The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  “Walter and I have been talking,” De Mateo said over the intercom. “We have a plan. There are risks, but we think it is the best chance we have.”

  Fagan shrugged. “I could always give myself up.”

  De Mateo smiled. “That is the plan.”

  They passed over the deep blue waters of Lake Lucerne and banked southwest towards the snow-covered Alps. De Mateo flew the aircraft at a height that kept their peaks at little more than touching distance. He had said nothing about their destination apart from, they were going to stay with relatives of his.

  They were still deep in the mountains when the aircraft began to lose height. De Mateo dipped the plane into a long slow bank between the peaks and dropped slowly into a high, snow-covered valley. Fagan saw the thin ribbon of an airstrip, cleared of snow in the distance and De Mateo set the aircraft down expertly then taxied into a small cluster of outbuildings.

  The place was small, but Fagan could already see a number of high-end private jets parked outside a small hangar.

  “Welcome to Saanen,” De Mateo announced. “This is the closest airport to Gstaad, home of the rich and richer. Hence all the private jets.”

  “So you chose a nice quiet place to meet with Brennan.”

  De Mateo smiled. “Do not worry, my friend. It will all become clear. We will go to my Aunt’s house, and I will explain it all.”

  “I take it your Aunt is one of the rich.”

  “Unfortunately not. She runs a guesthouse that has been in her husband’s family for many years, well before this place became famous.”

  “Does she have room?”

  De Mateo smiled showing his perfect white teeth. “We have taken over the whole place for the duration.”

  A big bear of a man, with grey hair and a trimmed goatee beard, met them as they climbed out of the aircraft. He and De Mateo hugged affectionately.

  “Joseph, this is my Uncle Horst. We will be staying with him and my Aunt. She is a wonderful cook.”

  “Sounds excellent,” Walter said rubbing his hands together. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  Fagan shook Uncle Horst’s hand. “Excuse my large friend. He has a stranger sense of priorities.”

  Fagan introduced Armena, then they all climbed into a large people carrier, and Uncle Horst drove them the short distance to the guesthouse. It was set back from the main road, a picture postcard chalet, built in wood with a broad eaved roof covered in thick, pure white snow.

  After more introductions to a small rotund lady who De Mateo introduced as his Aunt Sophia, Fagan finally got some time to himself.

  He had a room at the top of the house with an attic window that had a magnificent view of the mountains. He wondered if Frankie could see those same mountains. Was she close by?

  De Mateo had outlined the plan in all the detail he had. It was risky, there were many more variables than he would have liked, but as De Mateo had pointed out.

  It was all they had.

  73

  United Nations Detention Unit, Haaglanden Prison, The Netherlands.

  Colonel Dragonov Vladij looked at the mobile phone gripped in his shaking hand, and his rage erupted. He hurled it at the cell wall with all the strength of his pent-up frustration. It smashed into pieces, scattering across the floor. He dropped onto the bed and sat with his back against the wall. He had been trying all morning to contact his scumbag of a brother. He had never been able to rely on him, even when he was there, breathing down his neck. He had been a constant disappointment to him ever since he was a snot-nosed kid, and now he had delivered his ultimate disappointment.

  He had finally managed to contact Zlatan, at least someone he could trust, who told him the news. Ratko had been found with a knife shoved into his eye socket, and the girl had disappeared. From what sparse details Zlatan had given him, his dear brother had been letting his genitals dominate that lump of meat that was his brain. From what he knew about the girl, she was not one to mess with. And she was not even the one he was looking for.

  He felt no sadness, no brotherly loss, only what the implications were. It had all started unraveling earlier that morning when he had received a call from that dipshit lawyer, Tobias Harper. He had wittered on about conflicts of interest, demarcation lines and the red tape of international law. It was all bullshit. The bottom line was the smarmy prick was dropping his case. What he did not understand, was why? The man was being well paid and had done his job. He was due to walk by the end of the week. It was supposed to be all over, but he had heard nothing from Cardinal Carlucci. Colonel Vladij shook his head and looked at the shattered remains of his phone scattered across the floor. It had been a shitty day so far.

  He looked up as a prison guard appeared at the door. “Exercise period,” the uniformed man said.

  Vladij looked at his watch. “I am not due for another thirty minutes.”

  The guard shrugged. “I don’t ask questions. I just do what I am told. And I am told you have exercise period, now.”

  Vladij got to his feet and headed out of the cell. He knew the way. He could have walked it with his eyes closed. At the door to the yard, he stopped and looked at the guard.

  “What?” The guard said.

  “Cigarette.” Vladij held out a hand.

  The guard shrugged and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and handed it to the Colonel along with a cheap plastic lighter. The guard opened the door, and Vladij stepped outside into the yard and stopped.

  “There has been some mistake.” He turned back to the guard, but he had already slammed the door. Vladij heard the lock clunk with an ominous finality.

  He turned back to the yard. Instead of having the whole space to himself, it was crowded with prisoners in orange suits. The general population were out taking exercise. A group of three men detached themselves from a larger group and headed toward him. Vladij stood his ground. He was a man in his sixties, but he could still take care of himself.

  “You are the big war criminal.” The man at the front spoke English with a thick Russian accent. He was a huge ugly man with a host of tattoos that covered all of his exposed body, including most of his head.

  “Is that any of your business?” Vladij said looking him directly in the eye.

  “Yes it is,” said a small skinny one with long, greasy hair.

  The skinny one moved in fast. Something flashed in his hand. Vladij’s eye caught it at the last moment. He raised an arm in defense, but the man was already in close. He delivered a flurry of jabs with a homemade shiv. A metal spoon sharpened in the prison workshop. The men were already merging back into the general population crowd as Vladij, clutching his bloodied gut, slid to the ground, his back to the door, which remained closed and locked. The general population seemed to ignore him.

  He coughed up a large gob of blood and bile and spat it out on the floor beside him. The remnants ran in a bloody trickle down his chin. The intense pain burned into his gut as if the blade was still in there and he was struggling to breathe. He looked up at the sky. His field of vision was beginning to close in on him. Cumulous slabs of slate grey clouds were gathering for a storm, directly above him.

  He had been right all along. It had been a shitty day.

  74

  Col du Pillon, Bernese Oberland, Switzerland.

  The snowmobile raced across the snow, its thousand cc turbocharged engine vibrating up through Fagan’s arms and legs, jarring painfully into his chest with every bounce. A low cloud draped a mist across the valley, wrapping him in an almost impenetrable white world that brought back memories of his and Armena’s escape from the train. Only today it wasn’t snowing, and Frankie was out there, somewhere beyond that white wall.

  Nico was barely visible, only twenty yards ahead, and Fagan had to rely on following his red rear light to stay with him. The track rose steadily, but the snow was impacted into a hard base making the climb no problem for the powerful snowmobile. They were following the piste that skiers would usually be sk
iing down. But Nico had ensured that this morning, the cable car that ferried skiers up to the summit had suffered a mechanical failure, and the piste was deserted. Nico’s snowmobile shot ahead of him and disappeared. Fagan gunned the engine and suddenly emerged into bright sunshine like a jetliner bursting out through the clouds.

  Nico had assured him the cable car would take hours to fix, so they had the place to themselves. Fagan caught a view of the peak as they came around a bend in the piste. Or rather the twin peaks.

  About a half mile distant and perhaps five hundred feet above him, two mountain peaks were connected naturally by a snow-covered ridge that fell away steeply in a smooth drop to the glacier, hidden somewhere below the cloud. But the interesting aspect of this natural phenomenon was the manmade structure that stretched between the two peaks. A suspension bridge constructed in steel, fifty meters wide, spanning the gap between them, twenty feet above the ridge and a thousand feet down to the glacier.

  Fagan followed Nico to the top. They parked the snowmobiles outside the deserted restaurant beside the cable car station. From here the skiers had a choice. On this side, a red piste for intermediate skiers, the one they had followed coming up, cut around the mountain, sweeping down into the valley and ended at the base station of the cable car. On the other side, beyond the bridge, was an ‘off-piste’ skiing summit, an advanced run of virgin white powder all the way down to the glacier. There was a flat area at the top of the peak with a helicopter pad, which before the bridge, was used to ferry well off skiers up to the drop off point. Now anyone who fancied their chances in the untouched powder, could walk across and give it a go. Except for today, thanks to Nico.

  The Italian appeared beside him. “We have sent them the location. You should get ready. Remember what we agreed.”

  Nico turned and headed out beyond the cable car station. On his back was a long leather bag. Julio had assured him that despite his youth, Nico was an excellent shot. Fagan hoped so.

  A series of flat pavings stepped up from the restaurant to the level of the bridge. Fagan climbed them and looked out. The sun was rapidly burning off the mist, and he could clearly see the distinctive image of the Matterhorn out to the south, straddling the border of Switzerland and Italy, its icy peak gleaming like a golden pyramid in the morning sunshine.

  Frankie was somewhere out there. What happened in the next thirty minutes would determine whether she lived or died. He patted the body armor he wore beneath his ski jacket as if that could bring him some comfort.

  Walter had cut off Brennan’s phone access, and he would not have been happy about that. But as Walter had pointed out.

  ‘We need to be dealing the cards.’

  Walter, with Roberto’s help, had passed Brennan some initial information about the meet. It was short on detail. He had told him to base himself and his team in Zermatt which was forty miles away, as the crow flies. He had also been told to make like a crow and get access to a helicopter. He knew they would not be in Zermatt, that was too obvious, but Julio had arranged for someone to do surveillance just in case. He was right. They were not there.

  He heard the buzz in the distance. It built into a whirring throb. A helicopter swooped up out of the valley, emerging from the cloud, and circled around before dropping down to the helipad on the far peak. As it moved in closer to landing, Fagan could see its distinctive markings against the black paintwork, a gold emblem emblazoned on the door, a chain-mailed hand gripping a large, erect broadsword. Beneath it were the words ‘Excalibur Security’. It was a sign he had seen before, and the circumstances were equally deadly.

  75

  Col du Pillon, Bernese Oberland, Switzerland.

  Fagan fitted the Bluetooth earpiece into his ear and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the number that Walter had preprogrammed into it. The phone rang once, and a familiar voice answered.

  “Mister Fagan,” Cardinal Brennan said. “So glad you could make it.”

  “Shall we get on with it.”

  The steel framework creaked as Fagan stepped out onto the bridge. He looked down. The ridge that connected to the two peaks was just below, heavy with snow, and beyond that, the mist was clearing, and the white expanse of the glacier was visible in patches far below.

  There was no going back now.

  The helicopter door opened, and Brennan climbed out. He paused studying Fagan, then made his way to the far end of the bridge. A red laser dot appeared on his chest. Brennan looked down at it and then across at Fagan.

  “That is just for effect,” Fagan called out. “So you know what would happen if you try anything.”

  Brennan nodded towards the helicopter, the door slid open, and Father Juergen appeared with a high powered rifle aimed at Fagan. He looked up from the telescopic sight and fixed his eyes directly on Fagan. A broad smile spread across his face.

  “Shall we call it a stalemate,” Brennan said.

  “I didn’t expect anything else. But just one other small detail. My friend is an excellent marksman. He tells me he is using tungsten core bullets with titanium tips. He assures me they can punch a hole through the engine block of your helicopter like cutting through butter. So I would advise you and your pilot against any attempt to take off before we have successfully concluded our business.”

  Brennan held out his hands as if he was acknowledging his flock.

  “I see you are alone, apart from your friend with the high powered rifle. Where is Armena?”

  “Armena is not important to what we need to do. She has been hidden away for the past twenty-five years. I think she should stay that way.”

  “That’s not what we agreed.”

  “Things change. Besides, I know everything that she knew which makes me the one you want.”

  “You’re right, things change.”

  Fagan could see him smile.

  “I guess you have not heard the news. Colonel Dragonov Vladij was attacked in the prison exercise yard yesterday. He died from his wounds. So it seems she will not be needed after all.”

  “It doesn’t change who you are.”

  Brennan smile got broader. “Me, I’m just a victim, an accident of birth and a set of circumstances over which I had no control. What do they call it in politics? Spin? Time Magazine is about to release an article on me. A boy snatched from the jaws of hell and placed on the path to God.”

  “You were hardly a boy.”

  Brennan shrugged. “Dramatic license. It’s what sells.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Fagan said. “Why are you here if it's all over? This is about you and me now. It’s me you really want. You have never forgiven me for Dominic de Vaux.”

  “Come now. You flatter yourself.”

  “Do I?”

  Brennan did not answer.

  “So let’s do this. You let Frankie go. Start her walking towards me. I start walking towards you.”

  Brennan shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. You want her to stay alive, you walk over here and climb on this helicopter.”

  “So that you can drop us both into some snow filled valley from ten thousand feet.”

  Brennan opened his hands. “Who knows, you might get a chance to put one over on me.”

  “With your personal Rottweiler looking on.”

  “Maybe I’ll just fly away and drop her in the valley anyway.”

  “You make one move and my friend back there will blow off your head.”

  “I’ve already said what will happen to you and your friend.”

  “If I get in there, we’re dead anyway.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “This is about you and me. Let her go, and you can have me.”

  Brennan stood considering him, then turn towards the helicopter and waved an arm.

  Fagan’s heart thumped in his chest as Frankie climbed out. Brennan pulled out a gun as she approached and stepped back.

  “Not too close Miss Lefevre, your reputation precedes you.” He emphasized the gun. “D
on’t rely on me with this. I’m a terrible shot. Just remember one false move and Father Juergen will put a bullet in your head. And I can assure you, he will not miss.”

  Frankie did not look at him. She stepped forward and moved out onto the bridge. Her face was pale and bruised. Fagan wanted to run to her, but he kept himself in check and started to walk, pacing her step for step as they approached the center of the bridge. When she was five paces away, he could no longer hold back. He ran forward and swept her into his arms. He didn’t speak just held her. His heart thumping hard in his chest. Eventually, he found his voice. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “You were not supposed to do this. I told you to get the girl to the Hague.”

  Fagan put a finger to her lips, then pointed to the phone earpiece.

  “Okay Mister Fagan, it’s time.” Brennan’s voice sounded in his ear.

  Fagan whispered to Frankie. “Go on down to the cable car station. Someone will meet you there.”

  “What about you?” Frankie still clung to him.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I always worry about you.”

  “I have this worked out. Trust me,”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Frankie please, do this for me.” He looked deep into her eyes, his own eyes pleading.

  Eventually, she gave him a reluctant nod then a final hug and started walking.

  “Good,” Brennan said. “Now walk towards me.”

  “So how does this work?” Fagan didn’t move. Every second he could delay, Frankie was moving closer to safety.

  “You walk over here. You climb into the helicopter, and we fly away. I take it your friend will not shoot it down with you in it.”

  Fagan appeared to be considering it. He glanced behind him, Frankie had already made it to the far side of the bridge and had started down the steps to the cable car station.