The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  He looked towards the cupboard and remembered the canned food inside. He was hungry, but the fatigue was rapidly consuming him as the temperature in the cabin reached a nice cozy level. He pushed another log into the stove and closed the iron door. He staggered over to the bed and flopped down onto the mattress, the blanket around his shoulders and the Glock clutched to his chest.

  His watch was broken. and his phone was out of action, so he had no idea of the exact time. He knew it had to be still relatively early, but the pounding events of the day, along with his blood loss had exhausted him. He resolved to rest for five minutes then he would cook some food.

  It was a thought he had barely processed before sleep finally consumed him.

  38

  Tuscan Hills, Italy.

  Walter stood at the old wood burning stove, a large glass of Brunello di Montalcino in one fat hand and a wooden spoon in the other, stirring a cooking pot.

  “Smells good.” Iggy appeared at the kitchen door.

  “It will taste even better, my friend, with a little more basil and a lot more love and care.”

  Iggy wandered over and dipped a finger into the pot.

  “Hey, that’s chef’s privilege.”

  Iggy shoved his finger daubed in the sauce into his mouth. “Hmmm, tastes good. What is it?”

  “Lampredotto di Fiorentina,” Walter announced with a great flourish. “Well, technically it’s tripe stew, made from the fourth stomach of the cow.”

  “It tastes better than it sounds.”

  “This is a special recipe that my friend Maria back in Rome showed me. It was passed down to her from her Grandmother who was from Florence. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Walter took a sample taste of the spicy tomato sauce from the wooden spoon.

  “Ah, molto delizioso.” He rolled his eyes theatrically, red sauce smeared across his bearded chin. “We’ll have it with some of that crusty bread you bought this morning, and a few glasses of this excellent Montalcino and there you have it — perfection.”

  Walter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out then looked across at Iggy. “Its a notification from one of my dark web message boxes.”

  He punched away at the soft keypad while a series of hieroglyphics rolled across the screen. He entered a line of code, and a new window appeared. He looked up at Iggy.

  “It’s Carlo. He’s alive.”

  Walter climbed onto the Harley. He was dressed in his biker’s leathers and helmet, and his backpack was slung on his back. His stomach was full from the tripe stew, and he had had perhaps a glass too much of the Montalcino. He should have been climbing into his bed, but he knew what he had to do, and it couldn’t wait until morning.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Iggy said.

  Walter shook his head. “I don’t know, but I have to find out. That’s a secret message box of mine. Only Carlo knows about it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s still in Rome. I’m not sure where but I’ll arrange to meet him. I’ve already sent him a message.”

  Walter started up the engine. It burst into life with a deep throaty roar.

  Iggy shook his head. “I don’t like this. You know Joseph will hate it.”

  “Luckily Joseph isn’t here to stop me. Don’t worry I’ll take good care. I’ll meet Carlo in a place of my choosing.”

  Iggy grasped Walter’s gloved hand. “Take care man. I was just getting used to your cooking.”

  “I have more recipes where that last one came from. When Joseph and Frankie get back, I’m going to cook something really special.”

  Walter wound up the engine and let out the clutch. The Harley leaped forward, the front wheel lifting off the ground. Walter gave a whoop then gunned it downed the track.

  39

  United Nations Detention Unit, Haaglanden Prison, The Netherlands.

  All he could see through the red mist was Ratko’s fat arse humping some ugly whore, while his empire, his, Colonel Dragonov Vladij’s empire, collapsed and burned around him. And above him, a swarm of deadly wasps buzzed angrily.

  The Colonel woke in a sweat, the buzzing persisted. He shook the sleep out of his head and reached under his pillow. He pulled out his vibrating phone and fumbled for his reading glasses beside the bed. The incoming call ID said Unknown.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Colonel Vladij, forgive me,” an accented voice spoke to him in English. “I hope I did not wake you.”

  “Who is this?” The Colonel demanded.

  “That is of no matter. The important thing you should know, is Cardinal Brennan is indisposed. I am taking over. I am paying your lawyer’s bill now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about Colonel. So let us not play any games. I know all about you, and if we are going to get along, we need to set some ground rules.”

  “I have no idea who you are.” Though the Colonel had a pretty good idea as to the identity of his caller. He also did his research. “But if you know about me, you know I set the rules, or I bring all this down.”

  “My dear Colonel, the rules have already changed and so have the stakes. I realize you have some insurance. I understand that. But in the end, I would probably survive. Unfortunately, Cardinal Brennan would not, and with a little push, I can assure you, neither would you. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about both of us getting what we want. I need you to tell me, what is going on in Bosnia?”

  The Vatican, Rome.

  Cardinal Carlucci hung up the phone and stepped out from under the portico in the San Damaso courtyard. The Colonel had told it all in the end, like a desperate man in the confessional, when he realized that his neck was at stake, and his caller was the only one who could save him.

  The rain had stopped, and the cobbles were slick and shining in the yellow glow of the lamps, dotted at intervals around the ancient enclosure. The damp, musty odor of the Holy Place only served to remind him why he was here. He lit a cigarette. His hands were steady. He could deal with this.

  Cardinal Brennan was not being honest with him again. He had certainly underestimated his newly appointed Cardinal’s depth of deception. The Colonel had been right, and he had been a little economical with the truth when he had spoken to him. If this all came out, it would bring them all down. He knew he would not survive, the knives would be out, and they would tear him to pieces.

  But this was not a time to panic. He had been in positions like this before, out on a limb. When he had run the Vatican Bank, it was like this every day. He had to hold his nerve and trust his instincts. The plan was sound. He just needed to deal with this problem. He only wished he had a little more time. He looked at his watch. He had an important dinner appointment in thirty minutes. He needed to have all the pieces in place by the end of it.

  Mountains, Bosnia Serbian border.

  They had tracked her until the light had finally gone. Frankie had kept just far enough ahead of them, but had risked the urge to move too fast. She needed to keep them at arm’s length but not let them lose touch. She had to be prepared to go on all night if necessary. And that was up to them. She had stopped often, listening for signs of their pursuit. Eventually, there were none. But they would be back in the morning, of that she was certain, and this time they would be in strength.

  She had read about these mountains and the so-called Karst, a geological feature which was full of porous limestone rock. Which meant caves. She had found a number, dotting the face of the hillside as it rose up towards the mountains beyond. The one she chose was tucked away from the main track, with the entrance partially covered by an outcrop of thick bushes. She stood outside holding the MK in one hand and threw a handful of rocks into the depths of the cave, looking to disturb anything sleeping inside. There was no response. She used the light from her phone as she stepped inside. It was not big, barely high enough to stand upright and perhaps going back ten feet. But the place was dry and sheltered
from the wind. She could not risk a fire, though the temperature had dropped dramatically since the sun had gone down.

  But she had done this before. When she had been in training in the DGSE, they had put her on a survival course with five others, all men. They had given her a tough time, but she had made her own way. After three days only two of them made it to the final checkpoint. She recalled that she and the other one had been an item for a time, until he had been lost on a mission in Africa. She had not thought about him in a long time. Still, this was not the time to reflect on lost loves. Even those recently lost. She wanted to conjure up an image of Joseph’s face, but she would not allow herself. She would have plenty of time to look at him when she saw him again.

  She headed back outside and used her knife to cut armfuls of the long grass that grew freely on the hillside. She stacked this up inside the cave and used it as a makeshift bed.

  She sat cross-legged on the floor and took some water from the bottle in her backpack. She had filled it up at a stream she had crossed, and it was still ice cold. She chomped on a chocolate bar. She had a store in her backpack just in case. An old habit.

  She packed up her things and settled down on the grass bed. It was not too bad, she had known worse. Sleep was not a problem for her, she was exhausted. But a single thought danced before her as she dropped rapidly into sleep. A head, breaking the surface of the river, an arm waved briefly, before disappearing once more into the depths.

  40

  Roma Urbe Airport, Rome.

  The Excalibur Security, Gulfstream V landed at the tiny airfield of Roma Urbe, to the north of the city and taxied into the small terminal. Technically Konrad Krueger had given up all his interests in the company when he had been elected to the Senate — technically. But he still had his perks.

  The call from Cardinal Carlucci had sparked his interest. He had checked him out and was even more intrigued. There was much more unsaid than said about him, hinted at, but the rumors were rife. He seemed like just the kind of man that Dominic would have been drawn to. Maybe this was a way back. Maybe Dominic was willing to forgive him. He had a week before he was due on the hill, and considering the threat from Lawrence Percival, it seemed worth a chance.

  After all, what had he got to lose?

  They had sent a chauffeur-driven limousine to meet him, and it made good time on its run into the city. It drove past the main entrance to the hotel on Via Veneto, and wound its way through the one-way system, then stopped outside Vite’s independent access on the Via Sicilia. The chauffeur opened the door, and Krueger stepped out. The entrance was the original, a 19th century door and archway. The maître d’hôtel met him as he entered.

  “Senator Krueger. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Vite. His Eminence is already waiting inside.”

  The maître d’ was dressed in a navy blue suit that had been hand tailored by Luparrelli on the Via di Ripetta. His Windsor-knotted, Duca Sartoria tie was in red silk. They spoke far more about the establishment than a standard monkey suit and a black bow-tie could ever do.

  He led the way across the threshold into a tunnel, the walls were covered in black marble and enhanced by a film of running water, illuminated by subtle lights in the ceiling that danced and changed color as they walked. They emerged from the tunnel into a beautiful cloister. An elegant Romanesque fountain splashed noisily into a large stone bowl in the center of a space paved in black stone.

  “This is a recent addition, what we call “Sanpietrino”, the maître d’ indicated the pavement made of beveled stones of black basalt. “The earliest examples of this were made by trimming large blocks that had been used on ancient Roman roads. We like to link Vite back to its true history. Back to the life of ancient Rome.”

  Krueger gave an appreciative node. “I’m impressed.”

  The maître d’ led him to a private dining area. His host was already waiting, resplendent in his fine cardinal silks and the crimson zucchetto on his silver-grey head.

  “Senator Krueger,” Cardinal Carlucci said as he stood. “Let me offer my congratulations on your recent election victory.”

  “Thank you, your Eminence.” Krueger gave him a measured smiled, but he was in no mood for bullshit.

  “Come sit. Forgive me for the late hour but I thought it important we waste no time, and I know you are a very busy man. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for both of us. Mario’s Veal is to die for, and he cooks it especially for me.”

  Krueger was sure the Cardinal knew all of his tastes down to the finest detail. “Of course, it sounds wonderful.”

  Carlucci beamed a perfect set of white teeth. “Excellent, but first a glass of this excellent Buriano. One of Italy’s great secrets.” He nodded at the wine waiter who stepped forward and poured white wine into their glasses. He waited for the waiter to retreat before continuing.

  “I am so glad we could meet in person. So much better than speaking on the phone.”

  “On the phone, you said we had common interests and something to discuss which was to both our benefits.” Krueger was anxious to get down to what Carlucci really wanted. Because of course, he wanted something. He had not met Carlucci before, but after his recent investigations, he knew his reputation both in the Vatican and the Grand Council — before they had fallen out. The key was what would he get in return.

  “You have a reputation of being very direct, Senator. So I’ll get to the point. It concerns a late colleague of both of us - Dominic de Vaux.”

  It had been the mention of Dominic on the phone that had first attracted him. It was as if Dominic could still pull him in, even from beyond the grave. He composed himself and looked Carlucci in the eye. “Dominic was also my friend.”

  Carlucci did not reply, he just raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and sipped on his wine.

  “Dominic and I had a common vision,” Carlucci continued. “As recent events have shown, allowing people an unconstrained free will, can be a dangerous thing. Dominic knew that. He also knew it was time to make a stand, to make the Church the standard bearer for the rallying call. People need something to believe in when everything else around them turns to dust.”

  “Unfortunately, that is what Dominic is now.”

  “Quite,” Carlucci said. “But not his ideas, not our vision. Dominic and I had an understanding. What was good for the Church was also good for the Imperium. If he had been allowed to take his place at the head of the Grand Council, we would have seen the Church regain its place in the world and exert the special power that only it can bring. Unfortunately, that was not to be. But I still believe in the vision, and I’m still working to the plan. You are a Catholic, Konrad, you don’t mind if I call you Konrad?”

  Krueger noticed the Cardinal did not invite him to use his first name. “Not at all, your Eminence.”

  “Konrad, I know your background, I know about your family. They brought you up with a firm belief in God, but I also know that God is not just some belief you have. I know he is the central point in your life, as he is in mine. As he also was with Dominic. That is what bound you together.

  “I know the new Grand Master has a somewhat different view, a more secular, more fiscal view. I suppose I should expect nothing more from a Jew.” He held up a delicately manicured hand. “Not that I have anything against Jews or the Jewish faith. But people like Lawrence Percival see the Church only as an instrument. Dominic and I saw things differently, but we will let God be the judge of that, and see what he has in store for us.”

  “Forgive me Cardinal, but maybe God showed his judgment when he took Dominic’s vision and crumbled it before his eyes.”

  Carlucci studied Krueger for a moment as if making up his mind whether to continue. “Dominic made his mistakes, let his enthusiasm cloud his judgment. But he believed, as I do, that the New Testament of the Bible contains a road map, a series of prophecies that leads the way for those of us with the insight to follow. I personally believe that Dominic tried to move too quickly to achieve his
vision, that he did not look close enough at what the Bible was saying to understand the true path forward.”

  “I thought the reason he failed was a man. A priest called Joseph Fagan.”

  “Maybe he was one of God’s instruments. Maybe because Dominic was too impatient and not truly following his plan. But that is of little consequence now. The important thing is that we get back to that plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “Do you know of the prophecy of St. Malachy?”

  “Of course, he predicted the lineage of the Popes.”

  “So you know of Peter the Roman?”

  “Petrus Romanus, the final Pope.”

  “Konrad,” Carlucci gave him a broad smile. “You don’t disappoint me. If you look closely in the Bible at the predictions that lead up to the final judgment, you would see that Petrus is an essential element in that chain of events.”

  “I seem to recall that according to the prophecy, Petrus will be the final Pope and Rome will be destroyed under him.”

  Carlucci shrugged. “An interpretation. The Rome as we have known it, Constantine’s Rome, this status quo that has been in place for almost two thousand years, that will be destroyed. We are implementing a new Rome, a new vision, a new beginning.”

  “And Petrus?”

  “I will come to him.” Carlucci lifted his wine glass and took a sip. He looked across the rim at Krueger. “What do people think is going on in the world? Do they really believe that what they see on the news every day are just random acts of violence, some low-level assault of terrorism? Let us be clear, this is a war, a battle for faith, for the soul of man. We are seeing the start of a Holy War out there, bigger than the world has ever seen, and it is time to start fighting back.”