The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  Krueger could almost hear Dominic speaking. “I think I may have heard this speech before.”

  “That is because it is not a speech, it is the truth. It is time we fought fire with fire. Do they really think that young radicalized Muslims are the only ones willing to die for their faith? Christians have been doing that for the last two thousand years.

  “We have an organization, the Legion of Jesus, they are the fastest growing Christian organization in the United States. But not just in America, all over the world. They are bringing in young people in droves into our Church. These people are our future, they are the ones who will fight and die on the front line for us. For their God. Can you imagine a wave of young radical Christians turning up in an ISIS training camp in the depths of their so called Caliphate, looking just like them, and self-destructing? It would send a shiver of the wrath of Almighty God, that will rock them to the core.”

  “And you have a plan for all this?”

  “I have a plan, but do you know what it is like to live with a Curia filled with doddering old men, barely able to deal with going to the toilet, never mind taking on the new challenges facing the Church today. This plan must be implemented carefully and precisely. It is a task for strong wills and clear heads. A younger man’s task.”

  “And you have such a man? A Petrus Romanus?” Krueger was intrigued.

  “What if I were to tell you he is already amongst us, waiting to step up to the Papal throne.”

  “I seem to remember a prediction, a prophecy, from my Bible Studies. I believe it was St. Francis of Assisi who said. Jesus Christ will send them not a true Pastor, but a destroyer.”

  “I’m impressed. Let me complete the picture. Pope Petrus Romanus, the final Pontiff, will lead the faithful into the final battle - Armageddon. Which as all scholars of the Bible know, is not the end, but the new beginning.”

  “With your help.”

  Carlucci smiled. “Of course. Let us say I am smoothing his path.”

  “And what do you need from me?”

  Carlucci swirled the wine around his crystal glass before draining it. He put it carefully back on the table. “Maybe we can help each other. I have influence here in the Vatican, I need your influence and resources within the Grand Council. As I am sure you can imagine, having a Jew at the head does not sit well with me or some others who also sit on and around the Council. Obviously, I would prefer a good Catholic in that seat. But the way things stand that is never going to happen.” He looked over towards the wine waiter. “We will take the Montepulciano now.”

  The waiter appeared like a ghost at the table, poured the red wine into new glasses and disappeared.

  Carlucci held up the wine against the light, its ruby red shining like a jewel. “A thing of beauty. Like the Church, as it will become.”

  He closed his eyes and dipped his generous nose into the glass, inhaling the rich fragrance of the grape. Then he took a sample sip, letting the wine run across his tongue. He opened his eyes and looked across at Krueger. “You must try it, it is truly excellent.”

  Krueger sampled the wine. Carlucci was right. The man did have excellent taste in wines. He hoped that the rest of his choices were as good.

  “You must excuse me, Konrad, if I speak freely of your colleagues on the Grand Council.”

  Krueger was sure the Carlucci’s idea of speaking freely was as calculated and planned as anything he ever uttered.

  “The Imperium is becoming a joke. After all these years of building and refining, after all the good men that have led it, men of vision, Percival, and his cronies have reduced it to some coarse money-making enterprise. I see them, grubbing like pigs at the trough, acquiring wealth and assets, and the Grand Master sitting there counting the money, like the King in his counting house. They have no vision beyond that.

  “What is their latest scheme? - Shale oil? Where does that take the world? I have no idea, and neither do they. It is mere opportunism. Where does that sit in the previous Grand Master’s vision? I am sure Charles Liebeman is turning in his grave. If Dominic de Vaux had survived, if just one thing small thing could have gone his way, he would have been successful, and the whole world would be different. He was so close, perhaps one minute away from success. But as we know, it is such fine margins that in the end define us.” He stared across the table at Krueger, his eyes burying in deep as if he knew all Krueger’s little secrets.

  “That is why you have to step up and take Dominic’s place.”

  Carlucci had Krueger’s attention now.

  “If you deliver the Catholic Church to the Imperium with your own Pope on the Papal throne, you will be able to walk straight into the Grand Master’s chair, no one will stand in your way. It will be the banner that leads the greatest battle the world has ever seen. With the Holy Father, the Pope, our Pope, Konrad, leading the vanguard. And when he does, and that battle is won, that is when the New World Order begins. An ordered world, based upon good Christian beliefs and values. A world where people feel safe, where they can work and contribute, and where they and their families are protected in return. I can assure you, this is God’s plan. A world of faith, where the faithful can feel secure in the knowledge that God is in his heaven, our God, and all is well with the world.”

  “You make a compelling case, your Eminence.”

  Carlucci took a sip of his Montepulciano. “But if I may venture an opinion on the current state of the Imperium, currently as an outsider. My vision may not fit with the way the Grand Master sees things. And I need the Imperium to help me see this through. But from what I hear, his position is tenuous, to say the least. There are many on the Grand Council, and those who prefer to remain in the shadows, who are unhappy at the way Percival obtained his position in the first place.” The Cardinal settled his dark eyes on Krueger.

  Krueger met his gaze.

  Did he know?

  “You seem remarkably well informed.”

  “That is part of my job. The Church may be out of favor with the Imperium, but there are still those who believe. Things will change, but I need someone leading the Grand Council who is prepared to follow Dominic’s plan, the Bible’s plan, when the time comes. When the last Pope leads the faithful into the final battle, I need the resources of the Imperium to be behind him to deliver the final blow.”

  Krueger saw another opportunity, one that he knew he had to grasp, regardless of what Carlucci knew about him. Or maybe because of it. He picked up his glass and clinked it against Carlucci’s.

  “Shall we call it our plan, your Eminence.”

  Carlucci looked across at the Senator. He took in his youthful good looks and the smile that revealed perfect white teeth and lit up his face. But when he looked into his eyes, there was a cruelty in there that never quite faded. The Cardinal was an expert in reading people. This man had ambition, determination, and more importantly, a streak of ruthlessness. Just what he needed. He returned the Senator’s smile. “I am glad we see eye to eye.” He paused, and the smile disappeared. “However, as with all plans, things do not always run smooth.”

  Krueger shook his head. “Dominic used to say. There is always something. Tell me about it.”

  “It would seem our Petrus has a flaw, one that if left unchecked could unravel everything.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Was any great achievement reached without sacrifice and pain.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I take it you have Excalibur personnel in Bosnia.”

  “Technically, they’re not mine, but Excalibur has a team in Croatia, in Dubrovnik. Not as many as they used to have, but they could be deployed to Bosnia at a moment’s notice.”

  “Good, I have a small band of dedicated individuals who need support. They need weapons, transport, intelligence and if required, back up.”

  Krueger picked up his wine glass and took a sip. “I think I can arrange that.”

  41

  Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.


  Father Juergen Meyer gazed in the mirror, examining the large lump on his head from where Fagan had struck him with his own gun. He had already pushed the pain from his mind. He shifted his gaze and fingered the wound that had creased the side of his skull. A few millimeters to the left and his life would have been over, but that incited no fear in him. He was still standing here. His protector had guided the bullet. Of that, he was convinced. Enough to save his life, but close enough for him to know the pain, and a reminder to remain true to his path, and his plan.

  He had watched the Bosnian priest, knew his movements, his daily routine, and had made his plan. When he had appeared with Fagan by his side, and the girl, he was shocked they had caught up with him so fast. But he had also felt the tingle of excitement. This was his chance to make amends.

  Even though it was not his fault Fagan and the girl had escaped at the convent in Ireland, he knew that Cardinal Brennan blamed him. In his eyes, he had failed. If he was honest, the excitement had made him pause for barely a second, but it had given Fagan, who must have caught the reflection off his sniper’s scope, the moment he needed to push the priest out of the path of the through-the-heart shot. He had hit the priest, but he had still been alive. Then later at the hospital, he had had his chance. But Fagan was there, and he was good, he had to give him that.

  He knew about Fagan. Cardinal Brennan had given him a file with all his background. He did not ask where he had got it from. It made for interesting reading. Given his performance at the convent and now here in Sarajevo, what it had said was true. In a strange way, there were similarities between them, and he knew from his recent experience that they were evenly matched. The thought that this was his opponent gave him an almost sexual tingle in his body.

  Unlike Fagan, he had not started out as a soldier, but he was not new to killing. As a teenager in his native Munich, he had been a good-looking youth, and men would pick him up for sex. He would take them to some secluded alley, and there he would snap out their life with his bare hands, then steal their money and valuables and dump them in the river Isar.

  They were the real sinners. Deep down he felt he was ridding the world of its scum. Every week he would go to confession and confess it all. The priest was unusually reticent and had only told him that God would judge him. The Father was duty bound by the Seal of the Confessional to keep his secret, but that had not stopped Dominic de Vaux from appearing one evening. Juergen thought he was another rich client, but the priest had appeared beside him. They told him that God was calling him and had invited him to join the Legion of Jesus. De Vaux had taken him on his private plane to the seminary on the Isola dei Lebbrosi, in Venice’s Laguna di Morta. De Vaux told him he had a special task for him.

  But first, he had to study.

  The theology had been easy for him, and he had consumed it like his daily bread. But then Monsignor Scarlatti, the rector of the seminary, had taken him aside and introduced him to Cardinal Carlucci, the Superior of the Order. They had spoken of the soldiers of the order and the role that they had for him. From that moment he knew this was where he had always meant to be. He could still remember the Cardinal’s words as the prelate had gripped his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes.

  ‘You must remember our cause, Juergen. Just as St. Bernard, the Abbott of Clairvaux, told the crusading knights before they left for the Holy Land.

  ‘The soldier of Christ kills not without cause. He is the instrument of God. He does not sin in killing the enemies of Christ and does not fear death. Killing and being killed for Christ merits not eternal damnation, but eternal glory.’

  He looked down at the inside of his forearm, at the words tattooed in elegant script.

  Non Homicida, Sed Malicida — Not Homicide, but Malicide — the killing of evil.

  He replaced the dressing and the bandage on his head, then got dressed. He realized he was hungry. There was a little cafe across the street, he would take breakfast there and then set out. He had found this small hotel outside of Sarajevo. They accepted cash and did not ask questions. He had already called Cardinal Brennan to give him the news. Their conversation had not gone well, and the call had ended abruptly. He had been surprised when Cardinal Carlucci had called him and told him things had changed. Still, he was much happier taking his orders from his Eminence.

  He had worked for Cardinal Brennan, done all the things that he had asked, because Cardinal Carlucci had told him that is what he must do. But Cardinal Brennan did not understand the realities, the risks, all the things that could go wrong in an operation. Still, it was not for him to argue, he had his duty. Cardinal Brennan was part of a grander plan. He knew that. Cardinal Carlucci had explained it all to him. But for now, his orders came from Cardinal Carlucci.

  He had been given a local contact in Excalibur Security. He knew them, he had worked with them before. They would give him whatever support he needed. He had also been given a name. A girl. Cardinal Carlucci had said he must find her. He had explained its importance. It was a task in which he knew he could not fail.

  42

  Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

  It was still dark when Fagan awoke. He pushed out a hand, instinctively reaching for her, but he found only emptiness, and the realization hit him like a punch in the gut. He sat up in the narrow bed. Dim light was filtering into the cabin, as was the recognition of where he was. All the events of yesterday came flooding back — and the reality.

  She was still out there.

  How had she got through the night? Had she survived the cold? He had to believe she had. She was tough and resourceful. In many ways, she was much stronger and smarter than he was. He just prayed she was using every ounce of it.

  He eased himself off the bed. He lifted his left arm gingerly. It was quite stiff, and the wound was still painful when he moved, but it was not as intense, and it was no longer constant. He wandered over to the tin sink and turned on the tap. A burst of brown water flooded out, but after a while, it cleared. Fagan splashed the ice cold water on his face and down his body. He used the blanket from the bed as a towel then pulled off the dressing and checked his wound. It was still red but not as puffy as the day before, and the pain was no longer sharp when he touched it. He redressed the wound, then took two painkillers and the antibiotics, then got dressed. His clothes were stiff as boards, but at least they were dry.

  He picked up the Glock and stepped outside. He did a quick three-sixty around the hut, checking for any sign of life. He appeared to be completely alone, which was fine because that was exactly how he felt.

  He headed back inside. Now that all the essentials were complete he realized he was starving. He found a can of potatoes and one of corned beef in the cupboard. They had self-opening tops, so he didn’t need a can opener. He found a small saucepan under the sink. He washed it out and tipped the contents of the cans inside. He added a little water and gave it a stir. He walked over and opened the iron door of the stove. The fire had gone down, but there was still a red glow there. He pushed in a couple of logs leaving a space between them and sat the pan down in the glowing ashes. He left it for ten minutes then pulled it out using the rag as a glove.

  He ate directly from the saucepan using a spoon he had found in a drawer. The food was not bad, he had certainly endured worse in the past. When he had finished, he checked the cell phone, the battery, and the SIM card. They both looked dry. He put them together and switched it on the phone. After a moment it burst into life. He typed in the PIN code and SIM unlocking key, the apps appeared but he could see there was no coverage. He tried to push aside the disappointment. He shoved the phone into his pocket and gathered up the tablets and his makeshift first aid kit and zipped them up in the ziplock bag, then stowed them inside his jacket. He retrieved the Glock from the bed then took a last look around the cabin, as if he was leaving something behind, and headed out.

  He looked around and did some calculations. He knew the river was out to his left, He had veered away fro
m it the previous day, but not too far. The road they had driven up had skirted the waterfalls and then looped away to the west before swinging back as they had climbed up to the monastery. Therefore if he kept heading south, he should meet up with it, and from there he could follow it back to the town. They were rough, but sound assumptions and the technique had served him well in the past. He took a quick bearing and set off down the mountain.

  He walked for an hour before he hit the road. He recognized it from the previous day, at a point where it bent around and rose steeply, heading in the direction he had come. He set off along the road, keeping close enough to the trees that lined the roadside, ready to duck out of sight at the sign of anyone. He thought about the monk, Brother Drago. Could he have told them any more? Was it worth going back and trying to find him? That’s if he had survived. But remembering what he did of the old monk, survival was probably in his DNA. He quickly pushed the thought aside. It was too risky, and he was likely to come up with nothing, and deep down he knew it was something else that was tugging him in that direction. She had said it, and he knew she was right. They had made the sacrifice now, they were apart. She was out there risking her life, leading them away.

  He had to find the girl, Armena.

  He heard a sound on the road behind him and was about to dive into the trees, but he looked back as an old truck appeared around the corner, about a quarter mile back the way he had come. He decided to take a chance. He let the truck approach, keeping his hand on the Glock tucked into the back of his trousers. He waved his free arm, as much as he could, and the truck slowed, then came to a halt. The man spoke in a language he did not understand. Fagan just said Bretsnia and the man nodded. Fagan climbed into the cab beside him. Initially, the man tried talking to him, but he soon realized that Fagan did not understand a word he said and gave up. Which suited Fagan. He had his thoughts to himself.