by Neil Howarth
The man remained at the back, receiving regular updates from the team, but not appearing to direct anything. He spoke from time to time on his cell phone but for the most part stood with the rain dripping from his umbrella, watching the scene below him.
The car, a sports Audi, was unrecognizable, a burnt out lump of twisted metal, jammed in between the trees and a cleft in the rock. It appeared that a number plate had dislodged on the first impact and had been found in a tree. This had enabled the initial identification. The forensic team had taken samples and rushed them back to the lab in Paris. The area had been measured, sifted, photographed, and labeled.
The head of the second team trudged up the hill to speak to his boss who was still holding the umbrella over his head, even though the rain had stopped.
“We have just had word back from the lab, sir. The whole inside of the car has been checked, as well as all the surrounding area. The evidence is clear. There is no body.”
The man under the umbrella seemed to ponder that for a moment.
“Let us keep that to ourselves.”
15
Rome, Italy.
It was almost seven in the evening when the plane landed at Fiumicino airport. Fagan had only carry-on luggage, so he beat the crowd and walked out into the terminal. A tall, thin man dressed in a black cassock and a Roman collar regarded him on the edge of the waiting crowd.
“Father Julius,” Fagan said as he approached him. “How nice of you to come and meet me.”
Father Julius Mengen swept his weasel eyes over Fagan as if he had tasted something mildly unpleasant. “I have a car waiting,” he said and headed for the exit.
Fagan watched his departing back. Cardinal Vogler’s ears and eyes sent to meet him in an official car. He was in even bigger shit than he thought.
Mengen didn’t say anything on the journey, which was his style. Cardinal Vogler engaged him to watch and listen, not to speak.
Traffic, even at this time, was heavy and it was almost eight thirty before they drove past the entrance to the Piazza San Pietro, and continued on to their destination. Fagan knew the place though he had never had the dubious pleasure of going inside.
Cardinal Heinrich Vogler was the Prefect of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. Its offices were physically outside the walls of the Vatican, in the Palace of the Holy Office. Some said for a good reason. It didn’t always have such a fancy title. Originally it had a much simpler name. In ancient days they had simply called it - The Inquisition.
They turned into the Piazza del Santo Ufficio and stopped at the main door of the Palace of the Holy Office. Mengen got out first and headed for the door. Fagan stepped out and looked around. Vatican City seemed somehow tranquil as night wrapped it in her arms - the calm before the storm. Maybe he could make a run for it. He had a vision of himself, legging it up the Via di Porta Cavalleggeri, with the Swiss Guards in full regalia, waving their pikes in close pursuit. He shook his head and smiled at the thought, then followed Mengen inside.
Mengen led the way to Cardinal Vogler’s office on the second floor. It had a grand outer office trimmed with delicate gold leaf and hung with fine, painted masterpieces. A priest sat at a desk speaking on the phone. He looked up as they approached, spoke into the phone, then put it down.
“Father Fagan, you may go straight in.”
Fagan looked at Mengen. “Not joining us, Julius?”
Mengen gave him a tight lipped smile and stepped aside.
Fagan entered through the large ornate doors. It was the first time he had ever been in this grand and ancient place. The way things seemed, it could well be his last. If the outer office was grand, the inner office was palatial. A high, vaulted ceiling edged in gold leaf, was adorned with beautiful paintings of winged cherubs and saintly bearded figures. Fagan reckoned they were Bernini or maybe even Michelangelo himself. The walls were hung with more exquisite paintings. Each one looked a priceless masterpiece. Yes, this was the office of the Holy Inquisition.
Cardinal Vogler stood at the far side of the room, gazing out through the grand Palladian windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Beyond was a magnificent view of St Peter’s Basilica, lit up against the night sky.
Fagan speculated if he could sell the art in this place, how many projects could he fund in Africa, how many wells could he sink, how many lives could he save.
Cardinal Vogler turned to look at him, a man as far from the people in those villages in Africa as could possibly be conceived. He was dressed in fine silk Cardinal robes of red and black, and on his head was a small, bright red zucchetto.
“Father Fagan, so glad you could join us.” The Cardinal was not amused.
Fagan wasn’t sure who constituted the ‘us’, he was referring to. But speaking of us, where was Luca in his hour of need.
“Your Eminence,” Fagan gave him his best smile.
“Silence.” Vogler cut him off. “Not a single word. I do not want excuses or explanations. The damage is done. You have used the name of this holy office, of the Holy Father himself, in some crazy scheme that has ended in a young monk losing his life. Apart from the tragedy of that young man, the good name of the Vatican has been besmirched by your reckless behavior.”
Fagan wanted to point out that it didn’t need him to do that.
“Your Eminence, it wasn’t like that.”
“I told you not to speak.”
Fagan tried holding back while Vogler ranted on. But holding his tongue was never his way. Vogler paused in his rant, and Fagan chose his opportunity to butt in.
“With respect, your Eminence. If you won’t listen to me, if you’re not interested to hear the truth, then go ahead, do what you have to do.”
Cardinal Vogler’s face seethed white with rage, but Fagan could see something was holding him back.
“Father Fagan, if I had my way, you would be out on the street as plain Joseph Fagan, with nothing to support you, left to make your own peace with God. And if He followed my recommendations, He would cast you into hell. However,” he said shaking his head as if not believing what he was about to say. “I am persuaded,” he paused as if to take a better grip on himself, “that you can continue to contribute in your own individualistic fashion, by returning to Africa on the next available flight.”
Fagan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Relief coursed through his body. Going back to Africa. Then it struck him, and he wanted to laugh out loud. Luca, you conniving old Sicilian bastard. He had finally come through, as always, sitting in the background pulling the strings. Fagan had to struggle to hold back a grin. He hadn’t really believed that Luca would leave him in the shit - not really.
“My assistant, in the outer office, has your ticket.” Vogler continued.
Fagan wasn’t listening. He just wanted out now. A few glasses of Sicilian rotgut with Luca at Enzo’s, a few hugs and kisses, and he would be on his way - Arrivederci.
Vogler had stopped speaking. He was looking at him in a strange way. Fagan pulled himself away from his celebration. The inquisition wasn’t over yet.
Vogler had a strange, unsettling look on his face. Fagan felt a slight nudge of uncertainty poke at his insides.
Vogler’s anger was now all gone. “I am afraid I have some painful news.”
An icy cold hand touched Fagan’s neck, and a shiver passed all the way down his back.
“I realize that you had a special relationship with Father Luca.”
Fagan wanted to stop Vogler from speaking, from saying anything more.
“Unfortunately, late last night, Father Luca was involved in an accident. Apparently, he tripped while descending some steps from his favorite drinking establishment. The medical examiner informs us that his neck was broken. Mercifully he would have died instantly.”
Fagan tried to speak, but his brain could find no words. This was not happening. Not Luca. He was protected by God himself. Eventually, he managed to get his tongue to work. “I don’t understand it. Luca had the constitution of
an ox. He wouldn’t trip and fall.”
“Father Luca had a history of drinking, which it would seem was getting worse. Unfortunately, in those circumstances, events like this become almost inevitable.”
“Bullshit, you didn’t know the man.”
“I will not hear language like that in this office.” Vogler was again white faced. “We have said all we have to say. You have your orders.” He pressed a button on the desk in front of him. Almost immediately the door to the outer office opened, and Father Mengen stood there.
“Father Fagan is ready to leave.”
“But what about the funeral?” Fagan stood his ground.
“That will be arranged. You may send flowers - from Africa.”
“I demand to see the Holy Father.”
“You will demand nothing.” Vogler walked around the desk and stood in front of Fagan. His ice grey eyes bore into him. You may have been friends with William Tsonga, a Catholic Priest, but that man no longer exists. Pope Salus is a completely different person, he is directed by God himself. Forget him, your friend William, like Father Luca, is gone.”
16
Vatican City, Rome.
Fagan stood outside a small chapel back inside the walls of the Vatican, still holding the air ticket that Mengen had thrust into his hand as he had stumbled out of Vogler’s office. This chapel was a favorite of Luca’s, only a few steps from his office. Fagan stepped inside. It was deserted. Candles flickered on the altar, the only light in the place. Fagan dropped to his knees in the middle of the aisle and clasped his hands together. He wanted an answer, just a simple answer - why? But as always the response was silence.
Before he had become a priest he had accepted God without a thought, even in the worst times. But back then, God just had to be there. But now he was a priest, he was meant to communicate directly with him. Maybe that was his own failure. He had often talked to Luca about it, about his crisis of faith. Could he be a priest and still have doubts? But Luca had always smiled in that knowing way of his and told him that this was the nature of faith. It was good to have doubts. He just needed to have trust. God would reveal himself in his own time, and on that day, he would know the truth.
But why couldn’t he answer him now? How could there be a world without Luca? Fagan couldn’t conceive it. Luca, who had pushed, connived, and bullied him into everything he had done since that first day when William had delivered him to his door bleeding like a stuck pig. Luca had given him sanctuary, pulled him back from his own personal darkness, and showed him there was a way. Despite all the times they had argued, all the times he had cursed him, there were so many more times they had laughed, drunk themselves stupid, and in the end succeeded at whatever crazy scheme Luca had thought up. Until now.
Fagan opened his eyes. There was still no answer, but somehow there was a strange comfort in kneeling alone in the darkness. He uttered a short prayer, asking God to take good care of his friend.
He wandered out and found himself standing in front of the Apostolic Palace. The Papal Apartments were on the top floor. He was tempted to go up and knock on the door. But he knew he would never get near. And anyway, deep inside he knew that Vogler was right. William was a different person now. He had his own mission, his own path.
He kept on walking. Luca’s office was tucked away in a building behind the Vatican library. He could have had a nice plush office in the central administration, but being tucked away out of sight suited Luca. He still couldn’t believe he wouldn’t be waiting for him inside, or at least have left him a scribbled note to meet him at Enzo’s bar.
The door was wide open, its usual state. It was never locked. He doubted Luca even had a key. He wasn’t quite sure why he was here, it just seemed the natural place to be. He didn’t switch on the light, but stood in the darkness, the pale yellow glow from an outside streetlight casting a low illumination into the room. It was a surprisingly large office, a row of metal filing cabinets lined one entire wall. Despite the Vatican’s extensive computerization, Luca still believed in keeping everything on paper, in files. What would happen to all this now?
Fagan caught the harsh, stale smell of Luca’s tobacco, still hanging in the air. He realized this could be the last time he stood in this place. Well so be it.
He turned to leave, then stopped. He wasn’t sure if he had heard it, like a low sniffle. He turned back. His eyes peered into the shadows. He slowly moved back towards the door. His hand went out behind him, his fingertips reaching out in the darkness. Light flooded into the room as he flicked on the switch. A large figure sat over in the corner, he looked up, blinking in the brightness of the light.
“Walter?”
“Aye, Joseph. It’s me.”
Walter McGeechan was another of Luca’s stray souls, brought in out of the wilderness. Walter and Fagan were at seminary together, and if what Cardinal Vogler had said about the Holy Father was true, then Walter was the only friend he had left in the world.
He spoke with a thick Scottish accent that gave away his Glasgow roots. The clothes he wore matched the state of his body, abundant with many rolls, but his dog collar was white and clean. He was a few years younger than Fagan but tonight the years were showing. His face was haggard, and he had not shaven that day. His eyes were red and still wet with tears.
“I was just sitting here thinking about him.”
Fagan nodded. “Yeah, I was doing the same thing, until I saw you. You scared the holy shit out of me.”
“It’s about time something did.”
Walter was Luca’s technical assistant, gofer, factotum, and general dogsbody. But he had been devoted to him. Many saw just a curly haired, jolly, fat man, but they were missing a sharp, incisive mind, and a set of incredibly diverse skills. It was difficult to imagine how he had accumulated them and still ended up a priest.
Walter gave an embarrassed grin which faded into a grimace. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Fagan walked over and put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We have to go on.”
Walter’s chubby face broke into a wry grin. “Yeah I know, that’s what Luca would have wanted - bullshit.” His voice boomed across the office. “There is no life without Luca, no world. He saved my life and prevented my soul from being damned into hell. Maybe I’ll go back to Glasgow and finish off what Luca stopped me from doing all those years ago.”
“He’ll come back and haunt you.”
“Promise?” Walter’s jowls wrinkled into a wide grin. He gave a shrug of his huge shoulders. “I guess I’ll have to carry on. I’ve got no choice.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“The official word is, he came out of Enzo’s the worse for drink and tripped and fell down the stairs. We both know that’s total bollocks. Luca has drunk the pair of us under the table many times and still been able to walk a straight line, like a ballet dancer with his eyes closed. But from what I hear the police and the Vatican are keen to see the case closed.”
“Come on.” Fagan held out a hand. “I’m sure Luca would prefer us celebrating his life not mourning it. We know where he would prefer us to be.”
17
Trastevere, Rome
It was a short stroll through the cobbled back streets to Luca’s favorite watering hole. They walked in silence, as if unwilling to intrude on the other’s thoughts. Enzo’s bar was in the district of Trastevere, on the west bank of the river Tiber. Luca had an apartment close by which had suited him. All the essential things in his life were just a short walk apart - church, bar, and bed.
A tearful Maria came out from behind the bar and greeted them as they walked in. She doled out hugs and wet kisses, then got them seated at a table outside the front door. They both appreciated the fresh air and the separation from the crowded bar. She disappeared and returned with a bottle of Luca’s favorite Sicilian red wine and two glasses. She filled their glasses and put the bottle on the table.
“On the house. In memory of Padre Lu
ca, God bless him.” She made the sign of the cross and dissolved into tears. She dabbed her eyes with an old bar rag and disappeared back inside.
“We need to talk to her, find out what happened here last night,” Fagan said.
“I already did. And the answer is nothing. Just a normal night for Luca. He didn’t drink any more than normal, and he left at his normal time.” Walter gave a sad faced shrug. “We have to ask ourselves, are we suspecting the worst here, because we can’t believe he’s gone? Luca was larger than life. As far as we were concerned, he was indestructible. But at the end of the day, he was just a man. His time came, as it comes to every one of us.”
Fagan wanted to argue, but maybe Walter was right. Maybe none of this was connected.
Walter’s coat gaped open, and Fagan noticed his T-shirt for the first time. It was black with a white skull and crossbones and a halo above. Beneath in bold red letters was spelled the word ‘CRACKER’.
“What’s with the T-shirt?”
Walter’s face brightened. “The Holy Father is fighting a war, both outside the church and inside it. I persuaded Luca we needed to modernize, we needed to have our ear to the ground, we needed intelligence. So we created a cyber intelligence group. I have some friends, out on the edges you might say, living in the dark shadows of the web.” He paused for theatrical effect.
“Walter?” Fagan gave him a look. Walter always liked to tell his tales as if he was telling ghost stories to the boy scouts sitting around a campfire.
The big man shrugged. “Anyway, I co-opted them in. We have quite a merry crowd, and I am their illustrious leader. We are the celestial cyber warriors, the hackers of Christ. We are The Crackers.”
Fagan shook his head. “I suppose the title was your idea?”
“Do you like it? We’ve been doing some great stuff. It’s kind of a rehash of some things from my bad old days when I was hacking Wall Street.” Walter twitched his brow. “Luca always told me that one day it would come in handy. Anyway, we track down any sniff of a problem, gather the evidence, then allow the powers that be to deal with it and limit the damage.”