by Neil Howarth
His plan said they would head north to Zagreb, and from there, take the night train to Zurich. He considered the airport in Zagreb still too risky. Once in Switzerland, it should be easy enough to get a flight to Amsterdam, and from there it was just a short hop to the Hague. He could even get Walter to arrange for U.N. security to meet them at Amsterdam airport. The timing was tight, but if nothing got in the way, they could be in the Hague with a day to spare.
Once they had her secure, Armena could tell her story, and well, whatever happened from there would happen. His own needs, his and Frankie’s, were secondary in all this. For now, he had to think about Armena and what she needed to do. He had got Armena into this, he owed her.
Armena looked across at him. The resolve was still there. “You are taking a big risk. Why are you doing this?”
“Because without me you wouldn’t survive. I know these people, they are ruthless. And besides, it was my fault you got drawn in. If I had not gone to Zoran’s bar and he had not told me about you, I would not have met you at the cemetery. I think they tracked me to Zoran and he told them everything.”
“I know Zoran. He would never do that.”
“These people would not have given him a choice.”
“Do you think they. . .”
Fagan shook his head. “We don’t know, and there is nothing we can do about it. All I know is I got you into this, and I need to help you now.”
“I was already in it, and they would have found me eventually. People like that always do.” She did her best to give him a smile. “But I do appreciate it.”
Fagan reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. “We’re here now. Let’s concentrate on what we have to do.”
Armena did not say anything more, and Fagan drove on. He had seen the road signs and made a rough calculation, how long it would take to get to Zagreb. Another four hours should do it.
“You asked me about when Tarik and I were in the mission with Father Pat.” Armena suddenly started speaking. She was still looking out of the windscreen. “You asked me If I knew anything about a man who Father Pat took a particular interest in.”
“Yes, do you remember something?”
Armena nodded. “I did not say anything when you asked me, because,” she paused. “Well because I was not sure how involved I wanted to get. I know that might sound strange after what they did to Tarik, but I had already told you too much. I was worried about Marko and the rest of my family. I thought if I kept quiet and hid away for a while, it all might go away.” The emotion seemed to catch in her throat. “But that was a silly dream.”
Fagan didn’t interrupt. He just let her get it out.
“I’m here now, and it is not going to go away.” She took a deep breath. “We knew about the refuge up in the hills. Father Pat and Sister Eileen ran it. They were well known to us. They were good people. We would often see them in the town. They were a Catholic mission, but they took in anyone in need, Christian or Muslim. I remember when Brother Drago first took us there, they gave us food and somewhere to sleep. There was no attempt to convert us, no preaching. Father Pat allowed us to pray in our own way as often as we wished.
“There were rumors that the Bosnian Army had broken through and the Serbian forces were scattered into the hills. The Colonel disappeared on that awful day and did not reappear until Tarik saw him in the dentist’s office three weeks ago.”
She closed her eyes as if trying to recall it all. “This man you were asking about. This special person. It was not a man.
“It was a boy.”
Fagan didn’t speak, afraid that somehow he would disturb her memories and they would be lost. He wanted to look at her, but he had to concentrate on the road.
“I suppose he was about sixteen or seventeen. He arrived on the second day. I recognized him right away. Tall and slim, with those piercing blue eyes. Very unusual for a Serb, but he was a Serb just the same. I had seen him by the Colonel’s side. Except the arrogance he had shown out in the field was gone. In its place was fear.
“Father Pat kept him apart from the rest. But I could not keep it to myself. I had to speak to Father Pat. I had to tell him about the boy. Eventually, I plucked up the courage and caught him on his own, out in the yard. He listened to me, not saying anything until I had finished. I remember he placed his hands on my shoulders and smiled. Then he simply said, ‘We are all God’s children, faced with what life puts before us. He is just a boy, we have no idea what brought him to that terrible place, so we should not judge him. Only God can do that.’
“I remember he said that the task that he had been given was to find those who were lost, to provide them with sanctuary, and bring them to God, by whatever means possible. He would never interfere in our own beliefs, he just allowed us the comfort of being able to communicate with him in our own way. The boy was lost, and he had to help him find his way.
“And that was that. The UN peacekeeping force moved in three days later, and the boy disappeared. Maybe Father Pat was right. It was all God’s will.”
She seemed to find some relief in telling it, and Fagan could see her physically relax at the unburdening.
“But you think he knew the Colonel, this boy? Was he a soldier?”
“He was too young to be a soldier. But we knew who he was. We had all heard the stories. But I knew this was him. I had seen him out there.
“He was the Colonel’s son.”
53
Glavni Kolodvor Railway Station, Zagreb.
Fagan left the Fiat in a multi-storey car park in the center of a small town, sixty miles south of Zagreb. They caught a bus in the market square. Armena didn’t speak on the journey, she just sat looking out of the window. Fagan left her with her thoughts and tried to make sense of his own. She had told him about this boy, the Colonel’s son. Was he the secret that Father Pat, Sister Eileen, and Father Milosh had kept between them. Was it what had gotten them all killed.
But why?
It was late afternoon when they arrived in the Croatian capital of Zagreb. The bus came to a halt in front of the Glavni Kolodvor railway station. It had the look of an old European palace about it. Its sculptured neoclassical exterior was a throwback to the grand old days when this was a stop on the Orient Express, as it carried the wealthy and privileged between Paris and Istanbul.
They stepped off the bus. Armena stood, staring ahead at the railway station, saying nothing.
“You sure you want to do this?” He knew he had to give her the chance to back out. “You’re safe now. You could take a train from here to anywhere and just disappear.”
Was that what he secretly wanted? So he could go back and look for Frankie. But he knew that was not what Frankie wanted.
Armena kept looking at the station. Fagan did not push.
“Tarik wanted justice.” She spoke in barely a whisper. “And they killed him for it. He wanted justice for all those men and boys who died in that potato field, for all the children who never got to grow up, and for all their mothers who never got to see them do that.” She paused.
“For our family.”
Fagan could see the pain in her eyes from that last thought. She seemed to brush it aside and moved on. “Tarik had wanted justice ever since that night. It ate him up, and eventually, it destroyed him. And now they have taken Uncle Omar, and for all I know they have taken Marko too. They will not stop until they have won.” She looked at Fagan and gave a resigned shrug. “What choice do I have.”
Fagan looked across the street. There was a park, with a wide paved walkway running down the middle, and lined with elegant wrought iron street lamps. An ancient King sat on his horse in the middle, surveying his kingdom, while people were walking, children were laughing and running. Life was going on as normal.
Was it that simple? Did they just have to walk across the street and lose themselves? Would that be it?
But that would not be it. It would never be it until he did what he had promised Frankie, and finished it.
> He looked across at Armena. “Are you ready?”
She nodded. Fagan took her hand, and they hurried inside.
The place was busy, crowded with people. If there were watchers here, he was never going to identify them. But the best he could do was keep his eyes open.
The main concourse had a high ceiling, and the noise and bustle seemed to bounce off it, amplifying and reverberating around the station. At the far end, three large Palladian windows sat above the electronic arrival and departure displays. Fagan quickly checked the departure time for the train to Zurich. It was on time.
He found a coffee shop in the corner. He led Armena inside and sat her down.
“Wait here. I’ll get some tickets.” He glanced up at the clock. It was almost five o’clock. “The train leaves at six-thirty.”
Fagan headed for the ticket office. He stood in a short line waiting his turn. His hand went to the strapping across his chest. His wound had started bleeding again after he had crawled out of Omar’s truck, and Armena had made him stop after they had stolen the Fiat, while she visited a pharmacy. It turned out she was a nurse. She had cleaned his wound and dressed it properly, then strapped it up with an elastic bandage. It felt much better. Which was more than he could say for the pain in his gut.
Something had a stranglehold on it. They were about to leave, and Frankie was still out there.
But she had been clear.
Find the girl, find the truth — do the right thing.
He had found the girl, but what was the truth? What was the right thing? Something had happened twenty-five years ago in this deeply troubled place. Something that Brennan was in some way involved with. But he still seemed no nearer to identifying what that was. What they were all chasing. Was it this boy? He would be a man now. Did he have the secret? Was it him they were all searching for?
And now he was leaving it behind. He had a jumble of crazy unexplained pieces tumbling around in his head, with too many dead ends and unanswered questions.
“Gospodin?”
Fagan looked up. He had made it to the front of the line.
“Sorry?”
The girl inside the kiosk gave him a pleasant smile. “Can I help you, sir,” she said in perfect English.
Fagan bought tickets for a two-bed sleeping compartment. He looked across to the coffee shop. They still had an hour before they needed to catch the train. Armena would probably appreciate some time on her own, and he needed some time to think. There was a bar on the other side of the concourse. He wandered over and went inside. The place was half full. No one was taking any notice of him.
He ordered Jameson’s Irish whiskey with a single cube of ice, then took the plastic glass and sat down at a table in the corner, with a good view out of the window across to the coffee shop. He took out his iPhone and hit the icon to search for Wifi networks. The screen came up with a long list. He hit the one at the top. The phone seemed to think for a while then told him he was connected.
He opened Walter’s messenger app. He was holding his breath, his heart thumping in his chest. He looked at Frankie’s icon. It said ‘Disconnected.’ He let out an exasperated sigh.
Walter’s icon showed he was online. He hit the connect button and waited.
Walter’s voice boomed onto the line. “Joseph, where in God’s name have you been. I’ve been going crazy. Are the two of you all right?”
“It’s all gone to shit. Frankie is still out there.”
“What?”
“We got separated.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did that happen?”
“It was a choice she made.”
“Joseph?”
“You know what she’s like when she makes up her mind. Look, she will be getting in touch with you. When she does, see she gets to safety and call me immediately.”
“Where are you?”
Fagan told him.
“Zagreb? What in God’s name are you doing there?”
Fagan quickly told him the story, about losing Frankie and about finding Armena and what she had told him about the boy. It was exhausting just telling it.
“My God Joseph, I leave you alone for five minutes.”
“It’s not the way I planned. Frankie is still out there, and I’m miles away from her.”
“I’m sure she will be fine. We know Frankie. She’s a tough lady.”
“Well, I hope it’s worth it. Because I seem to have found out a lot of things, but I’m not sure what I’ve got.”
“Well, you have a link there, between this girl, the Colonel, Brennan’s adoptive father, and this boy.”
“It’s the link between Brennan and the Colonel that is bothering me the most.” The thought had been bugging him ever since he had seen the drones up there searching for them. “When Frankie and I were attacked at the monastery, and again when Armena and I were at the cemetery, that was the local bully boys, Vladij’s men, clumsy, unprofessional. I thought we triggered them when we stumbled in asking questions. I assumed it was them at Armena’s Uncle Omar’s house, but I’m not sure now. I do know, out on the road, that was the Legion of Jesus, that was Father Juergen and by implication, Brennan. I thought he had caught up with me, after Sarajevo, but I don’t think that was true. Out on the road in Omar’s truck, that was a professional sniper’s shot. He didn’t miss me. He was not aiming at me. He was aiming at Armena.”
“Witnesses?” Walter said.
“Why is Brennan bothered about a massacre that happened during the Bosnian War?”
“Whatever it is, it seems he’s trying his best to kill all the witnesses.”
“But to what? The massacre or something else.”
“Do you think it’s about this boy?”
“Maybe it’s about both.” Fagan knew there was a link there somewhere, but its true significance was still dancing out there, out of his reach. “Armena said she saw the boy out there in the field. He was a witness to the massacre too?”
“But why does Brennan care?”
“I don’t know, but the Colonel would. His son would be another witness to what he did.”
“If he’s still alive.”
“Let’s assume he is,” Fagan said. “But for how long if the Colonel finds him.”
“Would he kill his own son?”
“Men like Colonel Vladij will kill anyone who stands in their way.”
“So where is he? What happened to him? What did Brennan’s adoptive father do with this son of a mass murderer?”
“Isn’t that the question?”
Walter went silent. Fagan looked down at his phone.
“Are you still there?”
“Just thinking,” Walter’s voice came back.
“I’m glad you still can. Because this has got my brain fried.”
“Well, think about this. Does the Colonel have something over Brennan? Maybe something about his adoptive father, something linked to this boy, his son. Something that makes them both want to find him, and they want no witnesses, past or present, around when they do. Is that how Father Juergen caught up with you. Because they’re working together?”
“Wow, big leap,” Fagan said, though that possibility had not escaped him.
“It would explain things,” Walter said.
“So what do we do?”
“We have to go back to Father Patrick, Brennan’s adoptive father. What happened when he left the mission. Where did he go? What happened to this boy?”
“And how do we find that out?”
“What I’ve been saying all along. There must be something hidden somewhere in the Vatican records. There must be a clue in there.”
“And how are we going to get in there?”
“Maybe I can help on that. I had a message from Carlo. Joseph, he’s alive.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s him.”
Fagan suddenly got a bad feeling.
“Walter, where are you?”
/> “Look, Joseph.”
“I said, where are you?”
“I’m back in Rome.”
“You were supposed to stay with Iggy.”
“Look, I’m fine. I’m at Aldo’s place.”
“I get nervous when the two of you get together.”
“I’m going to meet Carlo. I have to.”
“How do you know it’s him?”
“He used a private mailbox that only he and I would know about.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I’m not over the moon about it myself, but I have to go. I owe it to Carlo. I was the one who got him into this mess in the first place.”
“You need to tread very carefully.”
“I will, but Carlo is the break we needed. He knows all the backdoor links into the Vatican network. If he can get me in, then maybe I can dig into Father Patrick’s time in Bosnia and find some link to all this.”
“I hope so.”
“There is one problem.”
“Isn’t there always.”
“We have to be inside the main firewall to make the connections we need. Which means we have to be physically inside it.”
“You mean inside the Vatican? The moment you step through the door, they will have you picked up. You’ll never get near.”
“Well, technically, you don’t have to get inside the Vatican walls to get inside the firewall.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have a disaster recovery site. I know because I set it up. It’s an offsite center that has a mirrored set of servers, in case a disaster should occur on the main Vatican site. If I could get in there, well it’s just like being on the main network. With Carlo’s access, we can get into whatever we want.”
“Won’t they have closed off all his accounts.”
“You don’t know Carlo. He will have some backdoor. I can guarantee it.”
“Sounds risky.”
“We’ll go in during the evening shift, they only have a skeleton staff at the main center, and they monitor the disaster recovery site remotely. I’m sure that Aldo can hack me a pass to get in.”
