The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  Fagan nodded. “Then the fishing boat it is.” He picked up the wine bottle and divided what was left between their three glasses. He picked up his own glass and held it up. “Ari, thanks for everything.”

  Ari smiled. “I hope it was worth it.”

  It was a question Fagan had no answer to.

  They clinked their glasses as they met across the table, then each one sank it in a single gulp.

  Ari held out his hand to Frankie. “Let me have the SIG. You will not need it on the boat, and you will not be able to take it on the plane.”

  Frankie handed over the pistol.

  “Here, you better have this.” Fagan handed over the Jericho.

  Ari took the gun and examined it.

  “Israeli military issue. Where did you get this?”

  “Our reception committee on the mountain.”

  Ari studied the gun.

  “Joseph, you are a very interesting priest.”

  “I wasn’t always a priest.”

  “That does not surprise me. I think it is a good thing you are leaving.”

  46

  Haifa port, Israel.

  The fishing boat Captain’s name was Rahim. He was a Palestinian with a thick black beard and long curly hair. Ari introduced him as if he was his brother. They made a strange pair, the Muslim and the Jew, the Palestinian and the Israeli. Everything seemed all wrong, but at the same time, it seemed perfectly all right.

  Fagan shook the man’s hand. He had a firm, reassuring grip.

  “Ari and I understand each other. We have been looking after each other for a long time. Many years ago he saved my young brother’s life.” The Captain’s face broke into a wicked grin. “And I have done the same for him. Do not worry, you and the beautiful lady are safe on my boat.”

  Frankie and Ari hugged. “Give my love to Sami and the children. We will see each other soon, in better circumstances.”

  Fagan gripped Ari’s hand. “I don’t know where we’d be without your help.”

  “Take care of that lady. She is very important to me, and to all my family.”

  “Ari, most of the time she looks after me.”

  Ari laughed. “She’s been doing that for me for years.”

  The fishing boat was a stubby, rusting bucket with a main housing that stood tall from the deck. It had once been white, but the constant thrash of salt water had streaked it with great rusty stains. Fagan and Frankie stood at the rail and gave a last wave to Ari, as the engines juddered into life and the boat pulled away from the dock.

  “I noticed Ari didn’t ask any questions about what we had found,” Fagan said.

  “Ari knows when I have something to tell, I will.”

  “What is that — need to know?”

  Frankie shook her head and looked at Ari standing on the dock. “What you do not know, will not hurt you - I hope and pray.”

  They made their way below. One of the crew showed them to a cramped cabin. It had a pair of bunk beds, a sink in the corner, a tiny porthole on the far wall, and little else.

  “Spending the night with a woman, again,” Frankie said. “You are beginning to make a habit of this.”

  “I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.”

  Frankie climbed up onto the top bunk. “No worries, you are completely safe,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “I am exhausted.” She rolled over and promptly fell asleep.

  Fagan watched through the porthole as the lights of Haifa slowly faded, then stood for a moment studying Frankie as she slept. She lay on her back, a soft snore emanating from her slightly open mouth.

  There was a battle going on inside him, and he had no idea what the outcome would be.

  He stepped out of the cabin and headed up on to the deck. The Mediterranean undulated gently under the faint moonlight as he climbed up to the bridge and slid back the door.

  “Good evening.” Rahim was alone at the wheel. “There is coffee in the pot.” He nodded towards a coffee maker that appeared to be built into the infrastructure. “Help yourself.”

  Fagan filled a tin mug. “Do you want some?”

  “I am good.”

  Fagan stood beside him sipping the coffee. “You speak good English.”

  Rahim grinned, exposing a perfect set of white teeth. “I studied for four years at MIT and worked in the US for another two.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Electronic engineering.”

  “It seems a long way from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to skippering a fishing boat out here.”

  “The boat was my father’s. A few years ago he broke his leg. My brothers and cousins worked on the boat but were too young to take over. I came back to help out.”

  “Quite a sacrifice.”

  “I am a Palestinian, family is important to us. Only second in importance to Him.” He pointed a finger above his head. “I had to face up to my responsibilities. My father died soon after, and I stayed on. I guess I got to like it.”

  “Along with the extracurricular activities?”

  “Maybe that is what I like the most. What about you? Ari tells me you are a priest. What is a priest doing sneaking out of Israel?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

  “Forgive me for asking personal questions. You can tell me to mind my own business.”

  “You’re taking a big risk for us. You have a right to ask. I wish I could give you an answer, but I don’t really have one. I know what’s happened, but I don’t know why.”

  “Think nothing of it. You and the lady are friends of Ari, that makes you friends of mine.”

  “You and Ari seem a strange pair.”

  Rahim let out a laugh. “Oh yes, that we are. Me, a Palestinian and Ari, Israeli, but despite that, we are brothers. We have both held the other’s life in our hands. When that happens, you learn to trust a man.”

  “I know that. I was once a soldier.”

  “Somehow that does not surprise me.”

  “But things don’t always work out the way you planned.”

  “Only Allah knows the plan. Sometimes you have to listen to him to realize what you have to do. You should know that.”

  “Oh, I know it. I just don’t always heed it.”

  “Allah sends bad things into our lives so we can learn. Trust me. As a Palestinian, I understand that.”

  “And despite it all, you still keep your faith.”

  “Sometimes faith is all you have.”

  47

  Fontainebleau, France.

  It was late, but the lights in the Chateau were still on when Blanchet arrived from Paris to deliver the bad news.

  De Vaux met him in the grand hallway. They stood eye to eye, anger increasingly etching into De Vaux’s face as Blanchet told his story.

  “They have been to the monastery, and you let them get away?”

  “Mister De Vaux, they took out my best team. I have every available man out looking for them.”

  “I’m not interested in excuses Mister Blanchet. I want you to listen to me carefully. I need to know what they found out, who they have spoken to. I have made commitments that I do not intend to fail on. You have one chance, or I promise you there will not be a square inch of this planet on which you will be safe. The organization I represent will track you down and ensure that your last hours on this earth are far beyond any hell you have seen in your varied career.”

  Blanchet didn’t flinch. “I don’t take kindly to threats, Mister De Vaux.”

  De Vaux shook his head. “Oh, I can assure you, this is not a threat.” He took a deep breath then allowed his Gallic tone to soften. “But let us not talk about failure. I am a reasonable man. I am willing to pay you a bonus of one million dollars. All you have to do is track down Father Joseph Fagan and this woman, and bring them to me.”

  Blanchet was well used to De Vaux’s carrot and stick, and could always use a bonus.

  “We believe we have identified the woman. She is t
he French journalist’s sister, Francoise Lefevre. She’s also DGSE.”

  “I am aware of Miss Lefevre.”

  “I take it you have contacts at the Piscine,” Blanchet said, referring to the nickname of the DGSE Headquarters on the Boulevard Mortier in Paris.

  “Of course,” De Vaux said. “We tried to dispose of her earlier, but she managed to evade us. It would seem that it is time to reach out to them again.”

  St Peter’s Basilica, The Vatican.

  The Basilica was deserted, not surprisingly at that hour in the morning. Cardinal Vogler knelt on the marble tiles before the grand altar, the canopy of Bernini’s bronze Baldacchino di San Pietro rose majestically above him. He allowed himself to savor the peaceful serenity of this most holy place. Just being here had a certain dreamlike quality about it. It was the pinnacle of his whole life.

  From his earliest callings as a young boy in Heidelberg, through his first steps into the priesthood and his incredible journey from there on, he had dreamed about being here, in this spot. He had no ambitions to take the next step up, but it was God who decided who stepped into the shoes of the fisherman, who wore the holy ring. It was for everyone else to heed his word and follow on behind.

  Beneath where he knelt, was the holy tomb of Saint Peter, the first in the line of successors to lead this incredible institution. Was Peter, the Fisherman, speaking to him now from beyond the tomb? Was he reaching out, as the Church faced perhaps its greatest crisis, sending a message, a message of salvation?

  He put his hands together, closed his eyes, and prayed for strength and guidance. A persistent buzz in his trouser pocket shook him from his meditation. He got to his feet and answered the phone. He found himself holding his breath as the voice on the other end spoke to him.

  “I will be there directly,” he said and hung up the phone. He stood for a moment clutching a pillar of Bernini’s masterpiece. He could feel himself trembling. A crystal clear thought sat foremost in his mind.

  Has God just spoken to me?

  48

  Eastern Mediterranean Sea.

  It was still dark when Fagan opened his eyes, the steady thud of the engine vibrated softly through the cabin. He climbed off the bed and moved across to look out through the tiny porthole. A barely discernible light was infusing into the sky in the distance. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he looked back into the cabin. He could make out Frankie, still sleeping on the upper bunk. He pushed aside the troubling thought that sprang into his mind and stepped out into the narrow passageway and went exploring.

  He opened a door and found a shower and toilet. He stepped inside. There was no lock on the door. A grubby towel hung on a rail behind it. He undressed and stood there, the deck vibrating and swaying beneath his feet, looking at the face that studied him through the cracked and grimy mirror.

  Who was this man, with almost a week’s beard on his face? Was he trying to hide what was beneath? He was sure that all the events of the last few days were etched there. But more than that. Was there something else?

  Was his past showing through?

  The shower was barely big enough to stand up in, and the water that trickled out of the faucet was lukewarm. But it felt good to wash away the grime. Too bad there wasn’t a shower for the soul.

  Twenty minutes later he stepped out, maybe not a new man, but ready to take the next step. When he returned to the cabin, Frankie was sitting up on the bunk, her legs dangling over the side.

  “I feel like shit. Ari was right about the wine. It is probably powering this boat.”

  “Here drink this.” Fagan handed over a steaming mug of coffee. “I found a fresh pot in the galley.”

  Frankie sipped at it gratefully. “Where are we?”

  “Rahim says we’ll be arriving in about an hour.”

  “You look in better shape than me.”

  “There’s a shower down the passageway. It’s cramped, the water’s cold, and I’m not sure where the towel came from.”

  Frankie smiled. “I used to be a girl scout.” She climbed down from the bunk and headed for the door.

  “By the way, how’s your singing voice?”

  Frankie gave him a look as if he was crazy.

  “There’s no lock on the bathroom door.”

  Half an hour later Frankie appeared beside him out on deck.

  “You’re looking better.”

  “I just wish I had some new clothes.”

  “I thought you were a Girl Scout?”

  She flashed him a cheeky smile.

  Out across the water, land was visible against the brightening sky, no more than a couple of miles away.

  “So, what is our plan?” Frankie said.

  “Simple. I need to get to the Holy Father and tell him all we know. Even if we don’t have all the answers.”

  “Do you think they will let you get anywhere near him?”

  “I’m going to turn myself in.”

  “You are crazy.”

  “I’ll get Commissario Di Mateo to bring me in. He’s the head of the Holy Father’s security. I know Julio, he’s a good man, an honest man, and he’s totally dedicated to the Holy Father. He’ll get me to the Holy Father, and the Holy Father will make sure I get a fair hearing.”

  “It will be a risk.”

  “It’s a risk I have to take. If William can expose this scroll as a fake, it will ease the pressure on him. He’ll be able to push back De Vaux’s cronies, who are fighting him in the Curia, and maybe he can make some progress. Maybe it’s the impetus he needs to finally get his Reach-Out program up and running.”

  Frankie looked at him and gave him a faint smile. “He is very special to you. I can see that.”

  “Not just to me. William is on this earth to make a difference. I guess I knew that from the first time I met him. I need to make sure he is allowed to do that.”

  “That does not mean being reckless.”

  “I’m sure Luca gave his life protecting the Holy Father so he could be allowed to do what he had to do. And if I have to do the same.” Fagan looked down into the churning dark water. “Then so be it.”

  “And what am I supposed to be doing while all this is going on?”

  “You need to find Walter. If anything goes wrong, it will be up to you and him.”

  Larnaca, Cyprus.

  They docked in the main fishing port at Larnaca on the island of Cyprus. Rahim had said it was easier to slip ashore here than in any of the smaller fishing ports where newcomers stood out. They said their goodbyes and headed ashore.

  No one seemed to take any notice of them amidst the rush of tourists, the traffic, and the daily bustle of the fishing community. They found a taxi that dropped them in front of the main terminal at Larnaca airport.

  “I will try to get some tickets,” Frankie said as they walked in. “Give me your Vatican passport and wait for me over there.” She indicated a plastic bench seat over by the wall. “And do not move.”

  “What are you going to use for money? I don’t think it would be a good idea to use one of your credits cards.”

  “Unless you have one of these.” She held up what looked like a gold credit card. “It is in my mother’s name, paid from a special account I have in the same name.”

  “Quite the little rich girl.”

  “My father left both Jean-Claude and me well provided for. Sometimes it pays to have independent means.”

  “So how did you get a bank account and a credit card in your mother’s name?”

  “I have a friend who does that kind of thing.”

  “And I supposed you have a passport in the same name.”

  Frankie flashed a smile.

  “Some friend.”

  “He did it as a favor.”

  Fagan held up a hand. “Spare me the details.”

  Frankie gave a pout and disappeared into the terminal. Fagan wandered over and sat down. He fully expected a police car to screech to a halt in front of him at any moment.

  I
t seemed like an age before Frankie reappeared.

  “We are in luck. There is a flight to Rome in just over two hours.”

  “Any problems?”

  “None at all.”

  “They’re probably waiting for us to go through immigration.”

  “Shall we find out?”

  The queue was twenty deep when they arrived at the passport control. But Fagan could see the man on the desk was waving passengers through as soon as he saw the cover on their passport.

  Frankie went first. The man waved her through. Fagan stepped forward and held out his passport. A frown appeared on the official’s face. He indicated with his finger for Fagan to hand it over. Fagan did as he was asked.

  This was it, the end of the road.

  The official studied the cover, then flipped through the pages. He looked at Fagan, then smiled. “Very nice. First time I’ve seen one of these.” He handed back the passport. “Have a nice trip.”

  Frankie stood waiting on the other side as he walked through.

  “Problem?”

  “No, it was his first time with a Vatican passport. Apparently, it’s very nice. Come on. I need a drink.”

  They headed into the departure lounge and found the bar.

  “I need the little girl’s room,” Frankie said and wandered off.

  Fagan sat on one of the bar stools and ordered a double Jameson’s. He let the barman put in one lump of ice then took a sip, allowing the cool whiskey to run across his tongue. It felt good. It felt more than good. The flat screen on the wall behind the bar was showing CNN. It seemed the world was normal again. Well, for everyone else.

  The screen switched.

  Suddenly something had a tight grip on Fagan’s chest and was squeezing, hard. He tried to stand but his legs were not working, and he had to grab hold of the bar.

  “Joseph?” Frankie appeared behind him. “Are you alright?”

  Fagan tried to speak but his mind was a churning mess, his eye still riveted to the TV screen.