The Journey

by Neil Howarth

  It sure felt like it was raining now.

  He headed back to his apartment in North Arlington on the other side of the river. He dumped the car he had stolen a couple of hours before and picked up his own, then continued the drive home. The condo was rented, so he had no ties there. He figured a quick in and out. There were a few important pieces he wanted to pick up. Then he would be gone. Maybe he was being a little sentimental, but he would rather have those pieces with him.

  He knew of a small airport in North Carolina and a man who would fly him out - for the right price. He had used him for a few jobs in the past, and he knew his only allegiance was to the money. He guessed he knew this day was coming. It was time to step up.

  He crossed over the Key Bridge from Georgetown into Virginia and wound his way back towards the river. A mist rolled in off the water as he parked the car out on the street in front of his apartment building. He looked around. There was no one about. This was it. He ran up the stairs and let himself in.

  A single table lamp cast a dull glow into the room. Blanchet was sitting in the armchair. His silenced Sig Sauer pointed directly at Fagan.

  “Home early Joe.”

  21

  North Arlington, Washington D.C.

  “What the hell are you doing in here, and why are you pointing that damned thing?”

  Fagan walked over to the desk. The polished teak box he wanted was sitting on the top. He ignored it and poured himself a drink. He didn’t offer one to Blanchet.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Fagan turned around holding the glass. “I might just shove that gun up your ass.”

  Blanchet gave his familiar smirk. “Now take out your gun and drop it on the floor, then kick it over here.”

  Fagan did as he was told. He dropped the Sig then slid it across the floor with his boot.

  “Becoming quite the rebel. Kicking up the shit is one thing, but not doing the job, now that’s another.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He took a sip of bourbon, but he already knew. The whole job was a setup, a test. And he had failed hands down. What now? A bullet in the head? More likely a showdown with Schneider? That just might give him an edge.

  “There was a problem, so I aborted. I’m planning to go in again tomorrow.”

  “Too late.” Blanchet glanced at his watch. “Hanson should have already gone in and done the job.”

  He should have known that. They had set him up, then played him.

  “I knew it would end up like this,” Blanchet said. “I never did think this work was right for Captain America. Out there on the edges, where it gets a little too dirty, a little too murky. You should have stayed in the Navy SEALs.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you, Joe. I’ve been watching you, and I had to tell myself, this is not a man who is happy in his work.”

  “You know you’re full of crap.”

  “Do you think they’ll give you a hero’s funeral, up on Arlington Hill. Six gun salute, the folded flag, and a grateful nation. I’m sure Schneider will dress it up to look all very nice. You may even get a posthumous medal. Hell, you’re a national hero.”

  A phone started ringing. Blanchet pulled out a cell phone, still keeping his gun aimed squarely at Fagan. He held up the phone, so he could see the screen without taking his eyes off him.

  “Hanson,” he said. “Let’s hope he has good news.”

  He pressed the screen to switch on the speakerphone.

  “Hanson,” he boomed. “Tell me?”

  A voice spoke that was definitely not Hanson.

  “Your friend Hanson can’t come to the phone right now. Owing to the fact that he has a bullet in his head.”

  The voice paused, but Blanchet didn’t speak. He was still pointing the gun at Fagan.

  “I don’t know who you are,” the voice on the phone continued. “But I can promise you. I will find you and those you work for. And when I do. . .”

  Fagan recognized Admiral Lancaster’s voice. The old SEAL still had it. Maybe the day was not totally lost.

  Blanchet glanced at the phone, as if unsure whether to hang up or not. It was all the distraction Fagan needed. He pushed over the lamp on his left. It went down with a crash, and the light went out. He threw the glass at Blanchet and dived to his right. The sofa was his target. Blanchet’s silenced SIG popped and Fagan felt the shot pass, hot, over him, a whisper away. He hit the floor hard and kept on rolling. The sofa was described in the online brochure as the overstuffed type. He could hear Blanchet's shots punching into it as he scrambled behind it.

  The gun was still there, taped just under the base at the back. Blanchet should have found it and removed it. Typical, it was what he had come to know about him - sloppy.

  He rolled clear, the Glock in a double-handed grip, shooting rapidly, close targeted sets. But Blanchet had already moved. Fagan came up to his knees, and the bullet punched in low into his chest. He reeled back but held onto the gun and swung it around, purely on autopilot. Blanchet was over by the door. Fagan fired twice in smooth, rapid succession. He heard Blanchet cry out and saw him fall.

  Fagan was struggling to breathe. There was no pain, only a numbness that seemed to extend across his chest. The pain was yet to come.

  He staggered to his feet. Blanchet was on the floor, not moving, his face covered in blood.

  He knew he had to get out, but he struggled over to the desk first. He picked up the teak box and shoved it into his jacket. He pulled aside the curtain and looked out on the deserted street. But he wasn't fooled. Blanchet would have someone out there.

  There was an exit out via the basement, out by the garbage disposal and an alley beyond. Maybe. He struggled to take a breath. One step at a time.

  He made it to the door. It seems like a mile. His legs were like lead. They didn’t feel like his own. A dull ache worked it’s way up his left arm. He turned to look back at Blanchet. He was not moving, but nothing like being sure. He aimed at the center of his forehead. His hand was shaking. It was not from nerves. He pulled the trigger. The slide stuck open. Out of ammo. He should have known that. He had been counting as he went, but the bullet he had taken had disorientated him. Kicked him off track. Blanchet’s gun was lying on the floor. Fagan stepped towards it. The room suddenly tilted. He grabbed for the doorframe. He tried to breathe. It took a desperate effort. It was beginning to hurt like hell. He had to get out.

  22

  Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See, Washington D.C. - 2005.

  Joe Fagan opened his eyes. Somehow he was still clinging to the top of the wall. It was still raining.

  Vague images danced around in his head, images from a lifetime ago. The pain was intense now, and he was struggling to breathe. He recognized the condition, typical for a chest gunshot wound. It was called a tension pneumothorax. Air was filling his chest cavity and collapsing his left lung and impairing his right. Undue pressure was being placed on his heart, and it was killing him.

  The rain had increased, and water ran freely down his face. He was rapidly losing body heat. He knew he was only one step away from losing consciousness and a final answer to the question that had troubled him most. Dying was something he could deal with. As a SEAL, it was always there. But dying like a hunted rat, a traitorous rat. This was not something he had figured into his plans. Would God really forgive him for all the things he had done?

  He looked out across the garden. Lights glowed inside the house. It seemed so close. He had one chance at this. If he stayed where he was, he would have the answer to his question, and real soon.

  There was some security here. A guardhouse in the corner, over by the back wall, opposite to where he lay. But the security was not as overt as some of the other embassies along the street, nothing like the Embassy of Iraq just a few blocks down. He knew because he had checked the place out once before, when he had first heard about the man’s appointment, and when he
had started having his doubts. He had a vague notion that maybe they could meet, that the man could help him find a way out. Back when it seemed that things could be different. But even then he had realized he was way too late.

  Soon it would make little difference.

  He looked at the house. It seems to shimmer through the rainfall. He had one last chance.

  The guard house had a single light on, but there was no sign of anyone patrolling the grounds. On a night like this, they would not be tempted out. They would stay in, out of the rain and cold, and rely on the security cameras.

  He just needed to get close, that was all he asked.

  He swung his legs over the wall and slipped down, hanging there for a moment by his arms. The pain was excruciating. He let go and dropped the six feet and hit the ground. It was soft and grassy, and he collapsed into the mud. The pain kicked in again and he had to struggle to retain consciousness.

  He lifted up his face.

  A well clipped lawn ran away in front of him. The main house sat back about thirty yards away. Two wings extended forward like arms from the main block, providing a three-sided box. A concrete pathway ran across the lawn towards it, ending at a small ornamental fountain in the center of the space, before opening out onto a stone tiled patio in front of of the French windows.

  Fagan struggled to his feet and began to run. Though running was something of an extreme description, it was more of a drunken stagger. His legs seemed to not want to obey his commands. He struggled to stay on his feet, but he pushed on. The lights came on as he reached the fountain, bright spotlights that caught him squarely in their beams. He hung on to the concrete ornament trying to regain his breath. Water splashed out from the vase held in the frozen maiden's hands. It splattered in his face. Holy water?

  The French windows were just beyond, across the patio, in the main block. Lights were on inside. He eased his way slowly around the fountain, holding on with one hand to steady himself. He reached the tiled patio that filled out the three-sided square. He took a step forward and stopped, both hands held above his head, and dropped to his knees. The pain knifed into his chest like a white-hot blade. He struggled for breath. He gave himself a moment then reached slowly inside his coat and pulled out the SIG. He held up in his right hand, clear for anyone to see. He made a show of placing the weapon on the ground in front of him and slid it away. Then he slowly eased his hands behind his head and waited.

  The French windows opened. Two men in dark clothing stepped out and headed toward him. They were both carrying automatic weapons, and they were pointed at him. He sensed movement coming in from his right, rapidly. The blow caught him on the side of the head, and the world exploded.

  He could feel the harsh bite of the concrete, digging into the side of his face. He struggled to open his eyes.

  At first, he couldn’t focus. Then slowly, he made out the faces of four men standing around him, each pointing an automatic sub-machine gun, directly at him. A detached part of his brain identified them as MK47s. He could see the feet of another, standing further back. He was wearing some kind of black silk gown edged in purple piping, which extended down to his black patent leather shoes.

  “Your Grace,” one of the security guards called out to him. “Please stay inside.”

  “What is going on?”

  The man addressed as your Grace stepped forward and Fagan got a look at him. The black silk gown was a cassock with a purple sash. His face was the color of ebony. He had aged, but it had turned out well. His hair was now mostly grey, but it looked good on him, and all the handsome features were still there. Fagan got his hands beneath him and pushed his face up out of the dirt. He tried to speak, but no words came out. One of the security guards went to push him down.

  “No,” the priest called out. He held up a hand with a large gold ring on it.

  The Apostolic Nuncio for the Holy See in Washington was an Archbishop. He was the Pope’s official ambassador in the United States. Fagan could see the man studying him as if he was struggling to recall something. Then the recognition dawned, the querying look turned to shock, and his eyes opened wide.

  “Joseph?”

  23

  Washington D.C.

  Things happened in a blur. They carried him inside. A man appeared, and he felt something cold dabbed onto his chest. Fagan caught sight of a large syringe. A part of his brain told him the man was a doctor. He looked young for a doctor, but he seemed to know how to treat the tension pneumothorax. He felt a jab and a surge of pain, but his breathing immediately became easier. The room drifted in and out. He tried to speak but was only able to mouth the words.

  No hospital.

  He knew if they took him there he would be dead. Schneider’s men would be out looking for him, and they would have all the hospital’s covered.

  But there was to be no hospital.

  It was still dark when they shipped him out of the main house in the back of a van, to what he could only describe as a safe house, though what the Vatican was doing with a safe house he had no idea. The doctor reappeared, and this time he had with him a nurse. Fagan could make out their low level chat. The wound was a through-and-through, meaning there was no bullet to take out. Between them, they patched him up and injected him with something that made him woozy, then left him connected up to a variety of drips and medical equipment.

  Fagan lost track of time. William appeared periodically, each time a worried look on his face, but Fagan was in no position to talk.

  He was not sure how many days later it was, but he opened his eyes and was able to keep them open. Sunlight streamed in through the window, and for the first time since he had arrived, he didn’t feel like he was about to die. The door opened, and the nurse came into the room.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was run over by a truck.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Surprisingly he was.

  She disappeared and returned with breakfast on a tray, scrambled eggs and toast. It was the first solid food he had eaten since they had brought him in.

  Later that morning William appeared. He beamed a smile that to Fagan felt warm as the morning sun. It seemed a lifetime since they had struggled out of Somalia with the rebels at their heels. William was looking good. Much better than him.

  “How are you feeling?” William said as he sat down on the bed.

  “Better than when I arrived. Where am I?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “I’m sorry I brought this on you, but I had nowhere else to go.”

  “I always told you I would be here if you needed help. I’m sorry it appears to be in such desperate circumstances.”

  “Look, I’m sorry.”

  Fagan started to speak, but William held up a hand.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s enough that you’re alive and on the mend. You need to rest and get your strength back.”

  “I need to tell you. I owe it to you.”

  William smiled. “Then I’d better get some coffee.”

  He came back carrying a tray with a large silver coffeepot and a single cup.

  “The doctor says you are on water only, for the next couple of days.”

  He poured himself a cup and sat back.

  Fagan told him the whole story, letting it unfold as it presented itself in his head, telling everything as if giving his confession. And William sat there like a confessor, as if ready to grant absolution. He didn’t speak until Fagan had finished.

  “It’s sometimes difficult to understand the path that God chooses for us. What is important is that you made a choice. You did not kill that man, and you got out. We need to keep you safe.”

  “I just need a couple of days then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “According to the doctor, you are going to need more than a couple of days. And there is a problem which makes this place, not safe anymore.”

  “What’s the problem.”

  “We have had
a visit at the Nunciature. They said they were from the FBI, though we have no way of knowing if they were. They had a photograph of you, said you were a fugitive. Apparently, they found a car close to by. There was blood which they matched to you from your military records. Of course, they had no jurisdiction over us, we have diplomatic immunity, but we are expected to cooperate. They wanted to speak to me. It would seem that someone has made the link between the two of us. Of course, we drew the line at that. My assistant told them we knew nothing about you and had seen nothing. But we have to assume that this place is no longer safe.”

  “I should leave. I have another identity and some money.” He looked at William, guilt stabbing deep inside. “Sorry, but this is who I have become, and in this profession those things are essential. My lifeline.”

  William seemed unperturbed. “You are still the Joseph I met all those years ago. I can see it in you.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “Joseph, trust me. And you are in no condition to be out there on your own. I’m going to send you to a good friend of mine. He will take care of you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

  William stood up and crossed to the far side of the room. He picked something up from a table, beneath the window and came back.

  "You were carrying this." He handed over the teak box.

  Fagan opened the lid. Lying on the top was the Navy Cross.

  “Sentimental junk. Almost got me killed.”

  He reached in and pulled out a photograph. A much younger William, and the children, all gathered around and smiling at the camera. William had had it taken before he left Kenya for Rome, and then sent it to him.