The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  It was as if she had stepped out into the sunlight after so long in the dark. It was clear in the lightness of her step and the way she went through the day. But the thing that lifted Fagan the most was her smile, once again her constant companion. And that shifted a great weight from his own heart. Frankie had taken to gardening, and her skill and loving care could be seen all around, both outside and inside the house. He had found his own sense of peace helping out in a homeless shelter in nearby Nice, three times a week.

  Over time the feeling had grown. It was something he was almost afraid to admit, but at times it seemed like that other world had never existed. He took a deep breath of chilled morning air and set off down the hill.

  Aldo’s Place, Trastevere, Rome.

  Aldo’s coffee tasted like shit. Walter felt like shit. He should never have agreed to that third bottle of Aldo’s finest rough red selection. He considered going out to the little coffee place on the corner. He knew it was open early, but a weight of lethargy seemed to prevent him from getting out of his seat. Besides the hangover, fear squeezed at his gut. A fear that the madness was starting all over again. A fear that it may have already claimed Carlo.

  He sat at the window looking out onto the deserted street, the fear clawing at his insides. It still didn’t make sense. Why was Roberto keeping a video file of someone dying in a traffic accident? Assuming it was an accident. And where did he get it from? He didn’t want to ponder on any of those questions, so in the end, he reverted to his usual crisis relief. He retrieved the remains of Gabrielle’s pizza from Aldo’s refrigerator and consumed it cold. It suited his mood.

  He tried again to contact Carlo, first his phone, then the chat rooms they used, he even tried their private message center on the Dark Web, but there was nothing. He prayed to God it was a sign that Carlo had really gone into hiding.

  Aldo wandered in looking wasted, but then Aldo always looked wasted. He eyed the chatroom, visible on the screen Walter was using.

  “Any word from Carlo?”

  Walter shook his head. “He’s dropped out of sight.”

  “Should you not be doing the same thing?”

  “I will, but I’ve got things to do first.”

  Aldo sat down on a battered sofa, pulled out a plastic bag from his pocket and rolled himself a joint. He lit it with a cheap lighter and took a long drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs before expelling it in a long plume. He offered the joint to Walter, but Walter held up his still burning Nazionali and shook his head.

  “You can stay here, you know that, but we both know it is only a matter of time before they come looking,” Aldo spoke with the thick accent of his native Napoli. Over the years Walter had tuned his ear to it.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll head out in a little while.”

  Aldo held up his hand. “I would rather not know where.”

  “It won’t get as bad as that.”

  “Are you sure?” Aldo did not look convinced.

  “Whatever, it’s clear I can’t go back home. You have to go pick up my stuff when things die down.” Walter gave a shrug. “No pun intended.”

  “I will send Luigi. No one will realize he has been in and out.”

  Walter looked across at a poster of a Paul Gauguin, South Sea Island print, that Aldo has stuck on the wall. It struck an eclectic note against the mayhem of the peeling, flower pattern, wallpaper and Aldo’s drug-fueled graffiti daubed in bright colors across it.

  “The South Pacific looks tempting, exotic islands, palm trees, tranquillity. Maybe they need God out there?”

  “I think you may be a little late for that,” Aldo took another deep drag on his joint, held it in for a moment, then let out the blue smoke slowly. “I love that picture. I found it in the trash.”

  “Aldo, I always knew you were a man of taste.”

  “Sometimes, I think it was lying there just waiting for me to find it. When all the shit out there gets too much, which I have to tell you, is quite often, I look at that painting. It always seems to lift me, gives me a sense of hope. What do they say? A picture paints a thousand words.”

  Walter had to smile. That was really quite profound for Aldo. He was verging on genius when it came to computer code and the magical mysteries of cyberspace, but when it came to verbal expression, he was only a few steps above catatonic. He looked across at his friend and marveled at how he functioned at all. He had a body frame that appeared to be utterly devoid of muscle, and the only nutrients he got, came on a pizza. His hair was long and matted, and his face was a pin-up poster for the Walking Dead.

  Walter grinned across at his buddy. “Aldo, I love you, man.”

  Aldo looked unsure about how to take that last piece of information. He shook his head and went back to his joint.

  “Any luck with that video?” Walter asked.

  “I have sent it to a friend of mine. He has some really smart location software he borrowed from the NSA. I expect him to have some answers later today.”

  Walter stared at the smoke from his Nazionali as it drifted in the space in front of him. “Oh fuck.” He suddenly let out the curse.

  Aldo jumped visibly in his seat.

  Walter had a vision. His beloved MacBook Pro sitting on his desk, and Roberto picking it up then stuffing it into his bag. It wouldn’t be that difficult for a man of Roberto’s skills to break into it. But there was not much to find. He kept all the stuff that mattered well hidden. He would not find the video clip Carlo had sent. That remained tucked safely away in the Dirt Locker, and there was no way Roberto would find that or break in.

  What had Aldo just said?

  ‘A picture paints a thousand words.’

  Last summer he had secretly met up with his friends, Joseph and Frankie, and spent a holiday at their secret farmhouse in the south of France. They had had a fantastic time together, good food and wine, great conversation. He had taken photos on his iPhone and had waiters and bar owners take pictures of them. And like a stupid adolescent child, he had stored them on his laptop to use as wallpaper, to cheer him up when he was feeling like shit.

  And hidden in those pictures were clues — restaurant names, street names, significant buildings. Aldo had mentioned smart location software, and Roberto had access to that and a selection of other technological goodies. Any decent analysis of the photographs would quickly yield the local area where they were taken. It would be just a matter of time before he tracked Joseph and Frankie down. And what would he do with that information?

  The little rat would take it straight to his boss.

  Opio, Alpes Maritime, Southern France.

  The lightly roasted aroma of freshly brewed coffee met him as Fagan went in through the kitchen door. He had ground the beans before he left and set the filter drip machine timer to switch on ten minutes before he was due back. He poured himself a mug and took a sip, then unzipped his jacket and pulled off his hat. He caught sight of himself in the reflection from the window as he hung up his coat and paused. He brushed back a loose lock of hair. There was more grey than a year ago, and it was now spreading down into his beard. He fingered the thick gold earring in his left ear. Frankie had persuaded him to get it. She said it made him look like a pirate.

  Was that what it was all about? There were times when he barely recognized who was looking back at him in the mirror. Was he trying to hide who he had once been, hidden away in this place that was barely on the map?

  He looked at the man in the mirror then smiled. Did he really care? There were worse places to be and no better person to be hiding away with. He sat down at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee. Five more minutes to himself before he woke her.

  His cell phone buzzed on the table top. He stopped with the mug at his lips and stared at the phone, the tranquil feeling suddenly gone. Only Frankie called him on that phone, and she was asleep. Well, Frankie and one other person. He picked up the phone.

  “Joseph, it’s me.”

  Fagan immediately recognized his fri
end’s Glaswegian twang. He sounded nervous.

  “Walter, an unexpected surprise.”

  “I’m sorry old pal.” Walter gushed straight into it. “I fucked up big time.”

  “So tell me what’s new.”

  “Joseph, you and Frankie need to get out of there, now.”

  “Walter.” Fagan was used to Walter’s drama. “What’s happened?”

  He could hear Walter take a deep breath at the other end of the phone.

  “You remember you always said I was too nosy for my own good. Well, you may have been right. I think I may have opened Pandora’s box.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I may have got a good friend killed, and I’m next on the list.”

  Walter was making little sense, but he was obviously stressed about it. “Look, calm down. Are you somewhere safe?”

  “For now. But it doesn’t finish with me. I’ve done a stupid thing. They know where you are, Joseph, or they will do soon. You need to get out of there. You and Frankie need to leave — now!”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Walter took a deep breath and explained about the break-in at his apartment and the photos on his laptop. “So you see, it’s only a matter of time before they work out the location of those photographs and then you. They may even be there already.”

  “Look, Walter, we don’t know that. Maybe someone just broke into your place and stole your laptop.”

  “No. I saw them on my surveillance camera.”

  “Who did you see, Walter?”

  Walter gave a long sigh down the phone. “I’ll tell you everything when you and Frankie are safe.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Temporary sanctuary.”

  Fagan took a moment to let his thoughts catch up in his head. Part of him resisted like hell, but deep down he knew that Walter was right. If this was the Imperium, they could not take the chance. “You remember the place we agreed we would go to if we were threatened.” Fagan pictured another farmhouse in his head.

  “Of course.”

  “Go there, we’ll come to you.”

  Fagan hung up the phone, his gut tight as a knot. A sound inside the house made him look up. Frankie appeared at the door, bleary-eyed. They had had quite a session at a neighbor’s house the previous evening. What was supposed to be a quiet dinner with friends, turned out to be Frankie and their neighbor, Elise, putting the world to rights until the early hours, and at the same time leaving a trail of devastation through Pierre’s treasured wine collection.

  She stood there, wearing no makeup, and no doubt nursing the hangover from hell. She wore an old football shirt of Fagan’s. Her tousled raven hair hung in random ringlets down to her shoulders, but Fagan saw only a beautiful woman. She wandered over and kissed him on the cheek, then moved across to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug.

  “Who was that on the phone?” She took a sip of her coffee and looked at him over the brim of the mug. Her face suddenly changed as she caught Fagan’s look.

  The burning intensified in his gut.

  “It was Walter. We have to leave.”

  6

  Opio, Alpes Maritime.

  Fagan retrieved the Glock 23 from the cupboard under the sink and handed it to Frankie. He reached in again and came out with a Sig-Sauer P226, Navy. He weighed the weapon in his hand, regarding it with all the enthusiasm of an encounter with an ex-partner, from a relationship that had not ended well.

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t need to use this again.”

  Frankie grasped his hand holding the gun and squeezed. “Maybe, you won’t have to.” She tried a smile, but there was a look in her eyes that said she did not really believe it.

  Fagan did not believe it either. He released the magazine and checked the load, even though he religiously stripped and cleaned it once a week. He replaced the magazine, then stowed the semi-automatic in his waistband at the small of his back. Frankie found the spare ammunition in the bottom drawer and handed him two magazines. Fagan shoved them into his leather jacket pocket and followed Frankie out into the garage. He secured the house door behind them.

  The lock seemed to clunk with an ominous finality.

  Frankie started up the Kawasaki and moved the bike out into the courtyard. Fagan headed out then closed and locked the garage door. Frankie handed him a matte-black motorcycle helmet.

  She looked up at the house. “I had somehow hoped we could stay here, that they would leave us alone.”

  Fagan could see the pain in her eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back,” he said a bit too quickly.

  “Will we?”

  “Come on. We have to go.”

  Fagan put on his helmet and climbed onto the motorcycle behind Frankie. She gunned the engine then headed out onto the track that led down to the road. Fagan looked back at the house as they bounced along and wondered, like Frankie, would they ever see this place again.

  “Merde.” Frankie cursed and hit the brake throwing up a massive cloud of dust behind them.

  Fagan looked round to see a man dressed in black, standing in the middle of the track, about fifty yards in front of them. He recognized the ugly shape of an Uzi sub-machine gun, with a stubby, black suppressor on the barrel. Frankie threw the bike into a skid turn as the Uzi opened up, its suppressed hacking cough accompanying the bullets as they tore up the track towards them. Fagan groped for the Sig behind his back while clinging on with his other arm. He let off a series of rapid shots in return. He stood little chance of hitting the man at this distance, but it made him dive for cover.

  Frankie steered the Kawasaki through a gap in the hedge and into the olive grove, swerving in and out of the trees and ducking below the low hanging branches. Another black clad figure rose up out of the ground, barely ten yards away, a weapon extended in both hands. Fagan opened up without thinking. The attacker went down with two bullets in the chest. Maybe he was wearing a vest, maybe not. Fagan pushed the thought out of his mind.

  Another figure appeared, twenty feet away. Frankie skidded hard to the right, and Fagan felt the bike go from beneath him. Bullets zapped over his head as he hit the dirt. Fagan lifted the SIG and this time he put two in the attackers head.

  He scrambled to his feet as Frankie got the bike upright.

  “You alright?” she said as he climbed on the back.

  Fagan nodded.

  Frankie opened the throttle, heading down to the river, then followed the narrow pathway that ran along the bank until she reached a place where the water was shallow. The bike hit the water with a spectacular splash. She gunned the engine, water and foam flying up around them as she headed for the far bank. Bullets ripped into the mud as they emerged on the far side with a great roar. Fagan turned and fired rapidly at two men with Uzis who came running out from the trees. One of them went down.

  They headed across a plowed field, the rear wheel gouging a deep furrow as they went. They swept through an open gateway out onto a narrow road, the rear tire screeching, fighting for grip on the tarmac as she opened up the throttle. Something tore a chunk out of the road immediately beside them. Fagan glanced behind to see a black SUV thundering down on them, a man hanging from the rear passenger window with an Uzi pointed straight at them.

  Frankie leaned the bike into a sharp turn, throwing off the aim of the pursuer for the moment. But Fagan knew this road and the fact that from this point to the T-junction a mile from here, it ran straight as an arrow. Frankie knew the same thing because she immediately swung the bike to the left leaving the tarmac and guiding the Kawasaki up a grassy bank onto a narrow berm that ran between the road and the field beyond. The SUV appeared on the road behind them, gaining ground. Bullets tore up the grass beside them. Fagan fired at the man hanging from the rear window, and he disappeared inside.

  Frankie turned the bike hard to the left and launched into space as a pair of Uzis opened up on them. Fagan held onto Frankie’s waist as they hit the ground
, the suspension straining and squealing, then the bike broke free again, leaping into the air, before bouncing back onto terra firma. Frankie held the bike steady and accelerated across a short expanse of open field, heading for the trees on the far side.

  She guided the bike onto a narrow track that ran into the woods. Fagan managed a precarious balancing act as he retrieved a new magazine from his coat pocket, ejected the spent one and reloaded the SIG. He took a firm hold of Frankie and scanned the woods for any sign of their pursuers.

  This was the escape route they had planned a long time before, it was also the route of Fagan’s morning run, but there was no time for meditation and tranquillity now. He glanced behind them, but the track was clear.

  They finally emerged onto a road on the far side of the woods. Frankie opened up the throttle and followed it as it twisted and turned through thick pine trees then headed down through the small commune of Roquefort-Les-Pins. Fagan searched for any signs of their attackers as they weaved through the village and out the other side.

  They headed east along a series of narrow roads that skirted the edge of the mountains until Fagan could see the white buildings of St. Paul de Vence huddled on the hillside in the distance. A mile from the town Frankie left the main road, following a narrow country lane for a short distance, then made a sharp turn right onto a farm track that led them to a cluster of deserted farm buildings. She brought the bike to a halt in front of a large, broad eaved barn. Fagan jumped off the bike and dragged open one of the large wooden doors. Frankie gunned the engine and took the motorcycle inside while Fagan closed the door behind them.

  Frankie switched off the ignition, and the engine fell silent. She pulled off her helmet and sat there looking shell-shocked, staring at the dust motes floating in the rainbow of sunlight that filtered through a window high in the barn wall. Fagan walked up to her and put his arms around her.