“I’ll think about it. Gelato?”
“Sure.”
The conversation ended, but there was more to be said. His father’s words came to his mind: There will be hard choices to make.
* * *
Washington, DC
Arthur Waldron met with Tom Maro in his private quarters at the White House. Together they reviewed the latest intelligence briefing.
POTUS grabbed a napkin. Wiping his forehead, he said, “I can’t rid myself of these cold sweats.”
“Did you speak with your doctors?”
“Screw them.”
“Any word from General DeLaurentis?”
“I spoke with him last week. Nothing new.”
“Why did the NSA increase surveillance on him?”
Waldron ignored the question. “I received another letter from Paolo.” He handed a paper to Tom.
Mr. President, by now you have witnessed the devastating attacks on American soil. Your actions have foiled the attempt to overthrow the government. My son holds the key to the survival of our country. Be careful in your pursuit of the truth. Danger lurks on the avenues you wish to travel. Let me warn you: you will not survive.
Allow my son to run the course. Giacomo will not fail. Many roads lead to perdition and only a few to heaven. The path you took will condemn your presidency. It’s not good to know the future.
Tom Maro finished reading the letter. He handed it back to the president.
“Your thoughts?”
“I’m puzzled, Arthur. This doesn’t sound right. What path are you taking?”
His question was ignored. “He’s right. I can’t sleep at night. I’m haunted by regret and inaction.”
“Arthur you’re not making any sense.”
“Listen, I appreciate the fact that Paolo’s journal helped save thousands of lives. What I don’t appreciate is a military figure wielding so much power. Who does he think he is?” Waldron slammed his fist into his leg. “I am the president of the free world, damn it!” He punched his thigh repeatedly.
“Arthur, relax. You’re not seeing clearly.”
“Don’t tell me. Now leave. Get the hell out!”
A Secret Service agent entered the room. “I’ll escort you, Mr. Maro. Your chief of staff is waiting for you.”
What the hell is Dean doing here?
Chapter 58
October 24
The vice president sat in the West Wing office of the White House, a bead of sweat on his brow, as he read the document. When he’d arrived, he discovered a folded stapled piece of paper on his desk. He questioned the new secretary. She knew nothing about how it got there.
Jerry, time to pay the piper once again.
We’re everywhere, and time is short.
“What the hell is this?” He reread the typewritten lines twice more, rolled the paper into a ball, and threw it into the wastebasket.
Richardson glanced at the clock on the wall. He was due in the Oval Office in forty-five minutes. He dreaded the meeting with Waldron, the incompetent fool. A warble emanated from his desk. Sliding out a drawer, he grabbed the receiver of the high-frequency satellite phone.
“Hello, Jerry.”
“Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“Allahu Akbar, my friend.”
“What the hell are you talking about? God is good? Enough of the fooling around.” Richardson frowned in anger.
“Jerry, you remember me, don’t you?” The caller’s tone was sarcastic.
A wave of nausea overcame him—he held back the bile. He remembered the voice.
The caller was calm as he spoke in a high-pitched, almost feminine voice with a trailing slur. His tone filled with sarcasm as he said, “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry . . . such a long time since we talked. I see you’ve been busy.”
“What do you want, you piece of shit?”
“Jer . . . Jer . . . you’re so hostile.”
“Mr. Vice President, to you.”
“Ooh! You jackass. Keep your mouth shut and listen. We need your assistance.”
“Not interested.”
“You don’t have a choice. Oh, nice try—shredding the journal.”
“What? How do you—”
“Tsk-tsk, Jer. We can’t be stopped. I’m your new contact. The she-devil is dead.”
“Dead? You’ll be next.”
“Hm . . . doubt it. Did you like what I slipped under your office door?”
“How did—”
“Jer . . . Jer . . . Jer, why do you question? Anyway, I wanted to reintroduce myself. And by the way, you’ll be needed soon.”
“Go to hell.”
“Mr. Vice President. I don’t think I need to remind you what will happen if you don’t—”
“Good luck. You’ve already killed my wife.”
Richardson slammed the phone on his desk, pulled out the trash basket, and vomited.
Chapter 59
A Week before the Presidential Election
Giacomo exited Rio’s room. Still in a coma, she showed no signs of recovery. His shoes scuffed the hallway floor on his way to a three-way video conference call with Tom Maro and the president. His last conversation with the commander in chief had not been a pleasant one. Waldron wanted answers regarding his father’s letters, and he didn’t appreciate Giacomo’s responses.
“Giacomo.”
The voice came from behind. He turned. Rio’s doctor came to greet him.
“Dr. Adinolfi.”
“Giacomo, I wanted to speak with you alone. If I may?”
“Sure. I have a few minutes.”
The physician tucked his hands under his suspenders. His breath smelled of garlic.
“We’ve seen signs that Rio might be coming out of the coma.”
“Wow. Great news.”
“It is, and it isn’t . . .”
“I don’t understand.”
“Her mind might not be the same.”
“Not the same . . . how?”
“She might experience emotional and psychological issues. You should consider bringing her back to the States to recover.”
Giacomo’s cell phone alarm beeped. “First, she needs to awaken. Then we’ll deal with the issues. I’m going to be late for a meeting.” Giacomo held out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Adinolfi, for all your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
The two men shook hands. Giacomo ambled to the Vatican administrative building.
He entered the conference room. Surprised by Sergio’s absence, he powered up the computer and a few minutes later typed a string of commands on the keyboard. The screen split in two: on one side, the seal of the presidency; on the other, Tom Maro sitting at a desk.
“Morning, Tom. Not with the president today?”
“No. With a week left until the election, he determined it’d be best if we kept our distance. Be warned, Giacomo. Arthur has been a little irrat—”
A spirited voice erupted over the speakers. Waldron’s face replaced the insignia.
“Giacomo, Tom, how the hell are you guys? Ready for this election next week?” Waldron didn’t pause for either man to respond. He held a piece of paper to the camera. “Giacomo, can you read this?”
“Yes, Arthur.”
“Mr. President next time, General.”
Odd, I thought he wanted me to call him Arthur. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. Yes, I can.”
“I received this from your father the other day. Where are these letters coming from?”
“As I told you, I have no idea. Besides, that letter is not from my father.”
Waldron glared into the camera. He had deep, dark circles under his eyes and looked like he hadn’t shaved for days.
“What’s this . . .” Arthur fumbled with the pa
per and then read aloud: “‘My son holds the key to the survival of our country.’ Remember, General, you work for me.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that was not written by my father.”
“Damn it—you’re wrong.” Waldron was growing visibly angry.
Giacomo was blindsided by the tirade. Tom Maro cringed.
“He didn’t sign it, sir. My father always dated and signed his letters.”
“Bullshit. General, it says right here.”
Giacomo could see him stare at the document. The president pounded his thigh with his fist. Giacomo was surprised at the confusion Arthur exhibited.
“It’s here. Right here.” He scanned the page.
“Arthur, calm down,” Maro said.
“Tom, you saw it. Damn. Come on . . .” Arthur’s voice pleaded.
Giacomo sensed a problem. The tone of the commander in chief’s voice changed abruptly as he said, “Yes, yes, you’re right. This can’t be your father.”
A visible change occurred in Arthur’s face. Red blotches with white specks surfaced on his cheeks. His labored breathing caused Giacomo to stand, although there was nothing he could do from three thousand miles away.
“Mr. President, are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He sat back and loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. “I’m having a hot flash. What am I turning into? A woman?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Pretty soon I’ll have breasts. Excuse me—I’m so bloated.” Waldron laughed uncontrollably.
Giacomo was perplexed. Maro’s eyebrows rose. After a couple of tortuous minutes, the laughter stopped.
“Gentlemen, soon I will vacate the presidency, and my dear friend Tom here will sit in this chair.”
“A little presumptuous, Arthur,” Tom said.
“It is not! I will lose the election, damn it.” The president punched his leg. “Tom, I will lose. It is important, my friend, that you protect our democracy . . . our freedom.”
Tom listened to the beleaguered Waldron’s contradictions in astonishment and then replied, “Yes, Arthur, I will.”
In a moment of clarity, Waldron said, “We still have unanswered questions. Who assassinated Tom’s cousin, Ambassador Tarmac, and who made the attempt on your sister’s life? The CIA assessment concluded the attacks were coordinated out of France and Italy.”
“Italy? The government here is insisting a group of socialist fanatics are behind the attack. I think they’re wrong.”
“I agree with you, Giacomo. The CIA . . .” Tom Maro hesitated. “Arthur, can we discuss this?” His voice was tentative.
“Of course. He’s a freaking general of the United States military.”
Maro continued, “Do you know Brother Marco Lamberti?”
“Why?”
“You were with him when he died.”
“Died? He was murdered. Am I under surveillance?”
The president chimed in, “Of course, you are. Giacomo, you’re an asset to this country, and we protect our own.”
Giacomo was furious. This is bullshit. He recognized this was not the time for venting his anger and pulled himself together. Tom’s glance reaffirmed his instincts. He replied, “I understand.”
“According to our report, the monk is associated with a religious group called the Followers of the Holy Spirit.”
“I’ll do some research.”
“All right, gentlemen. I have a country to run. General, plan on a conference call next Wednesday to discuss the transition to your new commander in chief.”
“We’ll discuss this next week,” said Maro.
Giacomo understood—there’d be no private communication between him and Maro.
* * *
Dean Essex placed the headset back in his desk drawer. The speakerphone buzzed.
“Dean, can you come in here for a minute?”
“I’ll be right there, Mr. Maro.”
Dean cleared his mind of the odd conversation as he locked the desk and went into his boss’s office to see what he wanted.
Chapter 60
“What the hell was that?” Giacomo pushed the brown leather chair back from the Vatican conference table. Has the president lost his mind? What’s happening? Why am I being shadowed? He bombarded himself with questions he couldn’t answer.
Followers of the Holy Spirit? Really? Giacomo turned to the computer. He typed the name of the organization into the browser. The search revealed no information other than the religious doctrine and definition of the Holy Spirit. What did Alessio say after Marco was killed? Monte Cassino and Grosseto? More questions filled his thoughts. What am I doing this for? Can I change anything? Maybe life is already predetermined, so who cares? Time to retire and be with my wife, my children.
Giacomo’s thoughts clouded over, and his heart raced. His inner being was overcome with joy and peace. Two Earths appeared in his mind as a vision overtook him. In one, the land was scorched, the oceans boiled, and volcanoes erupted in flames. Dark black ash spewed into the sky. The second Earth was in decay, but as the planet revolved, a rebirth occurred until the land turned lush green with oceans of turquoise blue. A booming surreal voice overtook his mind, its origin unknown. “Every choice, every decision molds a pathway of peace or destruction. Sacrifice of self will give life.”
“Giacomo? Giacomo?” He could feel a tap on his shoulder.
“Huh? What?”
Giacomo’s eyes focused on the blurred face. He shrugged off the vision.
“Andrew . . . I guess I fell asleep.”
“Couple of tough days?”
“Yeah, you got that right.” Giacomo rubbed his forehead. “What’s up?”
“I saw Emily. She’s with your sister.”
“Oh, that must’ve gone well.”
“She’s concerned.”
“I know. What am I gonna do?”
“Retire. Enjoy your life. Go back to the States.”
“I wish I could, but I’m being led in another direction.” Giacomo touched his chest. “This desire is within me. I need to take it to fruition.”
“Why?”
Giacomo shook his head. “No idea. At first, it was finding out who shot down Rio’s airplane. The picture changed when I got pulled back into BOET. Now I’m involved in a complicated mess with no answers.”
“Often the answers are in front of us—so close we can’t see them. Perhaps you should step back.”
“I wish I could, but how? The election is next week. Maro will probably win. To top it off, I agreed to help with the transition. Besides that, I’m still investigating the assassinations and the attempt on my sister’s life.”
“Have you considered praying?”
As he spoke, the door to the conference room burst open and a disheveled, clearly traumatized Sergio entered. Giacomo was shaken by Sergio’s appearance. He hesitated and then asked, “What’s wrong, my friend?”
“Alessio . . . he’s dead.”
Giacomo was dumbfounded. Andrew made the sign of the cross. Sergio appeared old and frail—face pale, eyes red. The loss of his son had devastated him.
“What happened?”
“Murdered in Genoa.”
“Genoa? I thought . . .” Giacomo grew uneasy, a sick feeling in his stomach.
“Alessio was robbed—shot dead.”
“I’m so sorry, Sergio.” The cardinal placed his hand on the grieving man’s shoulder.
“Did the police catch the attacker?” Giacomo folded his arms across his chest.
“No. It appears to be nothing more than a robbery.”
Andrew spoke up. “What can I do for you?”
“Pray for me, Your Eminence.”
Giacomo perceived a truth was being withheld. He didn’t believe the robbery scenario; there
was something more. He shrugged it off. At some point, Sergio would tell him. For now, his friend hurt, and it was more important to tend to his needs.
“Sergio, why are you here? You should be home with your family.”
Sergio’s head bowed as he whimpered, “What have I done? This ache in my heart . . .”
“Sergio, this is not your fault,” Giacomo said. “Life sucks.”
“My wife is devastated. The pain on her face . . . and Alessio’s children . . . what have I done?”
Giacomo exchanged a glance with Andrew, who rose, reached for his cell phone, and dialed as he left the room.
“Sergio, I’ll take you home. You shouldn’t be here.”
Andrew returned with a box of tissues and placed them on the conference table. Sergio took one and wiped his eyes.
“I left a message with the doctor. Maybe he can give you something to help you relax.”
Anxiety crept into Sergio’s voice. “No, no, no . . . I’ll be fine. I need nothing.” He shot an odd glance at Andrew and then collapsed in the chair.
Chapter 61
Giacomo was in the apartment, looking out the window. The Vatican City streetlamps emitted an orange glow and cast shadows on the sidewalks. A moonless night highlighted the stars in the evening sky. Emily came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“How are you doing?”
“Tough couple of days.” His voice sounded skeptical. “These last three days with Sergio’s family were difficult.”
“Do you think?”
“Yeah.” Giacomo faced Emily. He touched her stomach. “I can’t imagine losing one of our children.”
“Oui, the heartache.”
“Yep. Nice of Andrew to officiate at the funeral.”
“Yes, it was. Do you think Sergio will come back to work?”
“I’m sure he will. I told him to take his time. Sergio was helping me with the investigation, but I think I need to go on my own. Things seem a little dicey at the White House.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you, Em—Waldron is off his rocker.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. The president’s conversations have been erratic. He’s convinced he’s going to lose the election. He wants to lose.”
The Third Trumpet Page 18
