The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  He and everyone else just needed to have faith.

  21

  Stari Grad, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  Fagan examined his shorn locks and his clean-shaven face in the mirror. She had not made a bad job of it. It exposed a face he had not seen in quite a while. He stood back for a full view. The Roman Catholic priest that looked back at him was strangely disturbing. Despite the fact he knew this was just a charade, a theatrical dress up to help them get what they wanted, it still felt wrong.

  Frankie looked him up and down. “I’m impressed.”

  “It still doesn’t feel right.”

  “Look, we visit the church, talk to the priest and leave. You can take it off then, and not wear it again.”

  Fagan was still not convinced.

  “Come on, let us get it over with. Maybe we can get a flight out of here tonight.”

  “I wish.”

  She held her hands flat together her fingertips touching her chin. “Do not wish — do.”

  Fagan pointed a threatening finger. “I could, kill you.”

  Frankie smiled. “Later. Let us go to this church. See what we can find.”

  They found a cab in front of the hotel, the driver spoke broken English, and Fagan gave him the name of the church. He seemed to understand because the taxi dived into the morning traffic with a crashing of gears and high pitched shrieks as the driver leaned hard on the horn. They made their way out of the center of the old town and wound through a myriad of back streets. Rows of faceless houses looked on, keeping their own secrets silent within.

  Finally, the taxi deposited them at the bottom of a narrow flat cobbled street not wide enough for a vehicle to pass along. The driver pointed to where a church stood at the top of a small hill.

  The Church of Saint Sebastian from what Fagan’s research had told him, was one of the oldest Catholic churches in Sarajevo. It a had simple flat front facade, built in rough stone. Two bell towers with slate clad steeples topped the corners, and a gable roof end with a long mullioned, stained glass window running down the center, sat between them. They climbed a set of time-worn stone steps and entered through a grand arched wooden door embedded with iron studs. Daylight filtered in rainbow patterns through the stained glass window and another at the far end of the apse. The place appeared deserted.

  Fagan moved down the side aisle, past the rows of pews, towards the altar. His heart was beating faster than it should. It was as if he had stepped into another world, a world he had once inhabited, a place that had once given him peace. He looked to his right, and something caught his eye. He moved towards it then stood admiring its beauty.

  Its pipes had been burnished to a polished sheen. Obviously, someone had been taking good care of it. He sat down at the keyboard and let his finger run across the ivory keys. They fell into a familiar pattern, and without thinking about it, he was playing the open bars to a Bach Cantata.

  “Hidden Talents.” Frankie appeared at his side. “You never told me you could play.”

  “We’ve never been in a church together.” Fagan ran his fingers across the keys. “An old Irish Priest in seminary taught me. Well, my mother had taught me the piano, but I had not played in a long time. Father Benedict introduced me to the beauty of the church organ.” Fagan struck a final chord and stood up. “Come on, let’s see if we can find this priest.”

  He stepped down from the organ and caught a movement in the narrow corridor that ran away behind the altar. He held up a hand to Frankie then stepped in close to the wall and waited. Something shuffled in the darkness followed by the scuff of a boot on the stone-paved floor. A figure appeared from the shadows and spoke in a language that Fagan did not understand. A youngish man dressed in a black cassock stepped out into plain view. One look told Fagan this man was not old enough to be the priest who had received an award from the Pope twenty years ago.

  “I’m sorry, we did not mean to intrude,” Fagan stepped away from the wall.

  The priest smiled. “An organ player.”

  “You speak English.”

  “Yes, I do.” The young man said. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Father Joseph Fagan,” It seemed a struggle to get out the words. “This is my assistant, Miss Lefevre. We are looking for Father Samdic?”

  “If you play that organ for any longer he will come running. That is his baby. I am his assistant.”

  “Do you know where he is?” Fagan asked.

  The young man held up his wrist and looked at his watch. “Usually at this time he is playing chess.”

  They headed back into the old town, following the directions the young priest had given them, and using the Serbian Orthodox Cathedral as a landmark.

  “What are you going to say when you find him?” Frankie asked as she stepped up beside him.

  “I guess I’ll play it by ear. There’s a chance that he has no idea what this is all about.”

  “That would make three of us.”

  They found the Cathedral Church of the Nativity of the Theotokos on the edge of a small park, an impressive building built in a three-section basilica, with five domes. In front of the entrance stood a gilded baroque-style belfry with a pale blue stone dome on top. In the center of the park was a small square, on one edge were a set of black and white paving slabs arranged like a chessboard, with large chessmen set out in play. A group of old men stood around it, gesticulating and arguing over the game in progress.

  Fagan let his eyes sweep across the faces. He picked out the priest almost immediately, sat on a stone bench studying the board. Of course, the Roman collar gave him away, but Fagan felt he would have recognized him anyway. He appeared to be in his mid to late fifties, he had lost most of the hair on top since the photograph in Sister Eileen’s room was taken, and the beard was now grey. But beyond that, he was clearly the same man. His smile, as he pointed out at the chessboard, revealed a set of even white teeth and brightened his already handsome face. The man beside him looked much older and wore a serious frown.

  Fagan gazed out across the board, the pieces set, the battle now well advanced. The white queen, a rook, an attacking pawn, and a threatening knight had the black king pinned in the corner. Was this a reflection of where he was? Was he in the middle of a global game of chess? Was he a charging knight, or just a lowly pawn, ready to be sacrificed at the earliest opportunity?

  But if this was the grand chess game he was caught up in, who was moving the pieces? Was it Cardinal Carlucci with his grand plan, or was it Brennan, hiding some dark secret from his past?

  Fagan went back to scanning the faces then let his eyes take in the surroundings, the buildings sitting around the park. Was there someone out there also looking for this priest? He realized if someone was, and they had a gun, there was nothing he could do about it.

  Eventually, the priest’s companion nodded and gestured to the board, and one of the onlookers stepped onto the board and toppled the black king. The old man turned to the priest, the expression on his face broke into a broad smile and he held out his hand. The priest took it with a grin, and the two of them fell into an animated conversation, presumably about the game.

  Fagan self-consciously touched his priest’s collar and crossed over to the bench. “Father Miloje?” Fagan seemed to strangle the name. “My apologies if I’m pronouncing it wrong.”

  The priest looked up holding a hand above his eyes, squinting against the bright morning sunshine. “That’s all right,” he said in English. “Most people, unless their local can’t get it right. People usually just call me Milosh. That’s close enough.”

  Fagan smiled. “Father Milosh, my name is Father Joseph Fagan.” Fagan had still to struggle past his use of the title. “This is my assistant, Francoise Lefevre,” he said gesturing to Frankie.

  The priest looked up at Frankie. “Assistants are far prettier than they were in my day.” His face broke into a smile. “Forgive me, Miss Lefevre. I have a sense of humor stuck in the past. I realize it
is no longer politically correct.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Frankie flashed him a smile that she knew was over the top. “Most people call me Frankie.”

  Fagan gave him a moment then continued. “I have been sent by the Vatican to speak with you.” He held out his Vatican passport. The priest studied the dark brown cover with its gold embossed crossed keys and Papal crown emblem of the Holy See, and the words Passeport Diplomatique stamped across the bottom.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed.” The priest spoke with an underlying American accent.

  “You don’t sound as if you learned your English here in Sarajevo,” Fagan said.

  “New York. I spent ten years there after the war.” He looked up at Fagan. “Our war. But then I expect you already know that. Tell me, what does the Vatican want with a semi-retired priest?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Well, my friend here is waiting to take his revenge.”

  “Please, it’s very important.”

  The priest turned to his companion and spoke in his native tongue. They exchanged some friendly banter, and a handshake and the priest stood up. “There’s a coffee shop across the square. We can talk there.”

  The priest led the way across the square to a small cafe. “If you don’t mind, we’ll sit outside so I can smoke.”

  They sat at a small table, and a waiter took their order.

  “So,” the priest said taking out a small flat tin from the pocket of his cassock. “How can I help the Holy Father?” He opened the tin and proceeded to roll a cigarette.

  “Father Milosh, we believe your life may be in danger.”

  The priest didn’t flinch, he licked the cigarette paper and sealed it then shook his head. “I survived four years of siege here in Sarajevo. People were being shot by snipers every day. But the Lord chose to spare me, why would that change now.”

  “This is not the Lord, these are men, evil men. Twenty years ago you received an award from Pope John Paul, you and two others.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “What would you say if I told you that the other two, Father Patrick Brennan and Sister Eileen O’Monahan were both killed in the last two weeks.”

  Father Milosh’s mouth fell open. He looked as if he had been smacked in the face. “Father Pat, Sister Eileen,” He dropped his head and took a deep breath. When he looked up his eyes were brimmed with tears. “Two of the most decent people you could ever meet on God’s earth. What happened to them?”

  “Officially one was a traffic accident the other was natural causes, but I can assure you they were neither. They were both murdered. I have proof.”

  “Murdered, but why?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to ask you.”

  “I have no idea why someone should murder them. All they ever tried to do was help people in the name of God.”

  “Perhaps you could tell us a little about how you knew them.”

  The priest shook his head and took a deep breath. “Where should I begin?”

  “Why don’t you tell us about the circumstances in which you received the award from the Holy Father.”

  “I’m sure you know that already.”

  “It would be better to hear it from you.”

  The priest gave a shrug. “It was back in the early ’90s, Father Pat, Sister Eileen and myself were part of a team providing relief and assistance to people impacted by the ongoing war.”

  “Were you all here in Sarajevo?”

  “We were based here. But Father Pat and Sister Eileen worked out in the countryside. They had a small mission out there, close to the Serbian border.

  “Things were crazy back then, but somehow we managed to survive. The award came along some time after the war ended. I’m not sure why I was included. We were all three in the same team as such, but I was based here in the city. Father Pat and Sister Eileen were out at the mission in the midst of it all.”

  “From what I’ve read, being in Sarajevo at that time was no cakewalk.”

  Father Milosh gave a slight shrug. “During the siege, I used to travel out through the tunnel. What people call today the Tunnel of Hope. To us back then it was just a supply tunnel. It ran from a neighborhood in the north of the city, out to just beyond the airport. From there I was able to take food and medical supplies out to the mission. But Father Pat and Sister Eileen were really in the thick of it all, in the midst of some of the worst atrocities. Their Mission became something of a safe haven for people in desperate need, regardless of their religion. They gave them food and shelter and protection from the madness that was going on around them.”

  “Where exactly was this mission?” Fagan asked.

  “It was outside of a small town called Bretsnia. About a hundred and fifty kilometers east of here. Close to the Serbian border. You may have heard of it. It has been in the news recently.”

  “I don’t recall it.”

  “Not to worry. It’s a local news sensation really. The authorities recently arrested a wanted war criminal. Colonel Dragonov Vladij, known locally as the Beast of Bretsnia. He’s accused of massacring local Muslim boys and men from the town of Bretsnia and his men raped and murdered many of the women there. He’s been in hiding for the last twenty-five years. It seems he was living on a small farm up in the hills. He would have still been living there, but it seems he had a toothache, and he had to come into the town to go to the dentist. Someone recognized him in the dentists waiting room. By the time he got out of the dentist’s chair, the police were waiting for him. He’s now awaiting trial at the International Court of Justice in the Hague. Of course, it looks like he may get away with it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The person who recognized him in the dentist’s waiting room met with a fatal motor accident a couple of days ago.”

  Frankie looked at Fagan. “Coincidence?”

  Fagan shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  The priest gave him an enquiring look.

  “Sorry,” Fagan said. “Who was this witness?”

  “He was a local man. Apparently, he was about ten years old when he witnessed the massacre.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Officially the brakes failed on his car. The car left the road and fell into a ravine.”

  “Officially?”

  “Like you, I also don’t believe in coincidences.” The priest looked at his watch. “Look, I need to get back to the church. I take confession at twelve o’clock. If you want to walk back with me, we can talk while we walk.”

  22

  Stari Grad, Sarajevo.

  Fagan paid the bill, and they headed back across the square. Fagan walked beside the priest, Frankie hung back a little way, giving them some space.

  Father Milosh chatted as they walked, talking about the city, pointing out places of interest along the way. He stopped, looking at something on the ground in front of him. It looked like a scar in the road with a faded pink center swirl, in a vaguely floral shape. It was surrounded by a neat rectangle of flat cobblestones.

  “A Sarajevske Ruze,” Father Milosh said. “A Sarajevo Rose. It was caused by a mortar shell’s explosion. There are not many left. They used to be dotted all over the city. Someone had the bright idea of filling them in with red resin, giving them this almost floral look. There were many more of them after the war. But most of them have been covered over. For many, they are too painful a reminder. Most people just want to forget.”

  He turned and looked back over Stari Grad, Sarajevo’s Old Town. It sat in the center of a bowl, surrounded by mountain slopes that encircled the city. He pointed out one particular mountain. “The Trebević Mountain. That’s where Serbian Army snipers picked away at us during the siege. Maybe people are right. Maybe we should forget it all and move on.”

  “I thought that those who don’t learn from history are destined to repeat it,” Fagan said.

  Father Milosh gave him a non-committal shrug and
continued on up the hill. They came upon a well-kept cemetery. An array of white tombstones were dotted in neat lines across a vast field of green, running down the hillside. Except the headstones were not crosses but miniature obelisks, many decorated with carvings of elegant flowers and the Islamic crescent moon and star.

  “The Shahid Cemetery — The Martyrs’ cemetery.” the Priest waved a hand at the sea of headstones. “These are mostly Muslim graves, soldiers of the Bosnian Army, and civilians. I like to come up here and sit. I pass it on the way to the church, so it’s convenient. It’s so peaceful here. It reminds me as a Christian, how far we still have to reach out to heal the wounds of the last two thousand years. But it is also a constant reminder of what man is really capable of.”

  “Speaking of what men are capable of, do you think Father Patrick knew this Colonel Vladij?”

  The priest shook his head as he continued up the road. “Knew of him, certainly. But more than that, I have no idea.”

  “Could he have witnessed this massacre?”

  “I find that highly unlikely. If he had, why would he keep it a secret all these years.”

  “Perhaps someone told him something in confession?”

  The priest looked at him but didn’t answer. He was panting as they made their way up the hill. The church stood waiting for them at the top. Father Milosh smiled and nodded towards it.

  “Sanctuary. It has been that for me, and much more.”

  It had started to rain again, just a slight drizzle and a darkening of the sky as the rain clouds moved in. Fagan caught a glint of something as the sun faded behind the clouds. He ignored it at first but caught it again.

  “Get down,” he shouted as his old instincts kicked in and he leaped for the priest.

  He felt the impact of the bullet striking the priest’s body as he dragged him down into the corner of the wall, where the light from the fading sun cast that side of the lane into shadow.