by Neil Howarth
“She took off when the lights came on. Did you find her back at the hotel?”
“No, but I did have a call from her superior. She has been summoned back to Paris.”
“Who is she?”
Jacquot closed the file in front of him and stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray. “Unfortunately that information is classified. But I can tell you. She was not here on official business. She was pursuing a personal matter.”
“Personal? I don’t get this.” Fagan was not quite catching where this was going.
Jacquot regarded him across the desk and allowed himself the hint of a smile. “You know the lady’s name. You read the police report. I am surprised you missed it. The driver of the car that killed Brother Thomas, who also died in the crash, Jean-Claude Lefevre. He was her brother.”
The road to Paris.
Francoise ‘Frankie’ Lefevre had her foot hard on the gas. She gripped the steering wheel tight, allowing the anger to seethe through her, anger with the establishment, with her boss, with that stupid priest, and most of all with herself.
She had had no choice but to call her boss, and he was not happy, demanding that she be in his office first thing in the morning. Which meant she was now going in the opposite direction to where she really wanted to be.
She stamped harder on the gas, but she knew the anger was just covering the hurt, the emptiness, the loss — that crazy brother of hers. She still could not believe he was gone, that she would not see that electric smile again, or see that stubborn streak as he dug in and resisted when things didn’t quite fit with what he wanted.
When they were kids, she had always looked after him, stuck up for him at school. Everyone knew she was not a lady to mess with. So why had she not been able to protect him this time, when he really needed it. The drunk driver story was rubbish. If they knew Jean-Claude the way she did, they would know that could never happen.
Whatever had happened out on that causeway, she was damn sure she was going to find out. But first, she had to face the wrath of her boss.
The road was straight with trees at either side. She glanced in her mirror and groaned. Headlights appeared, and above them, a flashing blue light lit up the night.
“Merde,” she cursed and took her foot off the gas. As the police car caught up, she slowed and pulled over. She wound down the window as two policemen climbed out of the police car. One stood at the back, while the other approached. He held a flashlight which he shone into the car.
“Sorry officer,” she held up the wallet containing her ID. “I need to be in Paris urgently.”
The police officer took the wallet and shone his torch on it, then looked back at her.
“Officer, I need to be in Paris urgently. If you want to complain, take my number and call my boss.”
The policeman officer handed back her ID. “Take care, Agent Lefevre, these are dangerous roads at those speeds.”
Frankie thanked him and shoved the stick shift into first gear, easing on the gas, and taking it quickly up through the gears. She glanced in her mirror. The two policemen were lit up in the headlights of the police car. One of them looked like he was talking on the phone. Maybe he was calling her boss - well, good luck with that. She kept her foot on the gas, and the police car disappeared into the darkness behind her.
The tree line out to her right thinned then disappeared, and the moonlight spread out across a valley, way below. The road consisted of long stretches with wide bends, which suited her driving. With luck, she could be in Paris in a couple of hours.
The road eased into a long bend and then opened out to a straight run beyond. A set of headlights appeared in the distance, approaching her from the opposite direction. She kept her foot on the gas. The road was wide enough so there should be no problem. But as the lights got closer, she could see she was wrong. There were multiple headlights, probably a large truck, and they were on her side of the road. Whoever they were back there in the police car, they had checked it was her and then set her up. She cursed herself for having missed it.
She resisted the urge to hit the brake. She had to play chicken. The truck headlights filled her whole world in bright white light. Her life was about to explode. The truck suddenly veered to the left, avoiding a head-on, but swinging out its load into her path. She twitched the wheel at the last moment, and the truck was rushing by, almost touching, the vibrations of the massive beast so strong they pushed her car further off the road, out through a bordering hedge and beyond. The field dropped away steeply, allowing the still accelerating car to launch out into space. Lights, like distant stars, seemed to twinkle in the valley far below.
The police car stopped beside the road, as a plume of flame shot high into the sky. The two policemen got out and walked to the side of the road. There was no sign of the truck. Down in the valley, the wreck was burning vigorously. One of the policemen took out his cellphone and made a call.
“It’s done.”
13
La Belle Bernadette, Brittany.
Fagan woke early, still thoroughly exhausted. He had laid awake for hours, visions of Brother Lucien tumbling through his head, his frail body hanging from the tree, his eyes protruding, his swollen tongue poking from his mouth. And the illusive Francoise Lefevre, dancing before him every time he got close to sleep.
He looked at his watch. It was almost six. Last night Jacquot seemed to be considering throwing him in a cell until Fagan pointed out that his Vatican passport gave him diplomatic immunity. It seemed like Jacquot was tempted anyway, but in the end, had said he would send a car to pick him up at nine and take him to the police station.
A sudden thought flicked into his head. He jumped out of bed and padded across the tiled floor to the wardrobe. The jacket he had worn when he had visited Lucien the first time, hung inside. He felt inside the left side-pocket, his fingers poking into the corners. It was empty. He tried the other, but he knew he was right the first time. The note from Brother Lucien, which was also the lab report, had gone.
It had all become much murkier. Luca had dumped him in the middle of this, knowing things were not as they seemed. Did he know about the woman? Did he know of the connection between her and the driver of the hit-and-run car? Knowing Luca, he knew it all. He was just waiting for his faithful junkyard dog to dig into the dirt and make the connection, and hopefully, discover something new. Well, he had done that, blundered right into it and got somebody killed. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial for Luca. It was no surprise. He got his voicemail.
The police car arrived on time. He sat in the back. The driver didn’t speak. When he reached Jacquot’s office, the captain was sitting at his desk, a cup of black coffee in front of him and a smoking cigarette in his hand.
“Coffee?”
Fagan shook his head.
“I wanted to go over a few things.”
“Yes, there was something I wanted to bring up.”
Jacquot raised a single eyebrow in question.
“I told you that Brother Lucien gave me a note asking me to meet him later that night.”
Jacquot gave him a suspicious look.
“It would appear someone stole it from my room.”
“Someone stole it from your room. It would appear?” Jacquot repeated the words as if not believing a single one. “Are you sure you didn’t just dream it?”
“It was in my jacket, this jacket. Now it’s gone.”
Jacquot still didn’t look convinced.
His phone rang. He picked it up and listened, then said a single word in French and put down the phone.
“My boss would like to see you.”
Jacquot led the way through the police station. The superintendent’s office was on the top floor. Jacquot knocked and entered. Fagan followed him in. The superintendent was a small, dapper man, he had a thin pencil mustache and greased down hair. He looked up. He wasn’t smiling. He said something into the phone he had pressed against his ear, then held it out. Ja
cquot stepped out of the way, leaving Fagan to take the phone.
Fagan took the proffered handset and held it to his ear.
“Hello, this is Father Joseph Fagan.”
“Father Fagan.”
Fagan recognized the voice instantly. His instinct was right. Luca had dropped him in deep shit, again. “Cardinal Vogler, your Eminence.”
“Father Fagan, I had the Bishop of Brest on the telephone to me very early this morning. He is extremely angry and with good reason. I have no idea what in God’s name you have been doing there, but when you are back here, standing in front of me, I will have a complete explanation.”
“Your Eminence, please . . .”
“I don’t remember asking you to speak. Now listen to me, very carefully. You will be on the next plane back to Rome, and you will come directly to my office. Meanwhile, you will apologize to the police superintendent for wasting his time and causing any problems. Do you understand me?”
Fagan had heard Vogler’s rants before. He put down the phone without answering.
“Cardinal Vogler sends you his blessing and his thanks, and apologizes for any problems his office might have caused.” Fagan nodded to the two policemen and walked out.
By the time he arrived at the airport, the whole area was draped in a thick, impenetrable fog. Jacquot had insisted on a police escort. They had brought his things from the hotel and Jacquot had said he would take care of the rental car. He just wanted to be sure that Fagan was on the next plane out. From the state of the weather, it looked like it might be a while.
The departure board announced that all flights were postponed until further notice. Fagan wandered into the bar. His police escort followed him in. Fagan ordered a Jameson with a single cube of ice. He offered the young police officer a drink. The young man declined. Fagan took his glass and sat in a booth by the window. The policeman stayed on the bar stool, watching him.
Fagan tried Luca again but still got his voicemail. Knowing Luca, he was probably getting his ear chewed off by Vogler at that moment. There was no way that Luca would lay any of this at the Holy Father’s door, so Luca would have to take it on the chin. Which probably meant that he would too. Not that this was anything new. Luca saw himself as the unofficial protector of the Holy Father’s back. And the unofficial part meant that the shit often hit the fan. Like now.
Vogler was pissed, and that was never a good sign. In his position, he had the power to ex-communicate both him and Luca, though Fagan doubted that the Holy Father would allow him that pleasure, which probably meant that whatever he had in store would be even more painful.
He stared out into the fog. He caught his reflection in the bar window. Somehow he never got used to seeing himself in the priest’s dog collar, as if it wasn’t really him.
It was ten years since he had turned up on the Holy Father’s doorstep. To be more accurate he had turned up on Archbishop William Tsonga’s doorstep, with some very bad people not far behind him. William at the time was the Vatican’s ambassador in Washington. The two of them had previous history. Each owed the other. It was a bond that ran deep. But Fagan had fallen a long way from the fresh faced Navy SEAL, who had met a missionary priest years before in a remote Somalian mission.
It was strange. He could remember the priest, as clear as if he was standing in front of him. But the Navy SEAL, he had to struggle hard to recall him at all. What had happened to that young man, consumed with duty to his country. Duty and honor? Now there was a word - honor. What had become of that? Certainly, there was no honor on his mind when he had turned up at William’s door, with a bullet in his lung and a Black Ops hit team not far behind. William had once told him, ‘If you ever need me, I am here.’ And back then, that time had come.
William had brought in a doctor who had dug out the bullet and patched him up. Then he had got him to Luca. Luca was a well known sanctuary for wounded animals and lost souls. But that was only the start of his problem. The people who were looking for him were not the type that lawyers could help with. He needed to disappear, and that’s what William and Luca arranged. He vanished in plain sight, simply swallowed up in Luca’s little world.
In the beginning, Luca had put him out on the streets, in that twilight world that exists out on the edges of most people’s everyday life. There, but not really there, as if the real world was totally oblivious to its existence. He had helped in the soup kitchens, in the shelters, working around the homeless, getting to know them, gaining their trust. Helping them make it through one more day. To be honest, Fagan had loved it. He was doing something positive in his life at last.
It was William and Luca who had come up with the plan, the perfect place for him to disappear. Fagan had thought they were crazy and looking back sometimes he still thought they were. In the end, they had persuaded him. He joined a small seminary on the outskirts of Boston. It was the perfect way to become another person.
Strangely, it had an almost mystical attraction to him. Maybe it was the sanctuary of the walls keeping out his previous life, or maybe a young Irish American Catholic boy, who grew up in a world where a Priest in the family was the greatest gift that God could bestow, was finally coming home.
Like his time in the military, he had taken it seriously and studied hard. He impressed his teachers and his fellow seminarians. He had kept on working for Luca in his spare time. The night before his ordination, William, who was now assigned to the Vatican, had called him.
‘I have spoken to the Holy Father,’ he said. ‘He has spoken to the President of the United States. He has pleaded your case. Joseph, the President, has agreed, they will leave you alone. No one is pursuing you anymore. You don’t have to do this tomorrow. You can have your life back. You can go out into the world and be whatever you want.’
He had thought long and hard before he spoke. ‘William, thank you, but I have a life, and I know what I want to be.’
The next day he was ordained, and Father Joseph Fagan stepped out into the world. It was evident to all of his teachers, his local priest, and to Luca alike, he was never going to be an average pastor. But then the church had a need for different skills, different strengths, different mindsets.
There was a struggle going on out there, people were trying desperately to survive. And Father Joseph Fagan was just the man to help them.
They had put him back out with the homeless, and he had lapped it up, immersing himself in a world where he knew he could make a difference.
William eventually took Luca with him to Rome, to look out for him as always. Officially he gave him responsibility for practical missionary projects, those focusing more on secular support than spiritual. Fagan was a natural to help him. When they had sent him out to Africa, it felt as if he was stepping back in time, but this time as a soldier of a different kind. The enemy now was poverty and disease. He had immersed himself in it, giving it all his effort and attention.
The first village he had worked in was just a few huts made from scrap wooden panels and packing cases, clustered around the local river, which was little better than a running sewer. The villagers were undernourished, sick from drinking the water and the infant mortality rate was beyond criminal. The local men who had any work at all, usually walked the twenty miles to the nearest town, leaving at four a.m. every morning, worked all day for less than a dollar, then walked all the way back again.
He had co-opted one of the village men to help him. His name was Washington. He was a tall, skinny man in his late twenties. He and his wife had three children, the oldest about ten. Washington had told him, he had watched two of his children die before they were a year old. That was why he was willing to help.
Fagan brought in the equipment and a surveyor. They had drilled the first well, tapping into an underground, freshwater stream not far from the village. It was the first clean water that most of the children had ever tasted. They had used the well to feed an irrigation system. It was small at first but yielded a crop that first season.
He could still see Washington standing with his family and a wheelbarrow full of newly harvested maize and green cabbages, a proud grin on his face and streams of tears flooding down his cheeks. For the first time in his life, he could feed his family and ensure they had fresh water to drink. That was when Fagan knew he had come home. And every hour he was away he was wasting his life.
He drained his glass and looked out of the terminal window. He could see the aircraft sitting out on the runway, and the hills beyond were beginning to emerge out of the mist. The fog was clearing, so were his thoughts. He had made up his mind. He was going back to Africa, even if he had to buy the ticket himself. Luca would have to get someone else to execute his little schemes. And as for Cardinal Vogler, Fagan smiled at the thought.
Vogler could go to hell.
14
Parc Naturel, Régional du Perche, France.
The daylight was fading, and the investigation team had erected spotlights to let them work on into the night. The dense woodland and steep terrain made access difficult and had slowed things down. The scene of the incident was far enough away from the main road to prevent any curious passers by, but to be sure, the area had been cordoned off with bright yellow tape, and the entire perimeter was patrolled by uniformed police officers. The fire brigade had surveyed the scene and stopped the fire from spreading, but beyond that, there was nothing more they could do.
The forensic team had come out from Paris. It was late afternoon before they arrived. Then about an hour later another group had appeared and immediately mingled in with the first. One man, with a balding head and horn rimmed spectacles, stood at the back holding up a bright colored, golf umbrella. A slight drizzle had started in the last hour as if to add the final brushstrokes to the somber evening scene.