The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  “We need to make for the church,” Fagan called out to Frankie.

  She darted forward and grabbed hold of one arm beneath the priest’s shoulder. Fagan took the other, and they ran for the church. A bullet smacked in close to his head, chipping stone that cut into the side of his face. They made it to the door.

  Fagan prayed it wasn’t locked.

  Frankie pushed it open, and they dragged Father Milosh inside, slamming the heavy door behind them.

  “I could use a gun right now,” Fagan said. “Did you see who it was?”

  Frankie shook her head. “Whoever it was, was on the top floor of the building at the top of the street.

  Fagan squatted down beside the priest. He was conscious, but his eyes were closed, and he was gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Fagan examined the wound. It had gone in just below his collarbone and was bleeding profusely. Fagan pulled off the coat that Frankie had bought him. He folded it into a pad and pressed it onto the wound.

  He looked up at Frankie. “Putting it to good use at last.”

  Frankie reached out and touched him on the cheek. “He is not the only one who is bleeding.”

  Fagan looked at the blood on her finger. “Let’s hope they don’t get any closer.”

  The priest opened his eyes.

  “Father Milosh, can you understand me?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Is there another way out of here?”

  Father Milosh pointed with a wavering hand. “Over by the organ pit.”

  Fagan and Frankie grabbed him under the arms, he let out a groan as they lifted him. They half carried, half dragged him to the back of the church and off to the right where the organ pit stood to the side of the altar. Fagan swept his eyes across the church as they went. There was no sign of the young priest.

  “Round the back, there’s a door.” Father Miloje said from between his gritted teeth.

  Fagan checked it out. The back wall was wood paneled. He looked closer. A small semi-circular door handle was set into the wood. He pushed in his fingers and twisted then pulled. A door opened in the panel.

  They dragged Father Milosh down behind the organ and through a small doorway, about three feet high. Fagan looked back behind them. Blood spots were scattered across the stone floor. He scooted back out into the church and grabbed an altar cloth, then quickly ran back, wiping up the spots as he went. He made it back to the organ pit just as the large front door rattled open.

  He ducked through the small doorway and pulled the door shut behind them. Frankie and the priest were waiting in a narrow passageway. Fagan could taste the dust, and there was a slight breeze coming from somewhere. It wasn’t totally dark, some light filtered in from above.

  “We used it during the war.” Father Milosh managed to whisper. “To escape when the church was attacked.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “It comes out in an alley, three streets away.” He started to cough, grimacing at the pain and pushed a fist up to his mouth to stifle the noise.

  They picked him up and carried him between them along the narrow passage. They dropped down a flight of steps then the passage flattened out again. Fagan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom as they went. They followed it for some distance before they reached a flight of stone steps climbing up again.

  “Wait here,” Fagan said lowering the priest to the floor. He headed up the steps. There was a door at the top. He tried to open it. It was jammed shut. It probably had not been opened since the war had ended. Fagan stepped back then stamped on the door with the flat of his foot. The door flew open with a loud shriek. He stuck his head out cautiously. The door opened out onto a narrow alley. He looked up and down the length of it. It seemed deserted. He headed back down the steps. Frankie was holding onto Father Milosh. He seemed barely conscious.

  Frankie leaned in and whispered into Fagan’s ear. “He is still losing blood. We need to get him to a hospital soon, or he is going to die.”

  “We need a car,” Fagan whispered back.

  Frankie took hold of Fagan’s wrist and jammed his hand onto the makeshift pad, then gently pushed the priest towards him. “Hold this tight and leave the car to me.”

  “Wait,” Fagan called out, but Frankie was already gone.

  Fagan pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight. Father Milosh’s skin had taken on a blue-grey tone, and his breathing had become shallow. Fagan removed the pad and took a closer look at the wound. It was angry, red and puffy. He put the pad back in place and pulled the priest towards him. Father Milosh groaned as he did it. Fagan inspected his back. There was a ragged tear in his cassock where the bullet had exited. He was sure the exit wound would look a lot worse. Having no bullet in the wound was a good thing, he just hoped the priest would not bleed out before they could get him to a hospital.

  He was still holding the altar cloth. He folded it into a pad trying to find a clean surface, then stuffed it inside the back of the priest’s cassock to cover the exit wound. He put his free arm around him keeping the pressure on the entry wound with the other. He glanced back down the passage. He hoped their pursuer didn’t know about this exit. If he did, they had nowhere to go.

  The priest coughed and opened his eyes.

  “Hold on. Frankie has gone for a car. We’ll get you to a hospital.”

  Father Milosh forced a smile. “It seems you were right. Someone was shooting for a full house.”

  “Try not to talk.”

  Father Milosh tried to smile again but began to cough.

  Fagan held on to him, looking back down the passage, straining his eyes in the darkness, expecting their attacker to appear at any moment

  The priest murmured something. He had closed his eyes again, but his lips were moving. Fagan leaned in close to him trying to hear what he was saying.

  “I promised,” he managed to say finally.

  Fagan couldn’t understand the next words he muttered. The priest was beginning to ramble, sometimes in his native language, as he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness.

  “Father Milosh, what did you promise?”

  Fagan pulled him closer. “It’s alright Father, you can tell me.”

  But the priest had drifted off again, his eyes were closed, and he was mumbling unintelligibly. Fagan held on to him, desperately wanting him to speak but unable to do anything.

  The priest suddenly opened his eyes again. Fagan gripped him tight willing him back to consciousness.

  “Father Milosh, I’m a priest, you can tell me. It’s time.” Fagan didn’t like what he was saying, but this was his only chance to get the answer to this. “Tell me about your promise.”

  The priest appeared to be struggling to remember something.

  “We had to save him.”

  “Who?” Fagan had his face close to the priest’s. “Who did you have to save?”

  The priest opened his eyes. He appeared to have a moment of clarity.

  “We promised we would never tell.”

  It seemed like an age before he heard the sound of an engine and the sharp squeal of brakes. Father Milosh had slipped into unconsciousness. Fagan held on to him, but the priest had not stirred again.

  Frankie appeared at the top of the steps.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  They carried Father Milosh up the steps and into the back seat of a battered old Renault Clio. Fagan climbed in with him and cradled his head on his lap. Frankie jumped in the front and gunned the engine.

  “All we need now is to find a hospital.”

  “Hang on a moment.” Fagan pulled out his cellphone. He tapped Walter’s special icon to switch on the GPS, then typed in Hospital, Sarajevo. The screen came up with a map showing their position and the hospitals scattered across the city. Fagan selected the closest one and hit okay for travel directions.

  “Here follow this.” He handed the phone to Frankie as the application began speaking the instructions.

  Frankie made he
r way across the city, driving to the announced instructions. The hospital came up on their left. She swung the car into the entrance and braked in front of the emergency department. She jumped out of the car and opened the back door. They manhandled Father Milosh out of the vehicle and between them, they carried him through the double doors, into the waiting area. The place was crowded, bustling with waiting patients and relatives.

  “Help us please,” Frankie called out. “This man has been shot.”

  A nurse hurried towards them, then two orderlies rushed out pushing a gurney. They quickly picked up the priest and laid him on it, then rushed off into the depths of the hospital. The nurse turned around to get some details, but Fagan and Frankie had already headed out of the door.

  23

  Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  “Was this the best you could steal?”

  Fagan sat in the passenger seat of the Renault Clio, while Frankie drove. The engine was making a disturbing squeal, and the whole thing vibrated as if it was about to fall apart.

  “It was all I could find. Father Milosh was bleeding to death at the time.”

  “I think we should ditch it anyway and look for another means of transport. Someone might have seen us at the hospital and reported it to the police.”

  “And what do you suggest?”

  “Are you hungry?” Fagan said.

  “Not really.”

  “We should eat anyway. We’re not sure when we’ll get another chance.”

  They dumped the car in a back street and made their way into the old town. They found a pizza place on the edge of a small cobbled square. Frankie took a table in the corner and Fagan slipped into the restroom. He had retrieved his jacket from Father Miloje, and he washed out the priest’s blood under the water tap, as best he could, then cleaned himself up. He rejoined Frankie and put the jacket over the back of the chair to allow it to dry.

  They shared a mushroom and mozzarella pizza with chopped green peppers. It tasted excellent, and Fagan found he was actually quite hungry.

  “So what happens now?” Frankie said through a mouthful of shortcrust pizza.

  “I think we need to consider our situation before we go rushing into this. It seems that Brennan or whoever he’s co-opting, has been one step ahead of us all along.”

  “It seems like that. But how would Brennan know we would come here?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Frankie gave him a quizzical look.

  “We were just a bonus. He was coming after Father Milosh. He was closing off the loose ends. It’s obvious now he wants to silence everyone in that photograph.”

  “He seems to have done that quite successfully.”

  “Well maybe not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Father Milosh was trying to say something while we were waiting for you. He was rambling and drifting in and out of consciousness.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he had made a promise, that he would never tell. He said they had to save him.”

  “Save who?”

  “I don’t know. He was pretty far gone by that point.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s something. It could be the reason for all of this.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I think I need to have another talk with Father Milosh.”

  “If he is still alive.”

  “Let’s just pray he is.”

  “How will you get in to see him? He has a gunshot wound. The police are bound to be involved.”

  Fagan looked at his watch. “Let’s hope they’re busy and have not got around to it yet.” He tapped the Roman collar at his throat, he was still dressed as a priest. “I think he might need a little spiritual support to help him through the night.”

  They found a taxi in the square just across from the restaurant. It was a short drive to the hospital, and the cab dropped them off outside the emergency department. The place was pretty chaotic as they walked in through the main double doors. Kids were crying, people were arguing, most of the seats were taken up by would-be patients in varying states of distress, surrounded by anxious relatives and friends.

  Fagan took a quick look around. There was no visible sign of the police.

  “You wait here,” Fagan said. “Watch for the police or any suspicious visitors.”

  “Amongst this?” Frankie nodded towards the crowd of human chaos that packed the reception area.

  Fagan flashed her a smile.

  “How do I look?”

  His jacket was still damp, but it was black and not too noticeable. He had buttoned it up to hide the bloodstains on his shirt.

  “You clean up rather well.”

  She pulled something from her bag. “You might find this useful.” She showed him a leather backed Holy Bible. “It will complete the picture.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “It was in the drawer in the hotel room, along with a copy of the Qu’ran. I thought, at some time you might need it. Now seems like a good time.”

  Fagan looked at it, as if reluctant to touch it. But finally, he reached out and took it. He had not held one in a while.

  “Remember the plan is still the same.” She brushed at something on his jacket collar. “In and out.”

  “And run?”

  “Something like that.”

  He shook his head and headed for the reception desk. There was a queue about ten deep. Fagan nervously touched his collar and moved to the front. A woman was standing there with a small child. He gave her an awkward smile.

  “Excuse me. I’ll only take a moment.” He had no idea if she understood him, but he did not wait to find out. He turned to a middle-aged woman receptionist sitting behind the desk staring at a computer screen. “Do you speak English?”

  The woman looked up at him. “Yes.”

  “I’m trying to find out the status of an emergency patient who was brought in with a gunshot wound. Father Milosh Samdic.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  Fagan gave her a patronizing look. He took out his Vatican Passport and held it up. “I am here on official Vatican business. I would like to know the condition of our brother.”

  The woman did not seem impressed. Her fingers rattled across the computer keyboard, and she studied the screen. “You will need to ask the nurse in charge on the second floor for any details.”

  Fagan gave her a polite thank you and headed for the elevators. He glanced across at Frankie, she was seated against the wall with a good view of the entrance and the main reception desk. She gave him a quick wiggle of her fingers. He reached the lifts just as the doors of one were opening. He stepped in and pressed the button for the second floor.

  24

  Sarajevo University College Hospital.

  Fagan stepped out into a corridor with rooms on either side. Directly opposite was a nurses station, a simple counter with a large jar of multi-colored candies on top. A solitary nurse with reading glasses perched on her nose studied the screen in front of her. She looked to be sucking on one of the candies from the jar. Fagan noticed the gold crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck. He offered up a silent prayer.

  “Good evening. Do you speak English?”

  The nurse looked up at him and smiled. “Yes, Father. How can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to find out the status of Father Milosh Samdic.” He flashed his Vatican diplomatic passport, again. This time he got the desired effect.

  “Certainly, Father. Father Miloje is out of surgery, which went very well. He is now sedated and in need of complete rest. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

  “Perhaps I could see him for just a few moments.”

  “He will be asleep, and he should not be disturbed. I could call the doctor.”

  “I’m sure you are all very busy. Maybe I could be allowed to just sit and read to him for a while,” Fagan held up the bible that Frankie had given him, “and pray for him. I
promise not to disturb him, and I’m sure he would appreciate it. So would the Holy Father.”

  The woman gave him a conspiratorial smile and a nod. “Five minutes, no more. He is in room two-one-two, down at the bottom on the right.”

  “God bless you,” Fagan said, the guilt tugging at him as he walked away.

  He checked the numbers on the doors as he went, and stopped in front of room two-one-two. He glanced back down the corridor. A woman in green scrubs was at the far end, pushing a trolley. He grasped the door handle and stepped inside.

  A single light illuminated the bed area. Someone had placed a vase of yellow flowers on a small bedside cabinet, which had been rolled aside to allow space for the medical equipment. Father Milosh lay in the bed surrounded by an array of electronic medical paraphernalia, a myriad of lights and illuminated displays that bleeped rhythmically in the semi-darkness. He was connected to a series of drips with a catheter inserted into his lower left arm. His face was pale as wax, and an oxygen tube was inserted into his nose.

  Fagan leaned in close. The priest’s breathing sounded low and rhythmic, but it was apparent he would not be speaking with anyone tonight. So Fagan did what he had promised the receptionist. He sat down on a chair by the bed illuminated by the bedside light and opened the Bible at one of Luca’s favorite passages. It had been a while, but somehow it felt comfortable. He glanced across at Father Milosh’s sleeping form and began to read in a low voice.

  Something nudged him out of his concentration. His subconscious searching for a sound he vaguely recognized. He glanced across at Father Milosh. Talking to him would have to wait until tomorrow. At least he was still alive.

  He stood up. The door rattled slightly as someone turned the handle, then the door opened. A blonde haired man in green scrubs stepped into the room, balancing a tray in front of him. There was something vaguely familiar about him.