“What was that?” the ambassador asked.
“Don’t know, sir.”
Tarmac reached for the secure satellite phone.
“Ambassador Tarmac here. I need to speak with the president right away.”
As they passed through the intersection of First Avenue and Fortieth Street, Tarmac’s limo exploded. It was obliterated, along with twelve innocent victims.
Chapter 11
In his home on a side street off historic Charles Street in Baltimore, Republican presidential nominee Thomas Maro rose from his prayer mat and went to sit at his desk. Secret Service agents were stationed outside the building in the exclusive neighborhood, keeping his family secure.
The red-pink, brick, six-thousand-square-foot house had been a gift from his mother’s second husband, his stepfather. Maro’s birth father died when he was five years old. His only memory was from a picture of himself and his dad outside their house. When he was ten, his mother, a Muslim, married Selah Maro, a Coptic Christian. A year after Tom graduated from the Wharton School of Business, his mother and adoptive father perished in a car crash. An only child, he took over his father’s Oriental rug business. Over fifteen years, the small company became a corporation—the largest importer of handcrafted Persian quilted carpets in the US. The presidential nominee sold the business in 2008, just before the economic collapse. A discreet philanthropist, he was known for his national television ads and his conviction that he was destined to be the next commander in chief of the United States.
Thomas Maro’s beliefs were tempered by Christianity and Islam. Fluent in four languages—Farsi, Hebrew, Spanish, and English—he had faith that Jesus was the Messiah and the writings of Mohammad had meaning. Never forced to choose, he found comfort in the Bible as well as the Qur’an. A private man when it came to his faith, Maro never discussed the subject. This almost became an issue during the primaries and the early days after his nomination. He squashed the religious critics with one statement: “I believe in God.” The country was in such peril that religion was the furthest thought from the American people’s minds.
“Come in,” he responded to a knock. The solid oak pocket doors slid open. “Hello, Sal.”
Sal walked into the library, grabbed the television remote, and turned on the news.
“What’s going on?” Maro glanced at his watch—3:35 p.m.
“Winston Tarmac is dead.”
“What?”
“Assassinated, in Manhattan.”
“By whom?”
“No idea.”
“The talk on the Hill was he’d be Richardson’s running mate in the next presidential election. What’s happening to this world, Sal? It grows worse every day. First the death of Rio DeLaurentis, and now this.” He shook his head.
“Yeah, that crackpot—we don’t need her around.”
“Cousin, those are harsh words. Rio was a fighter for the people, and she believed in our country.”
“Our country? We are here by the grace of Allah and a long way from our homeland, my cousin.”
Maro’s face turned red. “Saleem, you speak like an ass. We are Americans. This country gave us the opportunity to live free. Damn, Sal, I could be the next president of the United States. This cannot be tolerated. We’ve talked about it before—I’m tired of your rhetoric! If you are to be my chief of staff, you’d better keep your comments to yourself. I mean it, Sal . . . it’s got to stop.”
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
Agitated, Maro rubbed his face and changed the subject. “How’s DC this morning? You said you had a doctor’s appointment?”
“Everything checked out fine. I waited two hours before I saw a doctor. When you become president, do me a favor.”
“Yes, Sal—I’m gonna fix the health care issue. I’d better, or I’ll have a short tenure.”
“No.” Sal had a disgusted expression on his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry. What is it?”
“That phallic symbol—the Washington Monument. Gotta go. Only a quarter of it is standing, the rest crumbled on the ground.”
“Phallic symbol? Remind me not to let you talk to the press. What a shame it won’t be rebuilt.”
“Are you serious? Unemployment is in double digits, gas is seven fifty a gallon, and a loaf of bread is over five dollars. The world is in shambles, and this damn country is a piece of shit.”
“Sal, what the hell is going on with you?”
“Sorry, Tom . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“I don’t need this right now. Take a couple of days off. Leave my house and come back when your sanity returns. Think hard about whether you want to be my chief of staff . . . because right now I’m having doubts.
“Sorry, Tom.”
“Yeah.”
Sal left the office and slid the doors closed.
What the hell is wrong with him? Maro picked up a document of the campaign promises he’d made to the American people. How will I carry out what needs to be done when the country is rife with discontent? Never in history had Americans been at such odds with their political system. Democrats and Republicans spewed hate-filled rhetoric: the only unity they enjoyed was the bipartisan attack on a third political party. Was Rio DeLaurentis right?
His cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Please hold for the president.”
“Tom?”
“Arthur, how are you?”
“Good. Dinner tonight?”
“Sure. My house at seven?”
“I’ll be there.”
Arthur Waldron and Thomas Maro were friends. Over the course of the campaign, they met in secret to discuss world politics. They publicly refused to attack one another. They shared an agenda—a better America. No longer a popularity contest, the election was about survival—the continued existence of the United States. Both nominees agreed their campaign focus would be on how to fix the government—a promise Arthur had made four years earlier but failed to deliver on because of his own self-righteousness.
During his first candidacy, Waldron used his inflated bravado to strike a chord with the people. He spoke to their fears of a declining America. On Election Day, he won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College by three votes. His followers were incensed, driven to find a way to overturn the election. Within days, an anonymous video was released of the soon-to-be-sworn-in president-elect in a compromising sexual act with his aide.
Waldron took to the airwaves with a pompous moral message and promised to fight for the constitutional freedoms of the people. On December 21, for the first time in American history, Congress did not certify the results; instead, by a margin of fifty votes, it elected the populist Arthur Waldron as president.
It took two years in office to humble Waldron. His continued failure to keep his promises, thanks to a fractured legislative branch, eroded his authority, and his staunch advocates distanced themselves. The citizens wanted change; they were tired of the two-class society burdened with governmental regulations. A civil war brewed as people prepared to take matters into their own hands.
Waldron tried to change the minds of the bureaucrats, with little success. The government’s policies continued to degrade the people. Fueled by a propaganda campaign sponsored by the FFB, workers engaged in mass demonstrations, and strikes pummeled the economy. Self-interest and corruption clouded the minds of the ruling elite, 508 men and women who were convinced they knew best for the people. No longer a military superpower, the nation relied on its secured borders and a failed wall. Oil was now $405 a barrel, and the price of gold had skyrocketed to over $3,500 an ounce. Investors in precious metals became wealthy.
The United States was on the precipice of a revolution, fueled in part by a dystopian fear. The misguided policies of the Waldron administration had imploded and only powered the malcontent. Discouraged by his failures
, Waldron hoped he would lose the election.
Chapter 12
Saleem Nasir stopped his new forest-green Jeep Cherokee at the end of the driveway and nodded to acknowledge the Secret Service agents. He drove right on Charles toward the city of Baltimore.
Sal had graduated from Harvard School of Law in 1996 in the top tenth percentile of his class. A New York law firm hired him, not only for his intellect but also for his ability to speak French and Farsi.
The son of Duman and Maria Nasir, born in Fairfax, Virginia, his mother was American, his father from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Maria was the sister of Eman Maro, the mother of presidential candidate Tom Maro. After his parents’ separation, Sal was kidnapped by his father when he was two years old and taken to Saudi Arabia. Maria was devastated and tried to use diplomatic channels to bring her son home. Nine years passed before Duman called Selah Maro, Maria’s brother. Two weeks and half a million dollars later, Saleem was reunited with his mother. At first the relationship was tenuous, until little Saleem realized he would no longer be beaten—then it was paradise.
His cell phone rang to the ring tone of a Top 40 hit. The caller ID showed a private number.
“Saleem, as-salāmu ʿalaykum.”
Saleem shook his head in disgust. What have I done? “Peace be upon you as well.”
“Not bad for a Boston girl.”
Saleem said nothing.
“Sal—are you there?”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“What’s the matter? You seem upset.”
Her sarcasm and demeaning manner grated on Sal’s nerves. Bile started to rise up his esophagus. The acid burned his throat.
“You knew I’d call. Time to repay your debt, my friend.” The smug voice continued, “All you need to do is listen. Will that make you feel better? Now then, my little Muslim friend, outside of an assassination, Tommy-boy will be the commander in chief. As his chief of staff, you will . . .”
Sal stopped the car, rolled down the window, and vomited in the street.
“Sal, did you puke? What—you don’t like the sound of my voice? I love this new technology. I can watch every move you make. Don’t forget to wipe the corner of your mouth . . .”
“Bitch.”
“Sal, Sal, Sal . . . is that any way to talk to a lady?”
“Lady, you’re a bitch.”
“Tsk-tsk . . . such words. Shut the hell up and listen. As I was saying, when your cousin is elected, you will hire one of our associates to help in the transition of the government. Then in January, that person will become your assistant, but in reality, you will report to him. Do you understand?”
“I hear you,” Sal said as he approached a red light on East Pratt and South Street.
“Do I need to remind you of the information we have on your dead father that will destroy your cousin’s chances of winning the election?”
“No.” Saleem’s father had been an associate of Dr. Colin Payne, the American traitor who masterminded the nuclear detonation in the Urals in 2003. Duman, responsible for the acquisition of the two nuclear bombs (one of which never exploded), later died of radiation poisoning in a chateau in France.
“I’m glad we reached an understanding. Sharif will be pleased.”
“What the—” A man on a bicycle stopped in front of Sal’s Jeep and banged on the hood with his right hand, then sped away. “What was that?”
“Sal! Get out of the car—oh, sorry, too late . . . see you in hell.” She gazed at her computer screen, grabbed a tissue, and wiped her tiny nose as the car exploded in a fireball of molten metal and human remains.
“I can’t believe you killed him, Sharif! Oh well. Another one bites the dust.”
Chapter 13
Three Days after the Assassinations
The media reported that Saleem Nasir, Ambassador Tarmac, and Rio DeLaurentis had been killed, along with fourteen innocent bystanders. No one came forward to take responsibility.
Within the fortress of Vatican City, protected by the Swiss Guard and an elaborate security system, Giacomo and Sergio sat by Rio’s bedside in a yellow-walled room. Eyes closed, she lay peacefully at rest, a bluish-purple bruise on her chin where a breathing tube had recently been removed. Bags of intravenous fluid hung on poles to nourish her body. A monitor displayed the rhythm of her heartbeat punctuated by an annoying beep.
A crucifix hung on one wall, opposite a painting of Jesus holding a baby lamb in his arms. Two extra chairs had been placed on either side of a six-drawer dresser across from the window next to the door. The curtains were closed, blocking the view of the Vatican Gardens. A gentle knock disturbed the silence.
“Pronto—come in,” Giacomo said. “Andrew.” The men rose from their seats to meet the cardinal. Giacomo walked over to his friend, and they hugged. Cardinal Andrew Angeloni was now a papal nuncio—a representative of the pope. He continued to spearhead the campaign to unify the Christian churches. Men being men, there were those in the College of Cardinals who believed the idea foolish.
“I’m so sorry, Giacomo. At least she’s breathing on her own.”
“Yes, thank God.”
“Sergio, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Your Eminence.” The two men shook hands.
“Come, Andrew, sit. I cannot express how grateful I am.”
“Please don’t say anything. The Holy Father said it’s the least we can do for the daughter of our major benefactor. She’ll be safe here. What are the doctors saying?”
“Nothing much—no internal or brain injuries.”
“Your sister’s a fighter—soon she’ll awaken. Did you tell your mother?”
“Yes. Thank you for the diplomatic pouch. I couldn’t take the risk of telling her over the phone that Rio had survived.”
“She must’ve been devastated.”
“Yes. Horrific—never want to do that again.”
“Have you talked to her since?”
“Yes.”
“How did that go?”
“She’s pissed but happy her daughter is alive.”
“Why must the world think she’s dead?”
“She’s a newsmaker with a lot of enemies.”
“Enemies?”
“Political . . .”
“Oh—her comments to Congress?”
“Yep. I’m gonna need confession when this is all over.”
“I’m sure God will forgive you. Tony and the rest of the crew, how are they?”
“Uninjured. Tony’s at his home in Positano; the pilots are back in the States.”
“Giacomo, do you think the assassinations in New York and Washington are related to the attack on Rio?”
“Too much of a coincidence not to be. The Italian government is furious; they’ve vowed to apprehend those involved. My sister . . . she infuriated quite a few people this past month. Tarmac, Nasir, and Rio? No idea what those three have in common.”
“I saw the news. Giacomo—Rio’s right, although, she could’ve toned it down a little. Your wife, Emily—where is she?”
“At our house in Ottati, with Italian bodyguards. I’m going there today. I forgot to tell you—Em is pregnant.”
“She is? About time.”
Giacomo touched Rio’s arm. A bittersweet moment: new life approached as his sister lay on death’s doorstep.
“She’s protected here, Giacomo. Our medical staff will care for her. A Franciscan nun will be by her bedside always. Nobody will harm your sister while she’s here.”
“I believe that.”
“Peace, my friend. May God’s spirit be with you. Our security detail will take you to the heliport.”
“Thanks again, Andrew.” The two men embraced.
“My regards to His Holiness, Your Eminence.”
“I will tell him, and, Sergio, please
call me Andrew.”
Giacomo leaned over his sister and kissed her forehead. Sergio did the same. While Giacomo was escorted to a helicopter pad in the far corner of the city, Andrew stayed at her bedside. With holy oil in his hand, he performed the rite of the anointing the sick as he prayed for her soul.
* * *
As they headed to the heliport, Giacomo reflected on the day’s events. He was grateful that Andrew offered a safe haven for Rio. He felt awe as he looked at his surroundings. Vatican City was in the heart of Rome—a sovereign nation of eight hundred inhabitants within the republic of Italy. The walled-in state was the home of the Holy Father—the pope—and the spiritual headquarters for two billion Catholics who considered it the one true universal church. Its power touched every government in the world. The pontiff, its supreme leader, walked in the footsteps of the apostle Peter as he dedicated his life to God and His people. Through the centuries, the church had been plagued with problems, schisms, scandals, and defiance. The hierarchy managed to make the wrongs right as it evolved into the image of Christ. Still, humans were human and could not escape their sinful nature.
The whooping sound of the rotor blades increased as the helicopter lifted off the ground. Giacomo and Sergio put the soundproof headsets on to lessen the annoying reverberation.
Airborne, Sergio reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope addressed to Giacomo. On it were the words Open when in the helicopter flying to Ottati. Stamped along the seal was a date: March 19, 1998. Written across the flap was a signature: Paolo DeLaurentis.
“Damn. He wrote this twenty-two years ago.”
“Your father was an incredible man.”
“Yes, he was. Dad told me he felt like a freak—nowhere to go with his words. Even after he died, no one believed his writings, except for the president.”
“Until Stalworth came to office.”
“True.”
“Didn’t he threaten you with treason?”
“Yeah, if I discussed the journal with anybody. Said he lost it. I offered him another copy. Next thing you know, I’m sitting at a desk in the Pentagon. When Waldron came into office, I retired. We made a mistake turning it over to the government. Now I don’t care. Rio is right—our country has been decimated by the politicians’ agendas. They forgot the American people.”
The Third Trumpet Page 5
