The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  He took a left turn and headed away from the river, following the Google map in his head, north, climbing the hill above the old town. The city was spread out before him, waking up for the day, not quite casting off the shadows that hid all its painful secrets.

  He headed back down the hill, winding his way through the narrow, cobbled streets, and into the Baščaršija, Sarajevo’s old bazaar, and historic center. It had rained earlier, and the air was damp and heavy with the sweet and sour odors of the old marketplace. The market stalls and bars were shuttered and silent, but a few cafes were open, ready to serve the early morning commuters.

  He stopped at a small cafe and sat outside at a wrought iron table, its paint peeling with age. The waiter brought him coffee in a dzezva, a Turkish brass coffee jug with a long handle. It tasted good and was welcoming against the morning chill.

  People were appearing in the pedestrianized center, passing by him on their way to work, heads down. No one seemed to notice him. Sarajevo was a city of deep scars, a city that had known pain. In the Bosnian war, it had been held under siege for an unbelievable four years. More than five thousand civilians had died, and the pain was still there. It seemed to hang in the air, and in the people’s faces as they hurried by. It was a pain that seemed to resonate within his own body. He couldn’t help thinking there was more pain to come.

  For just a moment he wondered if he could turn back, and step away from this, but he knew that was just fantasy running around in his head. Frankie had said it.

  They were in too deep.

  He headed back to the river. Daylight was creeping in over the mountains, and the city was already alive with morning commuters, but the Miljacka remained dark and deep. He stopped on the river bank and leaned on the rail, peering into the impenetrable depths of the river. It was impossible to see if it was just a few feet deep or kept on going down forever.

  Of course, Frankie was right, as always. She had that ability to push aside all her emotions and see things as they really were. He had once been able to do that. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be able to do it again. But what she had said was true. They were in this now. They had to deal with it.

  It had started out with them on the outside looking in, trying to see what they could. Like peering into this water, trying to see what was on the bottom. You lean out, straining your eyes for a better view. The next thing you know you’ve lost your balance and fallen in. Suddenly you’re in the middle of it and realize you still have no better view of the bottom. The only way is to swim down and find out. And if there are monsters down there, or it ends up going down forever, well, so be it.

  When he got back to the room, Frankie’s bed was empty. Fagan stripped off his running gear and took a shower. He stood there a long time letting the water pound against his body. Eventually, the water turned cold and forced him out. He wandered back into the room wearing only his shorts. He tried contacting Walter, but the icon on his phone said he was disconnected. He got dressed and was considering whether to go out again when the door rattled, and Frankie stepped in, laden with stuffed plastic bags.

  She flashed him a smile. “When I woke up, you were gone.”

  “I needed a run to clear my head. I didn’t have the best of nights. You look like you’ve been busy,” he said nodding at the shopping bags.

  “I have been picking up a few essentials. Try this on,” Frankie said pulling a dark formal jacket and trousers out of one of the bags.

  “What’s this?”

  “Try it on.”

  Fagan slipped on the jacket. It fit rather well.

  Frankie smiled. “Good, it will go nicely with these.” She pulled out a black shirt and laid it on the bed, then reached back into the bag and retrieved another object.

  Fagan’s gut gave a slight squeeze as she dropped it on top of the shirt.

  “Where did you get this?” He said looking down at the white Roman collar.

  “Theatrical shop in the town. The man on the front desk downstairs told me about it.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Do you think that you are just going to walk up to this priest and he will tell you everything.” She shook her head but didn’t wait for him to answer. “You need some clout. Your Vatican passport, and you on an errand from the Pope himself.”

  “I see you have it all worked out.” Fagan looked down at the black shirt and the Roman collar. “I thought you already told me I looked more like a pirate than a priest.”

  Frankie stepped up close and ran her fingers through his beard. “I’m going to miss this. It gives you a certain mysterious quality. And besides, it tickles.” She extracted a final item from the plastic bag and held up a pair of long-nosed hairdresser’s scissors. She snipped them vigorously with her thumb and forefinger.

  “You’re going to cut off my beard with those.”

  She smiled. “I was also thinking of those locks of yours. I am going to miss them too.”

  “Do you know how to cut hair?” Fagan asked.

  Frankie smiled and snipped the scissors experimentally in the air. “How difficult can it be?”

  20

  Vatican Gardens, Vatican City.

  Giancarlo Carlucci, Cardinal Secretary of State of the Holy See, sat on a stone bench on the top a small hill overlooking the splendor of the Vatican gardens, waiting for his early morning appointment. He had arrived early which gave him a little time to himself, a respite from his ever pressing schedule.

  It was at times like this when he gazed around these magnificent surroundings that he realized how far he had come and how difficult the journey. How does a poor boy from the back streets of Naples, rise to within touching distance of the highest position in the Roman Catholic Church? He had had an illustrious career by any stretch of the imagination. The church had taken him in as a boy and had quickly recognized his intelligence and sharp analytical brain. From the start, they had guided and supported him. He had moved to the Vatican early in his ecclesiastical career and had vowed on that first day, as he stood beneath the magnificent dome of St Peter’s, he would never leave.

  He had done his time around all the Vatican departments, climbing up steadily rung by rung. He had gained a reputation as a man who got things done, usually with no questions asked. He had previously been the director of the grandly titled, Istituto per le Opere di Religione, more commonly known as the Vatican Bank. He had specifically been brought in to clean up the mess, after the disaster and scandals that had befallen it. It was rumored he had buried the bodies and cooked the books to bring the Vatican balance sheet back to health. His reward, so the story went, was the Secretariat of State. He maintained his reputation as the man who made things happen and had earned himself the unofficial title of il Marionettista — The Puppet Master. They used the title behind his back, but Carlucci would smile to himself when he caught the reference in his ever vigilant ear.

  He was a tall man of slim stature but with an air of royalty about him. His handsome face with its sculptured aquiline nose and smooth olive skin looked good for a man approaching seventy. His grey eyes, like chips of stone behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, studied his subjects with deep intensity and were reputed to miss nothing. His Cardinal robes were of the finest black and crimson silk from Gammarelli, the famed Papal tailor on the Via San Chiara.

  He sat, shaded from the late winter sunshine by the wizened branches of an olive tree donated by the government of Israel, in the center of his world, his legs crossed, a red silk zucchetto on his silver-grey head, looking every inch the grand prelate that he portrayed.

  He held a cigarette in his slim manicured fingers and contemplated the elegant flower beds and sculpted trees and bushes that stretched away from him, sourced from roots, bulbs, and seedlings from all the corners of the world. Spring had not quite arrived, but the yellow daffodils were already sprouting, and their delicate fragrance drifted on the morning air. The garden was unfolding according to God’s great plan. The daffodils would be in ful
l bloom by La Settimana Santa — Holy Week. And with God’s blessing, so would his own plan.

  It was sobering to think that amongst this floral splendor, this harmony of peace in nature, just below him at the bottom of the hill was the original site of Nero’s Circus, the place where the early Christians were martyred, and even Saint Peter himself was crucified. Popular folklore had it that Saint Helena had spread earth brought from Golgotha on the site of the gardens to symbolically unite the blood of Christ with that shed by thousands of early Christians. Carlucci wondered if they were about to witness the same spilling of Christian blood before they achieved their eventual goal. But achieve it they would. He had no doubt about that.

  Of course, he did not sit here just for the view, though it did give him immense pleasure. Cardinal Carlucci sat here because he could see anyone coming his way from a long way off, and whatever he had to say to someone he knew would not be overheard.

  He caught sight of Cardinal Schroeder hobbling his way up the hill towards him, leaning heavily on his polished ebony cane. He was gasping desperately by the time he approached. The Cardinal lowered himself onto the bench, the pain etched deep into his face. He was about Carlucci’s age, but he looked at least ten years older. Cardinal Karl Schroeder was the Vatican Minister of Finance, a post he had taken up when Carlucci had stepped out. A move that had been based upon Carlucci’s personal recommendation.

  “How is the knee?”

  Schroeder massaged the offending joint. “They tell me I need a replacement.”

  Carlucci broke into a grin and was about to speak, but Schroeder held up a hand.

  “Please, spare me the Bionic Man jokes. I have heard them all.”

  “Very well, enough of humor. We have some important things to discuss,” Carlucci’s face was now serious.

  “I am not sure I like the sound of that, or that look. You can start by giving me one of those cigarettes.”

  Carlucci took out a slim gold cigarette case with the Papal coat of arms stamped on it, a gift from the Holy Father. He flipped it open and held it out to Schroeder then stepped on the remains of the one he was smoking and selected another. He lit both their cigarettes from a matching gold lighter and waited for Schroeder to settle.

  Schroeder dragged heavily on his cigarette. His breathing had barely returned to normal. He closed his eyes taking the smoke in deep then expelled it in a thin plume as if a calming drug had entered his bloodstream. He opened his eyes and looked at Carlucci. “So, Giani, what have you got to add to my sleepless nights?”

  “Karl, you know what I deal with looks out for both of us.”

  Schroeder gave him a non-committal shrug. “Okay, tell me.”

  “You know the Holy Father is a sick man.”

  “Anyone who has recently spent more than a few minutes in his company would know that.”

  “I mean really sick. His doctor says he has no more than a few months. We need to start planning for his successor.”

  Schroeder regarded him with an air of suspicion. “You always said you were not interested in taking that step. You said you preferred to stay in the background.”

  He kept the unspoken words in his head, but Carlucci knew what they would be. . . And pull the strings.

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No, no, the Lord be praised. I would not want that job for all the angels in heaven.” He gave Schroeder a sympathetic look. “I am afraid it cannot be you, Karl.”

  Schroeder’s grey face had suddenly taken on an infusion of color. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  Carlucci kept his voice calm. “Times change. We have to change with them. The world today looks like nothing we have ever seen in our lifetimes. Nor in those of our predecessors, not even during the Second World War. Major events are twisting and turning everything we thought we knew into something that is completely alien to what we have come to expect.”

  “I do poke my head out of this place and into the world from time to time.” Schroeder could not keep the anger out of his voice. “I’m well aware of what is going on out there. I have heard the dissent, that the church is one step away from oblivion.”

  “In which case you will have also noticed there is a war raging out there. A war we are losing. It is slowly destroying the church that we both love, piece by piece. All of this,” he waved a hand around at the grandness that surrounded them, “will crumble to nothing and we will be able to do nothing to save it. The old ways, the old solutions will just not work anymore. We need new thinking, new concepts that can lead us into a radically new future.” He paused to take a pull on his cigarette and let his words sink in. “It is time to start fighting back.”

  Carlucci studied the Austrian, he could see the cogs turning in his head.

  “This is going to be a battle for the long run,” Carlucci continued, “and we need to be able to stay the course. We need someone with the strength and the energy to lead us.”

  Schroeder gave a weary shake of his head. “And who do you have in mind? Is it De Vere?” He said referring to the French Cardinal who was one of the younger members of the College of Cardinals. He was handsome and charismatic and very vocal, especially on the need for change in the Church. Which was something that was not going down well with either the College or the Curia.

  Carlucci smiled. “Who, is not the most important thing right now. You and I have to work on preparing the College of Cardinals and the Curia for a new world. Then we will work on introducing our candidate.”

  “Our candidate?”

  “Karl, this has to be our plan.”

  Schroeder gave a resigned shake of his. “You know how they hate change.”

  “Yes, but remember these are the old women who are responsible for our current sorry situation. But we have to have faith. We have to believe this can happen. It is up to you and me to make others believe it is the right way. To believe that a different path is the right path.”

  “It is also a very dangerous path. You do realize that if we get this wrong, the repercussions go well beyond these walls. Our dear departed Pope Salus saw that, and all the risk that went with it. He was actively trying to prevent it when he was taken.”

  “Salus was a good man but misguided. He failed to listen to what the Bible was telling him. He strayed from that path, and the Lord responded.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I don’t just believe it, I know it. I need to know if you are with me in this.”

  “If we get it wrong, we could find ourselves in a full-scale Global Holy War.”

  Carlucci appeared unmoved. “It has been a long time coming — Two thousand years.”

  “You sound like it is inevitable. Is that your plan?”

  “It’s not my plan. It’s God’s plan. You know the Bible as well as I do. The signs are all there, clearly written, we just need to understand them and follow their path, with the right man at the helm and the right people plotting the course. That is why you must give up on your own ambitions and work with me to plot that course.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Carlucci’s voice remained calm, but the underlying menace was there nonetheless. “My dear Karl, do not forget I put you in the position you are in today. I can just as easily take it all away.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it whatever way you want. But I’m not sure the conclave would forgive you for what you covered up for the Bishop of Mense and his rather unfortunate penchant for young choir boys.”

  Schroeder looked as if he was about to have a heart attack.

  “I know he is your brother, but what he did . . .”

  “He confessed and repented,” Schroeder finally found his voice. “He was a sick man. I got him help.”

  “A very Christian act, but what about those lives he damaged. However you tell it, you know them, they will not forgive you for that.”

  Schroeder’s face hardened. “Cardinal Secretary, you are not the only one with a ca
che of secrets, and I can assure you, I will not go down alone.”

  Carlucci studied the Austrian then smiled. “Come now Karl, let us not speak of such things. I need you beside me.”

  “And my voting influence in the College of Cardinals.”

  “All votes can be bought for the right price.”

  “And enough time, which it sounds like you do not have.”

  “It will not be easy, but I will do it. The question is, will you be there to see it? Karl please, let us not get into a fight over this. We are standing on the edge of oblivion, it will take only one push, and the Church will be gone, plunged into the dark.”

  Schroeder said nothing but Carlucci could see his mind was working, balancing his words, and hating him, yet knowing what he said was true.

  “Karl, I need you beside me. We have a wonderful opportunity to save this magnificent institution, shape a new world, shape our faith, and move out of the darkness that has been slowly sweeping over us and into a golden era of sunlight.”

  Schroeder stared at something between his feet. Finally, he looked across at Carlucci. “They hate the Frenchman. He will be a very hard sell.”

  Carlucci put a hand on the Austrian’s shoulder and suppressed a smile. He could see it in the old Cardinal’s eyes. He had already won.

  “First we show them the way.”

  Carlucci lit another cigarette and watched Cardinal Schroeder hobble off, down the garden path. Maybe he was imagining it, but was there a defeated resignation in the slope of the Austrian’s shoulders as he disappeared behind the elegantly clipped spruce bushes? Whatever, Karl would do as he was told and bring him the vital votes he needed.

  He knew the plan was daring, even outrageous. But it had to be if it was to be successful. It had been, when he had first outlined it to Dominic de Vaux and pointed out how it was all predicted quite clearly in the Bible, for anyone who took the trouble to look. Unfortunately, Dominic had grabbed it in his enthusiastic, captain of industry fashion, and rushed ahead without the finesse or the attention to detail that was required. And he had paid the price. Carlucci had now reshaped it, more to its original form. This was the way it was meant to be.