up a glass and took a taste, letting the wine run across her tongue. She smiled and nodded in approval.

  “Excellent,” the barman gave a wide, ragged tooth grin. “I have put it on your bill.”

  He pulled out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes and offered them. Fagan was sure they would be on the bill too. He declined, but Frankie took one. The barman took out a polished American Zippo lighter and lit them both.

  “So, where shall we begin?”

  Frankie took out her iPhone and put it on the table. She pressed an icon on the screen. “You don’t mind if I record this?”

  “Be my guest.” He seemed to be enjoying it.

  “Let us start with your name?”

  “Zoran,” the man said. “Named after my father. Zoran Milac.”

  “I am Frankie, this is Joe. Maybe we could start by you telling us about last week.”

  Zoran gave her a smile. “I think we have some business to transact first.”

  Fagan handed him two, fifty euro notes. “I hope it’s worth it.”

  “You are asking the questions.”

  “Okay,” said Frankie. “You were about to tell us about last week.”

  “You should know. You are from the news. Big international war criminal, Colonel Dragonov Vladij, the Beast of Bretsnia, was arrested here. In the dentist clinic, right across the square.” He pointed out through the window. “Old bastard has got a toothache now.” He broke into a cough fueled laugh that seemed to almost choke him. He took a swig of wine and calmed down. “I hope they hang the son of a bitch.”

  “Are you a Muslim?”

  “My wife is.”

  “You did not convert?” Frankie asked.

  “We married during the war. It was not a good time to become a Muslim. My wife nags me to convert now. Maybe I will. But when we first met, things were very bad around here. Vladij and his men butchered most of her family.”

  “I hear the main witness in the trial died.”

  “Very convenient, brakes failed on a sharp bend beside a deep ravine. That seems to happen a lot around the Colonel.”

  “Can you tell us something about this witness. I believe his name was Tarik. Who was he? What did he see?”

  Zoran shrugged his shoulders. “Tarik was always a troubled young man. He had carried his painful secret with him since he was ten years old. But the local politics in this region does not encourage anyone to talk about it.”

  “And what was this secret?” Frankie asked.

  “It was early on in the war. The Colonel and those like him were feeling very confident. They thought they were untouchable, that they could do whatever they wanted. They rounded up all the Muslim males from the surrounding district, men, and boys, and executed them in a field not far from here. Young Tarik witnessed the murder of his father and his older brother.”

  “Something he never forgot,” Frankie said.

  “Tarik held that grudge for all these years.”

  “Did he have any other relatives?”

  “There was a sister, but I have heard little of her since the war ended.”

  “Could she have witnessed this massacre?” Frankie asked.

  “If she did, she never said. I would have heard about it. But as I say, people are not encouraged to talk about things like that.”

  “Is there any way we can get in touch with her?” Frankie asked.

  Zoran shrugged his huge shoulders. “I have not heard anything from her in a long time. I heard she got married and moved away.

  “We are interested in a Roman Catholic mission, somewhere around here,” Fagan
said.

  “Cronje.” Zoran drained his glass and refilled it. “The monastery of Cronje. It is up in the hills. It was once a Serbian Orthodox Monastery, but it was abandoned during the Second World War. The place was a wreck, but a Catholic priest made some repairs and turned it into a refuge, with food and shelter for people trying to escape from the madness of the war. Once the war was over the Orthodox Church took it back, but they soon abandoned it. It is a ruin again now.”

  “Did you know the Catholic priest?”

  “Father Pat? Of course, everyone knew him. In the midst of all the crazy madness, he was always trying to help people. Catholic, Orthodox, or Muslim, it made no difference to him. If you were in trouble, Father Pat would try to help.”

  “That must have been very dangerous for him.”

  Zoran smiled. “Father Pat was invincible. Even the Colonel would not touch him. Rumor was, the Orthodox Archbishop in Beogradska had an agreement with the Pope. He was to be left alone. Everyone knew that after the war there would be trials for war crimes. I believe the Pope pointed this out, even threatened the Archbishop. He was a wily old bastard, was the Archbishop, I am sure he got something in return. Maybe that is why it took twenty-five years to track the Colonel down. Everyone knew he was living up in the hills.”

  “So why denounce him now?”

  “It was the Colonel’s bad luck. He happened to be at the dentist at the same time as Tarik. Of course, it did not help the old bastard that the local police chief held a grudge against him that had nothing to do with politics. It went back before the war. I think a woman was involved.”

  “And Father Pat, do you know what happened to him?”

  “He was here one day and gone the next. I heard he went back to America.”

  “Is there anyone at the monastery now?”

  “There was a crazy old monk. Brother Drago. I have not seen him in years. He helped out Father Pat when he was there. It is strange we should talk about him after all that has just gone on.” He gave Frankie a knowing smile.

  “Why is that?” Frankie asked.

  The smile stayed on his face. “I think your credit just ran out.”

  “Now listen,” Fagan started in.

  Frankie held up a hand. “It is okay.” She pulled a wallet out of her pocket and extracted a fifty euro note. She placed it on the table. “You were saying.”

  The note disappeared, and Zoran continued. “Brother Drago was the one who found Tarik and his sister after the massacre. They were wandering out there, up in the hills.” He pointed vaguely behind his head. “Brother Drago took them to Father Pat’s sanctuary.”

  “Is Brother Drago still up there?”

  “I have no idea what happened to him. He is probably dead. You might find his bones up there.”

  Zoran looked up, and his demeanor changed.

  Fagan recognized the look in his eyes — fear.

  He followed Zoran’s gaze. Two men had entered. They looked like trouble. They walked across to the bar and began talking to the two men seated there.

  “I need to get back to work.” Zoran got rapidly to his feet. “You should leave now. Those two men are very bad news. Trust me you do not want to speak to them.”

  “Who are they?” Fagan asked.

  “They work for a local businessman. I use the term in its broadest sense. He is a gangster. A very bad man.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Ratko Vladij, he is the Colonel’s brother.” He glanced over towards the bar. “I must go now. So should you.”

  Fagan paid him for the meal and Zoran headed back to the bar. One of the newcomers spoke to him in a low whisper. Zoran looked guiltily towards them and nodded.

  “What do you think?” Frankie took a quick glance towards the men at the bar.

  “I think maybe we should do as Zoran says and leave. Let’s take a trip out to this monastery. See what we can find.”

  Fagan led the way to the door but one of the men who had just entered stepped into his path. He lifted a hand in the universal stop sign and his jacket swung open. Fagan caught the leather of a shoulder holster and assessed him in the blink of an eye. He was tall, at least Fagan’s height and well built, but with a little too much gut. A bully boy, lacking the edge of a professional. Fagan knew if both his arms were working, he would have no problem with him. He remembered an instructor he had in SEAL training who would do unarmed combat with his hands tied behind his back. Of course, he didn’t have a hole in his shoulder.

  “Good day to you, my friends. Zoran here tells me you are from the press. You are a little late for that circus. They were all here last week. Do you mind telling me what you are doing here? Surely you have all the stories you need.”

  Fagan gave him a tight smile but said nothing. He went to move past him, but the man put a hand on his chest.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I don’t believe that is any of your business.”

  “I can assure you, anything that happens in Bretsnia is my boss’s business.”

  “And who is your boss?”

  “That is something, trust me, you do not want to know.”

  “Look,” Frankie intervened holding up her France24 ID. “We are from France Vingt-Quatre. We do not want any trouble. We are just doing a follow-up story.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you came out here, pretty lady. This is still a very dangerous place. You go wandering in the woods around here, there are unexploded mines. Before you know it, boom! And you have no legs.” He gave an obnoxious laugh. The man still had his hand on Fagan’s chest.

  “Are you really that stupid?” Fagan gave him a steely look. “Do you want to mess with a journalist from an international news organization. I don’t think your boss will be very happy when this place is crawling with TV and news teams, all here to investigate him.”

  Fagan saw the doubt in the man’s eyes. He deliberately took hold of the man’s wrist with his good hand, gave it a slight twist and removed the hand from his chest.

  “We’re going to leave now. Put your hand on me again, and I’ll break your arm.”

  The man stared at him, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. But Fagan knew the man recognized something in him, something that made him wary. Fagan did not want to get into anything with only effectively one arm, but he wasn’t letting that show. He could see the man desperately wanted to test him. He was probably used to pushing around the locals. Now he was not sure. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind.

  “You have a safe drive back to Sarajevo and stay inside the car.”

  Fagan allowed Frankie to step past him. He gave the man a final look and followed her out of the door.

  They headed out to SUV and climbed in. Just the effort of what had just taken place made his wound throb painfully.

  “You okay?”

  Fagan nodded.

  “Do you think you warned them off?”

  “I doubt it, they were just bully boys, they will need to report in.” Fagan looked back towards the bar. “But there was one thing.”

  “What was that?”

  “How did he know we had come from Sarajevo?”

  32

  Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  “Take this left,” Fagan called out, holding up his iPhone. He had intermittent cell phone coverage and had the GPS app displayed. “According to this map, the monastery is a few miles up this road.”

  Frankie swung onto a narrow dirt track barely wide enough for the SUV to pass. The woods became dense, and the sheer rock face of the mountain pushed in between the trees from the left while the hillside dropped away to the right. The road snaked upwards following the bank of a fast flowing river that bubbled and tumbled down towards the valley below. Up above a spectacular waterfall cascaded down towards them. The forest deepened, and the river disappeared. They continued on climbing for another mile.

  “It’s somewhere around here,” Fagan said.

  “That is
a big help, we could drive right past it and never see it.”

  “There.” Fagan pointed as he caught a glimpse of something between the trees.

  Frankie stopped and reversed back. An overgrown track disappeared off to the right. She pointed the SUV at it and edged the vehicle forward through the undergrowth. Eventually, they emerged into a clearing. The monastery was almost consumed by the forest. On closer inspection, it was built against the rock face of the mountain. Its once pink walls were faded to nearly white and daubed with mud and stains of dark green where the moss was crawling up the crumbling plaster.

  Frankie stopped the SUV, and they climbed out.

  The monastery stood like a ghost from the past, huddled in a natural overhang in the cliff, which presumably had given it some respite from the weather. It was not at all ornate or ostentatious, constructed in a simple style in rough stone, hewn from the surrounding hills. The outer walls had been plastered once, but now it was cracked and broken away entirely in places, revealing the stone blocks beneath. It had a series of steep, slate tiled, roofs that showed patches where it had been repaired at some time, probably from Father Patrick’s era. And in the center was a round tower.

  The main door was a simple arch in the stone, with a blackened wooden door that now hung forlornly on a single hinge. It shuddered and squealed as Fagan pushed it open and stepped inside.

  There was a single narrow window above the main door, the glass had gone years before and now allowed a beam of sunlight to filter in and give some illumination into what appeared to be the central nave of the chapel. The air was thick with the damp clinging musk of neglect. In the far corner, a darkened doorway seemed to lead into the depths of the building.