The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

“I’m sorry,” Fagan said. “I was just praying for our brother.” Fagan suddenly remembered where he had seen the man’s face. On Walter’s laptop.

  The man dropped the tray, and his hand appeared holding a silenced automatic pistol. The noise that had disturbed Fagan now resonated clear in his head.

  There were things about his past that Fagan did not want to remember. There were others that were so ingrained they had become instinct. Like how to use almost anything as a weapon.

  He gripped the Bible with its spine towards the target. All he needed was two steps. Two good steps. His brain processed it all in an instant. He threw the Bible hard, like a frisbee, and was already moving. He swept up the flower vase as he went. The man instinctively brought up a hand in defense and stepped back as the pages of the Bible flared and smacked into him. It could only be a momentary distraction.

  Fagan feinted to the left, then arced his body to the right, and he was already in close. The attacker swung the pistol towards him. Fagan knocked the gun hand aside and swung the vase at the man’s head. The attacker blocked it but took a jarring blow on the forearm. The vase slipped from Fagan’s hand and smashed on the floor, but Fagan could see, it had hurt. The man stepped back. He was crowded for space. Fagan moved in close to crowd him more. The attacker managed to jab out hard with the butt of the gun and caught Fagan on the side of his head.

  White light flashed in front of Fagan’s eyes. He moved by instinct, throwing himself at the man. He hit him with the force of a quarterback. The man smacked hard against the door, slamming it shut. Fagan grabbed for the gun hand and jabbed his knee with all the force he could muster into his groin. The man turned, blocking it slightly but still groaned, and Fagan felt him stagger. Fagan grabbed a firm hold of the gun hand, and with his other arm and a turn of his body, pulled the man to the floor.

  Fagan came out on top. Both his hands now locked on the assailant’s gun hand. The man threw one, two, three rapid jabs into Fagan’s ribs with his free hand, each one shooting fiery flames of pain through his body. The man suddenly released the pressure on the gun arm, then twisted and rolled taking Fagan over with him, allowing the momentum to bring him up on top.

  He gripped the wrist with the gun with his free hand, and now with the strength of both arms forced the silencer towards Fagan’s head. Fagan held him off with both hands, his eyes transfixed on the deadly opening of the suppressor barrel. He jabbed up hard with his knee, but the man seems to just absorb the blow. The gun was visibly shaking as it moved closer to its deadly target.

  Fagan pressed back with all his strength, the gun wavered dangerously between them. He jabbed again with the knee. The gun swayed and gave a suppressed cough. The man let out a groan and seemed to relax his grip. Fagan yanked, and the automatic flew free, skidding across the floor.

  Fagan rolled to the side as the attacker went down. He staggered forward and dived for the gun. He grabbed it and came up on his knees with the Glock held in both hands. The attacker had already made it to his feet. His arm flicked forward in a sharp arc, and something flew from his hand. Fagan instinctively twisted to his right, but the knife blade penetrated just below his left shoulder. The shock almost made him drop the gun, but he held on and brought it up in his right hand. He had to strive hard to stop himself from taking the shot. But he managed it, holding the gun pointed firmly at the man.

  He didn’t feel any pain, which was not a good sign. Instead, he continued to look at his assailant. He knew who he was looking at. He seemed younger than he had expected, yet there was something about his eyes that added years, as if he had been looking out on this wicked world forever. Fagan had no doubt he was looking at Father Juergen Meyer.

  Fagan got to his feet while the man stood there swaying, blood running down the side of his face. But he was getting his bearings. He was not finished. Fagan could see that. His piercing blue-grey eyes studying him and the space between them. He was calculating the odds. Beneath the green scrubs, the honed body of a pro was tense, and already the sway was gone.

  The man appeared to stand to attention. “It seems you have the upper hand.” He spoke with a clipped Germanic accent. “That looks painful.”

  Fagan was doing his best to ignore the blade embedded in the fold where his shoulder met his chest. He knew if he attempted to remove it, it would start bleeding profusely.

  “Don’t you worry about me.”

  Father Juergen touched the wound on his head then looked at the blood on his hand. “Seems I was lucky.”

  “Don’t count on it lasting.”

  Fagan could see him still weighing up his options.

  Fagan emphasized the gun. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Father Juergen gave a slight smile. “I am surprised you did not take the shot. I was wondering who was holding the gun. The CIA’s black ops assassin, or the priest, Father Joseph Fagan.”

  “I’m neither. It’s just plain Fagan. I'm not a priest anymore, despite this getup. I might not kill you, but I’m sure you know how painful a bullet through the kneecap can be?” Fagan adjusted the aim of the Glock. “And I promise you, I’ll not miss.”

  “I am sure you would not. I know all about you. I know what you have done. We are very much alike, you and I. Both with somewhat unusual skills, both serving God.”

  “I was more of a priest than you will ever be.”

  “What I do, I do in the name of Jesus.”

  Fagan shook his head. “You kill whoever your masters tell you to.”

  Father Juergen’s handsome face broke into a broad smile. “That sounds familiar. As I said, we are very much alike.”

  Fagan didn’t speak, but his gut was saying everything.

  “So, what happens now?” Father Juergen said.

  “Now you’re going to open the door and move slowly towards the nurses’ station.”

  Father Juergen gave a slight shrug and opened the door, then stepped out into the corridor. Fagan moved towards the door, and the room seemed to rush towards him. He took another step and leaned on the door frame. Father Juergen glanced back at him, but Fagan held up the gun.

  “Don’t get any ideas.”

  He indicated with the gun, and Father Juergen started moving. Fagan glanced quickly back to Father Milosh, he had slept through it all. Fagan knew his chance to talk to the priest was gone. His eyes flicked to the Bible laying where it had fallen on the floor. Too far away. He looked at the gun in his hand. Like himself.

  He stepped into the corridor and followed Father Juergen, staying far enough back to maintain control. The wound from the knife now hurt like hell and was starting to bleed more freely. He needed to get some assistance.

  They moved further along the corridor. The nurse he had seen earlier was lying on the floor at the far end next to her trolley. Fagan looked at her assassin and fought the urge to shoot him where he stood.

  Father Juergen seemed to shrug and kept moving. He arrived at the nurses’ station and stopped. It was quiet. Fagan stepped in closer. He caught sight of a green-clad leg sticking out from behind the counter. The rage caught him almost by surprise, and he lurched forward and brought the butt of the gun down on Father Juergen’s head. The German staggered but grabbed hold of the countertop.

  “You scum. They were just innocent nurses, helping sick people.”

  Juergen looked across at him, the blood was running freely down his face, which was now ashen. His body had lost its intensity, and he was beginning to sway. “There are no innocents. Only God knows the plan.”

  “Back,” Fagan held up the gun. “Or I swear I’ll show you his plan.”

  Father Juergen seemed to stumble backward. Fagan took a step forward, his eyes flicked momentarily towards the lifeless body of the nurse lying in a pool of her own blood. He caught the movement, but it was already too late. Juergen swept the jar of candies from the counter. Fagan tried to step out of the way, instinctively raising his one good hand as the jar caught him on the knuckles. The gun slipped from his han
d and clattered across the polished floor. Fagan backed up steeling himself for the attack, but Father Juergen was obviously not up for the fight and was already moving towards the exit.

  Fagan glanced towards the gun, lying a few yards away in the middle of the corridor — too far away. He reached across and grabbed the handle of the knife, still sticking out of his chest. He pulled it free and stood there swaying, ignoring the pain, the blade in his right hand. Father Juergen had already reached the door to the stairs. Fagan swung his arm and let go of the knife with all the strength and muscle memory he could muster.

  He knew from the moment it left his hand, he was off.

  Juergen disappeared through the door as the knife embedded itself in the door frame. Fagan lurched forward. But the corridor seemed to tilt, and he had to grab hold of the counter. He knew it was useless. Father Juergen would have twenty yards on him and would already be wading through the crowd. And Fagan was bleeding to death.

  He stepped into the gap between the counter and the wall. His gut screwed into a tight knot. The nurse had taken a bullet to the forehead and lay splayed out on the floor, her gold crucifix lay exposed on her chest. He knelt beside her and said a short prayer.

  He found some gauze dressing, a bottle of Betadine antiseptic, and a roll of tape in a cabinet at the back of the nursing station. He bit down on the pain as he slipped off his jacket and tore open his shirt. He unscrewed the top of the Betadine with his teeth and spit it out, then poured a generous amount directly onto the wound. The sting bit deep. He ground his teeth together and let out a groan. He poured more disinfectant onto a gauze pad and pressed it onto the wound. He managed awkwardly to secure the pad with the tape then pulled across his shirt and put his jacket back on. It still hurt like hell.

  He retrieved the Glock and stuffed it into his waistband, then staggered back towards the entrance to the stairs and stopped. He held onto the door frame while a wave of nausea swept over him. He took a deep breath then pulled out the knife, still embedded in the woodwork. He smacked the heal of the blade handle into the fire alarm mounted on the wall with a force far greater than required, and immediately bells started ringing. He shoved the blade in his pocket and moved through the door.

  25

  Sarajevo University College Hospital.

  Fagan made his way down the stairs. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He did not look good, and his coat was covered in blood. He was acutely aware that a Catholic priest covered in blood was not going to make it out through the reception area. His fingers went nervously to the Roman collar he wore. He quickly removed it and shoved it in his jacket pocket. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, two nurses ran out from a door to his right, both had outside coats over their green scrubs as they headed for the nearest exit. He quickly glanced inside.

  It was a locker room. Rows of grey metal cabinets lined the walls. He moved inside. A few lockers were empty, their doors hanging open. He reached into his pocket and removed an item that had been with him since he had graduated as a Navy SEAL. It was a Swiss Army knife, but instead of the usual red, it was blue and had the gold eagle and trident insignia of his old outfit. He pressed a button on its side, and the heads of two lock-pick prongs popped out. He retrieved them and went to work on the nearest locker. It was awkward because his left hand didn’t want to cooperate. He persisted and opened three before he found something suitable. He pulled out a dark blue ski jacket, complete with hood. He awkwardly slipped it on, suppressing a moan as the pain seared across his chest. The ski jacket was a little tight, but it would suffice. He headed back to the reception area.

  The chaos was worse. People were headed for the door and jamming the whole entrance area as they tried to get out. Fagan looked around for Frankie.

  “Your handiwork?” A voice said in his ear. He looked around at Frankie.

  She caught the look on his face. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really. I was just formally introduced to Father Juergen Meyer.”

  “Father Milosh? Is he?” The shock was clear on her face.

  “Sleeping like a baby.”

  “And Father Juergen?”

  “Let’s just say I gave as good as I got.”

  Frankie shook her head. “I leave you alone for five minutes.”

  “You know me.”

  “And your little chat with Father Milosh?”

  “Didn’t happen. Come on let’s get out of here, Any moment now this place will be crawling with police. There are two dead nurses upstairs, and the murder weapon is tucked in my belt.”

  “Joseph, what happened up there?”

  Fagan placed his good hand on her shoulder as the room started to sway. Frankie looked at the hand. It had blood on it.

  “My God, is that yours?”

  “Just get me out of here before I pass out.”

  The professional in her didn’t ask any more questions. She turned and moved forward into the crowd. Fagan followed close behind, his good hand holding on tight to her shoulder. They made their way out to the car park, and Frankie headed for a Toyota SUV.

  “Where did you get this?” Fagan asked as Frankie opened the door.

  “Someone had to make some plans. We needed new transport. I used Walter’s magic phone and found a car hire place, out by the railway station. They were still open, so I jumped in a taxi.”

  “And if I had arrived back there before you got back?”

  Frankie smiled. “You have a phone.”

  She helped him into the passenger seat then moved around and jumped in the driver’s side. Fagan let out a groan as he tried to get comfortable.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. What does your plan say now?”

  “We could head for the airport and get the next flight out of here. Of course, they will be thinking the same thing, and we will probably never make it on board. We could drive. We could be in Dubrovnik in four or five hours, from there we could get a ferry to Italy. But you look like you need some medical attention first.”

  Fagan had an uneasy feeling that had nothing to do with the pain from his physical wound. It seemed to stir, somewhere deep down in his soul.

  “He murdered two innocent nurses up there, just because they were in his way. That’s who they are. We’ve seen what they do.” He looked into her eyes. He had a sudden vision of their house in the South of France, of what they had there. But he knew that was gone.

  “We’re not leaving.”

  26

  Washington D.C.

  “Congratulations Senator.” The blonde behind the desk gave him a beaming smile, exposing a small fortune of dental work. “He will see you now.”

  “Thank you, Miss Dawson.”

  Konrad Krueger, Senator Krueger as of yesterday’s massive victory in the Senate election, smiled back. But that was not quite the way he felt. This political move was deemed essential if he wanted to improve his standing on the Grand Council. At least in the opinion of one of his sponsors who preferred to stay in the shadows. That was fine by him, and he needed all the help he could get. He had planned his campaign with all his usual precision and executed it with the ruthlessness for which he was well known as the CEO of Excalibur Security, the fastest growing private security company in the world. He had been rewarded with an overwhelming success. As of yesterday, he had resigned from the Excalibur board, at least officially. He was now ready to step up to his new position on the hill.

  He should have been feeling great. But behind the office door was the source of his problem. Behind it was the man, who had given him his seat on the Grand Council. The man to whom he had sold his soul.

  After the disaster in the Vatican, two years ago, he had been in damage control. He had hitched himself to a particular wagon, and when things had gone spectacularly wrong, he had left himself very exposed. He had been desperately looking for a way out, and as the man behind the door had pointed out to him, Dominic’s time had come and gone. He had made him a
n offer. He knew it was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he had to seize it. The deal had been simple. He had to deal with Dominic de Vaux and in return, the man behind the door, who at that time was about to become the next Grand Master, would give him Dominic’s place on the Grand Council.

  He had done what he had been asked and had received his place at the grand table in reward. But there the pleasure ended. He told himself often that Dominic had had his chance, and lost it. If it wasn’t him, someone else would have stepped up to take the offer, and with it the vacant seat. Despite that, he could never quite shake off the guilt, the knowledge that he had betrayed the man who had given him everything. And that was only where his problems began.

  With Dominic as Grand Master, he would have been groomed to be his heir, but the new Grand Master had the opposite view. He saw him as a threat. No doubt believing that what he could do to a friend, he could easily do to him. And he was right about that.

  But Krueger was sure the feeling was mutual. He now had his seat at the head table, but the Grand Master had him marginalized. It was just a matter of time before he had him removed — permanently.

  Krueger opened the office door and walked in without knocking.

  Grand Master Lawrence Percival sat in a sumptuous leather chair behind an antique, polished oak desk. He looked up as Krueger entered. “Ah Konrad, I believe congratulations are in order.”

  Konrad nodded. He knew that Percival had not been keen on the idea, but there was a groundswell in the council that had backed him and it appeared that this was a battle that Percival had decided not to fight. Perhaps he saw some opportunity for himself in it after all. Krueger reflected there was a downside to everything.

  Percival pointed to a seat. “I’m glad we could meet, there are some serious things we need to discuss.”

  The Grand Master’s office was large and sparsely decorated, but with expensive trappings. A Van Gogh and a Matisse hung on the wall opposite his desk. It was on the 22nd floor of a successful but faceless Corporation, hidden behind a myriad of shell companies and offshore enterprises that housed the ever moving corporate wheels of the Imperium. Behind him, two floor to ceiling windows looked out over the political icons of Washington D.C. and between them on the wall pillar, a priceless Picasso took pride of place. It was all carefully organized to portray the man in the leather chair. The man in control of all that he surveyed. The king in his castle.