The Final Pontiff

by Neil Howarth

  The last few hours tumbled through his head in a chaotic jumble. He sipped at the Scotch, letting the peaty flavor flow across his tongue, trying to put into perspective all that Armena had told him, and what Walter had just revealed. One thought emerged from all the chaos tumbling around his brain.

  They had come so far, lost so much. Was this really what it was all about? Could it be possible? It explained everything. But was he rushing into this? Was he trying to make two and two add up to some ridiculous number that no one could ever imagine? But he could not ignore it, it was there, staring him in the face.

  It could explain why Brennan was so desperate to cover it all up. Even explain why he might kill his adoptive father, if he knew the secret and stood in the way of Brennan’s grand prize. But was it really possible?

  Was Brennan the boy who had arrived cold and frightened, at Father Patrick’s refuge on that Bosnian hillside. Could it be true? Cardinal Brennan, heir apparent to the throne of St. Peter, was the son of the Beast of Bretsnia.

  66

  St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican.

  Cardinal Carlucci knelt in prayer in front of the grand altar. Brennan saw him as he made his way through the Basilica. He took a seat and waited for him to finish.

  As the Cardinal stood and crossed himself, Brennan approached.

  “Your Eminence. I got your message.”

  “Ah Paul,” Carlucci turned to face him. “I was hoping I would catch you. I have good news.”

  Brennan’s heart skipped a beat. They had Fagan at last. It had to be.

  “Come, walk with me. I have a meeting in five minutes.” Cardinal Carlucci led the way out of the grand Basilica. “I have it in the bag,” he said as they stepped out into the sunshine. “I finally have the commitment from Cardinal Boseng.”

  Brennan could not hide the disappointment from his face.

  “Is there a problem?” Carlucci asked. “My dear Paul, you must understand this is excellent news. Cardinal Boseng carries most of the African vote. I had the devil of a job convincing him that he would not be stepping up to the throne. His compatriots had convinced him that this was his time. But I was able to show him the error of his and their ways. In the end, it came down to the numbers, as it always does. When I showed him what the reality was, he finally realized he could never win. He could make it a bloody battle, but he would end up with nothing. Still, he drove a hard bargain in the end. He did not come cheap, but then I always regard that as a future investment.”

  “Eminence, I did not mean to appear ungrateful. That’s wonderful news, and I appreciate the hard work you are putting into this. But we still have our other problems.”

  He could see Carlucci was about to speak. So he got in first.

  “We are making some progress. I just heard from Father Juergen, they have taken the French girl, Francoise Lefevre. But I am afraid Fagan killed four of our brothers just outside Zurich, and he is still out there, a potential threat.”

  “Paul, I told you to stay out of this. I have some missed calls from Juergen and am sure he will give me the news directly. As I told you before, I have this in hand. I have resources in place which will not let Fagan escape. But I need you to concentrate on matters here.”

  “How can I stay out of it?” Brennan finally let it out. “When the man who holds my life, indeed all of our lives, in his hands, is still out there threatening all of us. I can’t just stand about and wait. I will not.”

  “I have given you direct instructions.” Carlucci looked at him. His grey eyes seemed to probe deep into him. “I spoke to the Colonel. He told me everything. You are in the middle of a minefield, Paul, and I am the only one who can guide you across.”

  Brennan realized that Carlucci talking to the Colonel was inevitable, but he was in it now, and he was not backing away. “Forgive me, Eminence. I appreciate everything you have done for me. But as you just said — you have it in the bag. You have shown your hand to the Conclave. You need me now. There is no time to find a new candidate. We are both in that minefield, and you cannot just give me instructions anymore.”

  Carlucci stood looking at him not saying anything. Brennan guessed the old fox knew this day would come and he was calculating what he would do. Brennan had no time to wait and find out.

  “But don’t worry Eminence. We want the same thing, and I am just as determined as you are to get it. It is just that I will not stand about and watch things happen while Fagan is out there threatening to end it all. We have the girl now, and I know what she means to Fagan. I can use her to get to him. Eminence, please continue with what you have planned, but I must also take my own actions.”

  Brennan turned and hurried off without looking back.

  Cardinal Carlucci watched Brennan go. He was not too surprised by his little outburst, it was inevitable. He was not worried, well, maybe a little. But he had other ways to reel Brennan in. All in good time. What was clear, it was time to shut this thing down, and he needed to do it now.

  He pulled out a top of the line smartphone from the depths of his cassock and dialed a number. A familiar voice answered.

  “Sir Charles,” Carlucci said. “I am afraid we have a little problem.”

  67

  Ski Lodge, Switzerland.

  The aroma of frying steak nudged him out of sleep. Fagan opened his eyes. His mouth was thick from the whiskey, and the pounding in his head told him maybe he had taken one too many. He had fallen asleep in the chair. He looked around. Armena was no longer on the sofa. There was a plastic bottle of water on the table. Fagan grabbed it and poured its contents down his throat in a series of desperate gulps. He got to his feet and stretched gingerly, the whole of his chest felt bruised and stiff, but the pain from the knife wound had eased, and he could now lift his left arm above his head.

  Outside the storm had cleared and the sunshine was streaming in through the windows. His conclusions from the night before were dancing around his head.

  Could that really be true? Was that what this was really all about?

  It certainly explained everything. But could he prove it?

  He pulled out his phone and checked the time. It showed eight o’clock. It was already the next day. How long had he slept? Another thought hit him.

  Another day was gone. They were running out of time.

  He made his way into the kitchen. Armena stood at the stove leaning over a frying pan. She looked up as he came in.

  “I found eggs in the fridge and bread in the freezer. I also found a steak for you. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will, it smells wonderful.”

  There was something different about her, somehow she looked different. Her eyes were brighter, and her hair seemed to shine. Armena smiled at him. “I took a shower and found these clothes in the wardrobe in the bedroom. They fit quite well.”

  “They look good. Maybe I should do the same.”

  “Well, eat first.”

  Fagan nodded. “After we eat, we need to leave. There is a Mercedes in the garage, someone removed the back wheels and hid them upstairs. I should be able to fit them pretty quickly, and we can get on our way.”

  “How did we get in here?” She asked. “I remember jumping off the train into the snow. Then I was alone. I remember it was so cold, and I could see nothing but white. You were not there. Then men appeared. I don’t remember anything after that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s perhaps best that you don’t remember. The main thing is we’re safe. At least for the moment.”

  Armena stood looking at him. She seemed frail and vulnerable.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For saving my life.” She stepped towards him and gave him a hug.

  Fagan winced, but he held onto her. He could feel her body shaking against him.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were red and wet. “It is my fault.”

  “No, it is not your fault. You were pulled into this like we all were
. What happened after that, was just staying alive.”

  She shook her head. “No, it is my fault.”

  Fagan could see she was struggling with something.

  “I just wanted to know if Marko was all right, let him know that I was safe.”

  Fagan had a bad feeling. “What did you do?”

  Armena told him about the phone call to her husband, and the warning he had tried to give her. She looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

  Fagan held on to her but said nothing. At least he knew how they had found them on the train.

  “Where did you get the phone?”

  She gave him a guilty look. “I took it from Uncle Omar.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “It is over there,” she said pointing to the far side of the kitchen. “I found a charger that fit, so I was recharging it.”

  Fagan rushed over and unplugged the phone, then removed the battery and pulled out the SIM card. He dropped everything in the bin.

  “We have to leave.”

  “But you haven’t eaten.”

  Fagan suddenly didn’t feel hungry. “Get your stuff. We have to leave, now.”

  Fagan moved through into the living room and slipped up to the side of the front window. He took a quick look out. A truck with a snow plow on the front was moving its way along the street. He checked in both directions, but he saw no sign of anyone else. He headed back into the kitchen and checked out of the back window. There was a garden, with no back fence, and then snow and trees. He remembered coming in that way the previous day. It looked very different now.

  Maybe he was just being paranoid. The steak and eggs smelled really good.

  Something moved. Maybe it was just the wind catching the trees. But that gut instinct told him they were out there. It moved again, and this time a figure detached itself from the trees. Then another appeared.

  They were both carrying assault rifles.

  68

  Ski Lodge, Switzerland.

  Fagan looked around. Armena was standing at the door. She had her coat and her backpack and a combination of fear and guilt in her eyes.

  Fagan grabbed his coat and his own backpack. “Come on, let’s go.”

  He quickly checked the Glock then picked up the rifle. He pulled the strap over his shoulder and headed for the front door. He took a quick look out of the window, but all seemed clear. He figured if the visitors were being cautious they still had a couple of minutes. He wasn’t sure where to head to, but they needed to put some distance between them and the house.

  He opened the door and looked out. The snow clearer was making its way back down the street. He glanced back at Armena. “Stay close behind me.”

  Fagan bounded out of the door and into the middle of the street. The snow truck was about twenty yards away. He unslung the rifle and pointed it at the driver. He didn’t need to do anything else. The truck came to a rapid stop with a squeal of brakes.

  “Aus, aus,” Fagan called in German.

  The driver climbed out of the cab. He was an older guy with a large gut and bowed legs. He had a woolen hat pulled down over his ears.

  “Go,” Fagan had exhausted his German, so he pointed back down the street with the rifle. The driver got the message because he turned and hobbled off down the street in what could only loosely be described as a run.

  Fagan looked around. Armena stood by the side of the road looking completely lost.

  “Come on.” He waved his free hand.

  Fagan opened the passenger side door and helped her up into the cab, then hurried round to the driver’s side. The engine was still running. He stowed the rifle and pushed the stick shift into gear. He let out the clutch and hit the gas. The truck leaped forward, blasting up snow from the side of the road.

  Something pinged off the side of the cab. Fagan glanced in the large mirror on the wing of the truck. The visitor’s had not been over cautious, they had made it around the house and were now in the street. The one at the front opened up with his weapon, and bullets slammed into the side of the cab.

  “Get your head down,” Fagan called out and floored the gas.

  The truck bounced forward, sparks flying out from the snow as the plow scraped along the ground. Fagan eyed the lever in the center of the console, with a large red knob. He grabbed a hold and pulled it back. The plow lifted suddenly, blocking the windshield. He eased back the lever, and the plow dropped, clearing his view, but it stayed clear of the ground.

  The road dropped down to a T-junction.

  A car shot out from his right blocking the road junction in front of him. Fagan kept his foot on the gas. The snow truck hit the car by the driver’s door. The truck barely shuddered. The vehicle folded like paper mâché and the snow plow swept it aside.

  Fagan hauled the wheel to the left and swung out onto the main road. He floored the accelerator, and the whole truck frame began to vibrate alarmingly as its speed increased. The snow had already been cleared, and the truck moved up to its top speed, which was struggling to reach fifty. The vibrations were now threatening to shake it apart. The road was wider here, with trees running down either side. There was no other traffic ahead.

  Fagan glanced in the mirror. Another car had appeared and was rapidly gaining on them. Two motorcycles with black clad riders swept up on either side of it.

  Fagan could see they were on a plateau, with snow running flat out to the left, and the mountains rising up beyond. Out to the right, the land fell away towards a tree covered valley. Fagan kept his foot on the gas as the road narrowed and swept into a series of curves as it dipped downwards. The road dropped, and the rock cliff rose up on the left side, no more than ten feet away. On the right, a flat snowfield ran away for a short distance, punctuated by trees, before dropping out of sight.

  Fagan caught a motorcycle in the wing mirror as it shot forward. The rider had what looked like an Uzi in one hand. He opened up, raking the side of the cab. Luckily the truck was from an older generation, and much sturdier than younger more modern versions. Fagan wrenched on the wheel and swung the truck at the bike, squeezing him against the cliff. The rider rapidly backed off but as Fagan straighten up, he darted in again, firing wildly. Fagan wound down the window, waiting for the firing to end. He leaned out, holding the Glock. The rider brought up the Uzi, but Fagan carefully placed a rapid triple into the center of the rider’s chest. He went backward off the bike, and it spun off into the cliff then bounced back out on to the road. He glanced in the mirror. The car and the other bike had to swerve to avoid the debris.

  “Can you drive?”

  “Excuse me?” Armena looked at him as if he was crazy.

  “I said can you drive?” Fagan insisted.

  “Do you mean this?”

  “You just have to press the gas and steer the wheel.”

  “How am I going to do that? These people are chasing us.”

  “Climb on to my lap.”

  Armena was still looking at him as if he was crazy.

  “Come on, we have to do this now.”

  Armena struggled on top of him, momentarily blocking his view ahead. He pushed his head to the side and pulled on the wheel as a sharp curve appeared. He shoved himself back as far as he could, and Armena shuffled down between his legs.

  “Right get your foot on the gas.” Fagan felt her foot on his, then pulled his own free. The truck jerked as the accelerator eased then leaped forward again as Armena pushed her foot down hard.

  “Just take it easy. We need to stay on the road.”

  Armena eased slightly of the gas.

  “Okay, take the wheel.” He said as they hit a straight stretch of road. “It vibrates a bit, but it’s okay.”

  Armena grabbed hold of the wheel.

  “Watch out.”

  They were suddenly veering towards the cliff face as the road swung into a bend. Armena yanked the wheel back, the truck over corrected and she corrected again, the truck careened wildly al
ong the road before she finally brought it under control.

  Fagan struggled out from behind her and climbed onto the passenger seat. He picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Don’t stop for anything.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Fagan shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

  He wound down the passenger side window and leaned out. The car had moved up closer, and he emptied the Glock into it. It rapidly dropped back. He quickly replaced the magazine and shoved the automatic into his pocket then he pushed open the passenger door. The wind resisted hard against him, but he got the door open enough to get his foot out onto the metal step at the bottom of the door and pushed himself into the gap. He grabbed hold of the door frame and pulled himself out. The passenger door slammed shut.

  The wind tore at his face and body trying to rip him off his perch. His fingers were already frozen, but he held on. The rider on the bike spotted him and accelerated forward. Fagan clambered towards the open back bed of the truck. It was a wooden floored flatbed with slide-in side panels that were about two feet high. The bike shot forward level with the truck, and the rider opened up with his Uzi. The bullets slammed into the steel side panels as Fagan rolled over the top and hit the wooden deck. Pain shot across his body and his knife wound throbbed along with the pounding of his heart. He pulled out the Glock and pushed himself up. The rider was three feet away. Fagan pumped a double tap into his helmet, and he flew backward onto the road, the bike bouncing off across the snowfield before somersaulting into space.

  The flatbed rattled and shook as Fagan moved up into a crouch, keeping his head below the level of the side panels. He unslung the rifle and moved towards the rear. The truck suddenly swung to the left and immediately to the right pitching Fagan hard against the back gate. He held on the to the rifle taking the impact on his left shoulder. Pain seared like a hot knife through his chest.