by Neil Howarth
“Stay close,” Fagan called over his shoulder.
“Have no worries on that.” Frankie stepped up close behind him.
He took out his phone and switched on the flashlight, then moved cautiously forward. Frankie did the same. The doorway led into a corridor that then opened out into a large room. There were no windows, and Fagan let his light traverse around the walls. They were blackened, and the plaster that had adorned them was crumbling, but they appeared to be dry. In the far corner, a semi-circle of stones marked out what had been the main fire. Fagan shone his light upwards to a small hole in the roof that would have acted as a makeshift chimney, sheltered by the cliff above.
Fagan’s flashlight caught a narrow passageway running off to the right. He glanced behind at Frankie, then headed along it. It led into what appeared to be a small kitchen, though there were no appliances. There was only a tin sink and a large iron oven set into the wall with a small fireplace beneath it. It looked like it had not been used in years. A window let in some light, enough to see a small door at the far side. It was jammed shut, but a few well-placed boots managed to free it. It opened on to a small overgrown garden surrounded by a rickety wooden fence, desperately trying to hold back the forest beyond.
Fagan turned back to the room and allowed his light to flick across it. Was this it? The sanctuary that Father Patrick and Sister Eileen had put together. A temporary respite from hell, for all the people desperately trying to escape the madness that had descended on their lives.
“There’s nothing here,” Frankie said.
“What did we expect. It’s what was here, who was here, and what they saw that matters.”
They moved back out into the passage. Something moved in the shadows further along. Fagan pulled out the Glock he had taken from Father Juergen and stepped in front of Frankie. A shape shuffled out of the darkness and directly into the beam of Fagan’s light. He was short, an old man with a full, curly, grey beard that extended down onto his chest. He held up his hand against the glare. He was in perfect keeping with the ruined monastery. He wore a pair of battered leather boots and loose leggings, and what had once probably been a cassock, but now was worn and torn, and barely recognizable. On his head, he wore a black chimney-pot hat, flattened at the top, which was in surprisingly good shape. Fagan had been a priest, he recognized an Orthodox Christian monk’s Kamilavka. He considered the old man. This had to be the monk that Zoran had talked about.
He looked very old, but he didn’t look very dead.
He said something that Fagan didn’t understand.
“Brother Drago?” Fagan asked, recalling the name Zoran had given them back in the bar.
The monk’s old face cracked into a smile. “I do not think you will need that,” he said in passable English and poked a finger at the gun.
Fagan realized he was still pointing the Glock. “My apologies, but we were told it is not safe up here.” He tucked it into the band in his trousers and held up his hands. “Shall we forget that just happened.”
Brother Drago gave a shrug. “Can I help you?”
“Someone in the town told us about this place.” Frankie stepped in and took over. She showed him her France24 ID card. “My name is Francoise Lefevere, this is my,” she paused then smiled, “security expert. I am doing a follow-up story on the man who was arrested in the town a couple of weeks ago. I am not sure if you heard. He is accused of war crimes committed in this area during the Bosnian War.”
“I receive some news.”
“Do you mind if we look around?”
The old monk shrugged “There’s nothing here. Only me.”
“We were wondering about its history, especially during the Bosnian war.”
“That is what everyone wants to know about. They were all here a few days ago, trampling all over the place, asking the same questions.”
“We have some specific questions that I am sure they were not asking,” Frankie said.
“In that case, you had better come with me. But first,” Brother Drago held out his hand. “It would seem you already know my name.”
Frankie took it. “Pleasure to meet you, everyone calls me Frankie, and this is Joseph.”
Fagan shook his hand. The grip was bony but surprisingly firm.
“It is my pleasure. I still like to get visitors from time to time, just not the crazy crowd that were here.” The monk cracked a smile. “But, please, come into my little area. I have a fire. We can have some tea.”
Fagan glanced across at Frankie. She gave a shrug and a half smile.
They followed Brother Drago along a passageway that led into the depths of the building. A room at the back emitted a low glow. They moved inside, it was small but surprisingly cozy with a single bed against the far wall, and two armchairs ranged around a black, iron, stove.
“Please take a seat, I don’t have much, but a friend gave me those armchairs. They are quite comfortable.”
Fagan and Frankie took one each, while the monk busied himself over the stove. He produced a large samovar from which he poured tea into tin mugs. He handed them out then sat down on the bed and sipped thoughtfully at his tea.
Fagan tried it. It was a little bitter but not unpleasant. He looked at Brother Drago, wondering where to start, but Frankie took the lead.
“We are trying to find out about the time when this place was used as a mission during the Bosnian war, when Father Patrick and Sister Eileen were here. Do you remember them?”
The old monk smiled revealing a surprisingly full set of even teeth. “Father Pat and Sister Eileen, of course, I remember them. But I have not seen them in many years.”
Frankie looked directly at the monk. “Unfortunately they are both dead. So is Father Milosh.”
Brother Drago paused with his mug at his lips, but that was the height of his shock. His gaze seemed to see something in the distance. “I thought I saw a light pass through here some days ago. I am sure that was one of them.”
Frankie glanced across at Fagan, but he was concentrating on the monk.
Brother Drago didn’t ask what had happened to them, but Frankie told him anyway.
“Unfortunately they were murdered.”
“Murdered?” He seemed interested now. “Why?”
“We would like to find that out. Can you tell us about that time? You were here then, were you not?”
“I was here on and off. The monastery was still technically owned by the Orthodox Church. The bishop tasked me with keeping an eye on the place, though heaven only knows why. The place had been abandoned before Father Pat came, and after he left, well, look at it. I think the Archbishop was secretly hoping a stray bullet might find me as I wandered back and forth. Put me out of his misery.” He smiled. “He found me a little too inclusive. Which is why I think Father Pat and I got along so well. We both believed in bringing people to God, we just differed on the way to do that, but we didn’t allow that to stand in our way. Father Pat built a haven here, a sanctuary from the hell that was happening right outside our door.”
“Can you tell us about it?” Frankie asked.
“What’s to tell. It was a time of madness. They were arriving every day, pretty soon this place was full.”
“We believe Father Pat, Sister Eileen, and Father Milosh had a secret. It may have involved another man. We believe that is what got them killed.”
Brother Drago studied her for a moment. “It was all so long ago. Why is it important now?”
“That’s what we hope to find out. I spoke to Father Milosh shortly before he was killed. He hinted at this secret, but I never got chance to find out what it was all about. He said ‘we had to save him.’ Do you know who that could be?”
Brother Drago shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Three people are dead,” Frankie said. “From everything I have found out about them, they were good people. I think their story should be told. Can you help me do that.”
“I would love to help you, but as I told you, I was not he
re all the time, I just made occasional visits. Whatever this secret was, I am afraid they never shared it with me.”
“Do you remember a brother and sister? His name was Tarik. I don’t know what his sister’s name was. They would have been young at the time, ten or twelve. I believe you found them on the hillside on the night of the massacre and brought them here.”
“You seem to know a lot already.”
“Zoran, at the bar down in the town, told us.”
The monk smiled. “Yes, Zoran would.” He seemed to ponder for a moment before he continued. “It was the night that hell came to Bretsnia. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I was making one of my visits. I had no transport of my own, but a local farmer had picked me up on the road and dropped me off at the bottom of the hill. I took the shortcut across the hillside and found them out there, almost frozen.” He took a sip from his tea. “Poor Tarik, he never really recovered. Thankfully he is at peace now.”
“You knew he was dead?”
Brother Drago shrugged. “Of course, his sister, Armena, told me.”
Fagan wanted to jump in, but he held himself in check and let Frankie continue.
“She is alive? She is still here, in Bretsnia?”
“Armena visits me from time to time. I don’t know where she lives.”
Fagan looked at the very alive monk. It seemed that Zoran suffered from problems with his memory.
“When was the last time she came here?” Frankie asked.
“What is time?” the old Monk gave another shrug of his shoulders. “All I know is I wake, I pray, I meditate, I go through my day. Some days I eat. Then I sleep. Occasionally I see someone, but not often. When Armena comes and visits, we sit and talk. Sometimes she brings me tea. The last time she came, maybe it was a week ago. She told me about Tarik.”
“Is there any way we can contact her?”
Brother Drago smiled. “Do I look like a man with one of those cellular phones.” His smile froze, and he held up a hand. “Someone is coming.”
Then Fagan heard it too, the faint sound of an engine. He quickly led the way back along the passageway to the front of the building. Frankie and Brother Drago hurried behind him. He reached the door and peered out. There was no sign of anyone, but he could hear the sound of an engine, in fact, more than one, revving hard up the hill.
“You had better leave.” Brother Drago appeared beside him. “These are not good men.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“I can guess, and you do not want to be here when they arrive. These are bad men. Please, you must hurry.”
“What about you?”
“These men come around here from time to time. Usually, I lose myself in the forest until they have gone.”
Fagan stepped out towards the car.
“No.” Brother Drago held up his hand. “You have no time, and they will have blocked the road.”
“Is there a track around the back?”
“There is a pathway through the forest. But it soon becomes impassable for a vehicle of that size. Go now. You can lose yourself until they go away.”
“They are hardly going to do that if they see the car. I’ll hide it in the trees. Then we can all lose ourselves in the forest.”
“Come, let us go together.” Frankie took hold of the monk’s arm.
“No, you must go ahead, you can move faster. If they find me, I’m just a crazy old monk. They will leave me alone.”
Fagan sprinted out towards the car and scrambled into the front seat. Frankie leaped in beside him.
“Are you all right to drive?”
“We’ll find out.” He quickly started the engine and headed for the corner of the building. He looked around. There was no sign of Brother Drago.
The track was barely wide enough for the car. The branches whipped at the windows, scratching at the bodywork as they went.
Fagan glanced across at Frankie. “Crazy old man?”
“Define crazy.”
33
Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The track ran along the edge of the garden then disappeared into the trees. Fagan took the SUV into the undergrowth, but it soon became impassable for the vehicle.
“I guess we’re walking from here,” he said.
“Or running.”
They struggled out of the car and made their way forward. The track was more passable on foot. It eventually opened up onto a clearing.
“Let’s lose ourselves over there.” Fagan pointed to the forest on the far side.
Frankie took the lead. Fagan was struggling a little. The pain in his wound came in sharp dagger-like thrusts with each step. Something ripped into the earth close to his foot just as he reached the trees. The sound of gunfire echoed off the hillside. He dived into cover, the pain exploded as he hit the soggy undergrowth. He rolled over and looked back the way he had come. A man stood on the far side of the clearing, holding an assault rifle. He opened up again. Fagan did not hang about. He scrambled to his feet ignoring the pain and ducked further into the trees. Frankie was already ahead of him, zigging and zagging. He did the same, trying to put as many tree trunks between them and their attacker. Bullets ripped at branches and tore at the tree trunks as he ran. He emerged behind Frankie onto a narrow track that wound its way higher up the mountain.
“Come on, we’ll make faster progress this way,” Frankie said.
She headed along the mountain trail moving fast. Fagan struggled on behind. Usually, he could have kept up Frankie’s pace for hours, but now each step was agony. Frankie looked back over her shoulder then stopped.
“Are you all right?”
Fagan caught up and stopped beside her, panting for breath. “I’m fine, just a bit sore.”
“It looks it.” She pointed at the dirt floor where a pool of blood was already collecting. “Here let me take a look.”
She unzipped his jacket. His shirt down the whole left side was already red with blood. “That needs to be dressed again.”
“We hardly have time now. Let’s put some distance between them and us then you can take care of it.” He didn’t wait for her reply. He set off at a painful jog.
The trees to his right thinned as the steep bank dropped to a fast flowing river, rushing down towards the waterfalls they had seen on the drive up. The far bank rose sharply, and the forest continued, up towards the snowcapped mountains in the distance.
They followed the track as it veered back into the trees. It meandered for a short distance then turned back sharply and fell away, leaving the trees behind and dropped abruptly down to the river. They followed it down and stopped on a steep bank. The river ran six feet below.
A series of stepping stones provided a crossing point, standing firm against the flow of the water as it splashed up in a wild spray, making their tops smooth and shining. Fagan stood with his hands on his knees and his head down, waiting for the pain to subside.
“Maybe we lost them,” Frankie said, hardly panting for breath.
“Don’t count on it. But I think we need a plan.”
Fagan glanced across the river to the far bank to where it climbed and disappeared into the trees. “If we can make it across there, we could get lost in that forest. We could then make it over that ridge.” He pointed towards a snow-covered mountain ridge in the distance. “If we can get into the valley beyond, there are bound to be villages there. We could regroup from there.”
Frankie looked at him. “Do you think you can make it up there?”
“I’ll be fine. Let me get down to the river. I’ll wash this wound. Then we can get moving.”
A hail of bullets from an automatic weapon ripped up the track uncomfortably close to them, interrupting their conversation. Fagan grabbed hold of Frankie, and they slid down the steep river bank far enough to be hidden from the approaching gunman. Pain scythed up his side. He pulled out the Glock. The suppressor was still attached. He eased himself back up to the rim of the bank and peaked out.
A man was advancing towards them. It was the one with the assault rifle. Fagan popped up, the Glock held out in a two-handed grip, ignoring the pain shooting down his left side. The man saw him and swung the rifle around. Fagan let off a rapid double tap, the Glock coughing gently, like shots sounding far away. The man stopped abruptly and dropped his weapon, then collapsed onto the ground.
“Cover me.” Frankie scrambled up the bank before Fagan could protest, and sprinted towards the fallen man. Fagan desperately scanned the forest behind the clearing, the Glock extended in front of him. Frankie was back within a minute carrying the rifle, it was an MK17. She had another Glock tucked into the waistband of her jeans and a professional looking knife in her hand. Over her shoulder, she had a canvas bag.
“What have you got?”
She stowed the knife in her boot and rooted in the bag. “Half a dozen spare magazines for the MK. More for the Glock. Here.” She handed Fagan two new magazines.
Fagan stuffed them in his pocket and glanced towards the river, then across to the other side. The crossing itself would be shielded from anyone approaching, by the bank itself. But the climb up towards the trees would be out in the open. A killing ground for anyone standing on this bank.
“Come on. That man’s buddies will be along here at any moment, and we need to get up into those trees before they do. You go first. I’ll cover you.”
Frankie looked across at him. She had that look in her eye. “These men are trying to kill us. We have to ask ourselves, why? As far as they are concerned, I am a journalist. So not a very smart move.”
“Unless they know who we really are.”
“Exactly. But is Brennan’s reach this far?”
Fagan shook his head. “These men are not Legion of Jesus, they’re local thugs.”
“You were the one who said you don’t believe in coincidence,” Frankie said. “The answers are here in this place, in that monastery. What happened here all those years ago, this man who they saved. He was there. Tarik’s sister, she was also there, maybe She saw him. Perhaps she saw it all. Maybe she is a witness.”
