The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  The ex-Italian prime minister shook his head as he blinked. “I’m fine. I got the telephone numbers. We discovered eleven calls between the prisoners and the United States. Our analysts traced them to Washington.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “The numbers are masked.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Another name for call forwarding. We have no way of tracing the calls. There were several coded satellite transmissions.”

  “Satellite—Jason can scan the broadcasts. We can triangulate and pinpoint the broadcast and receiving locations.”

  A warble emitted from the computer. Giacomo positioned himself before the camera and opened the video conference call. Arnaud’s face appeared.

  “Bonjour, Papa.”

  “Hello, Giacomo. How are my grandsons?”

  “Fine. Kicking up a storm. How are things in Paris?”

  “Hectic. I’m involved in a major investigation. I got the information for you.”

  “Great.”

  “Our people here examined the video. We isolated the sounds of the explosion. Through facial analysis, we determined the prisoner’s mouth formed the letter S. The sound Sha—”

  “Sh—? Probably realized he was going to die and was saying ‘shit.’ Thanks, Dad. I wish it could’ve provided a better clue.”

  “Don’t lose hope. I’m still working on a few leads. Give Emily a hug and a kiss for me.”

  “Will do.” The transmission ended.

  Giacomo clicked on the videoconference number for the White House residence. On the monitor, Arthur Waldron sat next to Thomas Maro.

  “I told you I’d lose.” Waldron slapped Tom Maro’s back. “Now the country is his problem. Shit—I can’t wait to leave this city.” The president’s eyes recognized Sergio.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, my condolences to you and your family. What the hell is happening to our world? Shit, life sucks.”

  Waldron was abrasive and loud. Sergio nodded. Appalled, Tom shook his head. Giacomo whispered, “Here we go.”

  “What did you say, General?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Tom smiled.

  “Congratulations on the election, Tom.”

  “Thank you, Giacomo. Sergio, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maro. Congratulations to you. I hope your presidency is successful.”

  “Successful presidency? Shit. He will need a lot of luck. This is a thankless job.”

  The president laughed. Tom rolled his eyes as he absorbed another blow to the back.

  To say Arthur was overjoyed at losing the election was an understatement. He leaned forward into the camera, blotting out Tom. His face was white, his mouth open and ready to speak, when his head collapsed on the table with a thud.

  “Art? I need help in here now!” Maro screamed.

  Giacomo and Sergio watched in horror as the Secret Service ran into the room.

  “I think he’s had a heart attack. Quick—put him on the floor.”

  The two agents lifted the president off his chair. Maro rushed over and began CPR. The video feed cut off. The last image was of Tom Maro kneeling by his lifeless friend’s side as he pumped Arthur Waldron’s chest.

  Chapter 67

  Eten Trivette rubbed his cold hands together. The heating system was still not up to par in the new headquarters of the European Union. Outside, the overcast sky muted the City of Lights. Heavy rain pelted the mirrored glass. Twenty floors below, floral umbrellas covered the heads of those who strolled the soaked streets. Was his plan coming to fruition? The financial domination of the infidel. He reminisced about the days when his belief in violence consumed his mind. “Destroy the nonbeliever”—that was what he had been taught at a young age. Death to the pagan. His soul darkened long ago, groomed to hate all who didn’t believe in the truth. The words of his father echoed in his mind. “The only truth is the truth of the Qur’an.” How wrong his father was; there were many “truths” fabricated by men. Their God materialized for the good of themselves. Violence begets violence, so Trivette had discovered another way: destroy the soul of the infidel and their belief in God by preying on their greed.

  Trivette lauded himself in the successful move of the EU from Brussels to Paris. Granted, the writings of Paolo DeLaurentis helped pave the way. And with a little help from Trivette’s sister, the transition moved quicker. Trivette had the last laugh as he manipulated her like he did the world’s economy. He grinned, took a puff on his Gitane, and exhaled the caustic smoke as it swirled upward. The American president is dead. Soon I will pull the strings, and the world’s nations will dance as my puppets.

  Trivette stared at the drops of water that slid past the windowpane and reassured himself. How stupid the violence that existed in the world. The terrorists and fanatics have it wrong. The way to defeat the infidels is to build on their greed and selfishness; slowly they will condemn their own souls.

  The world was different now, the economies of the nations in shambles. The planet seemed to exorcise its inhabitants as Mother Nature swarmed the land with violent upheavals. Chaos erupted. Societies were at risk of anarchy, and the people wanted a savior to minister to their gluttony.

  What was the truth? Trivette was shackled by power, by the enjoyment of seeing despair and lack of hope in the eyes of humankind. God? Well, who really knows of his existence and might. Today was today—tomorrow only a dream. Eten Trivette knew that when death encapsulated his being, he wouldn’t be sent to heaven and seventy-five virgins. No, he’d disintegrate into the earth; his flesh would become fodder to the creatures that would continue to survive beyond the existence of humanity.

  His reflections were interrupted by the buzz of his intercom. He smashed the hot ember of his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Oui?”

  * * *

  Arnaud Chambery, head of security for the DGSE, examined the photograph. The haunting blue eyes, the cynical smile, the arrogant expression—the face the same as Sharif’s, except for the nose. His driver stopped in front of the European Union headquarters. Arnaud stepped out of the rear seat of the black Peugeot sedan and left the photo in the vehicle. The two front doors of the car opened. His bodyguards jumped out to escort him to the twenty-story building. One opened an umbrella and held it over Arnaud’s head. Tourists, unafraid of the pelting rain, swarmed the city. Thunderstorms with heavy precipitation had been forecasted for the rest of the day.

  “François, Jacques, I’ll meet with Trivette by myself. Wait for me here.”

  “Oui, Director, but . . .”

  “No.” He angled his head skyward at the building. “You’ll stay here.”

  The two men nodded in compliance.

  After passing through a security area at the entrance, Arnaud crossed the three-story glass foyer and presented his credentials to the receptionist. In an angry voice, he announced, “Trivette.”

  She made a phone call. “Oui.” She put the phone back in its cradle. “Monsieur, President Trivette is waiting for you. Take the elevators to your left. He’s on the twentieth floor.”

  “Merci.”

  Arnaud pressed the button that carried him to Trivette’s suite. He glared at the cameras positioned in the corner and then composed himself to mask the anger that brewed within him. The doors opened into a secured reception area. Armed guards stood on either side.

  “Good morning, Director.” A plump secretary whose clothes adhered to her body rose from her desk. “Please come with me. Monsieur Trivette will see you now.”

  “Merci.”

  She swiped a badge across a key reader as the door slid open to the right. Tall windows offered a picturesque panoramic view of Paris. The top of the Eiffel Tower was obscured by rain clouds. Glimmering c
ar lights on the Champs-Élysées circled around the Arc de Triumph. Arnaud entered the plush office. Trivette was standing at his desk—a liver-shaped sheet of glass with stainless steel legs. A hum echoed in the room as two file cabinets on either side of the desk sank into the hardwood floor. Two white leather couches were positioned opposite each other, spaced evenly on a multicolored Persian rug.

  “Director, a pleasure to meet you.” He smiled.

  “Trivette, nice name.” The intensity of Trivette’s eyes penetrated Arnaud, who felt sick to his stomach.

  “I am sorry. I do not understand.”

  “Yes you do, Sharif.”

  Trivette’s demeanor changed; his voice grew arrogant, his eyes threatening. “So, we meet again, Monsieur Chambery. Your life changed as well. Arms dealer to director of security for the DGSE. What brings you here today?”

  Arnaud scrutinized the egotistical bastard. With his pudgy forefinger, he pointed at the man whose soul was pure evil. “Watch your back, Monsieur President, because one day . . .”

  “One day?” Trivette’s lip curled.

  “You’ll pay, and I’ll be there to spit on your grave.”

  “My, my . . . Director, is that any way to speak to your employer?”

  “You’re not my employer. I work for the French government.”

  “Now you do—but in the near future, you’ll work for me.” He chuckled. “As you can see, I have done well for myself. All that violence back then—how foolish.”

  “Yeah, foolish. You’re up to no good, Sharif.”

  “Sharif? You must have me confused with another person.”

  Sarcasm surged through Arnaud. “Sure, I do.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you? I’m busy.”

  “You can’t do anything for me. I wanted you to know . . . I know who you are.”

  “And I know who you are.” Trivette’s eyebrows rose as he said, “If there is nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  As Arnaud reached the door, Trivette smirked and asked, “By the way, Director, how is your Emily? It’s been quite a few years.”

  Arnaud turned and strode back into the room. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, when Payne and I arranged for your daughter to stay with us those couple of days in Paris . . .”

  “Payne . . . you—you no-good son of a bitch.”

  Arnaud jumped across the desk and grabbed Trivette by the collar. With a quick, reflexive action, Trivette removed Arnaud’s hand from his shirt. Two armed guards barged into the room. Trivette held up his hands.

  “The director tripped. Everything is fine. Anything else, Monsieur Arnaud?”

  Arnaud said nothing as he followed the men out of the office. Trivette’s file cabinet rose from the floor and settled with a clunk. He withdrew the journal, whispering, “Messenger from God? My ass. I have the power.”

  Chapter 68

  Giacomo and Sergio leaned back in their chairs, still stunned. An hour passed by as they watched all the major news networks report on the death of President Waldron. Giacomo sensed the tide change; an uneasiness gnawed at his subconscious.

  The phone beeped, and Giacomo activated the speaker mode. “Hello?”

  “Giacomo—Tom Maro. I’m being transported to my house in Baltimore under heavy armed guard. Richardson’s been sworn into office. Giacomo, listen. Be careful of Richardson. When we met, the conversation revolved around you. I said nothing. I think . . .”

  The phone went dead.

  “Giacomo, what does this mean?”

  “Simple. I have a new boss. Richardson will call me back to Washington.”

  “Giacomo.” Sergio pointed to the television.

  The presidential podium centered on the screen. In the upper-right corner, a video played as Supreme Court Justice Harold Lin administered the oath of office. President Jerry Richardson turned to the cameras and addressed the nation and the world.

  “My fellow Americans, it is with a deep sadness I must inform you that my friend President Arthur Waldron passed away earlier today. The FBI is investigating the circumstances behind this awful tragedy. I promise you that if there was foul play, the United States government will hold those accountable to the greatest extent of the law.

  “I assure you that, as president, I will continue to follow the example of my friend and adhere to his policies. Although my sojourn in this office will be brief, I vow to lead us through this difficult period as our nation grieves over the death of our commander in chief and the many tragedies of the past weeks. May God bless America.” As the news commentators began their analysis, Giacomo pressed the mute button.

  “He didn’t seem that upset.”

  “He wasn’t, Sergio. Rumor is they disliked each other.”

  Giacomo’s cell phone rang.

  “General DeLaurentis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please hold the line for the president.”

  “General DeLaurentis, President Richardson here.”

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “General, may I ask where you are?”

  “I’m in Europe, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Italy, sir.”

  “General, I need you back in Washington.”

  “Sir, I am—”

  “I don’t care if you’re having open heart surgery. I want you in the White House no later than nine tomorrow morning. Do I need to remind you the commander of BOET reports directly to me? Do you understand, General?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want a complete briefing on your activities. Any problem with that?”

  Giacomo responded, “No, sir.” The president ended the phone call before Giacomo had a chance to comment: “Go to hell.”

  “Shit, shit—I have to go back to the States.”

  “Giacomo, you should stay here. It could be dangerous for you, my friend. The time is not right for you to go home.”

  Giacomo stood silently. His mind flooded with scenes that he cared not to remember. Yes, it was unsafe to go back. His patriotism overcame his anxiety of the potential danger that was before him. At least he knew Emily and the babies would be safe at the Vatican.

  “Thanks, Sergio, but I can’t. My responsibility is to my country. Richardson is not our only problem. There are others involved; we must find out who they are. This goes beyond the United States—this includes all of us. I have to go back.”

  “Are you sure, Giacomo?”

  “Yes, Sergio—I am.” Giacomo looked at his Tag Heuer. “Three hours. Then I head back to Washington.” He scanned the timepiece once more. “Damn. If I’m going to risk my life, I want one of our drones to cover me.”

  “That won’t be an issue.”

  “Include Tom Maro and his people. Let’s not take any chances. Make sure they’re equipped with the new listening capability.”

  “Yes, and if you want, we could arm the drone.”

  “Well, let’s not go that far. I’ll speak with Andrew about increasing Vatican security for my wife and sister.”

  “Let me handle that. I’ll arrange for her protection.”

  “Thanks. I gotta go pack and tell Em.”

  Chapter 69

  Newly sworn-in POTUS Jerry Richardson ended the call with Giacomo. He slammed the receiver down, and the speaker from his satellite phone crackled.

  “Now was that so bad, Jer—was it?”

  “Screw you, Essex.” Richardson threw the device across the Oval Office.

  As he sat behind an antique cherry wood desk, the interim president familiarized himself with his surroundings. It felt bittersweet to hold office for only two and a half months.

  His cell rang, and Richardson listened to the caller. Agitated, he responded, “I guess you were right. Don’t tell me what to do. I�
�m the president of the most powerful country in the worl—” The hair on the back of his neck stood, and all he could do was listen. Richardson held down the bile in his throat as the phone conversation ended.

  His secretary entered the executive suite.

  “Mr. President, I thought you would like to see this.” She turned on the television.

  He grunted. “We have any aspirin? I have a headache.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Richardson sat on one of the couches, seething as he watched President Tom Maro speak. “That should be me! Not him.” He searched the room for a bottle of scotch. There was none.

  The November day began with a dark, gloomy sky. A rainstorm gave way to a bright cold afternoon; a slight breeze whistled through the leafless trees. Thomas Maro, standing in front of his house, prepared to address the press. Dean Essen, his chief of staff, stood to his right. Cameras clicked as Maro stepped forward to the array of microphones.

  Maro held up his hands. “Please, no questions.” His eyes filled with tears. “President Arthur Waldron and I—although we were competitors in the political arena . . . we were great friends. He was not only a friend but also a man who loved the United States and all that our wonderful country stands for. Art and I forged a friendship during the campaign. We’d often talk and share dinner together when our schedules didn’t conflict. Arthur told me he would lose the reelection—that the time had come for real change.”

  Maro surveyed the gathered journalists. “After the election, to smooth my transition into the presidency, we met daily for lunch; today was no different.” His lower lip trembled as he continued. “As we talked, my friend Art Waldron was stricken with a heart attack. I knelt beside him and heard his last words: ‘Save our country.’ As we, as a nation, grieve over these next several days, let us not forget this man who treasured America.”

  “Did you speak with President Richardson?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I suggest you ask him.” Maro stepped away from the microphones.

  Chapter 70