Concordat

Sean Heary

Description

Since his rise to power, Russian President Alexander Volkov has increasingly engaged in hostile activities as he attempts to rebuild the Russian Empire. In support of his tactics, the Russian FSB has forged a Concordat dated 1939 in which the Vatican supposedly agreed to cease all opposition to the Nazi government in return for being appointed the official state religion of the Third Reich. Planting the counterfeit in a Berlin apartment, the FSB engineer a plan to blackmail the Vatican. The Vatican reluctantly agrees to acquire the counterfeit, sending the head of the Vatican Police, Lorenzo Rossi, to Germany to negotiate with the blackmailer. But Rossi's flight is delayed and by the time he arrives the blackmailer is dead and the Concordat has vanished.Rossi and CIA Agent Cathy Doherty set out to establish the origins of the Concordat, and its intended purpose. Armed with information provided by a CIA informant, the forger is identified. Will Rossi be able to recover the Concordat and flee Russia with his life?

Sujets

• Moscú
• West Germany
• Moscow
• Moscow (homonymie)
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 11 juin 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789011142
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

The
Concordat
Sean Heary
Copyright © 2018 Sean Heary

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1789011 142

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Oksana, William and Tess
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
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19
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21
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25
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31
32
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58
59
60
61
62
63
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65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
Epilogue
Prologue
Late evening on the Hellersdorf housing estate in Berlin. A hollow-faced old man shuffled through the slush towards his Soviet-era apartment. He took a swig from his flask, then steadied himself as he stepped onto the quiet cul-de-sac. Through the gusting sleet he discerned the dim distant lights of an approaching vehicle. The saloon was upon him sooner than he thought. But he showed no urgency as the road was wide and well lit.
“What the hell?” he murmured to himself.
No blast on the horn, no screech of tyres. Only the sickening thud of the saloon striking his frail body. The driver studied his victim in the rear-view mirror. Certain he was dead, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped off.
Out of the shadows came a tall, lean man wearing a black overcoat. He pulled his green flat cap down low over his eyes as he moved cat-like towards the victim. Hunched over the body, he checked the carotid artery for a pulse. There was none.
“What happened?” bellowed a bearded man, jogging up from behind.
The capped stranger didn’t react. Nervelessly he ran his searching fingers over the victim’s body.
“That looks painful,” a youth called out, joining in from the side.
As the two men drew nearer their gaze locked on to the smashed face of the toothless man. The distraction provided the capped stranger the few seconds he needed to deftly slide his hand into the victim’s trouser pocket and remove something unnoticed.
“He’s dead,” the stranger proclaimed, rising to his feet. As the crowd swelled around their reclusive neighbour, the man in the green flat cap slipped away and faded into the darkness.
From the apartment block opposite a hastily dressed, rotund woman waddled onto the street. “I’ve phoned the police,” she announced with verve.
“No surprise there,” mocked a voice from the pack.
Sirens echoed off the estate’s prefabricated concrete towers. Then all heads swung south as flashing blue lights appeared between buildings on the ring road encircling the estate.
The crowd had grown to over thirty. Two teenage boys laughed as they dreamt up captions to accompany selfies with the old man’s contorted body as the backdrop.
“Damn it! I said beam me down. Not drop me on my head,” one of the youths howled, thumbing the text into his post.
Sarcastic applause and cheers greeted the orange-red ambulance as it turned cautiously into the icy cul-de-sac.
“Full house,” the driver said.
The paramedic nodded. “You sure we’ve got the right address? Looks more like a street party.”
But it wasn’t. Instead of warming themselves round a blazing bonfire, the neighbours stood shuffling their feet, gazing down at a mangled corpse.
“Bet you a tenner it’s a transport only,” the driver said, glimpsing the victim as he pulled the ambulance to a stop short of the mob.
Undeterred, the paramedic grabbed his bag and hurried towards the old man.
“Move back,” came an amplified voice from a police car that had just drawn up.
“He got what he deserved,” one onlooker called out as two officers climbed from the vehicle. “We should’ve strung him up years ago,” came another. “Leave him for the dogs,” said a third.
“Show some respect,” Senior Constable Hoffman said, frowning.
Nothing more was said as the two policemen elbowed their way to centre stage.
“What we got, Hans?” Hoffman enquired.
The paramedic glanced up from next to the body. “Massive head trauma incompatible with life. Hit-and-run.”
“An unlikely place,” Hoffman said, scratching the back of his fat neck as he glanced up and down the street.
1
The Vatican was an extraordinary city. Her secrets cloaked in mystery, her residents quaint and queer. Enemies eternally at the gate. And sometimes within her walls. Sitting naked on the edge of his empty bathtub, Inspector General Lorenzo Rossi took a long sip of his Scotch. Through a partly open window he gazed vacantly at the lonely soldier of the Swiss Guard protecting the Porta Sant’Anna border entrance. It was Thursday night, eight o’clock. Barring incident, Rossi had finished for the day. He closed the toilet lid and set his glass on top.
“Not now,” Rossi murmured, picking up his phone. “Mama, can I call you back? I’m shaving my legs.”
“Enzo,” she said with a tut. “Why do you tell me such things?”
“It’s for cycling, Mama,” Rossi said, ending the call.
Rossi smiled wistfully as he applied shaving gel to his right leg. His mother’s call had reminded him of why he was here.
Rossi joined the Vatican Gendarmerie on his twenty-third birthday, nineteen years ago, as a compromise to his parents. The youngest of six brothers he grew up in a sprawling farmhouse nestled amongst vineyards and olive groves in Siena, Tuscany. His father, determined that one of his sons would join the priesthood, had nurtured young Lorenzo with the Church in mind. His mother was having none of it. She insisted he was far too popular with the village girls to consider such mad folly. Besides, little Enzo was her favourite. Grandchildren were what she expected. To further complicate matters, Rossi from an early age had dreamt of becoming a soldier. To resolve the three-way tug-of-war, Rossi joined the Vatican Corpo della Gendarmeria – an accommodation he never regretted.
“What the hell?” Rossi said, dropping his shaver. He sprang to his feet and dashed out of the bathroom, only to return seconds later with a pair of binoculars.
He flung open the window and focused on the small secluded churchyard to the right of the border crossing. Nothing. He watched for a few minutes more, but whatever he had seen was gone.
Rossi draped a towel round his shoulders and sat back down, his gaze constantly drawn to the open window as he lathered his other leg.
“Gotcha,” he said, knocking over his empty glass as he grabbed for the binoculars.
Despite the unsavoury sight of a nun bent over a tombstone with her lily-white arse in the air, and a trouserless priest readying himself nearby, Rossi didn’t overreact. Inside the Vatican he had seen it all. The Church was a magnet for those lacking a normal moral compass. He reached for his phone.
“You guys asleep?… Someone’s shooting a porno film in the garden of Sant’Anna,” Rossi said in a gruff tone.
He leant out of the window for a better view. Instantly he realised he should have been more instructive. “Discretion,” he bellowed down, but it was too late. He bit his lip as he watched the naked nun and the well-hung priest escape back into Rome. The tourists on Via di Porta Angelica hooted in delight. The film cameraman was not so lucky. He had been taken into custody by two red-faced gendarmes who refused to look up.
“Just perfect,” Rossi yelled out to no one in particular.
The phone rang. Rossi glanced at the screen. Bad news travels fast. “Good evening, Monsignor.”
“Inspector General, sorry to interrupt your evening but Cardinal Capelli requires your immediate presence.”
Rossi looked down at his one shaved leg and rolled his sea-green eyes. “I’m on my way.”
2
Rossi hated surprises. Top of the list were unscheduled meetings with Cardinal Santo Capelli, the Dean of the Sacred College of Cardinals. To be called urgently to the cardinal’s office so late in the evening was highly unusual. Something’s gone wrong , he thought, bustling down the stone-floored corridor that led to the prelate’s office.
Rossi skidded to a halt in front of a partly opened door. Inside he saw Cardinal Capelli’s executive assistant, Monsignor Polak, working at his desk. The cardinal’s apricot-coloured pug lay asleep at his feet. Rossi ran his fingers through his thick black hair and straightened his jacket, then entered.
“I trust it’s nothing serious?” Rossi enquired in a respectful tone.
“His Eminence is expecting you,” Monsignor Polak said. Exactly the response Rossi foresaw.
Monsignor Polak moved past Rossi and knocked sharply. He turned the handle and the tall wooden door opened silently. Rossi waited in the doorway as the short, fat monsignor announced his arrival.
“Come in, Inspector General,” t