The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  She moved her head to lean against Uncle Omar.

  The shot punched a hole in the windshield, missing Armena’s head by a whisker and exited through the rear window. Cracks spider-webbed across the glass. Omar swung the wheel hard, as another shot punctured a hole in the hood. Black smoke gushed out, and the truck careened across the road. Omar clung on to the steering wheel, trying to control it. The front nearside tire slipped off the tarmac, and the wheel dug into a rut. Fagan saw it coming and grabbed for the unused seatbelt, feeling the pressure lock snap in as the truck flipped over. He instinctively grabbed for Armena and pulled her into him as the truck slammed onto its side and slid down the bank. It jerked as it hit a fallen tree trunk, then flipped again and rolled. He was hanging on with his good arm, while desperately trying to hold on to Armena with his other, and his mind trying to block out the pain. Luckily she had her arms tight around his neck. His bicep and shoulder muscles screamed with agony as he bounced and banged around the cab. The truck finally rolled onto its roof and slid to a stop.

  He was lying on the upturned ceiling of the cab, and Armena was on top of him not moving. He had held his head tight into his neck and tried to protect Armena as best he could. A glance across to Omar showed he had not fared nearly as well.

  Fagan freed his good arm and reached across, feeling for a pulse in the old man’s neck. He could find none. Omar’s eyes were staring wide, and his head was twisted at an unnatural angle. Fagan whispered a rapid prayer, then got back to the business of staying alive.

  The windshield was gone. He crawled out through the hole onto the damp grass. Whoever had taken them out was probably up on the hill at the far side of the road and would not take too long to get down here. How they had found them, out here on this road, he had no idea, but he had no time to think about that now.

  They had landed in a hollow surrounded by trees and thick bushes, which shielded them from the road above. Fagan tugged at Armena and hauled her out of the cab. Her eyes were closed, and she was still not moving.

  “Armena.” Fagan tapped her gently on the cheek.

  She groaned and opened her eyes. The fear kicked in, and she was staring with terror. She tried to speak, but a jumble of her native Bosnian words tumbled out.

  “Take it easy, you need to calm down.” Fagan held up a finger in front of her face. “Look at me, focus on my finger. Now take a deep breath.”

  She managed to do as he asked and he saw the terror begin to recede.

  She seemed to realize where she was finally. She looked back frantically at the cab.

  “Uncle Omar.”

  She pushed herself back through the shattered window. Fagan reached in and put a hand on her shoulder. He gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “He’s gone. I’m sorry.”

  Armena clung to the old man, sobbing loudly.

  “Armena. We have to go.”

  She still hung on, sobs shaking through her body.

  “If the men who did this catch us, they have won. All those who have died, it will have been for nothing. Omar did his best to help us. Now, we have to go. Mourning will have to come later.”

  Armena seemed to steel herself. He could see her body rise as she took a deep breath, then gave her Uncle a final hug and slipped out of the cab.

  They moved out of the bushes into a grassy field that sloped gently away from them to a dip at the bottom, then rose again, to where the trees built up as the land began to rise.

  He looked at Armena, he could still see the fear in her eyes, but she was holding on.

  “Just follow me. Stay close, and everything will be all right. Is that clear?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay let’s go.”

  He led her down the slope, holding onto her hand, moving as quickly as they could. This was the worst time when they were the most exposed. All it took was for their attackers to appear above them. Anyone who could make that shot on a moving vehicle would have no problem with them in an open field. Fagan pushed the thought from his mind and kept going.

  They made it to the bottom of the slope then started up the incline on the other side. He breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the trees. It did not last long. Across the small valley, three figures dressed in black appeared from the road and scrambled down to the wreck of the truck. Another man appeared at the top and looked down. Even at this distance, Fagan recognized the build and blonde hair, and the bandage around his head — Father Juergen.

  “Come on let’s move.” Fagan grabbed hold of Armena’s hand and pulled her behind him.

  50

  Foothills, Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  It was another half hour before they came across the farmhouse, nestled in a small valley with a few scattered out-buildings. Smoke was rising from the chimney on the main house. Someone was living down there.

  They lay in the grass, sheltered by the trees. Fagan had worked out how they had found them out on the road — drones. He had seen two of them patrolling the skies, seeking them out. It was clear things had escalated way beyond just Ratko Vladij’s local thugs. Armena had been a whisker from being dead back in the truck. She had moved at the last moment, and that had saved her life.

  Nevertheless, whoever had taken that shot was a highly skilled professional. Not what he would expect from the local thugs. Then Father Juergen had appeared. But he was apparently getting serious help. Hence the drones, sophisticated ones, linked into an advanced surveillance system, of the type required to track down a single vehicle somewhere in a very large area. That was slightly above even the Legion of Jesus.

  Iggy had told him he believed that it was all Brennan that was causing their problems, with some help from Cardinal Carlucci and the Legion of Jesus. That the Imperium were not involved. He looked up at the sky. That feeling that had kept him alive all these years was crying out to him now. The Imperium were back, he was sure of it. And that could only be the worst news.

  They needed to get away from traveling on foot, or it was just a matter of time before those drones tracked them down. They needed a vehicle. Hopefully, the farm could give them what they wanted.

  They worked their way down the hill, and Fagan pulled Armena into the shelter of an outhouse.

  “Wait here. I’m going to look around.”

  He slipped out from the shelter of the building and headed for the main house. He took a quick look in through a window but could see no one inside. A dog barked on the far side of the yard but Fagan saw no sign of it. He did a full circle of the main house then checked out the other outbuildings, but he saw no one. He heard the distant rumble of what sounded like a tractor engine. His eyes search in the distance, and he caught it, working its way methodically across a field, maybe half a mile away. Hopefully, that would keep the farmer busy.

  He turned back towards the house and found what he was looking for. A truck parked up against the wall. He quickly headed over and checked it out. The door was unlocked, but there was no sign of the ignition key.

  He returned to where he had left Armena. She was still squatting in the shelter of the wall.

  “Come on,” he grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the yard. The dog bark grew louder, but it did not appear. Fagan heard the check of a chain. He hoped it would hold.

  He helped Armena into the passenger side then came around and jumped into the driver’s seat. His fingers groped below the steering column. He ripped off a plastic cover and found the wires he was looking for. He prayed that this piece of junk still ran. Moments later the engine roared into life. He jammed the truck into gear and moved out into the yard, then swung it around to head out. He caught a movement to his right. An old woman emerged from the house. She wore a dark blue anorak and a skirt that reached down to a pair of muddy green Wellington boots. On her head was a black scarf tied beneath her chin, and in her hands, she held a double-barreled shotgun.

  Fagan floored the accelerator and the truck shot forward in a cloud of
farmyard dust. Fagan headed for the gap between the house and the outbuildings. The blast of the shotgun boomed across the yard, and buckshot splattered into the wall just beside his open window. Fagan kept his foot down and managed to get the wall of the house between them and the crazy woman, as more shotgun pellets raked the cab behind his head. He kept the accelerator floored as he swung out of the gate and onto a dirt track. He glanced in the mirror, but there was no sign of the old woman.

  The farm disappeared in the rear distance. Fagan followed the track for about a mile, where it came to an end and merged onto a narrow asphalt road. He had no idea where he was or which direction he was going, so he followed it as it meandered through a series of sleepy villages. There was little traffic on the road, but from what he could see, no sign of any drones.

  “Are you okay?” Fagan looked across at Armena. She had been silent since they got into the truck, had just sat looking out of the window. He wasn’t sure if she had even heard him. “I’m sorry about your Uncle.”

  She spoke suddenly. “They are not going to stop are they?”

  Fagan struggled for a reply. He knew she was right.

  “I’m going to get you away from here. To somewhere you will be safe.”

  “Can you take me to Sarajevo?” She looked across at him, the pain seemed to be gone. The resolve was there again, as if she had made up her mind about something. “I have friends there. They will help me.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe we should try to get further away.”

  “You have already helped me enough, you have risked your life. Just do this last thing for me.”

  “If that’s what you want. But I wouldn’t stay there long. Is there somewhere you could go? Somewhere your friends could take you, far away from here.”

  She was looking out into the far distance. “I must do what Tarik could not. I must go to the International Court.”

  Armena settled back into her silence and Fagan drove on. The road cut through a forest, the trees seemed to crowd in on either side like dark curtains blocking out the light, as if they were hiding the secrets of this place — and the threats. He couldn’t help thinking what Armena was planning was a very dangerous undertaking.

  After a few miles, they came to a junction. A wider main road ran in both directions. A faded road sign stood at the far side. To the left it indicated Sarajevo. He was sure they could be there in a couple of hours. He could take Armena to her friends, then he would be free to find Frankie, and they would have to pick it up from there and start again — with nothing.

  Except if he took her to Sarajevo and left her, she would be lucky to last the day. He knew these people, knew what they were capable of. These were not the bully boys, this was a sophisticated organization. They would track her down and pick her up in no time. She had no idea how to stay under their radar.

  He looked at the road sign to the right. He could just make out the word beneath a list of unknown places. But he knew this one — Zagreb. It was far to the north, out of the area, a place that would offer greater safety. It was also a stepping off point to where Armena needed to go.

  Further away from Frankie.

  He looked across at Armena. He had a brief vision of Frankie. He knew what she was saying. He pulled hard on the wheel to the right, in the direction of Zagreb, and put his foot on the gas.

  51

  Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  The sun was rapidly slipping behind the mountains in the west. Frankie knew the light would not last much longer. She reckoned she was close to the railway line, all she had to do was follow it until she reached the tunnel. Once she made it that far, daylight would make no difference. As long as she managed to avoid any trains coming in the opposite direction, she could follow the tunnel through to the other side and safety. At least that was the theory.

  The track dropped down onto a blacktop road. It was hardly a highway, but it was better than the dirt track she had been traveling on, and it was going in the direction she wanted, so she took her chance. The road took a steep turn to the right, and her luck ran out. Two military looking vehicles blocked the way, armed men gathered around them. Frankie hit the brakes and swung the bike around. The men at the roadblock opened up with their automatic weapons, bullets ripped up the tarmac beside her as she accelerated back up the road.

  She could not stay on this main road, that would be suicide. She saw a track to her right, dropping down the slope. She took the bike onto it, standing up on the pedals to help with her balance as she maneuvered the bike forward. The track dropped steeply then flattened out. She sat back on the seat and opened up the engine as much as she dared.

  Something flashed across her outer vision. She looked up and could see it clearly. The closest she had been to one. It was a drone, searching for her. It was barely at a hundred feet. As she had guessed, it was not as big as the ones the Americans were using, but it still had at least a six-foot wingspan. This was not the kind you picked up at your local electronics store. It looked like an adapted military reconnaissance version. She could make out the adaptations, hanging beneath each wing. She had been right. This was not the Colonel’s band of thugs. They could not pull this off. Not just the deadly drone up there. The system that was controlling it had to be some kind of military set-up. Maybe a private security outfit. One sprang to mind. So much for the theory that the Imperium was not involved. She did not have to ponder on it long. One of the shapes detached itself from the drone and sped in her direction, a fiery trail in its wake.

  Frankie caught something below her to her right, She headed towards it and dropped the bike into a stream, water splashed everywhere, sizzling and steaming on the hot engine, but she knew the icy cold water would cool it and reduce the heat signature the rocket was searching for. It zipped over her head, so close she could feel the heat from its exhaust. It disappeared and exploded in the trees to her left.

  She revved the engine keeping it running, maneuvering the bike out of the stream and under the tree canopy and cut the engine. She tore off the helmet and threw it away, straining her ears for the sound of the drone. It flew directly overhead, so close she could see it in detail. But it continued on searching for her in the trees up ahead.

  Another sound floated in on the evening air. It made her heart race. She kicked down on the starter and gunned the bike forward. As she came over a hill, she saw it. The railway track running like a ribbon below her, and on it, heading away from her, a train. She had a vision of the old western movies she used to watch with her father when she was a child. The cowboy on the horse pursuing the train, then pacing it and finally climbing aboard. She glanced back to where the drone was patrolling the sky. If she could get on the train, they would not risk firing a rocket at it. She had one chance at this.

  She accelerated down the hill, then dropped the bike onto the rough gravel that ran alongside the railway track and bumped over the rail line, then turned onto the path between them. The wooden ties protruded slightly from the ground but were evenly spaced and laid flat. She could feel the vibration up through her arms, but she could make good speed.

  The train was a short distance away. It looked like a local service pulling a few carriages. It was no high-speed train. She had a chance.

  She glanced around and saw it. The drone had found her, it was about a half mile directly behind, coming in at about two hundred feet. She had to get closer to the train. The collateral damage had to be too high to risk launching a missile. She accelerated the bike, but as its speed increased, so did the vibration from the rail ties, and she had to struggle to keep the bike going straight. She looked up at the train. She was catching it. Up ahead the mouth of the tunnel was barely a half mile away.

  The high pitched scream behind made her turn. Apparently, she was worth the risk, as the second missile had detached itself from the drone and was heading straight for her.

  She wound up the accelerator as much as she dared and the bike surged forward. She moved up to the rear o
f the train. The carriage had a door at the back and a step below it. Frankie climbed up onto the seat of the bike, still holding on to the handlebar grips. One wrong bounce and she was history.

  The carriage was tantalizingly close. The scream of the missile was right behind her. She let go and leaped across the space between them. Her feet hit the step, the momentum smacked her body into the door. Her hands grabbed for the door handle. One slipped, but the right hand held on, tight. She looked behind. The missile seemed huge, less than a hundred feet away. Suddenly it veered upwards, rising rapidly into the sky, up to about two hundred feet and exploded. It seemed she was right about the risk of the collateral damage.

  The bike, unbelievably, remained upright, running behind the carriage, then suddenly it bounced away and somersaulted into the rocks, just as the mountain swept her away, and the darkness of the tunnel engulfed her.

  52

  Zagreb, Croatia.

  Fagan had ditched the truck the first chance he got and found a small, sad looking Fiat, which he broke into easily and hot-wired in less than a minute. It was nothing spectacular, but it did the job.

  He made the plan as he drove. It was going to take him away from Frankie. But he had known that back at the road junction when he had taken the direction for Zagreb. Frankie had said it.

  It’s not just about us anymore.

  She was right. It was much bigger than that. He was not sure exactly what it was, but somehow Brennan was involved, and now it seemed so were the Imperium. And Frankie had put him here to stop them. Armena had decided she had to do what her brother, Tarik could not. He had to help her do that.

  According to what Walter had told him, they had three days to get to the Hague. After that, the special commission would expire, and the Colonel would walk. Which presumably, for whatever reason, was what Brennan wanted. Which gave Fagan all the reason he needed to stop him.