by Neil Howarth
He risked a quick look over the tailgate. The car was only a short distance away. A man was hanging out of the passenger window holding an assault rifle. He sprayed the back of the truck with rapid fire. Fagan ducked down as bullets slammed into the metal. He worked the rifle bolt and fed a cartridge into the chamber. He waited for the shooting to stop, then pushed himself above the level of the back of the truck and took aim. The passenger in the car began firing with the assault rifle, bullets raked the metal gate below him. Fagan remained calm. He didn’t rush it. He leaned away from the back of the truck letting his body absorb the vibrations and pushed his eye up against the telescopic sight. The driver’s head appeared in the cross-hairs of the scope. Fagan squeezed the trigger. The driver’s head seemed to explode as the bullet punched through the windshield, spraying bright red across the glass. Another part of him watched impassively as the car dived to the left and smacked into a tree, the momentum lifted it clear off the ground. It tumbled and rolled, then dropped out of sight.
Fagan scanned the road behind. There was no sign of other pursuers. He staggered back across the flatbed and climbed back into the cab. Armena looked at him as if he had just arrived from Mars. Her foot was still hard down on the gas.
Fagan eased himself down into the passenger seat and let out his breath.
“I think you can stop now.”
69
Outskirts of Zurich, Switzerland.
Fagan dumped the snow truck in the car park of a gas station on the edge of the next town. They walked into the center, and Fagan left Armena in a small coffee shop. He reappeared twenty minutes later driving a late model Audi which he had acquired from a back street.
He pipped the horn and waved her in.
“Do you make a habit of stealing cars?” She said as she settled into the passenger seat.
“Better than public transport.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“We can’t go to the airport in Zurich, they’re bound to have someone watching. We’re going to have to drive into Austria, find an airport. We need to get you to The Hague by tonight.”
“They are not going to give up, are they.”
“No, but then neither are we.” Fagan looked across at her. “Remember who we are doing this for.”
A familiar coffee shop sign appeared on the outside of a small mall. “Let’s call in there. They have Wifi, and I don’t want to use my phone on the mobile network.”
Fagan got coffees and sandwiches, and they found a table in the back. He ate the sandwich first. It was ham and cheese, not quite the steak and eggs he had been planning this morning, but if he had stopped for that, it would have been his last meal.
He switched on his phone and connected to the Wifi network. Walter was online. Frankie was not. He hit the icon, and Walter answered.
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure. Somewhere on the outskirts of Zurich. We had company.”
“I guessed as much.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have had a message.”
Fagan did not like the sound of Walter’s voice. “What’s going on Walter. What message?”
“I’ll send it to you.”
Fagan’s phone buzzed and an icon appeared on the screen. He tapped it, and an image appeared. It almost stopped his heart.
Frankie — Father Juergen standing next to her with an arm around her shoulder, and a gun to her head.
70
Outskirts, Zurich.
“They hacked my phone,” Walter said. “It was Brennan, he called me.”
“What did he say?” Fagan was still stunned at the image he had just seen.
“The usual stuff. Told me to tell you to stop the car. Get out and put your hands on the roof. Wait there while they drive by and blow your brains out.”
“Walter.” Fagan let his frustration show.
“Sorry, you know what I’m like when I get nervous.”
“Well stop. You’re making me nervous, and I need to concentrate. They have Frankie. I need to know what’s going on.”
“I just spoke to Roberto. He’s done a bunk, but he’s still connected in. Brennan sent an email to Cardinal Carlucci telling him he had everything under control and on plan.”
“Where are they?”
“That’s what I’ve got Roberto trying to find out.”
“So what did you tell Brennan?”
“I hung up.”
“What?”
“Frankie is alive that’s the main thing. She’s with Father Juergen, which I agree is cause for concern. But we both know Frankie. She can take care of herself. The only value of Frankie to Brennan is as a bargaining chip. What he wants, is you and Armena. We know how to contact him. Let’s do this on our terms.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Trust me, Joseph, so do I.”
“So what now?”
“Head into Zurich and ditch the car. Find a Wifi network and wait for me. I’ll call you.”
Fagan drove for an hour, Armena sat beside him watching the snow-covered landscape drift by the window.
“Have they won?”
Fagan glanced across at her.
“Are you going to hand me over to them?”
“Armena, no. You have to trust me on this. We’re going to find a way. And no, they are not going to win.”
Fagan had no idea how he was going to do that. But he would not let them, could not let them win.
She sat there for a while, not speaking, just staring out of the window.
“There is something else I must tell you,” she said eventually. “I should have said something sooner.”
Fagan looked across at her.
“It has been so long. I tried to bury it all these years, as deep as I possibly could.”
Fagan didn’t speak, he could see she was struggling.
“It was a memory I could not look at, even acknowledge that it existed. I knew that to bring it out would be far too painful. And besides, it was gone, in the past. I could do nothing about it. Tarik and I never spoke about it. But I am sure he could never do what I did. I know the image was constantly in his mind, and it ate him up, every single day for all these years.” She paused, gazing at the sunshine reflecting off the snow, tears brimming in her eyes. “But it never went away. It never will. I know if I am going to fight back I must bring it out. I must face it.” She turned to look at him.
“I think it is what you are looking for.”
She went back to gazing out of the window, as if the memory was out there, somewhere in the snow.
Fagan said little as she told it, but at last, all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.
He had it all.
All he had to do now, was to find a way to use it to get Frankie back.
71
Via Veneto, Rome.
The Via Veneto was already busy with lunchtime traffic as the limo with the darkened windows made its way into the Via Sicilia and stopped at the main entrance to Vite. Cardinal Carlucci placed an immaculately polished leather shoe onto the sidewalk and stepped out into the bright afternoon sunshine. Luigi, the maître d’hôtel, was waiting at the door to greet him. He bowed his head, his exclusive service smile plastered across his face.
“Good afternoon Eminence, lovely to see you. Your guest has already arrived. We have made him very comfortable.”
Carlucci nodded, and they made their way inside. A few of the diners waved their greetings. Carlucci stopped at the occasional table and exchanged a few words. The wheels of power needed constant oiling. Luigi waited patiently then showed him to his private dining area.
The man seated at the table was about Carlucci’s age, his thinning grey hair was slicked back over his narrow skull. He looked up through his gold-rimmed spectacles and smiled.
“Your Eminence,” he said dabbing his mouth with his napkin and getting to his feet. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” He was a short, dapper figure, dre
ssed in an impeccably tailored three piece suit from Saville Row of London.
“Sir Charles,” Carlucci held out his hand. “I’m so glad you could make it. I know you are a very busy man.”
His guest took his hand as if unsure whether or not to kiss his episcopal ring. In the end, he just shook it and smiled. “Your Eminence, I’m never too busy to have lunch with an old friend.”
Sir Charles Fotheringay Q.C. spoke with the precise and unmistakable vowels of the British upper class. The fact that he had been picked up in a limousine from his St. Martins in the Fields, London office, whisked to a private airport and then flown in a private jet to Rome, just for lunch, was dismissed as if it was an everyday occurrence. Sir Charles was only a slight figure, but his air of superiority was unmistakable.
Carlucci waved his lunch guest to his seat then sat down himself. He allowed the waiter to pour him a glass of chilled Buriano and he took a sip as he studied his guest over the rim. The two of them went back many years.
The Church had recognized the hidden talents of Giancarlo Carlucci shortly after they had first taken him in as a boy, and as the bright student progressed they were keen to develop the skills of what they saw as a future Church leader. They had granted him a Church-sponsored scholarship to Oxford University in England to develop both his academic and his English skills, but they also recognized that this was the breeding ground for future world leaders and captains of industry, and to have their protege rubbing shoulders with them would be time and money well spent.
Carlucci had met the young Charles Fotheringay as he opened the door to the room he had been assigned. The young man was to be his roommate. They had quickly become friends, both sharp and bright and keen to take on the world, and even in those early days each recognizing the strength of the other. They had both studied PPE, Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. And after graduation, Charles had gone on to study law and Carlucci had entered the seminary here in Rome. It was a sign of their relationship, that though close and not without affection, it reflected more what they brought to the table, what they brought to each other, and without any spoken agreement they always addressed each other formally.
“I do appreciate your help, Sir Charles.”
Over an excellent lunch of Beef Carpaccio followed by Sicilian Spiced Duck Breast and a superb Barolo, they made small talk — politics, Vatican gossip, a scandal involving a London High Court judge they both knew from their days at Oxford.
Sir Charles dabbed his mouth with his napkin and gave the Cardinal a serious look. “I hear the Holy Father’s health is not good.”
The fact was not common knowledge, but Carlucci was not surprised that Sir Charles knew.
“Unfortunately that is true. At a time like this with so much instability threatening to rock our whole world, it is one more thing we have to deal with. I am sure you can see how your help is of vital importance. I know what I have asked may be a little difficult for you under the circumstances. And I know I have given you no explanation.”
“My dear Cardinal, none required.” Sir Charles dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “The man is a scoundrel. I fail to understand what made Tobias take on the case in the first place.” He did not mention the fact that Tobias Harper had been hired by the Holy Father’s personal office. “But not to worry, I spoke to him immediately after you called, and he has resigned from the case this morning. As far as I am concerned, the matter is closed, and we will say no more about it.”
Carlucci rubbed an elegantly manicured finger around the rim of his glass. “I appreciate it. It gets rather complicated on this end and somewhat embarrassing. I do need to ask for your absolute discretion on this.”
“That goes without saying, your Eminence.”
“And the matter we discussed on the phone?”
Sir Charles smiled. “Of course.” He removed a small silver pen-drive from the watch pocket of his waistcoat and pushed it discretely towards him. The Cardinal swept his gold-ringed hand across the table and palmed the pen-drive with the dexterity of a magician. His eyes glanced briefly towards the door.
“Is this everything? There are no copies?”
“Everything is on there, that is the original device that Colonel Vladij gave to Tobias. There are no backups or paper copies. All were destroyed. You could say the Colonel’s insurance policy is now null and void.”
“Wonderful.” Carlucci beamed a smile. “So,” He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “With the unpleasant matters out of the way, let us focus on matters of the moment, more pleasant things. I think maybe a glass of Luigi’s excellent champagne is in order, to celebrate your new appointment.”
He beckoned over the waiter, who hurried around the table quickly filling their cut glass flutes with bubbling Krug champagne, then just as efficiently disappeared.
Carlucci looked across at Sir Charles. “I now have the agreement of the Curia and the Holy Father himself. I,” he paused, “we, feel it only fitting after your outstanding services to the Church in your native country, over these many years, that it is time you had a wider and somewhat higher brief.” He lifted his glass. “To your new appointment as Chief Legal Counsel to the Holy See.”
72
Outskirts, Zurich.
He dumped the Audi as they reached the outskirts of Zurich. They found a cafe with Wifi and waited for Walter to call. Thirty minutes later he did.
They followed Walter’s instructions, which included a thirty-minute local train ride out of the city and a taxi to a small flying club.
The place was far from busy, a couple of private aircraft took off while they waited. Walter had told him he had arranged transport for them but had said no more than that. The snow had stopped, and the sky had cleared into a bright blue pre-spring morning.
Fagan heard it, a low drone that echoed off the mountains. Then he saw it, just a dot at first, a dark spot against the white snow of the valley. Gradually it grew into a single engine aircraft. It dropped steadily out of the sky and landed perfectly in the middle of the runaway, then taxied gently over to where they stood by the main office.
Fagan recognized the yellow and black aircraft type as it came to a halt and the single propeller gradually spun down to a stop. It was a Turbo Charged Cirrus SR22, the last time he had been in one he had been flying out of Brest, in the North West of France, and Frankie had been the pilot. Then, he had thought they were flying into the Gates of Hell.
Was he about to do that again?
He looked at the aircraft and wished that Frankie was flying it now.
The door opened, and Walter poked his head out. He saw Fagan and waved, then struggled out through the narrow door space and onto the wing. He slid down on his backside then jumped down to the tarmac and held out his arms as if he had just performed some death-defying feat.
Fagan hurried across and gave him a hug. He turned to Armena who stood a few feet behind him. She had not spoken since she had made her disclosure to him.
“Walter, this is Armena. Armena, this is my good friend Walter, he is going to help us.” He looked back at Walter. “Aren’t you?”
Walter gave him a tight smile but was saved by the pilot side door on the aircraft opening. A figure clambered out and jumped down onto the tarmac. He stood looking at Fagan. He was not a tall man, but he appeared well set, his bulk enhanced by the ski jacket he wore. He had a thick, trimmed beard streaked with grey. There was something familiar about him, but for the moment Fagan failed to recognize him.
“It has been a while, Joseph. You are looking well.”
His face broke into a smile, and Fagan’s did too.
“Commissario De Mateo.” Fagan finally recognized the former head of Pope Salus’ personal security. “The beard threw me.”
“All part of the new me. But it is plain mister now, or in the case of my friends, just Julio.”
Fagan stepped forward, and they gave each other a warm hug. Fagan let go and looked at the former officer of the Vatica
n Gendarmerie.
“This is a surprise. I was not expecting you at all.”
“Walter said you were in trouble. Of course, the fact that Brennan was involved got my attention.”
Julio de Mateo was perhaps the one man who wanted to strangle the life out of Brennan more than Fagan did. Pope Salas had not only been his charge, but also his mentor and friend.
Fagan looked past him as another, younger man, climbed out of the aircraft and jumped down onto the tarmac.
“This is Nico,” De Mateo said. “He works for me. He is also here to help.”
Fagan held out his hand. Nico took it but didn’t speak.
“We need to refuel and then go,” De Mateo looked around taking in the surroundings. “I do not want to be here any longer than we have to be.”
De Mateo gave Nico some instructions, and they moved inside the office. He sorted out the paperwork then they sat down in front of a small coffee machine, and brought each other up to date on the last two years.
De Mateo had taken early retirement shortly after the death of Pope Salus and had moved back to Milan. He was living on his pension and doing little until a friend from the old days came up with a business proposition. De Mateo did not go into the details except for saying he had taken a chance and things had worked out rather well. Hence the private aircraft and the mysterious Nico.
They took off an hour later. It was a bit of a squeeze. The aircraft was supposed to carry five, but with Walter, they were currently at around six plus. Fagan sat up front with Julio. He spoke through his headset and told him the full story as they flew. How he was no longer a priest and how Frankie was now in his life. He struggled a little when it came to talking about Frankie, but he made it through.
