The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  Giacomo migrated to the window. In the distance, the residual smoke from the explosion wafted across the Roman sky. He turned and leaned against the pane. Sergio sat at his desk rubbing his head.

  “The words of the prisoners are haunting me.”

  “What words, Giacomo?”

  “The ‘Gemini prophecy.’ And we didn’t find out what happened to the journal.”

  “Why don’t we give today a rest? My head is killing me. Go visit your mother and your sister. Take a walk, eat. Most of all, call your wife. Keep her calm. We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m gonna call Andrew. Maybe he has office space available.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Come on, Sergio. Whoever they are, they attacked AISI. Do you think they can’t find us here?”

  “True.”

  “I’ll call you tonight. We’ll be safer there. Who would dare attack the Vatican?”

  * * *

  Giacomo returned to his suite at the Marriott Flora after dinner with his family and Andrew. Tired, he sat in a black office chair at the desk in his room, a writing pad placed to his right. He withdrew his forest-green pen and doodled. Giacomo took a deep breath as he called his wife for the third time. He spoke in French.

  “Bonsoir, m’amor—good evening, my love.”

  “Bonsoir.” Her voice was cold.

  An uncomfortable silence followed for a few moments.

  “Come on, Em. It’s not that bad.” He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

  “Not that bad? Giacomo, you could have been killed.”

  “True, but I’m still here.” He grimaced. I should keep my mouth shut.

  Again, a long silence.

  “Em, are you there?”

  “Yes. When will you arrive?”

  “Friday afternoon.”

  “Be careful and call me tomorrow.”

  “Em?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you. It will get better.”

  “I love you too.”

  Giacomo pressed the off button on his cell phone. At least she’s safe with Arnaud in Corsica.

  After a hot shower, Giacomo dressed in dark blue briefs and rested on the bed. His mind swirled with images. He closed his eyes and saw the inauguration of Thomas Maro.

  A crowd had gathered in front of the Capitol. Thomas Maro, with his wife and two children by his side, stood as the chief justice began the swearing-in ceremony. The new vice president smiled in the chilly January day. The outgoing president was missing. Vice President Richardson’s stomach stretched his black cashmere overcoat. His eyes were red, his lips snarled. He held two babies in his arms. Emily stood to his right, her stomach flat, tears in her eyes.

  Giacomo woke up in a cold sweat and tried to shake off the dream.

  Chapter 31

  Giacomo, refreshed from his night’s sleep and an early workout in the hotel gym, exited the Marriott. The morning air was crisp and refreshing. He wore blue jeans, mahogany-brown cowboy boots, and a yellow buttoned-down oxford shirt. A brown leather jacket was draped over his arm. His eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the surroundings. The attack on AISI had clouded his thinking. How does this all connect? Who has the journal? Prophecy? Gemini? A car’s horn interrupted his speculation. By the curbside, he spotted a black Mercedes limousine with blackened windows; attached to the front fender were Vatican flags. A member of the Swiss Guard held the right passenger door open for him.

  “Good morning, Sergio. How’s your head?” Giacomo entered the bulletproof vehicle. He placed his jacket on the seat next to his friend.

  “I have a little pain—nothing much. How are you?”

  “Fine—a weird dream last night. Can’t remember it, though.”

  “Did you call your beautiful wife?”

  “Sure did. She’s not talking to me. Concerned about my safety.”

  “She’s got a point. They went after your sister; you could be next.”

  “Believe me, Sergio, I can take care of myself.”

  “Maybe so, but . . .”

  “We’ll see.” Holder of a tenth-degree black belt in karate, Giacomo was confident in his abilities to fend off an attacker.

  “That’s not going to protect you from a bomb. You know you’re going to be a dad. I’m sure Alessio can provide you a security detail,” Sergio said.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The car crossed the Tiber River on the Via Vittoria Colanna as they made their way to Piazza del Sant’ Ufficio. The vehicle came to a stop. They exited the Mercedes. Cardinal Andrew Angeloni met them, dressed in a black cassock.

  “Andrew.” Giacomo smiled at his friend.

  “Your Eminence,” Sergio said.

  “Thank you, Andrew, for your help.”

  “No problem, Giacomo. I arranged a conference room for you in the Palazzo del Governatorato.”

  “The Palazzo—I like that.”

  The five-story building housed the administrative offices that governed the Vatican.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Giacomo eyed Sergio. “Our nerves are shot, but what can I say—we’re alive.”

  “I guess I should continue to keep you in my prayers?” The cardinal chuckled.

  “Absolutely. We need all the help we can get.”

  “Your Eminence, not to sound paranoid, but is the room secure?”

  “Yes—Sergio, please call me Andrew. I’m so tired of people calling me that. We forget what our names are in this place. I’m just an ordinary guy.”

  “Well, you’re more than ordinary . . . Andrew.” Sergio found it difficult to call the man by his first name.

  Giacomo put his arm around Sergio. “What? You’re saying . . . Andrew is abnormal?”

  “No, no, no . . .”

  “Padre, our friend here needs you to hear his confession. Calling a cardinal abnormal—what’s this world coming to?”

  The three men laughed as they traveled the garden along Via delle Fondamenta. Several ilex trees were in the distance.

  Andrew’s face turned solemn. “The Holy Father is concerned with how the nations will react toward Israel after their foolish attack on Iran. I remember your father predicted this would happen.”

  Giacomo nodded. “The aftermath will only take place back home. President Waldron is prepared. Planet Earth is safe.”

  “Safe . . . strong word, my friend?”

  “It is. Nobody wants another war. The United States will be blamed because we are Israel’s closest ally. We won’t be accused by the governments. We’ll be indicted by the Islamic fundamentalists who wish to destroy our democracy.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “We’ll see. Andrew, how’re your negotiations with the orthodoxy?”

  “The discussions are fruitful. This afternoon should be the final meeting before the laity and religious vote on the reunification.”

  “Do you think it will pass?”

  “I do.”

  Puzzled, Sergio asked, “What are you trying to do?”

  Andrew remained silent for a moment. “There was a time when only one church existed—founded by St. Andrew in Antioch. Through the early centuries, the Christian community spread throughout the Roman Empire, governed by the bishops in Constantinople. They decided that one of them had to go to Rome and establish a presence. This made sense because the city was the financial and governing power of the world. The leadership agreed that the representative would become the first among equals. What they didn’t expect was how powerful he would become.” As the cardinal continued to talk, they stopped and sat on a park bench by the Piazza Santo Stefano. The morning light radiated the warmth of the sun on the men. “In the fifth century, Bishop Leo called himself ‘pope’—in Greek, papas, or in Latin, papa.”r />
  “Excuse me, Andrew,” Sergio interrupted. “What is ‘the first among equals’?”

  “The pope had equal power with the additional authority to make certain unilateral decisions without the consensus of the other bishops.”

  “So, in other words, during that period, men being men, egos took over, and the pope became the capo di tutti capi—boss of all bosses,” Giacomo said.

  “Yep. We’d like to believe it was the guidance of the Holy Spirit. In the sixth and eleventh centuries, disputes occurred between the Western and Eastern churches, rooted in a clash of cultures—the Latin and the Greek. Our Roman Church reflected in a logical and practical way, while the Greek or Eastern Church held close the mystery, the exploration of faith to the theoretical. Then, as we say in America, the shit hit the fan.”

  “Andrew, your mouth, please. We are on holy ground.” Giacomo’s humor didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Giacomo, I told you I’m just an ordinary man.”

  “Sure you are.”

  The cardinal laughed. “In the year 1054, the Great Schism occurred; the church split. There were those who opposed the breakup and tried in earnest to stop the divide. Now is the time to heal the splintered church,” Andrew said as he pointed in the direction of the administration building.

  Chapter 32

  Giacomo entered the room first, followed by Sergio. A fresco of the Last Supper hung on the white wall opposite the entrance, centered between two windows. One had been cracked open, and a fresh breeze circulated. A flat-screen TV was suspended from the ceiling in the corner. On the far-right wall was a whiteboard with blue, black, and red erasable markers. A small desk was positioned to its left. The maple conference table had been outfitted with electrical outlets for each attendee.

  “Sure is big enough,” Giacomo said. He moved to the windows to view the Vatican grounds. Sergio opened his suitcase and retrieved a computer switch box. He connected it to his laptop.

  “What’s the box for?”

  “Security. Alessio gave it to me. It prevents hackers from entering the system.”

  “Like a VPN—virtual private network.”

  “Yes. Alessio said this is more secure.”

  “Interesting.” Giacomo sat in one of the six brown leather chairs. “Remember the dream I said I forgot?”

  “Yes.”

  “I felt like it happened.”

  “Your father used to call that a ‘real dream’ . . . a premonition of what would occur later in time.”

  “Well then, Tom Maro will be our next president.”

  “I don’t think you need a dream to tell you that.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Giacomo’s cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed the name.

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “Hello, Giacomo. With me is Tom Maro. Can you talk?”

  “Yes, sir. I have Sergio Esposto here and would like to bring him into the loop. He’s been influential in the investigation. Any concerns?”

  There was a muffled exchange. “No problem.”

  “Sergio, Arthur Waldron here. I’d like to introduce you to our next president, Tom Maro.”

  “Hello, Mr. President . . . Mr. Maro.”

  Waldron inhaled and sighed. “Giacomo, how are you?

  “I’m good, Arthur.”

  “I’m happy you’re not dead.”

  “Me too.”

  Sergio nodded in agreement.

  “Giacomo, any answers?”

  “My sister was the target. Still trying to put the pieces together. From what I observed in the interrogation, I believe the perps were brainwashed.”

  Sergio’s puzzled expression caught Giacomo’s eye.

  “Brainwashed how?” Maro asked.

  Waldron interrupted. “I don’t understand . . .”

  “At one point, both prisoners answered the questions simultaneously.”

  “You think because of what you heard that they were influenced?”

  “Yes, I do. Their statements sounded rehearsed.”

  “What did you learn?”

  Silence ensued for a minute.

  “Giacomo, are you there?”

  “I am, Arthur. What did we learn? Difficult to explain because it sounds like an old James Bond movie.”

  “Old James Bond movie?”

  “Yep. They were saying things like ‘one true world order’ and ‘the Gemini prophecy’ and ‘the two must not meet.’ One more thing. Whoever they are, they want my sister and me dead.”

  “Wow,” Maro said.

  “Yeah, I agree with Tom—wow. Giacomo, one more question—this debacle in the Middle East?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your opinion is the States will be attacked?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “The CIA is hearing a lot of chatter coming from there saying we blessed the nuclear strike.”

  “That’s ludicrous, Arthur.”

  Sergio interrupted the conversation. “Excuse me, gentlemen. My son also acknowledged Italian intelligence sources are hearing the same.”

  “The pope is also concerned about a worldwide armed conflict.”

  “I spoke with our allies, as well as the leaders of China and Russia. I assured them we gave no such approval. The only country at risk is the United States.”

  “How’s the troop withdrawal?”

  Sergio shot Giacomo a questioning glance.

  “Almost completed. The troops will be back within twenty-four hours. Giacomo, this is one time I hope your father was wrong.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Let’s pray this ends quickly.”

  “Your words to God’s ears,” Maro said.

  “Giacomo, did the prisoners say what happened to the journal?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea what your father might have written?”

  “No, Arthur. Whatever it is, our enemies want the damn thing.”

  “Giacomo, I want you to stay in Europe and continue to track down the terrorist group and find that journal. I believe there is valuable information in it that would help us. We have to recapture your father’s writings. Remember, not only did they attack your sister, they also murdered our ambassador to the United Nations and Tom’s cousin.” Waldron’s voice grew angrier. “Justice must be served. We can’t allow our passivity against terror to continue.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  * * *

  That afternoon two men sat opposite one another at a picnic table in Ann Morrison Park in Boise, Idaho. It was the perfect spot, with lots of activity and a multitude of people. They went unnoticed as they talked.

  “So that we understand each other, your team will be in place in Washington. Together we initiate the attack. Remember, Tariq, when this is over, your people leave. We will control the government, not you. You can take the credit, but the FFB will run the country.”

  “I agree—as long as your government crumbles.”

  “Oh, I assure you, the government of the United States will crumble.”

  “And the remaining twin must die.”

  In June 2007, a Pakistani sheik named Tariq Kahn began to recruit American Muslims. He financed an organization—Muslims for Peace, or MFP—to work with local city administrations under the umbrella of peace and fellowship. Five years later, the growing group purchased substantial amounts of property throughout America. The land became training camps for homegrown and immigrant terrorists. ISIL, the MFP, and the FFB joined forces in 2014.

  Chapter 33

  Giacomo descended the steps of the Falcon 8X into the warm Corsican sun. Emily waited with Arnaud by the stairs. He hoped for a weekend of relaxation and food. Deep inside, he knew that wouldn’t be the case. How could it be, with his sister in a coma and the world on the ver
ge of World War III? He’d be lucky to get a good night’s sleep.

  Emily greeted him with a long-awaited hug. He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Giacomo cupped his hands around her stomach. “How are the boys?”

  “Fine, mon cherie. Kicking up a storm.”

  “Hi, Dad.” He stretched out his hand to his father-in-law. Arnaud drew him close and embraced him.

  “I’m glad you’re safe, my son. Did you bring any bags?”

  He lifted the suitcase. “Just this one.”

  “Where’s your security?”

  “Back in Rome. I figured I’d be safe here with the head of the DGSE.”

  Arnaud patted him on the back. “Yes, you are.”

  They entered a silver Mercedes SUV, its windows blackened. Two police vehicles escorted them to Arnaud’s estate.

  “When do you have to leave?”

  “Two days.”

  The couple sat next to one another, Emily’s hand on Giacomo’s thigh. Arnaud sat opposite them. A glass barrier separated the armed military driver from the passengers. Giacomo pointed out the window as they drove along the Corsican coast toward Porta Vecchio.

  “Why the EU protest signs? My understanding, Trivette is doing an excellent job of stabilizing the economy.”

  Arnaud gazed out the window as he spoke. “The Corsicans have always wanted autonomy. ‘Cut the apron strings with mother France,’ they say. The truth, there are those of us who believe Trivette and his puppets are nothing more than gangsters.”

  “Us?” The word “puppets” struck a chord with Giacomo.

  “Did I say us?”

  “Dad, why don’t we talk about this later.” Emily squeezed Giacomo’s leg.

  “Trivette is doing remarkable things. He restored jobs. The price of gas is cheaper here than in the States. Your economy is booming. What more could you want? Now I understand our government plans to join economic forces with him.”

  Arnaud threw an angry look at Giacomo. In rapid French, he began his diatribe. “That would be foolish for the Americans. Eten is manipulating the world’s economy. Though it appears pleasant on the outside . . . it’s ugly on the inside. You Americans are afraid of the Chinese? This guy is worse.”