The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  Fagan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and smiled as he saw the caller ID.

  “Walter,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “I hope you have some good news.” Fagan had called Walter from the airport in Cork and sent him the photograph.

  “I take it you and Frankie made it out of the Emerald Isle without any further drama.”

  “We’re fine. Were you able to find out about anything about the photograph?”

  “A few morsels.”

  “So tell.”

  “Sometimes I feel you take me for granted.”

  “Walter.”

  Frankie gave him a quizzical look. Fagan shook his head and nodded towards the phone. Frankie leaned in close so she could hear.

  “Well, specifics are not plentiful.” Walter’s voice came across clear. “But the photograph celebrated an award for outstanding humanitarian work, awarded by Pope John Paul II himself, for work done in Bosnia in 1993. Beyond that, there is little detail.”

  “That was the time of the Bosnian war,” Frankie said.

  “I was just getting to that.” As usual, Walter would not be rushed.

  Fagan took a deep breath and waited for Walter to continue.

  “There were three of them who received the award. Father Patrick, Sister Eileen, and the other priest was the third. Apparently, they all worked together during the Bosnian war, providing aid and assistance to those in distress.”

  “And who was the other priest?”

  “Patience my friend. His name is Father Miloje Samdic.” Walter pronounced his first name Mill-ojji. “Though I’m sure I’m strangling the pronunciation.”

  “Were you able to find out anything about him?”

  “Not a lot, but I did find one thing significant about him.”

  “What?” Fagan said a little too sharply.

  “He’s still alive, though for how long, given the fate of the other two in the photograph, God only knows.”

  “And do you know where he is?”

  “Last information I can find, he was living in Sarajevo. He’s still active in the Church, and I do have a church contact. I’ll send you the full details.”

  “Thanks,” Fagan said. “Hey, sorry I’m just a little fried.”

  “Not a problem, my friend. So what’s next?”

  “I guess I’ll try and make contact with this Father Miloje. I don’t suppose you have a phone number for him.”

  “I can try and find one. You could always try visiting him.”

  “Walter, our flight for Milan, leaves in forty-five minutes.” Fagan moved on past it. “Have you had any word on your friend, Carlo?”

  “Not yet, but I haven’t given up on him. I’m just hoping he’s found a hole to hide in.”

  “Let’s hope so. Anyway, good luck with finding him.”

  “Thanks,” Walter said. “Stay out of trouble, and we’ll see you for dinner. I’m making ravioli.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Fagan hung up the phone.

  “So, is Sarajevo our next destination?” Frankie asked.

  “You heard Walter, he’s making ravioli, and besides, I was hoping a simple phone call might suffice.”

  “And do you think a phone call out of the blue from a stranger, is going to make him blurt out everything from twenty-five years ago.”

  Fagan smiled. “You never know.”

  “We need to look him in the eye, tell him everything that has happened to his friends, and point out the implied threat to him. Then maybe we can get him to talk to us. And based on what we have seen so far, we do not have a lot of time.”

  “This is not what we agreed. I thought we said in, out, run.”

  “We said we would take a look, see if we could find any answers.”

  “But all we’ve got are questions.”

  “Whatever this is about, it was enough to kill Father Patrick and Sister Eileen. It’s reasonable to expect that this priest in Sarajevo is next on the list.”

  “We’re getting in deep, which is what I was trying to avoid.”

  “Do we have any choice?”

  “We could go back to our original plan.”

  “You mean the run part.”

  Fagan peered into his glass of house Chianti. “New Zealand looks attractive, and very far away.”

  “Is that really an option? Brennan knows we are involved. Let us not forget our Jesuit friend back there, took our photographs and sent them to whoever was on the other end of the phone. And we can bet that Brennan now has his own personal copies. He knows we were at the convent. He will assume we have seen Walter’s video and connected the dots. Whether we know what this secret is about or not, we are on his list now. His men tried to kill us back there, and he is not going to stop until he does. Brennan’s power is growing, and he has the reach of the Catholic Church. If we run, no matter how far, it is just a matter of time until he catches up with us.”

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “You know what they say? The best form of defense is attack.”

  Fagan glanced across at the flight departure screen. The flight to Milan was flashing the boarding sign. “You have a way of making it seem so simple.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Do we really have any choice? The answer to me is clear. It is either him or us.”

  17

  United Nations Detention Unit, Haaglanden Prison, The Netherlands.

  The prisoner paused at the door. The guard handed him a cigarette and lit it from a disposable lighter.

  “Thirty minutes,” the guard said in English.

  The man moved out into the exercise yard and set off on his afternoon walk at a brisk pace. Partly for the aerobic workout but mostly against the intense cold. He had the exercise yard to himself, part of his special status. He wore his own clothes which was another of his special privileges. Today it was a ski jacket, and a woolen hat pulled down over his ears to ward off the biting chill of the wind sweeping directly in off the North Sea.

  The United Nations Detention Unit was housed in the Haaglanden prison in the small seaside town of Scheveningen, a stone’s throw from the International Court of Justice in The Hague.

  He had a number of special privileges under the terms of the International Charter. One of which he was looking forward to this evening. For dinner, he had ordered Pasulj, a Serbian hearty bean and smoked sausage soup. He had it specially prepared for him once a week by a Serbian couple who lived in nearby Scheveningen. Their version was almost as good as the one his Grandmother used to make for him when he was a child. He usually shared it with the General, who appreciated this little piece of home. The old man was not doing well. He had been found guilty on an array of charges, any one of which could carry a death sentence. But everyone knew they were not handing out any death sentences. It made little difference to the General. The rumors were, he already had one.

  Still, nothing was going to sully his own pleasure and his own little piece of home. Just the thought of the Pasulj made his mouth water and his stomach grumble.

  He was barely halfway into his allotted session when the guard appeared. He held curled fingers to his ear.

  “Phone call,” he shouted.

  The prisoner was happy to cut his exercise short and get into the warm building. He headed to the exit and disappeared inside. The guard led him to a room with a single telephone in the middle of the table. He had his own cell phone, unofficially. Only official calls came on this line. He waited for the guard to leave then picked up the handset and pushed it to his ear.

  “Yes,” he said bluntly.”

  “Colonel Vladij?” A voice asked on the other end.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Tobias Harper. I represent the law firm, Fotheringay, Goss, and Harper. I have been appointed as your lawyer.”

  The Colonel smiled. He had fired the last incompetent fool more than a week ago. His reaching out was beginning to bear fruit. Things were happening just as he had planned. “So, when are you
going to get me out of this place?”

  “Very soon, I hope, Colonel. It would seem that the only prosecution witness has met with a serious accident and at the moment the Prosecution does not appear to have an alternative. I intend to file for dismissal of all charges.”

  “And how long will that take.”

  “Unfortunately this is the International Court of Justice, their wheels tend to move rather slowly, but I will expedite it as soon as I can. But there is one other element of good news. The limitation of the special commission for the investigation of war crimes in the Balkans expires in a week’s time. By the time these charges are dismissed, and you are released there will not be time for anyone to bring any new witness forward. From that point on it will be become a local issue to be dealt with in Bosnia. I believe that will be a better situation for you.”

  “Well, that is good news.”

  Vladij was a Serb but lived in Bosnia close to the Serbian border. The lawyer was right. Back home he had all the right palms greased and besides, the local government had no stomach for a fight. They wanted to put all the unpleasantness of the past behind them and move on. He would never have been here but for a piece of incredibly bad luck. That and a witness with a long memory, and a scumbag Police Inspector who had refused his money and held a personal grudge. But they were both now dead, so they were not going to be a problem.

  “I can assure you I am expecting no new witnesses,” he said. “But I have one other request.” He removed a small silver pen-drive from his pocket and tapped it lightly on the table. “I have a signed document I would like you to hold in safekeeping, that and a series of files on a computer flash drive, along with instructions on what to do with them if anything should happen to me. What you might call an insurance policy.”

  “Well, we’re not expecting anything to happen to you, Colonel. But anyway that will be no problem. Send it to me, we have a standard procedure for dealing with such things.”

  “No, I want it picked up by hand.”

  “Very well, I’ll arrange a courier.”

  “Good. Call me again when you have news of my release.” Colonel Vladij didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up the phone and sat back. Things were going his way at last. This evening’s Pasulj was going to taste even better.

  Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London.

  Tobias Harper hung up the phone. He was seated on a bench at the rotunda in the middle of the park at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. At this time of the year the small park was not as busy as it was in summer, but today the day was bright and a few people wrapped up well against the elements had ventured out. His own woolen herringbone, Burberry overcoat came from Harrods and kept out the cold rather well.

  His office was in the main Lincoln’s Inn building, the old and prestigious Inn of Court. He was a partner in one of the leading law firms in London, Fotheringay, Goss, and Harper, which by definition meant one of the best in Britain and for that matter, the rest of the world.

  The senior partner, Sir Charles Fotheringay Q.C. had hired him two years ago for one thing and one thing only. To bring in the money. Sir Charles sat on a number of Government committees, as well as holding the rather grand sounding title of Legal Counsel to the Roman Catholic Church in the United Kingdom. Their other partner, Michael Goss, soon to be Sir Michael if the rumors were true, was a leading Human Rights Lawyer. Which all brought in good headline-making work and was excellent for prestige, but it did not pay anywhere near the sums that the cases Tobias Harper defended.

  Of course, his defendants were not the kind that Sir Charles would entertain at his club. Drug dealers, weapons distributors, and other shady and dubious corporate leaders were all his clients, their crimes usually involved obscene sums of money, and when they walked, which they invariably did, Tobias Harper’s bonus was eye-wateringly generous. If it were just about the money, he would have left it at that, but then it was never really that simple. Which is why he had done the deal with Sir Charles.

  Harper kept the firm financially afloat, and in return, the firm gave him the prestige he required, which opened the right doors and brought him close to the right ears for him to do his job, as well as bring him the other little things in life he craved. Like a little recognition for a start. He had insisted that the silk came as part of the package. The prestigious title of Queen’s Counsel, which was never going to happen if he had stayed where he was, despite the title he already had as the best-paid lawyer in Britain. Harper and his clientele were not what was wanted in that illustrious club. And it would have stayed that way had it not been for Sir Charles and his contacts, and his pull where it was needed, to make it happen. They could look down their snooty noses at him, but life was pretty good for Tobias Harper Q.C, Barrister at law. He looked at the mobile phone in his hand and saw another enormous fee heading his way.

  18

  The Vatican, Rome.

  Cardinal Brennan stood in the grand entrance of the Palazzo del Governatorato, while he flipped through the photographs he had just received on his smartphone and allowed the anger inside him to surge. “So, tell me again how three of your best men have disappeared trying to deal with an unarmed man and a girl.” He spoke into the phone.

  “Your Eminence,” Father Juergen’s voice was clear on the line. “We know that Joseph Fagan is a very dangerous man. We saw that in the south of France. And I would not dismiss Miss Lefevre as just a girl. She is a former DGSE officer, highly skilled and also very dangerous.”

  “Your men are supposed to be better. They have a holy calling. I don’t expect them to fail. I don’t expect you to fail.”

  “With respect Eminence, I carried out my assignment then continued on here as you ordered me to. I left the team in place in case we had any visitors.”

  “Which we obviously did.” Brennan stepped out of the entrance and headed along the Via del Governatorato.

  Father Juergen’s voice seemed unperturbed by the Cardinal’s anger. “The team did as they were instructed. I did not expect them to fail, but then I was not there to observe what happened.”

  “We have to assume if there was something at the Convent to find, our visitors found it.”

  “Which is why, I believe, I am here.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “I know his schedule. I will take care of him.”

  “Call me when you do.”

  Brennan hung up the phone and thrust it into the pocket of his gown. He hurried between the well-trimmed lawns and elegantly sculptured bushes, in the shadow of the grand basilica. He passed through a small wooden door and climbed a narrow backstair that led to the Sistine Chapel. He so much wanted to go inside and spend a little quiet time in prayer, looking for just a little encouragement. But he knew that was not the way He worked.

  Brennan made his way through into the grand Sala Regia, oblivious to its exquisite marble floor, and its magnificent frescos on the walls and ceiling, depicting momentous turning points in the history of the church. Brennan could see only a momentous disaster, playing out over and over in his head.

  He headed into the Apostolic Palace, weaving his way through the back corridors and arriving at his office. He opened the door. A small cardboard box, covered in DHL shipping stickers, stood on his desk.

  At least something works.

  Brennan walked over to the desk and picked up a silver bladed paper knife in the shape of an ornamental sword, and slit open the top of the box. He had called the Mother Superior at the convent and asked her to send Sister Eileen’s personal belongings. He had to be sure there was nothing there that could be a problem. He pulled open the flaps of the box and peered inside.

  Not a lot for the sum total of a person’s life.

  He reached into the box and picked out a picture frame. The photograph brought back memories he cared not to ponder on. He remembered his adoptive father had one of these hanging on the wall of his study. He was certainly never a proud man, but he was proud of this.

  Brennan pushed the though
t aside and studied the figure of the young priest standing beside Pope John Paul.

  Was it really going to be over?

  Had the Mother Superior packed this up before Fagan and his friend had paid their visit, or was this yet another step on which they were going to be a problem. He removed the photograph from its frame and pulled out his cigarette lighter. He flicked it alight and touched the flame to the corner of the picture, waiting until it was burning fully, then dropped it into the ashtray on his desk.

  19

  Stari Grad, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  Fagan was awake before it was light. Frankie, as usual, had won and they had caught a flight to Paris then got a connection into Sarajevo late the previous evening. It was almost midnight by the time they reached their hotel in the old town. It was too late to visit the priest, so they had gone straight to bed. Frankie had fallen asleep by the time Fagan came out of the shower. They had only been able to get a room with two single beds. He had leaned over her sleeping form and gently tucked her in, then climbed into the other. It was just as well because he had spent a restless night, tossing and turning.

  He eased out of bed and slipped on his running gear. Frankie was still sleeping as he quietly closed the door. He stepped out of the hotel and zipped up his joggers top and pulled up the hood, then headed out along the bank of the river Miljacka, following it as it wound its way through the center of the city. A sharp chill blew in across the water that served only to up his pace.

  He had a distinct feeling the still dark city was watching him from across on the far bank.