by Neil Howarth
“Does that make you feel better?” Brennan called out. “Now start walking towards me, or I swear Juergen will but a bullet in your head, and we’ll take our chances with your friend.”
Fagan started walking.
“It’s very touching,” Brennan's voice spoke quietly in his earpiece. “A man willing to sacrifice himself for the woman he loves. But unfortunately a forlorn hope.” Brennan hung up the phone and called out to him directly. “You didn’t really think I was going to let you, any of you, get off this mountain alive. I have men moving up to meet you. I would give them ten minutes, fifteen minutes tops.”
Fagan stopped. “It looks like we both have not been very honest with each other.” He could see the look of doubt on Brennan’s face. “I said it was about you and me. That wasn’t really true. It's actually just about you. I said that Armena had gone into hiding. That was also not quite accurate. I sent her on a journey along with a friend of mine. You should remember him, former Commissario De Mateo, I know he would love to see you again. I think he said he would love to strangle the life out of you.”
“He should get in line.”
“He flew her out of here last night and sent me a text message earlier telling me they had arrived safely in the Hague.”
“So what. I already told you, the Colonel is dead.”
“You mean your father is dead.”
“It makes no difference.”
“That would be true if this was about him. But it’s not, is it Cardinal Brennan, or should I call you Petar Vladij?”
“Call me what you like. The world will know my real name tomorrow.”
“They certainly will and much more. You see before she left, Armena finally unburdened herself of all the things that had been locked inside her for all these years. She told me about her memories of that night outside Bretsnia. About her brother and her Father kneeling side by side, out in that potato field on that terrible night.
“A young man stood beside Colonel Vladij, as they were all lined up. Then at a nod from the Colonel, the executioner took out a pistol and walked down the line, calmly shooting each one and kicking them into the pit. Armena had one terrible and searingly painful memory that she had carried with her all these years. Her older brother, Anan, kneeling by the pit. He was fifteen years old. And you, Petar, as you shot him in the back of the head. You were that young man. You were the executioner.
“Your father is not the Beast of Bretsnia — You are.”
76
Col du Pillon, Bernese Oberland, Switzerland.
It started like an animal crying out in pain and grew into a great roar. Brennan thundered down the bridge towards him the gun extended in front of him, firing wildly. Fagan grabbed for the Glock stuffed into the back of his waistband. The bullet hit him in the center of his chest as he pulled it free and the Glock spun out of his hand. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The gun bounced on the steel deck and slid off the edge. Then Brennan was on him, his pistol pressed hard into Fagan’s head, screaming some unintelligible babble.
Fagan knelt there, trying to get his breath, letting the pain subside from the blow to the kevlar body armor. He looked up at Brennan. “I don’t think the Vatican or the rest of the world will forgive you for that.”
Brennan took a step back, holding the gun in both hands. His hands shaking. “If I’m going down, you will not be there to see it.”
The bullet struck him high on the side of his head and pitched him onto the safety rail. Fagan stayed where he was. He knew he wasn’t visible from the helicopter, and Father Juergen would need to step out to see him, and at the same time be in the view of Nico’s deadly aim. It seemed that Father Juergen had made the same assessment.
Fagan heard the high pitched whine as the helicopter rotors began to turn. He risked a quick look as it started to rise. Two more rapid shots rang out, and the high pitched roar turned into a splutter and the helicopter dropped heavily back to the ground. The whirring engine dying to a tired sigh.
Fagan grabbed Brennan’s gun from where it lay on the deck and stood up. There was no sign of Father Juergen. Then he appeared out from the door on the other side of the helicopter and slid down the snow on his backside, to the level below the helipad. He landed on a snow covered track that ran all the way around the peak. Fagan opened fire, but his shots were way wide. Nico’s aim was better. A shot from his rifle kicked up the snow beside Juergen, but he rolled clear and made it to his feet. He sprinted clear. Another of Nico’s bullets seemed to tug at his ski suit, then he was gone, disappearing behind the peak.
Fagan knew it was useless to go after him, even if he had been a hundred percent fit. He stood on the center of the bridge, peering down towards the glacier. A dark figure appeared, further down the mountain, lying flat on his back, skidding and bouncing like a human toboggan. Fagan looked back towards Nico’s firing position. There was no sign of him. Fagan started shooting again, but he knew the range was too far. The slide jammed open on the gun, its ammunition depleted. By now, Father Juergen was moving faster as the slope steepened. Fagan could only stand and watch as he faded away into the remnants of the mist.
A groan made him swing around. Brennan was still lying across the safety rail. Fagan approached him. By some miracle, he was alive, barely. He was trying to speak, but no words came out. Fagan leaned close to him and spoke into his ear.
“Give my regards to Dominic de Vaux — in hell.”
Fagan reached down and grabbed both of Brennan’s ankles. The pain seared into his chest but he gritted his teeth and stood upright, pushing out with all his strength and pitching him over the rail. Brennan did not even cry out as he fell. Fagan watched him drop. The ancient glacier spread out far below, waiting to gather him in.
Fagan took a slow deep breath, letting the pain settle. He looked across the bridge. He could make out the pilot sitting in the helicopter, not moving. He turned and staggered back the way he had come. Frankie appeared, running up the steps as he reached the far end of the bridge. She threw her arms around him. Fagan let out a groan.
“Are you all right?”
“I feel like I’ve been a test dummy for the maker of this body armor.”
“Come on. We have to move. We have visitors moving up the mountain.”
Nico appeared, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“What happened? Didn’t you hear me shooting? Father Juergen got away.”
“I thought he was already gone. But I may have winged him the first time.”
Fagan shook his head. “Forget it. But I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to take that shot on Brennan.”
“Sorry, I messed up, I had my rifle planted in the snow, while I waited. My magazine froze. I had to change it.”
Fagan smiled. Had he ever been that young? But he had, and he had done worse.
“Get us out of this place, and all is forgiven.”
Nico gave an embarrassed nod. “You have a deal. Come on. We have less than five minutes.”
They made it down to the snowmobiles. Nico climbed on one and accelerated away. Frankie jumped on the other.
“Do you know how to drive one of these things?” Fagan said as he climbed on behind her.
She turned her head and planted a kiss on his lips. “Hold on tight.” She gunned the engine and the snowmobile shot forward, accelerating down in a long bumping lateral sweep, following behind the racing Nico.
Down to his right, Fagan could see a line of snowmobiles moving up the piste. They suddenly turned, veering towards them, then disappeared as the snowmobile swept over a rise, dropping down on the other side. Up ahead, Nico had already stopped. He was talking into his communicator. Frankie slid to a stop beside him. The helicopter appeared moments later, almost as soon as Fagan heard it. It swept up out of the valley and over the rise then dropped onto a flat area fifty yards away from them. Nico’s snowmobile shot forward, and Frankie followed. They jumped off the snowmobiles and scramb
led onboard. Walter’s grinning face was there to greet them. “Welcome aboard.” The helicopter, courtesy of Julio, took off immediately.
Fagan looked down as the mountain dropped away below them. He had an arm around Frankie and gave her a squeeze. “You are never leaving my sight again.”
“I will have to be a lady of leisure.”
Fagan gave her a grin. “I was hoping you would help me with the sheep.”
77
Cardinal Secretary’s Apartment, Apostolic Palace.
Cardinal Carlucci stood at the outer entrance to his apartment, as if reluctant to enter. He studied the images of his pale face reflected in the multiple mirrors on the door. It seemed as if he aged progressively older in each one. He knew that he felt every single one of his seventy-three years. His hand was shaking as he reached for the door handle.
He was still stunned by the news, his mind reeling as he struggled to take it all in. All that it meant. How could this happen? How could he get it so wrong? He could handle setbacks. They were the stuff he thrived on. Each one always made him stronger. But this was different. This was not just a disaster, it went far beyond that. His own personal Armageddon had come and gone and left his world decimated. He had looked at it from every single angle, every remote possibility, but there was not the smallest remnant to be salvaged. The journalists who he had so carefully cultivated, now could smell scandal, they could taste the blood in the water and were circling for the kill.
He had tried calling Krueger, but the Senator was unavailable. No doubt he was distancing himself as far away as possible from this apocalyptic event.
It was his own fault. He had given Brennan too much freedom, had put too much trust in him, and had been rewarded for his unforgivable lapse of judgment. Brennan had said it, the last time he had seen him.
You have shown your hand. You cannot back out now.
He had been right. He had made his choice, and he had been wrong.
Cardinal Carlucci opened the door and stepped inside. The nuns had been in earlier and cleaned, leaving the place at its pristine best. The sun cast broad beams of sunlight in through the large Palladian windows overlooking the Piazza. But the room looked somehow different, no longer the exquisite apartment in all its artistic splendor that he had called his home. It felt different. It had the feel of a museum, or more accurately, a mausoleum.
An elegant Italian crystal wine glass sat on his desk. He had not ordered it. The wine was red like blood, its rich ruby luster almost opaque, yet having an inner glow to it. As if it was beckoning him into its secrets, but at the same time impenetrable. Like God’s will.
He had done his best to serve him, yet still, he had been left defeated. What had he done? He had read it clearly in the Bible, discerned its message, had tried to carry out its words. HIS words. What had he missed?
He approached the desk. A small piece of paper lay on its top beside the wine glass. It had a single neatly typed line.
‘Stipendium Peccati Mors Est’ — For the wages of sin is death.
He recognized the line from Romans, and also Cardinal Schroeder’s bitter wit. He knew what needed to be done. He knew the press given free reign, would tear into the heart of the Vatican. Maybe this was the final tremor that would topple it into the abyss. They needed a sacrifice, something to serve up, on the sacred altar of headline news. Cardinal Schroeder knew that, and he had clearly made his choice. He would be stepping up now, gathering the troops. Pointing out that he had been right all along.
It would appear that the Cardinal would get his wish after all.
Carlucci pondered the unquoted part of Schroeder’s note.
‘But the free gift of God is eternal life.’
He was about to find out.
He sat down at the desk and lit a cigarette. His hands were surprisingly steady. He exhaled a long plume of bluish smoke and watched it float across the room. Perhaps this was a fitting end. He reached for the glass. Another quote sprang into his mind.
‘Quod Severis Metes.’ — That which you sow, you shall also reap.
He drank the wine in a single swallow. It did not taste bitter at all. He had a moment of utter clarity, then the glass slipped from his hand. He did not hear it shatter on the elegant marble floor.
78
Tivoli, Tiburtini Hills, Rome.
The city of Rome glimmered in the distance, like the glowing embers of a campfire. Fagan leaned against the wall by the entrance to the Church of Santa Clara, gazing out across the darkened valley. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had last stood here. As if it was someone else who had looked out on this hillside. In many ways it was. He had set out on a journey that had torn his life apart, ripped away everything he cared about. But slowly, piece by piece, events, and circumstances had rebuilt it, rebuilt him. Was this fate, God’s will? Or had the choices been his own? From where he stood now, he did not care. He knew he never wanted it to change.
The news from Armena had been good and bad. The bad news was her husband, Marco’s body had been found in the house they had been renting. The better news was she had given her statement to the International Court, then Amnesty International had stepped in. The case had been made that it was still life threatening for her to return home, not that there was anything there for her anymore. Some strings had been pulled, and she had been issued a US visa. The news got even better when a cousin she had in Chicago invited her to go and stay until she found her feet. She was heading for a new life. He prayed that it would get better for her.
“Are you ready?”
Fagan turned around. Walter was dressed in a clean, neatly pressed, dark suit. His black clerical shirt and white Roman collar had that just laundered look. He puffed nervously on a cigarette.
“I could use one of those.” Fagan meant it.
“Here, try this.” Walter handed him a silver hip flask. “For medicinal purposes only.”
Fagan took a swig and handed it back. “I feel nervous as a teenager.”
“You wish.” Walter took a nip from the flask and stowed it in his pocket. He looked at his watch. “It’s time.”
Fagan nodded. The nerves in his gut gave a tweak. “You sure this is legal.”
“Well.” Walter rubbed a hand through his beard. “I wouldn’t perhaps use the word legal. The Vatican records have been updated to show that your laicization, your resignation, has been accepted. And therefore technically you are no longer a priest.”
“Technically?”
Walter smiled. “What is it you Americans say?” Walter rolled his upper lip in a tough guy grimace and dropped the cigarette, grinding it beneath the sole of his shoe.
“Let’s do this.”
He led the way into the church.
There was only a handful of people. Iggy had been tempted out of his mountain hideaway. He had cleaned up rather well. Julio de Mateo stood beside him dressed in a smart suit and red tie. He flashed Fagan a smile. Aldo was at the end of the pew looking nervous. He also wore a shirt and a tie. The jacket looked borrowed and was at least two sizes too big. Though the formality ended there. His jeans were faded and ripped at the knees, and his trainers were the same battered pair he wore every day. His hair, though not washed, was wet and had been brushed back. Fagan could see the end of a joint poking out from behind his ear.
Fagan stopped as he reached the front pew and Walter stepped up to the altar. He realized everyone was looking back the way he had come. He turned around, and his heart kicked in his chest.
Frankie stood in the doorway. She looked stunning in a simple white dress. Her hair was pinned up and set with a single white carnation. Father Roberto stood beside her. She had her hand on his arm.
Father Roberto brought her down the aisle to stand beside him and gave him her hand. He looked into her eyes. They seemed darker, deeper. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Walter stood before the altar uttering a low whispered prayer. He crossed himself and turned, a beaming smile
on his face as he stepped forward.
“Dear friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
The rest of the ceremony was a blur.
79
Amalfi Coast, Italy.
The celebration had gone on into the early hours. They had sat out at a table in the square, and the man and his wife from the deli on the corner had served them heaps of the finest and most delicious meats and cheeses, along with the most exquisitely baked bread. All of it was adequately swilled down with what seemed an endless supply of superb Italian red wine.
As the party got into full swing, Walter had entertained them with a string of funny stories, many of them involving Fagan. As the evening wore on, they had moved on to a small bar on the far side of the square. It had a battered upright piano in the corner and Walter had persuaded Fagan to play. Walter had serenaded them, and at one stage Julio had joined in with him. His voice was a rich baritone and not half bad. As the effects of the red wine took hold, Walter took to calling him, Luciano.
Eventually, Fagan and Frankie had left them there, putting the world to rights, and wandered down to a small hotel they had booked just below the square.
They had made love slowly, and afterward, Frankie had fallen quickly asleep. But Fagan had slept little. He had laid there holding her in his arms, not wanting the day ever to end, feeling as if they could stay like this forever and never want for another thing.
He had eventually dropped asleep but had woken early with Frankie still in his arms. He had hurried her out of bed, and they had hit the road. New Zealand was a long way, and they were planning on an even longer route to get there.
Fagan was driving the rental car. He took the A1, autostrada from Rome, heading south. He had it all planned. A few days on the Amalfi coast, then on to Sicily. A flight out of Palermo to Zurich, and from there on to Bangkok. The details were a little sketchy beyond that, but he had found a farmhouse on New Zealand’s South Island that was available for rent, which he had secured with a deposit that would hold it for a month. It would do to start with, and they could take it from there.