The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  Frankie glanced up at where he was looking, and the shock hit her.

  “Oh my God.”

  Displayed on the television screen in large, red letters, blazoned across a familiar picture of his handsome face, were the words -

  Pope Salus I, dies of heart attack.

  49

  Alitalia Flight, Larnaca to Rome.

  The flight to Rome was a blur. William’s face didn’t leave him. The man he had rescued, the man who had saved his soul. He had been drawn to him since the first time they had met. William had an aura about him, an energy, that he could not believe had been snuffed out.

  William was a man who had known heartache and pain in his life. He had traveled a long way on his journey to the Pontiff’s chair. It always seemed to Fagan that William had great purpose, even from the first time they had met, all those years ago in that burning African village.

  William’s parents were both killed in the uprisings that had preceded the Biafran war in his native Nigeria, in the late 1960s. William had been taken by the rebels, as a boy of thirteen, given a rifle, and turned into a soldier. By the time he was fifteen he was a battled hardened infantryman.

  Until the day a Spanish missionary priest appeared in his life.

  As a soldier, he had been trained to kill anyone who stood in his way, but this priest had shown no fear at all. He took him to a sanctuary for child soldiers. The priest recognized the inherent intelligence and sharp mind of the young man and had started his education. That had been the start of a very long road for William Tsonga.

  The priest’s name was Father Salus Rodrigues. He died a few years later still trying to protect his boys and give them a normal life. William, then already in seminary, had never forgotten him, and when he was asked to wear the Papal ring, he had taken the priest’s name in his memory and his honor.

  Fagan let the memories flick through his mind. He could not believe that William was gone.

  They landed at Fiumicino Airport. The immigration official spotted the Vatican passport and waved him through. Frankie passed through almost as easily. They had no checked luggage, so they walked out into the terminal and headed straight for the taxi stand.

  “So what are we going to do?” Frankie asked.

  Fagan had been asking himself the same question. “We have to find Walter.” He remembered Walter’s last words to him. “We’re going to see a man.”

  Marco stood over by the coffee counter, nursing a small espresso. He was dying for a cigarette, but his job was to stand there and watch the new arrivals. It wasn’t his favorite kind of job, but the money was good, and when the boss told you to do something, you did it.

  He took a sip of his coffee and almost choked as two people emerged from the baggage area and hurried straight towards the exit. He grabbed his phone from the countertop and punched the speed dial.

  “Gino, guess who just came through.” He whispered excitedly. “They are heading in your direction. Do you see them?”

  Gino was out by the taxi stand.

  “No Gino, not here. Just follow them, and don’t lose them. I will call the boss.”

  50

  Fontainebleau, France.

  “My congratulations, Dominic.”

  The large flat TV was mounted on the wall of Dominic De Vaux’s study. The quality of the video link was perfect. But despite the high definition, digital color, the face on the screen was pale.

  “Thank you, Grand Master, but as I said at our last meeting, this is only the beginning. We may have removed our obstacle, but I believe the problem remains. To get the desired effect, we have a number of pieces that need to slot into place.”

  “Dominic, I supported you because I believed in you. I still believe in you.”

  “I will not fail you, Grand Master.”

  “We have great expectations of you Dominic. I will not be around forever, and the next leader will need to be not only a man of vision but a man of action too, a man who understands the fine line between inspired leadership and wild recklessness. There are those who will oppose you, those who will say they have the greater right to lead. Men who say they have already demonstrated their credentials, both in vision and action.”

  “Forgive me, Grand Master, I am fully aware of Lawrence Percival’s credentials and acknowledge that events that he shaped brought us great rewards. But may I say they only brought us financial gain, the political benefits, like the vision, were short lived. It has now stagnated, and we need something different to seriously move our grand plan forward.”

  The old man beamed across a broad smile in full HD. “My dear Dominic, that’s why I brought you into the inner circle. But you have to prove your worth to all the other members if you are to succeed me.”

  “Grand Master, I am sure you will lead us for many more years to come.”

  “I wish that were true. Unfortunately, my time in this world is limited. But everything in its own time, Dominic. I will see you on Saturday. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to surprise us all.”

  The screen went blank.

  De Vaux splashed malt whiskey into a glass and downed it in a single swallow. His hand was shaking. Pure excitement churned in his stomach. He was close now. So very close.

  When Brother Thomas had turned up at the École Biblique with what he believed was the Final Testament of St. Peter himself, it was as if his prayers had been answered. At last, Christ proven beyond doubt. And at the same time casting doubt on all the other faiths. It was a wedge he would use to divide the world — a banner to lead the faithful into the final crusade.

  Then disappointment as the carbon14 results came back. But he had made a fortune finding opportunity in adversity. The Grand Master had said they needed a man of vision. Well, he had that vision. What if the world believed the scroll to be genuine? What if he could fool them for just a short period of time? That was all he needed.

  He walked out through the grand French windows and stood on the terrace, taking in the elegantly landscaped estate that swept away before him. Micheline had persuaded him to buy this place, an authentic 17th century chateau. It was rumored to have once been owned by Napoleon I. The tree line was meticulously trimmed, the neatly clipped grass swept down the hill to a small lake at the bottom, where the trees crowded in. A small, flat island sat in the center of the lake. On a mound in the middle of the grassy outcrop, was a white marble gazebo surrounded by weeping willows. It was a mausoleum, the last resting place of his beloved Micheline.

  He could still remember her bewitching smile, and her mind, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. ‘Rich men die,’ she would say. ‘Their relatives squander their wealth, and they are soon forgotten. But men of power, men of vision, they are remembered forever.’

  Micheline was an incredibly well connected woman. She was responsible for his introduction to the Imperium.

  Cancer had taken his beloved’s body, but it could never take away her spirit. She had foreseen his destiny, and as always she had been right. Riches, she always said, were merely a side effect, an amusing trapping. The peak of Mount Olympus, that is your destination.

  51

  Rome, Italy.

  The taxi dropped them in Piazza della Repubblica in front of Termini railway station. It had been a while since Fagan had made this journey with Walter. The dregs of his memory led them on a faltering walk from the Piazza to a narrow cobbled street in a less than salubrious part of town. Fagan recognized the house. He had only been here once, but he remembered the faded and battered wooden door at the bottom of a flight of stone steps. He knocked on the door and waited. He was about to knock again when something stirred on the other side of the door, then a rattle of locks. The door opened slightly, then checked against a security chain. A face peered out.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for Father Walter.”

  “He is not here.”

  Fagan leaned closer. “It’s Aldo isn’t it?”

  “Who is asking?”

 
“Father Joseph. I’m a friend of Walter’s.”

  “So call him.”

  Fagan allowed his voice to get a little threatening. “Walter has gone off the grid. People are looking for him. If you care about his safety,” he leaned in closer, “and yours - talk to me. Now.”

  The face studied him, then the door closed, and the chain rattled.

  “I’m impressed,” Frankie said.

  The door opened revealing a thin, gangly youth with long, greasy hair and a straggly beard. He wore a hoodie top and a pair of stained and filthy jeans.

  Aldo nodded towards Frankie. “Who is she?”

  “She’s a friend.”

  He stood looking her up and down, then shook his head and stood back to let them in.

  The place reminded Fagan of Walter’s office. Apart from the smell. The aroma was somewhere between the backyard of a pizzeria, and a vespasiani, a Roman public urinal. They moved through discarded chip packets, and pizza remains, strewn across the floor. Fagan counted two laptops and a couple more desktop computers on a large table in the middle of the room.

  “Take a seat.” Aldo gestured to one wooden chair and a broken down sofa covered in empty cookie packets and magazines.

  “I think I will stand,” Frankie said stepping over an open pizza box with the contents half eaten inside.

  “Can you call him?” Fagan asked.

  “He is off the grid. He is not using any phone.”

  “So how do we get in touch with him?” Fagan leaned in close to him.

  Aldo gave a nervous twitch. “There is a chat room he uses.”

  “Well let’s get on it.”

  Aldo sat in front of one of the laptops and rattled away at the keyboard. Fagan watched over his shoulder as a screen with a skull and crossbones appeared. Aldo’s fingers danced again across the keys, and a new screen appeared, divided top and bottom into two boxes. A prompt appeared in the top box. It said Axeman>.

  Aldo typed in.’Looking for WeeWilly’

  The screen cursor blinked patiently. Fagan stared at the screen.

  The bottom box burst into life. A prompt appeared, WeeWilly> and the words ‘who wants him?’

  Aldo stood up. “All yours.” He stood aside and let Fagan sit down.

  Fagan paused, his fingers above the keyboard, and stared at the screen. He couldn’t use Walter’s name or his own. He took a breath and then began to type.

  ‘I’m back from chasing secrets.’

  ‘Then answer me this. Where can I get a lottery ticket?’

  ‘That would be Fredo, though I never bought one.’ Fagan typed in.

  ‘You always were a tight fisted bastard,’ the screen answered back.

  ‘Praise indeed. How can we meet?’

  ‘You will have to come to me.’

  ‘So tell me where.’

  ‘Do you remember Luca’s favorite holiday destination? Every summer without fail.’

  A grin spread across Fagan’s face.

  ‘How could I ever forget.’

  ‘Meet me there tomorrow. I’ll be watching his house. I’m sure you remember the place. I’ll be there at noon.’

  A message came up in the bottom box - ‘Elvis has left the building!’

  “Is he always that cryptic?” Frankie asked.

  Fagan couldn’t resist a smile.

  “Walter’s motto - Only the paranoid survive.”

  “So where are we going?”

  Before Fagan could answer, the wail of an alarm klaxon sounded, and a pair of blue and red lamps in the corner began to rotate, like the lights on the top of a police car. Aldo hit a few keys on his laptop, and a video screen appeared. The camera was looking out from the front door. Three men stood on the steps. The one at the top had a bald head and was the size of a quarterback. Fagan recognized him instantly, the ever-present smile on his face, the scar a dark slash across his cheek.

  “Do you know these guys?”

  Fagan nodded his head. “I’m afraid so, and trust me. You don’t want to.”

  One of the men on the screen took a step back and launched the sole of his boot at the door.

  “Son of a bitch,” Aldo yelled at the screen. He rushed around desperately punching on keyboards. He slammed down the tops of the laptops and tucked them under his arm.

  The sound of banging and cracking echoed up from the entrance hall. Aldo led the way through a wooden door, and down a set of stairs. Fagan let Frankie go in front, then followed her down. At the bottom, Aldo headed along a narrow passageway, through another door then stopped and stood over a round metal manhole cover still clutching his laptops.

  “Do you want to do the honors?”

  Fagan squatted down and got his fingers into the two hand holes in the cover. He pulled hard. It came free easily. Obviously, Aldo had used this exit before, recently. Aldo climbed into the manhole and disappeared. Fagan helped Frankie into the narrow opening, and as she dropped out of sight he climbed in himself and pulled the cover in place above his head. Aldo and Frankie were waiting at the bottom. A string of pale, yellow lights were dotted along the far wall, dimly illuminating a running sewer. A narrow walkway ran beside the effluent and disappeared into the darkness. The stench made Aldo’s house seem fragrant.

  “Stay close, and try not to fall in.” Aldo headed off.

  “That’s one piece of advice I intend to take,” Frankie said and hurried after him.

  The walls were an intricate brickwork that reminded Fagan of the aqueduct in the Vatican, though the roof wasn’t as high, and he found himself having to duck as they moved forward.

  Up ahead Aldo stopped by an iron ladder cemented into the wall. He pointed upwards. “We should be good here. It will bring us out in an alley behind Termini station.”

  Aldo started to climb. Fagan nodded at Frankie, and she started up the ladder after him.

  Something screamed off the wall close to his head.

  “Go,” he shouted up to Frankie.

  He could hear the clatter of feet on the walkway back the way they had come. Another bullet pinged off the floor by his feet and screeched off into the darkness. Fagan instinctively stepped back, pressing himself against the wall, taking advantage of a natural bend in the tunnel.

  “Joseph,” Frankie’s disembodied voice sounded down the access shaft as another bullet screamed off the iron ladder then ricocheted past Fagan’s head.

  He risked a quick look out. He could see the three men emerging out of the gloom, hurrying down the tunnel towards him. He studied the short distance to where the ladder was embedded in the wall. Barely two yards, but two dangerously exposed yards. He knew he’d never make it.

  “Frankie, go. I’ll find you,” he shouted, then took off at a sprint down the tunnel.

  52

  Sewers, Rome.

  Fagan ran as fast as the narrow walkway would allow, his eyes on the concrete just a few yards in front of him, and the dark effluent flowing beside it. The tunnel bent around in a natural arc, keeping him out of the line of fire from his pursuers. Up ahead he spotted what appeared to be a small service tunnel. There wasn’t time for decision making. He darted into it. It ran for about twenty yards then opened up into what looked like a similar sewer tunnel to the one he had left. In the middle of the service tunnel was another access shaft with a metal ladder running up into the darkness.

  Fagan leaped on to the lower rung and began climbing. He hoped he had given himself enough time to get out before his pursuers appeared at the bottom and started shooting.

  He estimated he was close to the top and reached up in the darkness. His fingers touched the cool flat metal of the access cover. He jammed his back against the wall of the shaft, and his feet against the rungs of the ladder then pushed with his hands on the cover.

  It did not move.

  He tried again, straining with every ounce of strength he had. It still would not budge. He knew he had seconds to decide his next move. He started moving back down the ladder. Feet clattered into the tunne
l below him, then skidded to a halt. A moment later a face looked up at him. Fagan held his breath and waited for the shot. Instead, the man reached out for the ladder. Fagan realized he couldn’t see him. He listened for the sound of the man’s companions, but all he heard was the creak of the ladder as the man began to climb.

  Fagan let go. Both feet took the man in the chest with Fagan’s full weight. Then they were both falling. They crashed to the ground, and Fagan rolled clear, his back smacking up against the service tunnel wall. He scrambled to his feet, ready to defend himself. There was no need. The man wasn’t moving. His head was bent over at an impossible angle. Fagan sprinted to the main tunnel and peered out. There was no sign of anyone following. He returned to the man and felt for a pulse. There was none. Fagan crossed himself and whispered a short prayer.

  Another life.

  He checked the man’s pockets and found a battered leather wallet. It didn’t contain a lot, an Italian driver’s license, a few euros, no credit cards. Not much to sum up a man’s life. He stuffed the wallet back in the man’s pocket. The man’s gun was sticking out from under his body. Fagan reached down and pulled it free. It still had the silencer fixed on to the barrel. For a moment he was tempted to keep it - for a moment. He turned and hurled it with all his strength. It bounced off the far wall then splashed into the depths of the sewer.

  He headed back to the main tunnel and looked back the way he had come. No sign of the other two. They had probably divided forces, and the other two had gone after Frankie and Aldo. Fear gripped his gut. He prayed to God she was safe. He forced himself to push the thought aside. Another glance back down the passage then he took off at a steady jog in the other direction.