by Neil Howarth
“Still sounds dangerous to me.”
“Joseph, this is all escalating, but when it comes to hard evidence, we have diddly squat. We don’t have a choice in this.”
“Okay, but don’t hang about. Do what you have to do and then back to the mountains.”
“As quick as my beloved Harley will take me.”
“Talking about things escalating, any more news on Brennan and his Papal ambitions?”
“Oh, the usual Vatican gossip. You know what they’re like.”
“Saying what?”
Walter paused. “That Saint Malachy’s prophecy is coming true. That Cardinal Brennan will be the final Pope. That Rome will burn around him, and he will open up the gates to the Antichrist. You know the usual stuff.”
Fagan wasn’t sure if he was joking or being deadly serious. “Well in Brennan’s case, he has no need to open the gates of Rome. The Antichrist is already there.”
“Well let’s try to stop him before any of that comes true.”
“If I can get Armena to the International Court, maybe the Colonel will start blabbing to save his neck. Maybe he’ll tell us what Brennan’s secret is.”
“Aren’t you a little old to believe in Father Christmas.”
“You were the one who told me to believe in miracles.”
They said their goodbyes and Fagan hung up.
He sat there feeling strangely alone. He drained his glass. He recognized the hollow feeling sitting at the bottom of his gut. The whiskey seemed to make it worse. It was not just fear, though that was part of it. It was like a heightened awareness. It had been his bellwether for what was to come throughout his military life and the dark times beyond that. He had always trusted it, and it rarely let him down. It was calling out to him now.
An unshakeable feeling that this was all about to come apart.
54
Glavni Kolodvor Railway Station, Zagreb.
The waitress came over and placed the bottle of water she had ordered, and a glass, on the table in front of her. Armena barely noticed it. She sat there numb. Why was she sitting here? Who was this man who had turned up in her life, wanting her to give up everything and follow him? But she knew it had not started with him. It had not even begun on that awful day when they had come to the door and told her about Tarik. They said it was an accident, but that was not true. She knew who had done it and why. She also knew what she had to do. She had probably known it since that terrible night. But she had allowed Tarik to carry the burden all these years, and the guilt and the pain. But he was gone now, and there was no one else left.
She unscrewed the bottle top and poured the water into the glass and took a long drink. She looked across at the table on the other side of the aisle. A woman sat there alone. She was little more than a girl really. She was chatting on her mobile phone, a smile on her face. She looked as if she did not have a care in the world. Armena watched her then made up her mind. She picked up her backpack and put it on her knees. She lifted the flap on the large back pocket that she had stitched with a colorful pattern of a flower, and unzipped the pocket. The item was there, nestled in the bottom amongst the jumbled detritus of her life. A vision of Uncle Omar sprang into her mind, his body still warm as she clung to his lifeless form. She had felt the hard lump pressed against her chest, as if he was trying to tell her something, trying to give her something — his dying act. She had done it almost without thinking, slipping her hand into the inside pocket of his coat and transferring it into her own. And now it was here lying in the bottom of her bag. She glanced towards the door, then took it out.
A phone.
It was quite a modern smartphone. She had given it to Uncle Omar for his last birthday, had set it up with all the numbers in it that he needed and shown him how to use it, just enough to make and take calls. He hardly used it but he carried it with him, and he did take his calls. She prayed someone else would. She switched it on, it had good coverage but the battery showed only one bar. Typical Uncle Omar, she was always telling him to charge it. A painful memory crowded into her mind. She pushed it aside and looked down at the phone and its single charge bar. She hoped it would be enough. She tapped the screen and found the number she was looking for. She tapped again on the number and waited as the phone began to ring.
Marko, please be there.
The ringing stopped, and a hesitant voice answered.
“Zdravo?”
“Marko,” relief flooded through her. “I’ve been trying to call you. I was worried.”
“Armena, where are you?” Marko’s voice seemed strained. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine. Listen to me. I have to go away for a while. I have something I must do for Tarik.”
“What are you talking about? What do you have to do?”
“I have to do what Tarik tried to do. I have someone here who is helping me. We are going to The Hague in Holland, to the International Court. I am going to be the witness that Tarik wanted to be.”
“Armena, that is much too dangerous.”
“They killed Uncle Omar.”
The line went silent. “Marko?”
“Armena, please.” When her husband finally spoke his voice was shaking. “We agreed.”
“Things change, I have to do this. I have no choice. These people will never give up until we are all dead. That is why you must go somewhere safe. Go to your cousin in Dubrovnik. I will contact you there. Marko, I am sorry, I must go.”
The line went silent, then Marko spoke again. “Armena, where are you?” His voice seemed strained.
“Marko, I so wish you were here.”
“Armena.” His voice cut her off. He seemed to shout it. She thought she heard another voice, low and muffled.
“Marko, is someone there?”
Marko’s voice came on the phone again. “Armena,” he paused. “I love you. Go, don’t call me again.” His last words were gushed out then cut off, punctuated by a strange sound.
“Marko?” A feeling of dread gripped inside her, and she suddenly felt cold. “Marko,” she called again.
The phone beeped in her ear. She looked at the screen, it was blank. A lump of ice sat in the middle of her chest. She struggled to breathe.
The girl across the aisle was looking at her with wide eyes. “Is everything all right?”
Armena nodded. She was sure she was going to be sick.
She looked up and saw Joseph coming through the door. He smiled as he saw her and headed towards her. She forced a smile back and pushed the phone into her pocket.
“Are you all right?” Joseph asked as he arrived.
Armena nodded, but she was afraid that what she was showing was anything but.
Dread seemed to scrape at the innards of her stomach. Something deep inside her wished that Marko had never answered his phone.
55
Bosnia Serbian border
They were waiting on the station platform. Frankie saw them as the train slowed to approach. She had planned to jump as soon as they emerged from the tunnel, but the train was traveling too fast. She was tempted, but she knew the risks were too high. So she had sat back and waited until they had reached the next station.
Of course, whoever was controlling the drone had called ahead. She glanced down the carriage. The guard stood at the far end, looking at her. He was not armed but he held a phone in his hand, and he was speaking into it. He would no doubt direct them towards her.
She looked out of the window facing away from the platform. The land ran uninterrupted up towards a ridge maybe three hundred meters away. It was not too steep a climb, but she would be exposed all the way to the top, and they would be able to pick her off without a problem. She looked back towards the reception committee on the platform. Better she took her chances with them.
She had stowed the MK in the paper towel bin in the rear toilet when she had climbed onboard. She reckoned it was probably best left there. The Glock was shoved into the waistband of her jeans and covered by h
er jacket, and the knife was still in her boot. She moved towards the door as the train came to a halt and climbed down onto the platform.
It was all very official looking. Four men in combat uniform, wearing light blue UN helmets and armed with M16 assault rifles, and one man with the shoulder bars of a Captain, wearing a UN blue beret with the United Nations cap badge on the front.
To the best of her knowledge, UN troops were no longer operating in the region.
The Captain stepped forward.
“Miss Lefevre,” he bowed his head smartly but did not introduce himself. “I must ask you to come with me.”
“What is this?”
The Captain smiled. “Please, let’s have no trouble.”
He spoke with an American accent, and Frankie had no doubt he was a genuine soldier.
“Are you arresting me? You have no authority to do that.”
The Captain took a step nearer, and the smile disappeared. A hardness appeared in his eyes as he leaned in closer.
“If you insist on making a confrontation of this, there will be a lot of innocent people hurt, and we will still take you. Someone would like a word with you, so why don’t you come quietly.”
Frankie looked around. There was quite a crowd, both waiting to get on the train and having just got off. They all stood on the platform, looking directly at her.
He was right, she was going nowhere.
“Your weapons, please. And remember what I said.”
She pulled out the Glock and handed it over. The Captain took it and handed it over to one of his men.
“And the backpack, please.”
She slung it off her back and handed it over.
He pointed to her boot. “And the knife.”
She reached down for it. She knew she could take him. She could have the knife embedded beneath his chin and into his brain in a single sharp move. She did consider it for just a moment. But what then. Her eyes flicked towards the onlookers still watching her. The Captain was right. She did as he asked and handed over the knife. Two of the men moved in behind her. The captain held out an arm pointing towards the exit.
They walked out through the station entrance and into the open air parking lot. Frankie looked up as two black SUVs with smoked windows, swept in through the parking lot gate and came to a halt twenty yards from where they stood. The doors opened, and armed men scrambled out. But they remained over by the vehicles pointing their weapons, saying nothing.
The officer held up a hand to his men. “Steady, do nothing without my command.”
Frankie studied the men. She recognized the type as the ones who had been pursuing her.
Another SUV entered the parking lot and stopped by the other two. The front passenger door opened and a man eased himself out. He was tall and wide, with a bulging gut and apparently the one in charge. He wore aviator sunglasses, and his raven black hair, which had obviously had help, was combed back in a 50s style quiff that also reflected the clothes he wore, a black leather bomber jacket and a white shirt with a large wide collar that had probably not been available in the shops for over thirty years.
“Captain Walker, I believe,” he said addressing the officer who had not identified himself to Frankie. “My name is Ratko Vladij, and I believe this lady is to be a guest of mine.”
“Those are not my orders.”
The man gave a confident shrug. “I think maybe your orders have changed. I am assured by my brother, Colonel Dragonov Vladij, that we have an agreement, and the lady is mine.”
The Captain studied the man for a moment then took out a cellphone and made a call. The phone rang twice before someone answered. He recognized Konrad Krueger’s voice on the other end.
“We have a situation.” He quickly told Krueger what had happened.
Vladij stepped forward and held out his hand. “I take it that is Senator Krueger. May I speak with him?”
The Captain seemed reluctant but Krueger prompted in his ear, and he handed over the phone.
“Senator,” Vladij said taking the phone. “My brother tells me we have an agreement. The girl will come with me.”
Krueger was silent for a moment. “Of course Mister Vladij,” he said eventually. “As we agreed. Would you hand the phone to the Captain.”
Vladij did as he was asked.
Krueger spoke quickly. “Let’s have no trouble. We don’t want a gunfight in the middle of town. I want you to do as he asks.”
“But what about—”
Krueger cut him off. “I have someone who will take care of that. For now, I want you to observe. Get one of your drones to track them.”
The Captain was about to protest when Krueger cut back in.
“Do what I ask, and keep me informed.” Krueger hung up.
The Captain pushed the cell phone into his pocket and looked at Vladij. “It would seem you are correct.” He looked across at Frankie. “My apologies, Miss Lefevre, but I have my orders.”
Frankie watched as the uniformed men climbed into a military truck and drove out of the parking lot. She looked at the man called Ratko Vladij.
He smiled a lascivious smile. “Shall we go?”
56
Dubrovnik, Croatia
Konrad Krueger stood out on the terracotta tiled terrace of the clifftop villa. The Adriatic was cobalt blue, stretching out from the foot of the cliffs directly below him, out to the far horizon. The place was owned by Excalibur Security, hidden away somewhere deep inside its corporate network of loosely connected offshore companies, and shell corporations.
He was dressed in a powder blue sports shirt and navy slacks, and his bare feet were tucked inside a pair of casual, brown brogues, in Italian leather. In his hand, he held a glass of iced Bogdanuša, a local white wine. The wine’s name translated as Gift from God.
He could use one right now.
He looked at the phone in his other hand. He should have been a happy man, but the phone call had given him his first taste of doubt. Cardinal Carlucci had told him they needed to keep the Colonel sweet, which also meant his brother. He had no idea what this man had over Carlucci, but it was obviously something quite damning. Something that put this whole project at risk. Which meant his own ambitions were at risk. Carlucci was dangling the carrot, and it was one hell of a carrot. But of course, if he wanted the grand prize, he had to play his part. And now it was time step up. He had three days before he was due back in the Senate. Three days to make a success of all of this.
Sometimes he wished it was him out there, chasing down these people. He was no stranger to combat. He had served in US Special Forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and when he was first getting Excalibur off the ground, he had led a number of front line operations. Despite the danger, when he was out there, close to the edge, he had always felt so much more in control.
The military was in his family. His father and his grandfather were both Generals. His grandfather had made two stars, his old man had gone one better. They had been looking to him to be the first in the family to make four, maybe even go for the big one, and make five. But he had disappointed them both and gone into the private sector while only a Major. Still, he always prided himself on recognizing an opportunity — and seeing the writing on the wall.
He found a number in the phone’s address book and hit call. It rang twice before a voice on the other end answered.
“Juergen, Konrad Krueger. It’s been a while. I trust my men are giving you all the help you need.”
“Mister Krueger, a pleasure to speak to you. Cardinal Carlucci told me that Excalibur would be providing support. He did not tell me you were involved.”
“Just here to help, if needed. Are you having some success?”
“Some, but Fagan is still out there. But have no worries, I will find him. Although I do need some help from your advanced technology. I need you to track a mobile phone for me.”
“We should be able to help you with that. But I have a slight problem, and Cardinal Carlucci has assured me t
hat you are the man to help me fix it.”
Krueger gave him the details. “My people on the ground will update you. They will also help you locate your cell phone and give your men any support they need. But the task I have for you is of supreme importance, you must be there. Remember who we are doing this for.”
57
Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome.
Walter brought the Harley to a stop in the shadow of the Castel Sant’Angelo, Emperor Hadrian’s ancient mausoleum. It was two blocks from his destination.
Aldo climbed off the back. “You sure about this man. It feels like we’re sticking our heads up to see if there is any sign of the reaper’s blade.”
“Rilassarsi,” Walter replied in Aldo’s native Italian.
“It is okay for you, telling me to relax. I don’t have the constitution for this. You know me, that is why I don’t do field work.”
Walter climbed off the bike and stowed his crash helmet in the storage box behind the seat.
“Aldo, take it easy, your Uncle Walter is here. I’ll take care of you.”
“That is what I am afraid of.”
Walter shook his head. “Ye of little faith.”
“So where is he?”
“Give him time. This is where I said I’d meet him. He’s hiding out somewhere in the city. We don’t know how easy it is for him to get here.”
“I still don’t like it.” Aldo pulled out a battered joint from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips.
“Hey,” Walter snatched it out of his mouth. “Save that till later.”
“I was not going to light it.” Aldo gave him a hurt look. “It relaxes me.”
Walter shook his head and gave it back. He looked at his watch. He was not really late yet.
Come on Carlo, put me out of my misery.
His phone vibrated silently in his pocket. He pulled it out and punched at the soft keyboard.