The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  Frankie began unbuttoning her shirt. She had been wearing it for three days, and it seemed to peel off her skin. She dropped it at her feet.

  “Now the bra.”

  Frankie unhooked it then dropped it to the floor and covered her exposed breast with her arms.

  “Now that is no fun. Put your arms down by your sides.”

  Frankie refused to move. She stood resolutely with her arms wrapped around her. Vladij took a step towards her. The knife held out in front of him.

  Frankie still did not move.

  “I said drop them.”

  Frankie squeezed herself even tighter, keeping her eyes down towards the floor. Vladij took another step closer and slashed out with the knife. Frankie stepped back and finally dropped her arms. She swung out with one hand and deflected the blade, then stepped back in and kicked him with all the force she could muster, directly between his legs.

  Vladij dropped to his knees as if he had just received a very large electric shock. Frankie did not stop at that. She grabbed his wrist, dug in her fingernails and twisted. He dropped the knife, and she caught it with her free hand. Vladij was still reeling from the crushing of his privates as she swung in towards him, her breasts now swinging clearly before him. He looked up at her. His eyes popping out like boiled eggs, either from the sight of her breasts or the pain in his crushed manhood. Perhaps both. Frankie stepped in and swept down with the blade as hard as she could. Vladij saw it coming and held up a hand in defense. But Frankie swept past it, thrusting down. Vladij seemed mesmerized by the blade, all the way until Frankie planted it firmly in his left eye. She did not let go until the hilt was pressed up against his eye socket. By which time Ratko Vladij was already dead.

  She stood back panting as he collapsed onto the floor, her heart racing like crazy. There was a sink in the corner. She quickly rinsed the blood from her hands and arms and across her breasts and face. She dried herself with a towel then picked up her bra and shirt and put them back on.

  Vladij’s leather jacket was hanging on the back of a chair. She moved over to it and found the leather holster with an automatic strapped inside. She removed the weapon, a Smith and Wesson, SW1911. A forty-five in polished stainless steel with an elegantly carved wooden grip. The name Ratko was etched neatly into it.

  It said a lot about the man.

  She glanced over towards Vladij, lying on the floor, the blade still sticking out grotesquely from his eye socket. She considered retrieving the knife but decided to stick with the gun. She ejected the magazine. It was still full. She replaced it and stuffed it into the band of her jeans, then quickly moved over to the door. She pushed her ear against it, but she could hear nothing.

  There was a single window at the back of the room, she moved over and peered out. There was a short grassy area before the forest began. She unhooked the latch and pushed it open. It squeaked painfully. She stopped and listened, but no one appeared. She opened the window fully and climbed out. She landed on all fours and looked around.

  A man was leaning against the back wall where it recessed back from the window she had just climbed out of. She vaguely recognized him from somewhere. He had a bandage wrapped around his head and was pointing a silenced Sig Sauer P226 directly at her.

  “You made it. I knew you would.”

  Then she knew who he was. Joseph had put a bullet crease down his skull. She wished his aim had been better. He spoke English with a clipped Germanic precision. Walter had described him as Brennan’s Rottweiler. His name was Father Juergen, though in what realm of hell he was a priest, she had no idea.

  Frankie stood up slowly. The SIG never left her. “And what would have happened if I had not?”

  “Oh, I would have stepped in,” he paused. “At some stage. Now I want you to do exactly as I say and I am not going to play games like Mister Vladij. Unfortunately, I need you alive, but if you do not do precisely what I ask, I will put a bullet in each of your knees and carry you over my shoulder.” He indicated with the SIG for her to move. “Vladij’s men are not going to bother us, but others could arrive at any moment. I have a transport waiting over there.” Father Juergen took a step away from the wall and indicated with the barrel of his weapon.

  “And you can lose the gun.”

  Frankie removed the Smith and Wesson from her waistband and dropped it on the grass. One look at this man and she knew he was a different entity entirely to Ratko Vladij.

  64

  Swiss Alps, outside Zurich.

  He could no longer feel his feet.

  It seemed as if he had been trudging through the snow for hours, though in reality, he had no idea how long it had been. But he just kept doggedly moving on, one numb foot in front of the other.

  The storm had eased slightly and now was just a constant blast of wind and fine ice coming from the north. The visibility was about fifty yards, which was the best it had been since they had jumped off the train. Armena had not stirred on his shoulder. He resisted the urge to stop and check on her. He knew it was a pointless exercise. And besides, if he stopped, he was not sure if he could get started again. The cold hard fact was, he needed to find shelter soon, or an hour from now they would probably both be dead. He was unsure if Armena would even last that long.

  He had headed towards the railway track, hoping if he could find it, he could follow it to civilization. But he must have missed it somewhere in the storm and had seen no sign of it. So he trudged on into the eternal white hell.

  Something caught his eye as the white blanket was swept aside for just an instant. He was not sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But it was enough. It seemed to inject more energy into his legs. Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe he was into the dangerous final stages of hyperthermia, and Shangri La was about to open up before him. But he had no other choice.

  He made a last push, moving as fast as he could, pumping at his legs, oblivious to the pain screaming through his thighs. The storm eased again, only for a moment, but it was there. A building, a house. He staggered on, keeping the image alive in his mind. It took him another five minutes to reach it. He had stumbled twice on the way, and the last time he had struggled with every last ounce of energy he could muster to get back to his feet. But finally, it was there. A chalet of some kind. It had a broad eaved roof, thick with snow, that came almost to the ground.

  He came in through the back gate and staggered up to the building. He eased Armena to the ground against the wooden wall. She was still unconscious. He felt for her pulse. He could find nothing. Maybe it was his fingertips, numb from the cold. He rubbed them hard against his jacket and tried again. Finally, he felt it, barely detectable, a feeble pulse. She was alive — just.

  He left her there and worked his way around the building. It was the only house he could see. There were no lights in the place. It appeared deserted. From the look of it, it was probably the weekend ski lodge of someone who lived in the city. That was the good news. The bad news was it had an alarm system. A sign above the main door and the kitchen door announced it, and when he shoved his face against the window, he could see the glow of the control box at the far side of the room. It was probably connected directly to the alarm company and from there to the police. He had just killed four men out in the snow. That would take some explanation when they arrested him.

  He circled the house again and settled on what appeared to be the garage. Hopefully, the alarm system did not extend that far. He had to take the chance. Otherwise, they were going to die out here.

  The main door was an electronically operated roller affair, which was not going to magically open for him. He headed around the back and found an entrance door, made of wood with small window panes. He knew his fingers were too far gone to be able to work the lock-pick, but he examined the lock type and thought maybe he was in luck. He jabbed an elbow at a glass pane, and it cracked and broke. He quickly pushed the glass pieces inside and shoved his arm through. His fingers found what he had hoped for. He gave the knob a tu
rn, it moved easily, and he swung open the door. He stood waiting for the alarm to go off. But it no longer mattered. He had no choice.

  The garage remained silent.

  He stowed the rifle then went back and retrieved Armena. He picked her up in his arms and carried her inside and closed the door. At least they were out of the wind, and the place was dry. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized they were not entirely alone. He stood up and moved in close.

  There was a car parked in the garage. He pulled the iPhone from his pocket and switched on the flashlight. It was a Mercedes M-Class SUV. He ran his hands over it as if it was the most beautiful thing in the world, as if it had just saved their lives. His heart rose then immediately sank as he made his way to the back. The rear wheels were missing, and the axles were stacked on a pair of hydraulic jacks. He did a quick scan around the garage. There was no sign of the missing wheels.

  He checked the car door. It was unlocked. He supposed the owner thought it better than someone breaking the windows to get into it. The car was going nowhere. But it could provide some extra shelter. He opened the rear passenger door, then took hold of Armena and laid her on the back seat. He climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Maybe he could get some heat in here. There was no way he could hot-wire this model, too many security features on it.

  He checked in the glove compartment for anything useful, then moved on to the storage box on the central console. He shone the flashlight on the coffee mug holder. A black plastic cup holder was installed on the central console, just behind the automatic gear stick. But there was something about it. He realized it sat proud, about an inch protruding from the recess in the console. Maybe that was the way it was meant to be. But from his limited knowledge of Mercedes engineering, not likely.

  He removed the cup and shone the light into the recess. A set of keys were tucked neatly inside. He retrieved them and was about to start the engine and at least get some heat when he noticed a small fob hanging from the keychain. He recognized it. He and Frankie had one the same back at the house in Opio. It was an alarm controller. It was crazy that some people would spend a fortune on a sophisticated alarm system then compromise all their security for just a little convenience. A spare set of keys.

  He climbed out of the car and headed out of the garage. He made for the kitchen door, sure that one of the keys on the chain would fit. He was right. He moved inside, and the alarm system began beeping in a monotonous tone. He stepped quickly over to the control box and held the fob from the keychain up against the control panel. A green light illuminated around the panel, and the beeping stopped. Fagan smiled for the first time that day.

  He moved through a modern, spacious kitchen. It was already mid-morning, but the storm outside blocked out any daylight, leaving the place cloaked in gloom. He used the flashlight on his phone and stepped into a large high ceilinged living room. He did not risk switching on the lights.

  He headed back out to the garage and retrieved Armena from the rear of the SUV. She was still unconscious, but her pulse seemed stronger, and the blue color from her lips had faded. He carried her into the house, through into the living room and laid her on a large leather sofa. There was a multi-colored blanket draped over the back. He covered her with it, then headed back to the garage. He retrieved the rifle and returned to the house and closed the kitchen door.

  He moved into the living room and knelt down beside Armena. He pulled off her shoes and socks. Her toes had turned blue. He began rubbing vigorously at her feet trying to force the blood circulation. She began to stir, tried to say something but the words came out in a jumble. She opened her eyes. Fear immediately there.

  “It’s all right Armena. You’re safe. You need to get warm. I’ll see if I can start a fire.”

  But she had already closed her eyes and slipped back into unconsciousness. He tucked her into the blanket and looked around. There was a large stone fireplace that dominated the far wall. He found a box with logs and quickly built a fire. There were paper and matches, and he soon had a blaze licking up the chimney. He leaned in close to the flames. The pain was intense, but he felt the warmth seeping back into his body.

  He headed back into the kitchen using the light from his phone. He rooted through the cupboards and found a flashlight under the sink. He shoved his phone into his pocket and switched the flashlight on, then checked out the rest of the kitchen. There were tinned foods in the upper cupboards and a large fridge freezer in the corner. It was switched on and well stocked. He would sort out food in a little while. Meanwhile, he took himself on a tour of the house.

  Upstairs there were four bedrooms. The largest had its own ensuite bathroom. He made his way through the rooms one by one. The smallest bedroom was full of junk. His torchlight caught something he recognized. It was sticking out behind a pile of boxes over by the far wall. As he moved closer, he could see there were two of them — the missing wheels from the Mercedes.

  He had to smile. In the old days, he had been trained in observation. He had already seen the signs and was quickly building his picture of who owned this place. He could see a house with two people who used it but not permanently. Maybe a husband and wife. Him obsessed with security, hence the sophisticated alarm system and the removal of the car wheels. And she, perhaps forgetful, keeping a spare set of keys hidden in the car. Or maybe it was the other way round. Perhaps she was the security-obsessed one. Removing the rear wheels seemed a somewhat over the top method of incapacitating the vehicle. Just the kind of thing Frankie would do. But she would never have left the spare keys in the car.

  He let his flashlight run around the room one last time, searching for anything useful. The beam played across a small writing desk with a polished top and a chair. There was a computer screen but no computer. On the desktop was a thin layer of dust and imprinted in it was a faint, rectangular outline. Someone probably placed a laptop here and plugged it into the screen. A thought ran through his head. He ducked beneath the desk and shone the flashlight. The small black box he was looking for was tucked away at the back. The internet router was plugged into a mains power extension block. There was a red power indicator light at the end. It was extinguished.

  He found the power cable and plugged it into a mains socket in the wall. The lights on the internet router began flashing. He waited for the lights to settle down, then scrambled out from under the desk. He pressed Walter’s magic icon on his phone. It presented a single network name on the screen. Fagan tapped on it and waited. A message appeared telling him he was connected. He immediately opened Walter’s special messenger app. Frankie was still disconnected, but the status against the Wee Willy icon said he was Connected. The phone buzzed suddenly in his hand. He hit answer.

  “Joseph, my God, I just saw you come online. Are you okay? Where are you?”

  “We’re fine, and safe for now. Thanks for the warning by the way. How did you find out?”

  “Roberto told me.”

  “I thought he was your sworn enemy.”

  “Technically he still is. But I managed to persuade him that his fear of God was far greater than his fear of Cardinal Brennan.”

  “What happened? Did you find Carlo?”

  “Unfortunately that was another Roberto scam. Carlo’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry, buddy.”

  “I know who did it. And I will not forget.”

  “So was it a dead end? Carlo was supposed to be your way into the Vatican network.”

  “As I said, I managed to show Roberto the error of his ways, and he showed me the way in.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  “I had to do some digging, but I may have just found what we need. I was able to dig into Father Patrick’s background. He left Bosnia rather abruptly, from what I can see. But I could find no more details until he turned up in Brooklyn. I found some detail on the adoption. As we suspected, young Paul’s parents were close friends of Father Patrick, and of course, he was the godfather. Which
could have explained the adoption.”

  “Could have?”

  “Seek, and ye shall find. I dug into the adoption records of our favorite Cardinal. His birth parents were a couple from Wisconsin, James, and Wendy Wilson. Father Patrick had been the priest at their local church when he was newly ordained. It was his first assignment. They obviously became friends, and as we know, Father Patrick became godfather to their son, Paul. Mister and Missus Wilson were registered as deceased in 1993. So I did some newspaper digging. They died in a car crash on an icy road in a collision with an out of control eight wheeler truck. But there was one other interesting thing I also found.”

  “Walter, I don’t need this right now. What did you find?”

  “There was a third person who died in the car crash. The Wilson’s seventeen-year-old son, Paul.”

  65

  Ski Lodge, Swiss Alps.

  Fagan hung up the phone and headed downstairs, the implications of what Walter had just told him bouncing around his head. The flashlight beam caught something against the far wall, in the corner, as he got half way down. He had not noticed it before. He moved over towards it and had to smile at the craziness of it all. An hour ago, he wasn’t sure if he was going to live or die. From the gates of hell to the heights of civilization.

  It was a shining chrome drinks trolley with two large cut glass decanters filled with dark liquid. He pulled off the glass stoppers and sniffed each one in turn. The first was cognac, expensive cognac, from the rich aroma. The second smelled more to his taste. He picked up a glass, poured a generous measure and took a sip. Whiskey, Scotch single malt, if his taste buds did not deceive him.

  The room was much warmer now. Armena appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He eased off his coat and the body armor and dumped them on the floor. He flexed his arms carefully. He felt as if he had been run over by a truck. He took the glass and the decanter and moved over to an armchair by the fire and settled down.