Christopher Golde
Then I saw heaven opened
And there was a white horse!
Its rider is called Faitful and True
And in righteousness he judges and makes war.
John Revelation 19.11
Date: 10th July 1997 Location: Vatican City
Nigel stood staring into the rippling water of the fountain pond. Nearby, an elderly lady, with a large beige overcoat and white scarf wrapped tight over her head, would throw the occasional bread crumb to her expecting audience of cooing pigeons.
He could hear the noises of children’s joyous laughter somewhere in Saint Peters square and on the other side of the fountain, a couple holding each other in an embrace and kissed. He sighed but probably didn’t notice he was sighing. If he had taken the time to reflect, he would have realized how much he missed leading a normal life, but this was a thought he could not afford. Any normality had ended the moment he had stepped into the tomb in Egypt, now all of thirty-one years ago.
He waited patiently in Saint Peters square for his friend Camerlengo Vincent Mele, assistant to the Pope of the Roman Catholic Church. He wished it were under much different circumstance that they were meeting by the fountain in the square of Vatican City.
The giant pillars that surrounded the square, reminded him of the powers of human faith, and the guardian statues looking down from the walls of the square, for some reason, gave him comfort in this dark and troubled period of his search for the truth.
He glanced at his watch and saw that the Camerlengo was uncharacteristically late. It was only five minutes, but the Camerlengo was known for the clockwork precision he co-ordinated the Pope's busy schedule. Five minutes late to him, was like anyone else being late by an hour.
Nigel stood patiently, watching the ripples on the pond that emanated from the column of water pluming from the central totem of the umbrella-shaped fountain. He was deep in thought when a gentle hand rested on his shoulder and he turned to find himself staring straight into the deep blue eyes of his friend the Camerlengo.
Smiling with relief, he turned his body to face the priest and took his hand gently, holding and shaking it warmly as an old friend would great another.
“It is so good to see a friendly face,” he said, smiling.
“You to my dear friend how are you?”
“I have known easier times, “said the Englishman, earnestly, and with a sincerity that the Camerlengo could feel.
“It has been a while, Nigel, you do not grace the Vatican with your presence very often these days unless it is important for us to talk.”
“It is important this time Vincent, there has been a tragedy and I am not sure if you know, and if you do, whether the truth of the matter has been passed to you.”
The priest could see the uncharacteristic concern in his friends face.
“I can only assume it is about the accidental death of Father Aldo Dominique?”
“Then at least you know of his death,” replied Nigel, at least relieved a little that he did not have to break that news, “we were not sure if the Pope had been informed since Father Dominique had been working undercover in Japan when he died.”
“Yes, we had our people there monitoring his movements, so when it did happen, they were able to step in and claim the body to return him to his family.”
Father Vincent Miele could tell by the look on the English professor’s face that this was not the only news he was here to share.
“You have more to tell me, don’t you?”
Nigel turned away from the fountain and softly beckoned the priest to walk with him. Somehow, walking made him feel better. He watched as two children scampered across their path in full flight.
“How much do you know about his death,” he asked the priest, as they walked?
“We know that it was a car accident.”
Nigel looked at his friend and could see the answer was without doubt or suspicion.
“Well, I have information to the contrary,” he said, knowing that what he was about to say would be upsetting in more ways than one, “we know that Father Dominique was in fact murdered.”
Father Vincent Miele, Camerlengo to the Pope and friend, looked at Nigel in stunned silence.
“Yes,” repeated Nigel “I did say murdered.”
“But how,” the priest stammered, “who?”
“A psychopath called Ieko Fujimo we believe, “said Nigel, with obvious contempt, “we found a high-intensity poison in your priest’s eyes, which would have rendered him blind instantly. We were watching him from a distance, although he was not aware of it.”
The Camerlengo looked suspiciously at him.
“It was for his own protection,” said Nigel, defensively, “we thought Fujimo was dangerous, but I guess we underestimated just how dangerous and ruthless he is. While our men were watching, they saw him rub his eyes in pain, as he left a restaurant in Yokohama. My men reacted quickly, but before they got there it seems he was pushed in front of an oncoming car. It looked like an accident when the police got there, but my men, who were operating outside the law I might say, grabbed two men trying to leave the restaurant quickly. One of them eventually tested positive to having the drug on his hands and later, with a little persuasion, we found out he worked for Fujimo.”
“So this man, was he handed over to the authorities?”
“Not so easy I’m afraid, “said Nigel, “we operate in these countries without any official knowledge, well not that it can be acknowledged by the respective Governments. It’s part of getting to the truth about what is sometimes regarded as untouchable people.”
Nigel knew the Carmerlengo would understand but not necessarily agree.
“So what happened to his killer, “asked the priest? “We still have him, he is being held in a high-security French prison and he will be tried for murder in a closed French military court.”
“So if found guilty in a military court of murder, he will be executed, is that correct?”
Nigel knew this would be a touchy subject for the Vatican, even if this person had murdered one of their priests.
“It is war,“ said Nigel, defensively.
“Obviously, this man was working on instruction,“ continued the Camerlengo, knowing it would be useless to argue about the death of the murderer with Nigel.
“Yes,“ said Nigel, relieved that the Camerlengo had not persisted with the previous question, we believe it was at the instruction of Ieko Fujimo himself, head of the computer giant Futuretronics. Your priest had just come from a meeting with him that day. He had been under an assumed identity, so whether Fujimo had realized this, or for some reason your Father Dominique had upset him, we do not know, but we are fairly confident, he is behind the murder.”
“So what will you do about it,“ asked the priest, as he stopped turned and faced Nigel?
Nigel felt a little awkward, as he wished to give his friend a definitive answer, but knew it was just not possible.
“We have Fujimo under close scrutiny and he remains a person of extreme interest to us.”
He paused searching for something that might console the priest.
“Eventually, we will get this monster, I promise you, but Vincent, we fear even if it is in his own mind, this Fujimo is part of a prophecy that may be difficult to stop, and Aldo knew that as well, that’s why he was there.”
Father Vincent Miele nodded his head and understood what was being said more than Nigel could ever possibly appreciate. He had grown up with the weight of prophecy; it was an essential part of his doctrine, an unshakable belief and one he knew would not easily be defeated.
Nigel could see that the priest was deep in thought and that his words had struck a sensitive nerve.
“I trust you can update his holiness for me?”
Vincent Miele slowly lifted his head, to stare deep into Nigel’s eyes and outstretched his hand, which the Englishman embraced warmly with both of his.
“It is our history and it will be our future that the blood of the innocent is spilt in the struggle to destroy evil, and it is with great honour that Father Aldo Dominique sacrificed his own life for the sake of us all. Thank you for having the strength to come and tell me yourself Nigel Stansen, and may God go with you in your quest.”
With that, the priest let Nigel’s hand go, touched Nigel’s shoulder affectionately, then turned and walked towards the giant pillars that surrounded the square. Nigel stood watching, as his friend finally disappeared into a crowd of tourists. He looked up at the statues that looked down into the square, as if they guarded the world against the evil Nigel only too well knew was coming.
Chapter thirty five
The Innocent