The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “Come on, really? What’s his motivation?”

  “To control the world.”

  “Really, Dad? What’s your issue with this guy?”

  “He reminds me of someone your father and I knew.”

  “Yeah . . . who?”

  “Sharif.” Through clenched teeth, he added, “This conversation is over.”

  Emily squeezed Giacomo’s leg tighter.

  “Em, stop.” He removed her hand. He noticed her roll her eyes. For the remainder of the drive, she kept her focus on the scenery outside. Now I have two people pissed off at me.

  * * *

  They arrived at the villa in Cala Rosa. The driveway was paved with loose white pebbles. An eight-foot-high stone wall surrounded three of the property’s boundaries. The back opened to the sea, an infinite swimming pool two hundred steps from the turquoise Mediterranean. Gardeners manicured the ten-acre estate as the automobile circled a fountain with a statue of Napoleon in the center. The driver stopped the vehicle next to the stone-slabbed sidewalk that led to the main house, an imposing ten-bedroom, dark yellow stucco mansion with rust-colored shutters flanked by security and housekeeping personnel accommodations. The coast of Italy lay sixty miles to the east.

  Upset, Arnaud exited the car. “Excuse me. I need to make a phone call.”

  “Why were you squeezing my leg?”

  “Oh, you men. The EU is a sore subject with Papa. I was trying to tell you to stop.”

  “Why?”

  “An incident happened years ago between him and Trivette. All he will tell me is that Trivette reminds him of someone.”

  “Well, I still think the European Union will be an asset to the United States.”

  “We’ll see, mon cheri. Wanna go sit by the pool?”

  “Sure. Are you still mad at me?”

  “I’ve gotten over it,” Emily said.

  Gotten over it, my ass. Giacomo helped his wife out of the car.

  * * *

  Ten paramilitary commandos boarded the ship, dressed as tourists. Their cache of assault weapons was hoisted on the port side of the vessel in two lifeboats that would accompany them. Scheduled to sail from Marseille at two o’clock in the afternoon, they would conclude their twelve-hour journey in the moonless night.

  The commander laughed to himself as he jumped from the dock to the luxury yacht. It wasn’t just that he and his men were traveling in style—it was also the contracts with two separate clients to do the exact same job. He was going to make five million dollars. “Time to retire,” he whispered as he gave the signal to the captain to head out to sea.

  Chapter 34

  The breeze from the Mediterranean Sea rustled the curtains, waking Giacomo from a sound sleep. He slipped out of bed and tried not to disturb his wife as he walked on the sand-colored tile to the open window. His cell phone vibrated on the end table.

  “Sergio, it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s wrong?” he whispered. Emily shifted her body to her side.

  “Visitors are soon to arrive.”

  “What?”

  “Two incoming Zodiac boats with ten men. We notified DGSE as well as the Corsican police. You need to get out of there—ETA ten minutes.”

  The bedroom door swung open, Arnaud in the doorway.

  “Sergio called and told me. Emily, wake up.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We’re being attacked. Let’s go!” Giacomo handed Emily her robe.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” Arnaud said.

  A commotion erupted outside as lights blazed on the beach and helicopters buzzed, searching for their prey. The sound of the rotors broke the dark silence. By the time the family got downstairs, explosions and flashes of light speckled the horizon. Giacomo unlatched the safety on his 9-mm handgun. Arm outstretched, the Beretta now an extension of his hand, he rounded the corner to the foyer. His eyes swept the room for a target as he motioned for Emily to go to the secured bombproof basement. An alarm sounded—a voice over the speaker gave the “stand down” order. Giacomo lowered his arm. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He ran to his wife, who stood by the door leading to the cellar.

  “Giacomo, what’s going on?”

  Arnaud ran into the room. “Are you two—”

  “Yes, we’re fine. What happened, Papa?”

  “Enemies tried to attack the villa.”

  “Enemies? Where did they come from?” Emily asked.

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Should we stay here?”

  “Yes, my Emily—we’re protected. The military sent reinforcements. You two try to go back to sleep. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

  “Come on, mon cheri. Let’s go upstairs. You need your sleep.”

  “Papa?” A look of concern emanated from her eyes.

  “I’m good, my little one. Go—go back to bed.” He kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Thank you, Giacomo.”

  “No problem, Dad.”

  * * *

  Giacomo and Arnaud huddled over a computer screen. The morning air held on to the repugnant smell of gunpowder. Giacomo gazed at his watch; it was nine thirty. Emily had managed to fall asleep as her husband wrestled with the thoughts of who would want him dead.

  “Sergio, what did you find out?”

  His voice crackled through the speakerphone. “We tracked the Zodiac boats to a yacht. The Corsican helicopters destroyed them. There were no survivors.”

  “What happened to the yacht?”

  “Demolished by French Mirages. We don’t know anything else yet, but we’ll have satellite images in a couple of hours. We should be able to determine where she departed from.”

  “Sergio, see what you can find. I’ll call you when I’m back in Rome.” Giacomo hung up and then turned to his father-in-law. “Arnaud, I think we should go our separate ways. I’ll send Em to Ottati. I spoke with Alessio. He’s providing a security detail to protect her. I’ll go back to Rome. I want to be close to Rio in case she wakes up. Give some relief to Mom.”

  “Good idea. I’m going back to Paris.”

  “Do I have a say in this?” Emily stood in the doorway of Arnaud’s library. She was dressed in stretch pants; a bright red maternity shirt covered the tiny bump.

  “Em, honey, listen . . .”

  “No. You do not,” Arnaud said, his voice firm.

  Chapter 35

  “I don’t understand, Giacomo. Why can’t I stay with you in Rome?” Emily asked one more time as the helicopter traversed the Italian countryside.

  “Em, it’s too dangerous. In Ottati, you’ll be safe. Alessio sent AISI agents who will guard you, and the Alburni Mountains provide an excellent vantage point for protection.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  * * *

  The Italian police drove Giacomo to Vatican City via a circuitous route. He gazed out the window as they passed the Roman Coliseum. Statues of silver-clad gladiators lined the road. A young girl approached a warrior and jumped back in fright when he moved. Her older brother laughed hysterically. Giacomo smiled. His cell phone rang.

  “Hello, Sergio.”

  “How far away are you?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Come to our office, not the Vatican.”

  “Why?”

  “No remote setup for your video conference call.”

  “Damn it. Ciao.”

  Giacomo arrived fifteen minutes later. Two armed agents waited outside the building to escort him to his office. Not happy with the presence of the bodyguards, he rationalized, At least Em will feel better.

  “Sergio, what did you find?”

  “The yacht was US registered, owned by a Chloe Bresden.”

  “I’ll bet you she’s dead.”

  “How did you . . .”


  “I guessed. How long?”

  “Almost a month.”

  “A month?” Giacomo stretched his legs as he sat in the chair.

  “Her real name was Nava Ben-Reuven.”

  “Israeli?”

  “Waiting for confirmation. Here’s the shocker.”

  “I wait with bated breath.” Giacomo sensed Sergio’s exasperation. “I’m sorry, Sergio. Go ahead.”

  “She was the reporter killed at Maro’s house.”

  “Shit. Are you kidding me?”

  “I kid you not, my friend.”

  Giacomo’s mind churned. “Is there a money trail?”

  “None we can find.”

  “I wonder if Maro knows anything. Are we ready for the conference call?”

  “Yes.”

  The screen in the operations center came alive and split three ways: Arthur Waldron on the left, Thomas Maro in the center, and Arnaud Chambery on the right.

  “Giacomo, Arnaud, how the hell are you guys? Glad you’re still alive.”

  “Us too, Mr. President.” Too much coffee, Arthur?

  “What did you discover?” Waldron picked up a cloth napkin and wiped his forehead.

  “They want me dead. The attack on the villa . . .”

  “Why?”

  “A good question, Tom. Apparently, I have information no one else does.”

  “The James Bond theory?”

  “That’s part of it, Arthur. The pieces just don’t seem to fit. The journal, the death of Tom’s cousin, the ambassador, my sister. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “You think this is all connected?”

  “I’m starting to believe that, Tom.”

  Again, Waldron wiped beads of sweat. He sputtered, “The answer has got to be in the journal. Whatever your father wrote links us all.”

  “Possibly,” Giacomo said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

  “Could the attack be against you, Arnaud?”

  “Of course, I made many enemies, Mr. President.”

  Giacomo interrupted. “No! They were after me. I feel it in my gut. Tom, the reporter killed at your press conference, was the owner of the yacht. Her real name . . .”

  “Nava Ben-Reuven. I found out today—Dean, my new chief of staff, informed me. Any idea who she is?”

  “No. We were hoping you might know.”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I uncovered information as well—the Mirage fighters were not ours,” Arnaud said.

  “What do you mean?” Maro leaned forward toward the camera.

  “The French government didn’t dispatch them.”

  Waldron interrupted. “Gentlemen, I need to cut this short. I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in the Oval Office in ten minutes. Keep me in the loop, Giacomo. Let’s catch these bastards.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president’s image vanished from the screen.

  Chapter 36

  President Arthur Waldron gazed out the south window as the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Esther Boyle, the acting chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, left the Oval Office. Soon the sun would set and he could retreat to the residence, putting another dreadful day and bad week behind him. The two-hour meeting had ended in frustration for the commander in chief. He had failed to convince his top commanders that an attack on the country was imminent. “Mr. President, they are the words of a dead man. There is no intelligence to support an immediate threat. We have left our allies defenseless by our troop withdrawal . . .”

  “Mr. President?” Waldron was abruptly jolted back to the present as Secretary of Defense James Bennett entered the room. He turned and motioned for Jim to sit.

  “Jim, we’re in big trouble here.”

  “I agree. The Middle East will be an even more dangerous place to be.” The lanky man wavered, his voice skeptical. “Do you really believe what DeLaurentis wrote?”

  “I do, but the Middle East is not the problem.” Arthur opened his desk drawer and withdrew a green folder titled FBI Top Secret. “I kept this from the Joint Chiefs. I’m surprised that bitch Boyle said nothing. She’s aware of this.” Waldron unclasped the dossier and read the document aloud. “‘It is the director’s assessment that the FFB will attack our infrastructure within the next thirty days. We have concluded they will more than likely join forces with the Islamic fundamentalists who blame us for the nuclear strike on Iran. This means that—’” He broke off as the doors to the office burst open. “What the hell?”

  Eight Secret Service agents entered the room with their guns drawn. Six of them encircled the commander in chief while the other two stood on either side of Bennett.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Mr. President, you and SECDEF need to come with us. Now!”

  No explanation was necessary as an explosion shook the White House.

  The rotor blades of Marine One could be heard as it touched down on the south lawn. The eight armed agents escorted Waldron and Bennett out of the Oval Office, running to the escape vehicle. One agent collapsed as blood erupted from his forehead. A marine opened fire at the sniper atop the Executive Office Building. Two men lifted Waldron and threw him into the helicopter as Bennett was shoved into the hatch as it became airborne.

  “Mr. President, are you injured?” the marine medic asked as he strapped the president into his seat.

  “No. What the hell is going on, soldier?”

  “We’ve been attacked.”

  Waldron shook his head in disbelief as he saw black smoke rising from three buildings near the White House. The nation’s capital was under siege. Escorted by two other marine helicopters, they reached Andrews Air Force Base in less than fifteen minutes. Three hundred soldiers awaited them on the tarmac. The servicemen’s rifles were aimed at the rooftops of the hangars and buildings. Three F-22 Raptors ascended into the sky, circling the airport. The president’s helicopter settled on the taxiway at the end of the runway. Seven armed marines filed out, their bodies rotated, their guns searching for the enemy. Three men ran up the stairs to board Air Force One. The engines were fever pitched at full power. Doors closed, the aircraft started its takeoff run.

  “What the hell is going on?” Arthur Waldron demanded.

  As the plane lifted off, an orange flash engulfed the Boeing 747. Air Force One seemed to hang momentarily in midflight, and then, with a thunderous explosion, the airplane split in half and crashed to the ground.

  Chapter 37

  Giacomo awoke to the sound of banging on the door and the chime of his cell phone. Startled, he jumped out of bed. He fumbled to find his gun. Roused from a sound sleep, he took a moment to gain his senses. He remembered he was in Rome.

  “Hello?” he said as he grabbed his pants.

  “What? Thank you, Jason.”

  He zipped up his blue jeans as he unlocked the door to his suite. Sergio and Alessio waited for him.

  “Come in. Vandercliff called me. How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” Sergio said.

  Alessio grabbed the remote control. It was eleven in the evening—5:00 p.m. in the States. The three men sat on the couch across from the flat-screen television. They watched in horror as flames engulfed Air Force One. Scenes flashed of cities attacked—Washington, San Antonio, Burbank—buildings spewing out black smoke, bridges and tunnels collapsed, vehicles charred and stranded on the roads.

  “Any other country attacked?”

  Alessio cleared his throat. “No, as far as we know, just the United States.”

  “Like you said, Giacomo.”

  “Yeah. Sorry to be right, Sergio.”

  “What did Jason say?”

  “The president is safe,” Alessio interjected.

  “Yes. Who told you?”

  “The minister of defense.” Alessio cleared his throat once
more. “He said Waldron spoke with the heads of state.”

  Giacomo gave the AISI director a meaningful stare. The Italian avoided his gaze. He said nothing.

  The facts were plausible. The governments of the world needed the assurance that the commander in chief was alive. A fleeting question crossed Giacomo’s mind: Why are Sergio and Alessio here?

  The television screen flashed to a new image: a podium with the presidential seal. Arthur Waldron, flanked by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, adjusted a microphone. Colonel Jason Vandercliff, the second in command of BOET, stood behind and to his right. Waldron’s left hand shook as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. Giacomo increased the volume on the TV.

  “My fellow Americans.” Waldron took a deep breath. “It is with deep sadness that I speak to you this evening. Our country, our land has been viciously attacked by homegrown subversives who teamed with Islamic fundamentalists. We, the people, will not tolerate this attack on our Constitution and our democracy!” Anger welled in Waldron’s eyes. The cameras clicked.

  “To the FFB, we say the American people will hunt you down and bring you to justice. For you fundamentalist bastards . . .” The commander in chief grabbed the podium with both hands. He leaned forward and in an unambiguous voice continued: “There will be no place on earth where you can hide. We will find you—we will destroy you.” He sighed as he relaxed his hands. “Our armed forces have been deployed to the attacked cities. Our capital is under martial law, and the citizens here are safe. By tomorrow, our military forces will regain control of our cities. The enemy will be destroyed. People of this great nation, don’t take matters into your own hands. On your television screen, you’ll see a three-digit telephone number. If you know where any of the insurgents are hiding, call this number to preserve our freedom . . . and yours. This is your country; don’t allow these traitors to take our United States—the land of the free and the home of the brave—away from us. May God bless America. Good night.”

  Giacomo’s cell phone warbled. “Hello, Jason. I will.” There was a pause. “Mr. President, I’m happy you’re safe.”

  “Me too, Giacomo.”