by Neil Howarth
24
Rome, Italy.
He was a thickset man of medium height, with a week’s stubble on his face, and his head. He stood at the bar with a small espresso and a shot glass of grappa beside it. His cell phone buzzed on the bar top.
He picked it up and answered with a brief “Si.”
He didn’t say much more, mostly he listened. Eventually, he placed the phone back on the bar and reached for the grappa. He sunk it in a single swallow.
“Who was it?” His companion asked.
“Who do think?”
“Cardinal Sin?” The man sniggered at their personal nickname for their contact in the Vatican.
The first man ignored him.
“He’s been talking to Carlo. He wants us to meet him at some church in Trastevere.”
“Don’t you think we should call the boss?”
“You want to call Blanchet, and explain to him why we are not doing what he told us to do? Which, if you recall, little brother, was to take our orders from Cardinal Sin.”
He finally let himself in on the joke and smiled.
“Don’t worry, you are working for the Vatican, so at least you will go to heaven.”
25
Trastevere, Rome.
Fagan sat in a small bar, a glass of red wine in front of him, staring through the window and down the hill to the building on the edge of the small square at the bottom. Could there be some answers there?
The old church of San Cecile della Scala was conveniently close to Luca’s apartment and had been his place of worship ever since he had moved here, shortly after William had been appointed Carmalengo to the previous Pontiff. And with the church, Luca had found Father Luigi. And in him, he had found his priest, his chess opponent, and co-drinker. He also found his confessor.
Luca used the confessional like therapy. It allowed him to bare his soul, expose his flaws, his failings. Luca often said he walked a tightrope between heaven and hell. The confessional was his hotline to God. If Luca wanted to keep a secret but still felt he needed to discuss it with someone, what better place to do that than within the trust and security of the confessional?
But if Luca had said anything to the priest that was inside the confessional, it would be sacrosanct, confidential, as if it had never been said. But maybe with Luca dead, and under questionable circumstances, the priest could be persuaded to break that confidentiality. Or perhaps they had spoken outside of the confessional, maybe in this bar over a glass of wine. A confidence shared with a friend.
Maybe.
At the moment, maybes were all he had.
People were leaving the church and disappearing into the darkened streets. He left a couple of euros on the table and headed down the hill. The nerves in his neck and back were on edge, every instinct that had kept him alive in his past life, was prodding at him. He stopped and turned his head, staring back into the half lit darkness. He saw nothing, but then he didn’t expect to.
It did not mean there was no one there.
He reached the bottom of the hill and crossed the cobbled square. He entered the church by the main door. It creaked as he pushed it open. He caught the sweet smell of incense as he stepped inside. A single candle illuminated the faces of two alabaster cherubs, smiling above the holy water font. Fagan dipped his fingers in the cool water and crossed himself, then uttered a simple blessing.
More candles burned down by the altar, and in the outer aisles. The church seemed deserted, which suited him fine. He moved down the central aisle, his fingers gently brushing the backs of the pews as he walked. He knelt facing the altar and recited a short prayer. He hoped that God would be understanding.
He let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He could make out the cross passage running west to east. A single candle illuminated what he was looking for, over in a side area off the central nave. There was no sign of any sinners and no sign of Father Luigi. A rectangular card propped up in a candleholder told him the priest would be back in ten minutes. Fagan had never met Father Luigi, but Luca always spoke of him with great respect and deep affection. He hoped that he could rely on him now.
Fagan studied the confessional box. Childhood memories stirred deep within him. Its attraction proved too much. He slipped inside and sat down on the wooden bench. He always felt much more comfortable sitting on this side, the sinner’s side, rather than on the business side. Which maybe got to the root of his problem.
When he was a kid, his mother always insisted that he went at least once a week. The crazy thing was, once he was inside he could never lie, no matter how hard he tried. So every week he recounted his sins and the priest tutted and complained, told him how God would punish him if he did not come back to the straight and narrow. He would receive his penance, but he was sure the Priest knew he was a hopeless case.
He still remembered that day, standing up in juvenile court, a cop on either side of him. He never saw himself as a criminal. It was really all about getting girls. Back then they still had drive-in movies. If you wanted to take a girl, you needed a car. The rich kids borrowed their parents’ cars, but Fagan and his buddies couldn’t do that. So they chose the next best alternative - steal one. It was only for the night, and he always gave it back. Unfortunately, the cops had lifted him while he was still making out with Fiona Johnson. Regrettably, before he was able to realize the promise in her eyes.
Father O’Mahony had appeared in court and given him a reference, said he was a good boy who had just lost his way and needed guidance. He only found out later that the judge, after listening to the evidence and the testimony, had looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk, it was a list of the accused for that session. Against Fagan’s name was a solitary tick in pencil.
‘Joseph Michael Fagan, you have been found guilty of stealing an automobile, and as you are already seventeen, I can send you to prison for three years. However, I am inclined to listen to the testimony of Father O’Mahony and give you a second chance. All charges will be dropped on condition that you leave this courthouse accompanied by Chief Petty Officer Masters, and immediately enlist in the United States Navy.’
Fagan remembered looking at the thickset man across the courtroom, dressed in Naval uniform. It turned out that particular day was the Navy’s day. The sailor had smiled as Fagan caught his eye. But there was no humor there, none at all. Sometimes, looking back, he wondered if he would have been better off going to jail.
A noise on the far side of the nave brought him back to reality. He heard the door on the other side of the confessional open, followed by the sound of the priest sitting down. The divider slid open, casting a dim glow through the fine mesh screen between them. There was a pause then a voice on the other side spoke. The Priest’s voice sounded far away. His Italian had a strange lilt to it.
“Tell me, what troubles you?”
A strange calm settled over Fagan. This was after all Luca’s confessional. He could almost feel the connection. It was as if he was caught up in the dark magic of this place, pulled in by its mystical spell. Fagan was already that young boy again. And, like all those years before, somehow unable to resist the urge to confess.
“Forgive me, Father, I have sinned. It is a week since my last confession.” Something tugged at his gut as he recalled that confession a week ago, to Luca.
“Tell me about your sin,” the priest said.
“I was responsible for the death of my friend.” He had said the words almost before he knew.
“That is a very serious thing. What did you do?” The priest’s voice was no more than a whisper.
The confessional had him now. The urge to talk was irresistible. “It is what I didn’t do. I wasn’t there to help him when he was killed.”
“Now my son, you cannot blame yourself. Who was this friend of yours who died? Why don’t you tell me about him.”
“I believe you knew him. Father Luca Baldini.”
There was a pause. “Of course, Father Luca, I knew him well. It was very sad. Bu
t, Father Luca’s death was a tragic accident.”
“I have reason to believe it was no accident. Luca was murdered.”
The priest paused then spoke again. “That is a serious allegation, are you sure of this?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“Have you spoken to the authorities?”
“Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first, perhaps outside of the confessional.”
The priest was silent again, then, “very well, but I am not sure what I can tell you.”
“At least we can talk about a departed friend.”
“That is true, but first, Joseph, I want you to close your eyes and visualize Father Luca, and we will pray for him together.”
Fagan caught the slight creak of the door on the other side, as if the priest had left. Or someone else had entered. Fagan was already moving before he even consciously registered that the priest had used his name, though he had not said who he was, and the priest had never met him. He ducked, pushing out through the door and dived low. He heard no gunshots, only the dull thud of bullets punching through the wooden partition in the center of the confessional, as he hit the floor. His back smacked into a pew, and he scrambled to his feet.
He was already moving forward as a large figure appeared around the corner of the confessional, a gun held out in from of him, a silencer protruding from its end.
This was no priest.
Fagan stepped in, his hand going for the gun and letting the momentum carry him forward. He turned at the last moment, and his shoulder smacked into his assailant with every ounce of strength he had. The man’s body was firm and toned. They collided with the solid wood of the confessional and Fagan got a grip on the wrist with the gun. He banged it hard against the woodwork. The man cursed in gutter Italian, as the gun clattered off into the darkness. His free hand swung up and slapped Fagan hard across the ear with a loud thunderclap. It was as if lightning had exploded inside his head. A fist drove into his ribs, and he went down. Fagan’s instincts kicked in. He rolled, moving as far away from his attacker as fast as he could. He scrambled back to his feet and turned to meet him.
The man came at him, a wicked stiletto blade in his hand. Fagan backed away but came up against the wall. His assailant stepped in and slashed at him in a wide arc. Fagan did the only thing he could. He dropped to the floor, then dived to his left and rolled as fast as he could. The man came after him in long, purposeful strides. Fagan hit the corner of the wall. The man knew he was not going anywhere. Fagan pressed his hands against the floor, ready to spring forward beneath the next attack. His fingers touched something in the darkness.
The man came in for the kill. Fagan’s hand closed around his find, and he swept up his arm. Muscle memory and instinct took over as he squeezed the trigger. Two neat holes appeared in the center of the man’s forehead. He stood there as if surprised that his life had been suddenly snatched away, then he collapsed on the floor.
Fagan stared at the gun in his hand, snug and comfortable. All the years of hiding it, fearing it would one day return like a regressed malignant tumor. And when it did, there it was - efficient, ruthless, and deadly as ever. He threw the gun away in disgust. It clattered somewhere in the darkness.
He squatted there, against the wall, letting his heart race, and the enormity of what he had just done tear at his soul. Then reality kicked in.
His eyes darted around the darkened interior. Something moved on the far side of the confessional. Fagan got to his feet and moved towards it. Up ahead a figure hurried towards the door. Fagan went after it. Something soft caught his foot, and he pitched forward, hitting the floor. He rolled over and came up fast, his hands ready to fend off any attack. But nothing moved. He pulled out the flashlight from his pocket. It illuminated the unconscious figure of a man. He was about Luca’s age, dressed in the dog collar and vestments of a priest. Fagan guessed this was Father Luigi.
He felt for a pulse in the old man’s neck. A light flutter pulsed gently against his finger. There was no outward sign of injuries. Fagan glanced towards the main door, the figure, whoever it was, had already gone. Fagan’s hands quickly patted down the priest’s body. He found the lump he was looking for and dug out a cellphone. Luckily it had no security lock.
“Ambulance,” he said in his best Italian when the operator answered. He gave the address. “Hurry.”
He glanced down at the old priest then hurriedly made the sign of the cross and touched his fingertips to the old man’s forehead.
“May the Lord keep you safe.”
He placed the phone, still connected, on the priest’s chest and stood up. This time he made it to the door.
There was no sign of the figure he’d been pursuing. He stepped out and walked quickly across the square. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he knew he needed to get as far away from here as possible.
A car swept into view and slowed as it approached the church. Its headlights illuminated Fagan, alone, in the middle of the square. It suddenly accelerated towards him with a shriek of its tires. Fagan took off at a sprint. At the far side of the square, an alley ran off to the left, pedestrian bollards blocking the way to any cars. Fagan raced through. Brakes squealed, and doors slammed behind him, then something buzzed angrily past his head, ricocheting off the wall in front of him. He ducked instinctively then darted to his left as the alley made an abrupt turn. The sudden roar of an engine reverberated behind him, followed by a screech of protesting rubber, a cry, and a clatter, then a single headlight lit up the alley. Fagan searched desperately for an exit, but only high stone walls surrounded him. A motorcycle roared past him then screeched to a halt, sliding to block his way.
Fagan stopped. The rider pulled up the smoked visor of a black crash helmet. “I thought you might need a lift.”
Fagan was stunned. He only vaguely remembered the name, but he certainly remembered the face. The lady from the island, the one who had run out and left him at the abbey.
“Miss Lefevre,” he said, unable to say anything else.
“Well, are you going to wait for them to take another shot?”
Fagan glanced back down the alley then jumped on the back of the bike. She let out the clutch and opened the throttle with a great throaty roar. The bike leaped forward in a wild, wide slide, flirting tantalizingly close to the wall, and roared off down the alley.
26
Tivoli, Tiburtini Hills, Rome.
Fagan sat at a wooden table on the edge of the square, staring out across the darkened hillside. The city of Rome glowed in the distant valley below, like the dying embers of a campfire. On any other day, this was a favorite bolthole of his. But not today. Today he saw only a face, the face of a dead man. It mattered little that the man was trying to kill him. He had broken his most solemn vow.
He could still feel the gun in his hand, snug against his palm. When he had pulled the trigger, that professional double tap, he had not thought about it, it was pure instinct. Deep down he had always known that part of him would never go away.
“Well?” The woman sat across from him.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to stare out there all night?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Fagan turned to face her. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, that is gratitude.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
She had removed her helmet, and when she had shook her head, raven hair danced across her shoulders. She shrugged and fixed him with her liquid brown eyes. “I expected someone to try to kill you. It seems I was right.”
“You have very strange intuition. How did you find me anyway? Were you following me?”
“Not in the conventional sense.” She pulled out her cellphone, which displayed an app with a map. In the middle was a blue dot. “There you are.”
Fagan stared at it, then shook his head. “Outside the Vatican, this morning.” Fagan pointed a finger a
t her. “You ran into me and planted a bug on me?”
The woman smiled. She reached out and ran her fingers down his lapel. “There we go.” She held up a tiny device between her thumb and finger. “Quite beautiful don’t you think?”
“The kind of device not just anyone can get hold of?”
“And you would know that?”
“Just who are you?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
A rolling clatter echoed off the walls on three sides of the square, breaking the deadlock, as a large figure perched on an ancient motor scooter wobbled across the square towards them. The driver parked it on the cobbles, and moments later Walter appeared breathlessly in front of them.
“You called, Master.”
“Walter, still riding that ancient death trap?”
“That sir,” Walter pointed towards the scooter. “Is a 1966 Vespa, a work of art. I lovingly restored her myself, with a few special additions. She might not be up to much on the open road, but on the streets of Rome I can guarantee she will outrun anything.” Walter shrugged. “Well almost.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Just don’t say hurtful things about her. She’s sensitive.”
Fagan shook his head. “So, what did you find out?”
A broad smile spread across Walter’s face as he noticed the woman. “Joseph, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
She stood up, the black leather biker suit leaving little to the imagination, and held out her hand. “Francoise Lefevre,” she said. “But my friends call me Frankie.”
Walter took her hand and broke into a wide grin.
“Here uninvited I might add.” Fagan threw in.
Frankie squeezed Walter’s hand. “Is he always this ungrateful when someone has just saved his life.”