The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  He stowed the knife in his pocket, then ripped off the man’s communicator and dumped it in the snow. He did not want GPS snooping on what he had in mind.

  He redressed him in his ski jacket, then took hold of him beneath the arms and lifted him up. The pain in his chest was intense. He had to stop and get a better grip. He bit down trying to push the pain aside and leaned the man’s dead weight body back against him. He moved his grip to the back of the man’s jacket, holding him in front of him as a shield. He hoped that in this visibility, they would not notice the difference between one figure or two, or get a close up view of a face.

  He had seen four men jump from the train. If that was all of them, then there was only two of them left. One with the girl, presumably the one who had spoken to him, the other would be out there, getting himself in position to do the job. He just hoped whoever it was, would find the weather too bad to risk a headshot.

  He caught a movement in the distance then the image was snatched away in the teeth of the blizzard. The ice laden wind cut into his face and into his eyes, as he strained for visibility, blinking back the tears that streamed down his cheeks and froze against his skin. He saw it again. Clearer this time. One figure was tall, the other was short. Fagan held onto the dead man with one hand and waved with his other, still keeping the body in front of him.

  “Put both hands in the air.” The command came over the communicator. “And walk forward slowly.”

  Fagan took hold of the man’s hands and lifted his arms above his head, then eased forward, allowing each leg to push forward the dead man’s. He hoped from this distance, and in this weather, they would only see one figure.

  The bullet took him full in the chest, or at least the chest of the man he was holding in front of him. The energy so great it lifted the two of them off their feet. The noise of the shot seemed to echo off the mountainside as if an afterthought. Fagan landed on his back in the deep snow. He lost the body somewhere in flight. The pain shot deep into his chest, tearing at his existing wound. He struggled to hold onto consciousness.

  This was not the shot from a standard combat rifle. This was a high powered bullet. It had punched clear through the body of the man he was holding and struck the kevlar of the body armor high up on his chest. He struggled to breathe. He reached for the impact area. The bullet had finally spent its energy in the depths of the Kevlar, but the protection had stayed intact. It had struck him on his right side. If it had been on his left, he was sure that would have been it. He rolled over, allowing the pain to subside and his breath to return to normal.

  The man came out of the mist like a ghost. Sooner than Fagan had expected. He had to have been close. He moved forward cautiously, swinging the barrel of the high powered rifle between the two bodies, in the poor visibility, still unsure which was which. Fagan had to wait until he could be certain. He reached beneath his jacket for the Glock. His fingers found nothing. He must have lost it when he had gone down. He had no time to look for it now. He had only one option. He prayed that his technique was better than his last attempt.

  His pushed his hand into his pocket and gripped what he was seeking. He rolled over quickly, putting all the effort of his arm and wrist into the throw as he let it go. It was all about technique and timing. He had a small target. If it hit the man’s body armor, it would just bounce off, and it was game over. The blade left his hand, jarring pain searing across his chest. The knife struck the man just below the chin. The upward angle helped, and the blade burrowed itself into his brain. He dropped like a stone.

  The old technique had finally come back to him. It had been a while, but on his SEAL training, he had won a case of beer in a competition for the best knife thrower in the camp.

  Fagan scrambled towards the man and pulled out the knife. It came out with an obscene sucking sound. He wiped the blade in the snow and shoved it in his pocket. He found a Glock to match the one he had lost, in the man’s pocket, and a clip of spare rounds. He shoved them both into his own pocket and gathered up the man’s rifle. He was about to head into the snowstorm when he heard the sound. He realized it was a voice and it was coming from the other man’s communicator. He scrambled over and pulled out the man’s earpiece. He pulled out his own and replaced it with the man’s.

  “Marco, are you there?” A voice said in Italian. “Marco?” it said again.

  Fagan rubbed some snow across the mike then pulled his mouth well back from it.

  “I am down,” he kept his Italian rough and short, punctuated with labored breathing.

  “Marco, are you okay? Did you get him?”

  “He is dead, but he hit me.”

  “Stay there. I am coming to you.”

  Fagan dropped the communicator then pulled out his own and did the same. No more GPS tracking. He headed into the snow.

  Only one left, but he had Armena.

  62

  Swiss Alps, outside Zurich.

  He was left with nothing but a rough calculation. He knew the last direction he had seen them. He knew the man would not get too close until he heard from his colleague that it was all clear. But maybe his colleague had already succumbed. He was not answering his communicator. Fagan hoped the uncertainty would still bring him in.

  The mountain swept down towards him in a wide snow bowl that dropped into a shallow valley about five hundred yards across. He headed to his right, scrambling to the higher ground. He dropped to his knees, put the rifle beside him and began digging with both hands. He soon had a shallow burrow in the snow and lay down in the hollow. He swept the snow across him giving himself as much cover as possible and settled down to wait.

  He picked up the rifle and gave it a quick check over. It was state of the art, like the knife. An Israeli DAN .338 bolt action rifle fitted with a sophisticated telescopic sight. He checked the magazine. It held ten rounds, only one had been fired. He slapped it back in. All seemed in perfect working order.

  He lay there, sighting through the sniper scope. The storm was not getting any better. It was still gusting, maybe even stronger than before. At one moment he could see to the other side of the narrow valley the next he could barely see his hand in front of him. They should be coming from the right where the slope dropped down into this valley. Maybe it was too late. Maybe the man had cut his losses, put a bullet in Armena’s head and disappeared.

  The snow seemed to ease, and he caught a movement, further over to the left than he was expecting. Then it was gone into the snow swirling storm. It appeared again, more definite this time. A dark shape — a single shape. Fagan felt the bite in his gut. He was too late, she was already dead.

  Something about the shape moved. Something strange, a leg kicked out from where it should not be. Fagan realized the man was using his own trick. He had picked up Armena and was holding her in front of him as a shield. He was a tall man, so Armena’s feet were well off the ground. He was moving slowly forward, swinging her around in front of him as he went, making any body shot almost impossible.

  Timing was everything. He needed the man closer, but if he got close enough to realize something was wrong, he would put a bullet in Armena’s head and take his chances with the blizzard. Fagan knew he had only one choice. He could hit him with a shot in the lower leg which would be less risky for Armena, but the man would no doubt be holding a gun to her head, which would be game over. His only option was a headshot. But he had to hit the right one.

  The scope helped, it was sophisticated and computer controlled. When it measured the distance, it automatically calculated the elevation angle according to the range to the target from its laser sight and displayed the correct aiming point in the scope’s field of view. But in this visibility, with this wind and two heads close together, it was still a hell of a shot.

  He took a breath then let it out gently. He resisted the urge to push his eye hard against the rubber of the scope. Instead, he gave himself a little distance. He still could not get a clear view, the visibility kept coming in and out.
He remembered what his shooting instructor had taught him on the specialist sniper class. Concentrate hard on what you can see, then imagine the shot, with all the other pieces in place. It was as if he was back on the firing range.

  He let his breath out slowly as if it was all part of a mantra he was working through. He gently squeezed the trigger almost without thinking about it. The gun bucked against his shoulder. The target went down, and neither figure moved.

  Fagan scrambled up out of his snow hole and down the bank, then headed across the valley, chambering another round as he ran. But he had a problem. He was no longer sure which figure was which and if one moved before he was close enough, what would he do. He kept running.

  As he approached, he slowed to a walk. He saw the blood splattered across the snow. He stepped forward, the gun pointed at the one who appeared to have not been hit. He shoved it into its face and got in close. It was Armena. He quickly checked the other. The bullet had taken off half of his head. What was left of his face, Fagan did not recognize.

  He turned back to Armena. She was still not moving. He quickly checked for any sign of a wound, there was none. He pushed his head in close and checked her breathing. It was low and shallow. He pulled off his glove and pushed his fingers into her neck and felt for a pulse. It was slow and feeble but steady.

  He picked her up and shoved her over his shoulder, slung the rifle over the other and headed into the snow in the vague direction of the railway line.

  63

  Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  Ratko Vladij looked in the vanity mirror on the passenger sun visor and ran a comb through his heavily dyed hair. He glanced across at the driver of the black Mercedes SUV, but the man was concentrating on the road.

  He knew the whispers. They said he would stand alone in front of a mirror and pretend to be Elvis Presley. He glanced back in the mirror and gave it his best Elvis smile.

  Ratko was not by any stretch of imagination good looking. At first glance, he looked a lot like his older brother, but on closer inspection, it was clear that genetically he had inherited all the less attractive parts, especially looking into his eyes. Whereas with Dragonov there was a sharp, probing intelligence within, with Ratko the response was dull and brooding. A man with something to prove, but unsure what.

  His brother had called him, pissed at him as usual. He had told him he would be getting some outside help. Drago’s influence was just as effective as ever, even from prison. But it seemed from yesterdays encounter, that the wires had got crossed along the way. Still, he had the woman now, and he intended to make good use of her while he had her as his guest. She was not the girl that Drago wanted, be he could use her to get to that one. He would get her to talk and show his brother just how useful he could be.

  The driver brought the SUV to a halt in front of a squat wooden cottage.

  Vladij climbed out and was met by a tall man, well built with curly hair and a thick dark mustache.

  “Zlatan, good morning. I hope our guest slept well and was undisturbed,”

  “Just as you asked.”

  Frankie sat in a chair in the middle of the room. Her arms were bound to the chair with duct tape. Two very large men stood over by the door. These were not soldiers, she had seen many like them before. Meat for hire.

  The UN troops, or whoever they were, had handed her over to the fat man and his thugs. They had bundled her into the back of an SUV. The fat man was in a separate car. They drove for a couple of hours, no doubt back to where she had started, but she had recognized nothing.

  It was already dark when they had arrived at this cottage in a clearing in a forest. When they had got out of the car, there was no sign of the fat man. The two men had stayed in the room throughout the night, but no one had bothered her. They obviously had their orders.

  She had slept undisturbed, on a small sofa. This morning one of the men had brought her breakfast in the form of a bread roll and a cup of coffee, and they had allowed her a short bathroom break. Then they had bound her to this chair. No doubt they were expecting visitors.

  She had no idea where she was or what they had planned for her. Something was going on at a higher level than these lowlifes, but she had no idea what that was. The men who had taken her at the station were maybe not the genuine article, but they were professionals with a professional support system, judging from the drones and the back up that went with them. She could make some educated guesses about who they were, but at the moment that was not foremost in her mind. One thing only, dominated her thoughts, one hope. That she had deflected them long enough for Joseph to find the girl. She hoped he was somewhere safe, hopefully somewhere out of this God forsaken country.

  The door opened, and the fat man entered. She quickly assessed him. More meat.

  He nodded at the two men and walked towards her.

  “Miss Lefevre, my name is Ratko Vladij. My brother, Colonel Dragonov Vladij, asked that I should speak with you.”

  “Why does he not speak to me himself?”

  Vladij smiled and exposed a row of yellow, rotting teeth. “I am sure you know why. He is currently being detained, for highly questionable reasons, in prison in the Netherlands. But he will be released very soon. We have been assured of that. Meanwhile, he would like you to give him some information.”

  “Why would I have information of use to your brother?”

  “Do not play games with me. My brother would like to know the location of a man and a woman. I am sure you know at least the man, a Joseph Fagan, a former priest from what I can gather. So, we will start with him.”

  He is alive.

  The thought sent the adrenalin surging through her body. She could barely contain her excitement. And it sounded like he had found the girl. Just like the Joseph she knew. Determined and stubborn as hell. They could do whatever they liked with her, as long as Joseph was safe, that was all that mattered.

  “Well, what have you to say?”

  Frankie looked up into the man’s face. “Tell your brother, Je ne voudrais pas pisser sur lui, s'il était en feu.” Frankie literally spit the words at him.

  Vladij stepped back. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his face. One of the men stepped forward and whispered in his ear.

  Vladij nodded and gave a shrug. “Zlatan’s mother is French, so he speaks the language. I can assure you, if there are any fires to be pissed on, I will be doing the pissing.”

  He pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket and smiled a sickly, evil smile. “And regardless of how many fires I have to piss on, you will talk to me, Miss Lefevre. I can promise you that.”

  “You are a very beautiful woman.” Ratko Vladij stood over her, a look on his face that lay somewhere between murderous threat and licentious lust. “But then you already know that. I am sure many men much more attractive than I, have told you that. But have you ever had a real man?” His lips curled in a lecherous snigger that turned her stomach. “You know, in this region, they call me the bull.”

  “Is that because you are full of it?”

  He hit her. A flat handed slap of his huge hand that exploded in a bright white flash inside her skull. It was not the first time. She had a few weals on her face to show it. He had softened her up with a few slaps, but up to now he had held back from hitting her with his fist. That was still to come. He had not got serious yet, and she knew it. She also knew if she could keep him leaning towards this side of lust, along with the fact that he was not the smartest man in the world, maybe she could give herself a chance.

  Vladij turned around to the men who were standing at the back of the room.

  “Leave us.” He gave them a crude grin. “The lady and I want to be alone.”

  They headed for the door sniggering between them as they went.

  “Now, you and I are going to get a little more acquainted. And if you are particularly nice to me, I just might let you live. But first, we need to relax a little. Maybe you would like a
little drink.”

  He walked across to a table, taking off his leather jacket as he went. He hung it on the back of a chair. He removed a leather shoulder holster and did the same with it.

  Frankie strained her head around and eyed it.

  Vladij laughed. “You will never get close.”

  He picked up a bottle of vodka and unscrewed the cap. He dropped it on the floor and stamped on it. He began unbuttoning his shirt, exposing a huge gut, matted with thick dark hair.

  “Now, let us get started. I want you to take off all your clothes.”

  Frankie could not help thinking that if this were not so damned serious, it would be hilarious. The man was a joke. Unfortunately a very dangerous joke. Yet maybe there, was an opportunity.

  She lifted her head. “Oh, I can do that taped to this chair like this?”

  Vladij looked down at her and allowed himself a smile. He pulled out a long narrow bladed knife from his belt.

  “I am going to cut those bonds, but I am warning you. One move that is not what I have ordered, and I will slit your throat and let you bleed your life all over this floor. Then I will chop you into little pieces and feed you to the dogs. Do you understand me?”

  Frankie desperately wanted to give him a smart comeback, but she needed to show him fear, she needed to get her chance. She nodded slowly not meeting his eyes.

  “Very good.”

  Vladij moved around the back of her. He was not that stupid. And cut first one arm free and then the other.

  He stepped back.

  “Now stand up.”

  Frankie did as she was told and stood facing him.

  “Okay, shall we get started. The shirt, take it off.”

  She was deliberately slow to start.

  “Do it now, or I will start cutting. Maybe I will take one of those pretty little ears first.”