The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  “So what are you saying?”

  “She is our link. We have to find her, and the search for her has to start back in Bretsnia.”

  “They’ll have that place locked down tight. If we head that way, they will be just waiting to pick us up.”

  Frankie looked across at him. “That is why we need to split up. One of us leads them up into the mountains while the other makes their way back to Bretsnia and tries to track down this girl.”

  Fagan already knew he was not going to like what she was about to say.

  “You are not going to make it up there. The higher you get, the worse it will be. This is our chance. You know where this river leads. That water is moving faster than any man on the bank can run, and they cannot get any of their vehicles up here. It will take you down to the waterfall.” She flashed him a smile. “I’m sure you can struggle out before you go over the top. You can make it down to the village from there. Besides, the mountain water will be good for that wound.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It is not about liking. You are the one who is always telling me it is not what you want, it is what you need that is important. I need to lead them up into the trees. You need to find the girl.”

  There she was again, short and to the point. Fagan shook his head. “Any suggestions how?”

  “I would start with Zoran, the barman. I’m sure he is not telling all. He said the priest was dead. That the girl, Armena, had moved away after the war. What else is he not telling?”

  “I still don’t like it. We can both lose them up there and then make our way back.”

  “You know that is not going to work.” Frankie shook her head. “I have to lead them over that ridge.” She pointed to snow-topped mountains in the distance. “I can move much faster than you. You were the one who said it. If I can get into the valley beyond, I can lose them.” She looked at him. “Joseph, you know this is the only way.”

  “What’s to say I won’t drown?”

  “I thought you were a Navy SEAL.”

  He knew she was right, splitting up now was the best thing. The military trained part of his brain told him that. But the other part, the part he desperately wanted to protect, would not let her go. He peered above the bank. The track was still deserted. He knew they had minutes at most.

  “We have to go,” Frankie urged him.

  Fagan put his arms around her. “I can’t lose you.”

  Frankie smiled, tears swam in her eyes. “You know I love you. The time we had in Opio was the most perfect time of my whole life. But that was then. We have to deal with now.”

  “We can have that again.”

  Frankie placed a finger on his lips as he tried to speak. “You know this is the best way. Navy SEAL, Joe Fagan, knows it. We cannot back out of this now, we are in far too deep. Those men out there are proof of that.”

  Fagan squeezed her in his arms, ignoring the pain in his chest. “You have it all worked out, as always. But they’re doing exactly what we don’t want. They’re pulling us apart.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. “My sweet Joseph, it is not just about us anymore, it is no longer about what we want. We know these people, they have taken away those we loved, and they will keep doing that to anyone who gets in the way until they get what they want. And we know what that is. It started with De Vaux and his crazy idea about Armageddon, and this Cardinal Carlucci, he is fighting for the survival of the Catholic Church, and my guess is, just like Dominic de Vaux, he is willing to start a Global Holy War to save it. Brennan is his puppet, and he will keep pulling his strings to get what he wants. And if we let Brennan get away with this, he will lead the whole world into hell.”

  “As always, you have a certain way of putting things.”

  “You need to go.”

  Fagan knew that arguing from here on was useless, and besides, she was right.

  “How will we hook up?”

  She patted her jacket. “I will call you.” She pulled a plastic ziplock bag from her backpack. “You need to get rid of that.” She pointed to his own backpack. “It will only drag you down in the river. Put all your valuables in here.”

  Fagan dropped in both his US and his Vatican passports, his wallet, and the iPhone that Walter had given him. He took out the Glock, removed its suppressor and slipped both into the bag, along with the spare magazines.

  Frankie held up a small bottle of painkillers and another with antibiotics. “I think you will need these.”

  She dropped the bottles into the bag and stuffed in the dressings and bandages, then zipped it up and stuffed it inside his shirt, on the opposite side to his wound. She took out a role of Band-Aid she had bought back in Sarajevo and taped the bag to his chest. She buttoned up his shirt and zipped up his jacket, then gently patted his chest.

  “Try not to lose it.”

  Fagan looked at her but didn’t say what he really wanted to. “Stay in touch. If all else fails, contact Walter. You know those weird chat rooms he uses. He will put us back together.”

  He glanced back towards the track. He expected their pursuers to come bursting out of the trees at any moment. He slid down the bank the rest of the way to the river. Frankie did the same.

  He put his arms around her and held her tight. The pain knifed into his chest but he ignored it and looked into her eyes. “If anything happens to you, I can promise you. You will be in deep shit.” He could smell her perfume and that special fragrance that was always her. “I love you. I know I’ve never given you anything but trouble since we first met. But one day, I will change all that. I promise.”

  She looked up into his face. “I have never regretted a single minute we have been together.”

  She smiled that same smile she had done a lifetime ago, in the bar of a small hotel on the Atlantic coast of Brittany. It had changed his life, and now he was terrified he would lose her.

  “Remember, a few potshots, then run as fast as those beautiful legs will carry you.”

  “I will be okay. I am staying dry, but it is time for you to make like a fish.”

  She gave him a squeeze and gently pushed herself out of his embrace. She took a half step back then shoved him hard in the chest. Fagan tried to save himself, his fingertips scrambling at her jacket but the momentum took him, and he fell backward into the rapidly flowing water. He grabbed a deep sucking breath before he went down — fast.

  The icy cold of the mountain river hit him first, like ice picks driving into his body, and especially into the wound, thrusting in deep like the knife blade. Momentarily he was paralyzed. The water was barely waist height, but there was not a chance of standing in the rapid flowing torrent. His lungs were already screaming, but discipline and training took over. He knew not to fight the current but allowed himself to go with the flow. He was already moving fast. He kicked out with his legs and stroked with his good arm, rhythmically pushing out to the side, away from the strongest flow, while gently easing out the pressure in his lungs.

  A rock dug into his side, and the torrent rolled him over. He began to spin. He bit back on the panic. He had trained in whitewater swimming back in his Navy SEAL days. The problem was, it had scared the shit out of him then, and it had not gotten any better. He held out his arms and legs like a starfish. The current still battering at his body but he managed to stabilize himself. His lungs were crying out for air and pain seared into his chest and shoulder. He knew that at any moment he would lose control and would involuntarily attempt to take a breath, his lungs would fill, and that would be it. He had a momentary vision of Eugene Blanchet doing just that in the depths of an Italian mountain lake. His last image of Blanchet was him floating in the icy depths, staring at him from hell.

  He sensed the river had deepened and the current pulled him further down into the darkness. His feet scraped the rocky riverbed. He instinctively drew his knees towards his chest, and he sank further. He felt the brush of rocks on the soles of his boots. He managed to get both of his feet beneath him, a
nd he thrust out at an angle from the current, kicking hard towards the surface. It was only a few feet, but it seemed like the depth of an ocean. His head broke through into the fresh air. He thrust upwards gasping a grateful lungful of air. He swung around, desperately searching for Frankie.

  Then he saw her, standing there on the stepping stones. He wanted to call out to her to run, but she was already too far away. He waved his good arm, and she spotted him, waving excitedly back. She blew him an exaggerated kiss with both hands, then set off at a run across the rocks, and headed further up the hillside towards the trees.

  He tried to follow her progress, desperate to see her reach the sanctuary of the forest, but the current pulled him down again, into the swirling depths.

  34

  Forest, close to the Bosnia Serbian border.

  Frankie had found a good place to hide on the edge of the trees, behind a low rock outcrop with a good view across the river and the clearing beyond. She had to wait for them, had to make them follow her.

  She had double checked the MK and now lay in the undergrowth, peering between a gap in two abutting rocks with the MK barrel sitting comfortably on a chunk of moss that was growing between them. She sighted along the barrel, holding the butt into her shoulder, her eyes patiently scanning the clearing and the trees beyond — and waited.

  She did not have to wait long. Two men emerged from the trees, both carried automatic weapons. They looked like the same MK17 she had trained directly on them. They spotted their fallen colleague and ran towards him. One squatted down to check on his comrade while the other swept the forest, his weapon ready to open fire on anything that moved. Frankie’s eyes caught sight of another figure as it stepped out from the forest, quickly followed by another. The one by the body stood up and waved to the others. He said something to the man closest to him, and the two of them headed towards the river. Frankie resisted the urge to take a shot at them. She was relatively sure she could hit them, but the others were too far away.

  The man in the lead scrambled down the steep bank to the river, and his colleague followed close behind. They had a brief conversation, then the one in the lead stepped out onto the crossing stones, his MK at the ready. He had made it to the middle of the river before his comrade ventured out. At the same time, the first of the newcomers reached the top of the bank and stopped. His weapon sweeping slowly across the forest to where Frankie lay hidden.

  Frankie lay there breathing gently. She had always achieved outstanding scores on the shooting range, back in her DGSE days, and she was no stranger to the real thing. She took no chances. The one in the lead had almost reached the near bank. She hit him with a headshot then moved on to the next before the first had tumbled into the river. Another head shot catapulted the second one into the raging torrent. The one on the top of the bank began firing blindly. Frankie held her nerve. He had seen the flash from Frankie’s gun and was concentrating the fire into where she lay. The bullets tore into the trees around her, ripping at the earth and screeching off the rocks.

  The shooting stopped while the man discarded the empty magazine and replaced it with another. Frankie did not wait for him to start firing again. She sighted along the barrel of the MK and gently squeezed the trigger. The man moved his head at the last moment, and the bullet took him in the neck, ripping a large hole in his throat. He pitched head first down the bank and rolled into the river, which snatched him away as if he had never existed,

  The other man stood a few steps back from where his colleague had fallen. He obviously recognized a professional shooter. He did not waste time shooting into the trees. He turned and ran.

  Frankie had a perfect bead on the back of his head. Maybe it was perverse, and would certainly not have been approved of by her old boss, but she was never really into shooting a man in the back. She knew the three bodies would deter another crossing before the man now disappearing into the forest had reinforcements.

  Maybe that would give her a little time.

  She looped the strap of the canvas bag over her head and across her shoulder. She did the same with the MK across the other shoulder, pulling its strap tight to secure the rifle across her back. She took a last look down the course of the river as it tumbled on down towards the waterfall waiting downstream to consume the bodies she had just dispatched. She prayed Joseph was all right. She had a brief vision of him before she had cropped his hair and trimmed his beard. What she liked to think of as his pirate look. The thick, gold earring that she had picked out for him, in his ear. He was a handsome man — and so much more than that.

  Her gut suddenly seemed empty, and she was sure she was going to throw up. She reached out for a tree trunk to steady herself. She took a deep breath, still managing to hold on to the vision of Joseph, and to the contents of her stomach. She had to believe he was a survivor. That they would see each other again. Without that, she had nothing. She wiped the vision out of her head and gave a last look towards the river, to where it disappeared into the distance, then turned away and set off along the track at a steady jog, heading deeper and higher into the trees.

  She had to focus. Focus and stay alive.

  35

  Mountain River, close to the Bosnia Serbian border.

  Fagan fought his way to the surface. The current was moving faster, but he managed to get his head above the water. He continued to strike out towards the bank but succeeded only in keeping out from the center of the flow. The waterway dipped in a series of drops that he knew culminated in the large waterfall he had seen on the way up here. They had certainly gone up in more comfort than he was going down.

  The river veered in a broad curve to the left and Fagan took advantage of the natural stream of the current as it weakened on the bend and pushed out hard for the bank to his right, kicking with his legs and sweeping out with his good arm. His fingers touched rocks, and he scrambled to take hold, but the current snatched him away. A large rock smacked against his left shoulder. A violent electric shock zapped into his freezing body. He almost passed out with the pain, but as he went under, the ice water revived him, only for him to have to struggle his way back to the surface. He kicked out with his legs, once more struggling for a grip with his right hand on the slippery rocks that lined the riverbank. Finally, he managed to get a hold. He dragged his near useless other arm around the rock and held on, sucking desperately for air. The river tugged at his body, trying to pull him back out into the stream. He knew he could only hold on for moments. This was his only chance. He was exhausted. If he let go now, he would never be able to fight back, and the river would take him into the waiting arms of the waterfall.

  The river was shallow at this point. He struggled to get his feet beneath him touching the river bed. He pushed forward and up, emerging from the water like Neptune rising up from the depths. He drove hard into his lifeless legs and lurched forward. He tripped, but desperately pushed himself back to his feet, staggering on and pitched forward onto the mud of the river bank.

  He lay like a landed fished, puffing and blowing, a hard pain his chest overwhelming that from his wound, his vision a deepening red fog, threatening to take him despite all his efforts. Slowly, oxygen made its way into his bloodstream, and his breathing slowed to somewhere approaching normal. But now the real pain set in. Every part of his body ached from the bumps and scrapes that the river had pummeled from head to foot. But the pain in his wound was intense, searing deep into the damaged tissue and all around it the cold, penetrating all the way through his bones into the marrow. He knew he had to get up. If he stayed here, he was going to die.

  He forced himself to his knees then made the supreme effort to get to his feet. He stood there swaying. He glanced up at the sun which was now sitting low in the western sky and looked at his watch. The glass was smashed, and the hands were stopped. Was that it? The time that he finally lost her.

  He looked back along the river, but there was no sign of the crossing. He had lost track of how far he had come. It had to be
a couple of miles. He stared across to the far bank to the thick swathe of green forest that rose up ceaselessly into the distance. Frankie was out there, all on her own. If he was ever going to see her again, he had to stay alive. And if he was going to stay alive, he had to move.

  36

  The Vatican, Rome.

  Cardinal Brennan glanced at his watch. It had not changed since he had last looked. The whole thing was racing through his head in a kind of maniacal panic, as if it was all running away from him, like grasping at fine sand as it slipped through his fingers. He had not heard from Father Juergen, which could only mean he had nothing to report. And his other option, after the call he had made, well, he did not expect an update, He could only hope that the man had as much to lose as him.

  He had received the call from the Cardinal in person, and the appointed time. Carlucci liked to keep his finger on the pulse. But this meeting was not about weekly reporting, not about recounting all that was taking place then receiving his orders for the next week. This was about Cardinal Carlucci exercising his divine powers as a priest, with Brennan a member of the congregation, a sheep with the shepherd. This was where Carlucci expected him to bear his soul. This was about confession.

  He had to believe that God was guiding him, just like he had always done. He had a plan for him, and all he could do was follow what the Lord had laid out before him.

  He could clearly remember, it was exactly a month ago, Carlucci was having a conversation with him over dinner when he had first revealed God’s grand plan.

  ‘You are doing very well, Paul.’ Carlucci had paused to sip on one of the finest wines from his personal cellar. ‘You are being noticed, members of the Curia are making positive comments. Well most of them,’ he had said with a casual dismissive wave of his hand. ‘But don’t worry I will deal with that. What matters most is the Holy Father is very pleased with your work, especially the support you have given him in this difficult time. To show his gratitude, he intends to bestow a small gift at the coming Consistory.’