by Neil Howarth
His heart had skipped a beat at the mention of the term. He knew it’s purpose.
That was when he had heard for the first time he was to be made Cardinal. But it had not finished there. Carlucci had smiled.
‘After all, you need to be part of the Cardinals College if you are to be elected.’
It took Brennan a moment to realize the significance of what the Cardinal had just said. Carlucci had captured him with his unforgiving stone grey eyes. ‘The Holy Father cannot last forever, and when that happens, we must be prepared.’ He had pointed an elegantly manicured finger at him. ‘You must be ready.’
For a moment he had been unable to breathe, as if an electric shock surged through his body — paralyzing him. It was only in the aftermath, as the effects of the adrenalin were draining away that he had realized the implications and the danger.
A week later, when he had received the burner phone and made the call, it became even clearer. The media would put him under scrutiny, would pick over every scrap of his life and present it to the world. The man on the other end of the phone had made his own demands, and the consequences if he did not comply.
He glanced once more at his watch. It was time.
He descended the spiral staircase and headed out across the courtyard. It had rained recently and the evening air was damp and heavy with the musty odor of the ancient citadel. Normally its aroma comforted him, something robust and reliable to sustain him. But tonight it seemed to cling in his nostrils and claw at his throat.
The tiny chapel was on the far side of the piazza. Carlucci not only liked to keep the secrets of the confessional, but he also liked to keep secret who was confessing. He sensed the Cardinal was already there behind the fine screen as he slid into the darkness of the confessional box.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been more than a week since my last confession.”
“We are both at fault. The world out there rushes ahead at its crazy pace, and carries us all along with it.” Carlucci’s voice was barely above a whisper, a soft, dulcet tone, skillfully designed to make the penitent feel relaxed and comfortable, in the right mood to tell all. “What troubles you?”
“Nothing more than constantly wanting to serve the Holy Father and not wanting to let him down. And in the end, serve God.”
“Come now, this is the confessional, the place for opening your heart.”
Brennan’s bad feeling got worse. He could almost sense the Cardinal smiling on the other side of the screen, waiting to strike.
“This is not a place for hiding,” the Cardinal spoke again. “This is the time to bear your soul.”
“I’m sorry, I. . .”
Carlucci cut in, the dulcet tone was now gone. “Maybe I should ask you a question first, given that you are the Holy Father’s personal secretary.”
This was it. Brennan held his breath, his heart threatening to burst.
“Why do you think the Supreme Pontiff of the Holy Roman Church, Pope Ignatius the Second, is paying a top London lawyer to defend an International War Criminal, at the International Court of Justice in the Hague?”
Brennan’s heart kicked hard in his chest.
“Interesting do you not think? And the man is not even a Catholic.” Carlucci continued. “I know it was a rather obscure account, used for paying out ad hoc sundries, one I am sure the Holy Father has no knowledge of. It seems a good lawyer is very expensive these days, especially the best lawyers. Did you think I was not going to notice that? I am sure it was an easy thing to slip the signatory authorization at the bottom of a pile of documents, all requiring his signature. Especially given his condition. We both know he gets very tired as the day draws on.”
Brennan did not speak. He sat there in the darkness, dreading what was coming next.
“My dear Paul, you are not the only one I hear confession from. Your man Father Juergen, for instance. I gave him a call. He said he was in Sarajevo of all places. He had an interesting story to tell, but he could only tell me so much. As we both know, Juergen is a soldier of Christ, he does what he does in his name. He does not deal with why. So why don’t you tell me?”
Brennan should have seen that coming.
“What bothers me most, is the lack of trust. You did not think to come to me and ask for my help. Did you think I would not find out?”
Brennan was desperately trying to work out just how he would tell this. He had a story worked out for just such an occasion. But now as failure looked him in the face. Could he convince him?
“I think it is your turn to speak now, Paul. I am most curious to hear it from your side.”
Brennan told it like the penitent man he was, and like all the best lies, sticking to the truth as much as possible but with just the right omissions and embellishments, telling the story he had elaborately worked out in his mind should this day ever come.
“Eminence, I am truly sorry. I panicked. I could see all our plans being destroyed. This Colonel Vladij, he threatened me. He threatened all of us and everything we had planned.”
“Why would he contact you?”
As Brennan was well aware, the strength of the lie was dependent upon how well you walked that fine line between the truth and the story you needed to tell. He took a breath and stepped out onto the tightrope.
“It seems my father, well my adoptive father, had information about him, regarding events during the war in Bosnia. He was worried he would testify against him. No doubt he looked into his background for something he could use, and he found me. And then he looked into me. He said he knew about scandal in the Vatican, he knew about me.”
“What could he possibly know?”
“You know this place, it leaks like an old bucket.” Brennan let his emotion embellish his story. “He painted a picture of me rising through the Church on the back of the death of Pope Salus. He said there were rumors that Salus had been poisoned. He told me what I had to do.”
“You should have come to me. But instead, you did as this man asked and sacrificed your father.”
“I knew he didn’t have much time left. He was already in stage four of prostate cancer. I thought that in some ways it was a blessing.”
“Did you not ask yourself, why Vladij did not simply kill your father? Surely he had contacts on the outside who could do that?”
Brennan did not respond.
“Oh come now, Paul. He obviously wanted something more than that. What is it you Americans say? He wanted your skin in the game. He wanted a hold on you. A man like Vladij could sell your influence to the highest bidder. And if things went well for you, that influence could only get better. Do not tell me you had not worked that out.”
“I considered it. But I thought that once he was free of prison, I could deal with him.”
“Another task for Father Juergen?”
“I thought it was the best way. The lawyer tells me he should walk free in a matter of days.”
“Maybe we don’t have days.” Carlucci did not elaborate. “And did you not consider that he may have taken out insurance.”
“I know that he did. His lawyer told me. After all, I was paying his bill. He has a computer flash drive with all the details. I know the lawyer. I researched his background well. I believe when the time comes, for the right amount, he will hand it over.”
Brennan sat in the silence willing his confessor to speak, to give him some form of absolution. Finally, he was not able to stand it any longer. “I did it for us, for the Church.”
The Cardinal eventually spoke. “It seems I have little choice but to absolve you of your sins. The Holy Father will not last the year, and the Lord has left me stuck with you. But maybe that is the way it is meant to be. Maybe God really did choose you. Is that true Paul? Even your name is a sign. I am a great believer in signs, portents. Maybe it is providence. Dominic de Vaux always thought so.”
Brennan inadvertently let out a gasp.
“Come now, you did not believe he was using you just to be
his inside man. He had me for that. No, he had the vision, he saw your potential. He saw all the signs and linked them together. I was not always convinced, but Dominic could be a very persuasive man.”
“Eminence, what do you want me to do now?”
“For your penance, I want you to do nothing, apart from serving the Holy Father. Father Juergen will report directly to me, you will have no further contact with him. Leave this to me now,” Carlucci said. “I will deal with it. Fortunately, I am having dinner this evening with just the man to help us.”
Trastevere, Rome.
Roberto tipped back the Grappa in a single swallow and followed it with a gulp from the strong black espresso. The spirit burned at his throat, it was already his third, but it took the edge off the stress he was feeling.
The bar was in a narrow back street in Trastevere, a short walk from the Vatican. Roberto was at his usual table in the back. The place was owned by his uncle, so nobody bothered him. He preferred working here when he could. The Vatican made him nervous, for good reason.
He had not seen Father Juergen for a couple of days, no doubt he was making someone else’s life a misery. Cardinal Brennan seemed preoccupied and had left him alone, but that did not mean he was off the hook. He had just a little breathing space. He had made a commitment, and he knew his life, literally, depended on it.
He looked down at the guts of Carlo’s phone. Cardinal Brennan had sent it to him in a box with the rest of Carlo’s possessions. He had felt sick to touch anything in there, but the threat of Father Juergen pushed him on. There was not a lot there. But the phone, he knew was the key to Carlo’s world. He was a smart little bastard. Was, he thought. Too smart for his own good, it turned out. Roberto was desperate not to join him.
Wires extended from the back of his laptop and connected into the innards of the phone. He examined the screen of his computer. Line after line of what appeared to be gibberish to the uninitiated, but to Roberto’s expert eye, it was pure gold. Occasionally he tapped in a string of hieroglyphics, and the gibberish continued. Suddenly he stopped and backed up the screen, examining a line of the output.
“You devious little bastard,” he said out loud. He looked up, aware of his sudden outburst, but it was early, and the place was deserted apart from him,
His heart was pounding and he began typing rapidly. The screen flashed and an image appeared. He tapped the trackpad on his laptop, and a small text box appeared. He typed in the code he had just found in Carlo’s phone. The screen appeared to think for a moment then another screen appeared.
“Oh yes.” he said. “Walter, come to me.”
37
Bosnia-Serbia border.
The trees had thinned out, and Fagan was making good progress. He had worked some life back into his limbs, but his left arm was still stiff, and the pain shot through his chest when he moved it, so he held it close into his chest. He had pushed himself into a low-level trot. It was not at the pace of his morning runs back in Opio, but it was taking him in the right direction.
It was pain now or no pain later — at all.
He had struggled to compartmentalize it, but finally, he had been able to push it somewhere deep, like someone knocking persistently on a distant door.
He had no real idea where he was relative to the town. He had followed the line of the river for a while, then he had become nervous that if they could get a plane or a helicopter into the air that would be an obvious place to sweep, in a search for him — and Frankie.
He would not allow himself to think about her or how she was fairing. He knew he had to focus on himself and staying alive. It was the only way he stood any chance of seeing her again.
So he veered away from the river and continued to follow the slope down the hillside. He knew he had to get out of his wet clothes. They clung to his body like ice chilled rags. He was steadily losing the battle between the heat his body was generating as he ran, and that his clothes and the rapidly fading day were taking away. The sun was quickly disappearing behind the mountain ridge to the west, and he knew once the light went, the temperature would drop rapidly.
He emerged into a clearing in the trees and stopped, letting his eyes sweep the landscape. The land ran gradually away from him, as it had been doing for the past hour. There was no sign of anyone. He thought he could make out something through the rapidly growing gloom, on the far side of the clearing. His heart kicked in his chest, hope rising momentarily as he moved quickly but cautiously across the clearing.
It was a squat, single-storied hut with a steep wooden roof, wide eaves and a single door in the front, with shuttered windows at either side. He did a quick reconnoiter, doing a three—sixty degree traverse around the wooden structure. He listened at the shuttered windows and against the front door. But nothing stirred inside. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. The wood appeared substantial and would take a battering ram to get through. He reached into his pocket, thankfully the Swiss Army knife was still there. He took it out and pressed the button on the top. The two lock-pick prongs dropped into his palm. He set about the lock on the door.
It did not have a complex mechanism, but it had been locked for some time, perhaps the whole winter and it proved difficult to shift. He gave it a few kicks with his boot to try to shock it free, then tried again. His problem was the cold. His damp clothing made it worse, and the chill was like a deep ache that penetrated into his bones, rapidly debilitating his body. His fingers struggled to hold on to the lock-picks, but they slipped from his numbed and useless fingers and dropped on to the ground. He bent down to pick them up, and the ziplock bag under his shirt dug painfully into his chest. Suddenly his brain melted, for just a moment. He dropped to the floor and unzipped his jacket. He pulled out the bag. The adhesive tape had gone, but the bag appeared to have survived relatively intact. He shook his head and took out the Glock, it was still dry. He screwed on the sound suppressor and struggled back to his feet. He took a step back, aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. The Glock gave a suppressed cough and blew out the lock.
He turned the door handle and pushed his way inside. He left the front door open, allowing what meager daylight there was left, to filter into the tiny space. It was a single room, it appeared dry and though dusty was relatively clean. He found an oil lamp in the corner and went in search of matches. He found a battered plastic lighter in a drawer over by an old tin sink, and with shaking hands managed to get the lamp lit. It immediately threw illumination into the room.
There was no sign of electricity or any kind of appliance. There were a few cupboards on the wall, and he felt as if he had just scooped the lottery when he found a few tins of canned food. There was a narrow bed against the other wall with a thin mattress. It looked old and dusty, but it still looked relatively clean. He desperately wanted to throw himself on it and let sleep carry him away, but he knew he had more important things to deal with first.
An old iron stove stood against the far wall, a blackened tin flue extended upwards and disappeared through the ceiling. It had a small door at the front, and when he opened it, he could see that someone had cleaned it out after using it last. He headed back outside and found the chopped woodpile he had seen around the back of the hut. He loaded his arms with logs and moved back inside.
He ventured outside once more and gathered kindling wood then went back inside and closed the door behind him. He was working fast now. He could feel his senses shutting down, and his body had begun to shake. He had not forgotten how to light a fire and soon had one crackling and spitting in the grate. He allowed himself a few minutes to crowd in close to the open stove door and take in some heat. He rubbed his hands together. The pain was exquisite as the warmth slowly eased into them. He just wanted to fall asleep. He could feel himself slipping away, but he forced himself to his feet.
He headed back outside, closing the door behind him. He made his way back across the clearing. The light had faded rapidly since he had crossed it before and now he could
barely make out the line of trees on the far side. Eventually, he stopped and turned around. The darkness that was quickly enveloping him served his purpose. He looked back towards the hut, straining his eyes for any chink of light escaping, anything that could give him away to a passing search party. There was none. He sniffed the air, but there was no trace of wood smoke. He headed back to the hut, moving faster than he had come. He was acutely aware that if he did not get inside quickly, he might never make it. The wooden shack finally emerged from the gloom, and he staggered through the front door.
Already the place had taken on a comfortable warmth as the fire roared in the stove. He fed in more logs, then quickly stripped off his wet jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it agonizingly away from his wound. The pain made his head spin. The dressing was gone, but the wound seemed clean and was no longer bleeding. The iced mountain water appeared to have done him some good after all.
He quickly stripped off the rest of his clothes. There was a wooden chair in the corner, he brought it close to the stove and arranged them across it. He padded naked across the room and found a blanket on the bed. He used it as a makeshift towel and rubbed it vigorously across his body, avoiding the left side of his chest but trying to stimulate the blood flow. It hurt like hell.
He emptied the Ziplock bag and took a couple of the painkillers and antibiotics, then redressed the wound and put on a clean bandage. He picked up the phone and removed the battery and the SIM card, then placed the items on the chair. The pieces looked dry, but he had no idea how they had survived his dip in the river and the battering that went with it. He knew the best thing to do was to let then dry out thoroughly before he tried to switch it on. He did the same thing with the Glock, stripping the weapon down. He found some rags under the sink and like a good soldier dutifully cleaned and polished each part. It was not quite what the book recommended, but it was all he had for now. He reassembled it and reattached the suppressor, it was something he could still do with his eyes closed. He slotted in the magazine and worked the slide to make it ready to shoot.