The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “You’re the camerlengo. Only you can pronounce his death—but I think so.”

  Chapter 76

  The American holiday of Thanksgiving arrived and was celebrated quietly in Rio’s room. The family was so grateful she was alive and on her way to recovery. Sergio seemed withdrawn; Giacomo had met with him twice in the past three weeks and understood the grieving man’s heart. Meanwhile, the trace on Richardson’s satellite phone had yielded no results.

  Rome and the world were in a tizzy. The news of the unexpected death of the beloved pope shocked everyone. The camerlengo, Cardinal Andrew Angeloni, was busy arranging the funeral and the conclave to choose a new Holy Father. Rumors circulated that African Cardinal Adadayo would be the man to sit in St. Peter’s chair—the first African in papal history.

  In the United States, President Jerry Richardson was pushing Congress to pass the bill moving the monetary standard from the American dollar to the euro before Christmas recess—a week away. With 75 percent of the House and thirty-three senators being replaced in January, the bill passed Congress. This piece of legislation would increase the wealth of several bipartisan senators who traded on the financial markets in secret. Thomas Maro, the president-elect, took to the airwaves denouncing the move as un-American.

  * * *

  The Day after Thanksgiving

  “Tom, is the shit hitting the fan back home?”

  “Sure is. Richardson won’t even take my phone calls.”

  “Unbelievable. What’s going on with the European Union?”

  “A nightmare. My administration asked the court for an injunction until the swearing-in of the new Congress.”

  “Will it work?”

  “I hope.”

  “What a crazy world.”

  “How is everything in Rome?”

  “Nuts—the city’s packed. News was that the election of the pope would wait until after Christmas. My understanding now is that the conclave will begin in three days, on the nineteenth.”

  “How’s your sister?”

  “Rio came out of her coma the day the Holy Father died.”

  “Interesting. What about her recovery?”

  “With rehab, she’ll walk again. Most days, her mind is sharp.”

  “Any brain damage?”

  “No—she experiences confusion, though. The doctor says it will disappear in time.”

  “Excellent. I hope we can work together. I believe she can be an asset to my administration.”

  “Really?”

  “We often spoke on the phone.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, her ideas for our country were remarkable. Did you know Dean Essex, my chief of staff, had a date with her back in New Haven?”

  “No. That seems like such a long time ago. How did you find out?”

  “This past Tuesday, we discussed cabinet nominees, and I mentioned I would have considered Rio for a post if she were still alive. Long story short, Dean said he’d dated her. He told me they had coffee on the morning she departed for Italy.”

  “Wow—small world.”

  “Right? Now, what information did you discover concerning Richardson?”

  “Nothing yet. Sergio’s been working with AISI and his contacts to track down information. Tom, any word from Jason?”

  “Not since the day you left. Giacomo, when you have some evidence, call me on my secure phone.”

  “Will do, Mr. President.”

  “Not yet, Giacomo. I have another month to go. Please, make sure you tell your sister I said hello.”

  “I will, Tom.”

  Giacomo ended the secured satellite phone call. As he sat at his desk in his makeshift office, he shook his head in bewilderment. Where is this world heading? He stared at the three computer screens of images from two remote drones flying over the pontifical city.

  As he waited, his gaze faltered, and his mind’s eye took him to the base of the Eiffel Tower. He was standing underneath the imposing structure; its four steel girders surrounded him like a giant spider waiting to ensnare him in its web. People milled around. Out of the corner of his eye, a man with a cane . . . Is that . . . ?

  “Giacomo! Giacomo!”

  He snapped back to reality. “Hi, Andrew.” Giacomo’s stare was distant.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, daydreaming. Weird, I saw Arnaud at the Eiffel Tow . . .” The questioning look on Andrew’s face caused him to change the subject. “What are you doing here?”

  “I needed a break, a place to hide. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Mind? No. Sit—please. From what I understand, you’re the boss.”

  “Name only.”

  “You’re too modest, Andrew. It’s more than a title.”

  “You could be right.”

  “Mom told me the funeral was magnificent. I wish I could’ve attended. Thank you for arranging for her to go.”

  “No problem. I understand your remote drones are covering the Vatican.”

  “Yes—everyone will be safe. When do you go into hiding?”

  “Hiding?”

  “Yeah, the conclave thing.”

  Andrew laughed. “You have such a way with words. Three days—it will be a short conclave. My brother cardinals and I agree that Adadayo will be the next pope. He’ll do an excellent job.”

  “I thought . . .”

  “You thought it had to be done in secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will be. We cardinals will pray for the Holy Spirit to move us. When all is said and done, the outcome will be the same. For you see, my friend, we’ve been praying.”

  “Praying or politicking?”

  “Sorry to say, a little of both.”

  “Were you shocked at the death of the Holy Father?”

  “Yes and no. He’s been sick for a while—he had heart disease. Just a matter of time. Giacomo, we never know when death will knock on our door.”

  “You’re right, and then he knocks, and we don’t let him in.”

  “Yes—the fighting spirit of man or maybe the fear of the unknown.”

  “The fear of the unknown? Never thought of it that way.”

  “We become so comfortable in this life we forget what our faith tells us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That our Father in heaven has a mansion for each one of us. That he longs for us to be with him and that he allowed his only son to die on the cross for the forgiveness of our sins.”

  “Whoa, Andrew, you’re getting deep now.” He leaned forward.

  “What is it, Giacomo?”

  “My life as a soldier . . .”

  “How can you be forgiven for the sins you committed as a soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  “All things are possible with God.”

  Sergio walked through the doorway. “Your Eminence.”

  Giacomo smiled. He hugged Sergio.

  “Good to see you, my friend.”

  “Thank you, Giacomo.”

  “Sergio, how are you?” The cardinal put his hand on the grieving man’s shoulder.

  “Good days and bad days. How are you? You must be busy.”

  “I am. I came here to hide.” Andrew chuckled. “You two have a lot to do—so I’ll be on my way.”

  Chapter 77

  The cardinal exited the office. Giacomo watched Sergio place his briefcase by the computer monitor. With a click of the clasps, the black leather attaché case opened.

  “Sergio, what’s the matter?”

  The Italian shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Richardson’s phone numbers—incoming and outgoing calls.” He set the document down.

  “Great. Were we able to trace any of the numbers?”r />
  “Not yet. I received a phone call from the AISI. The Italian inquiry into the plane crash revealed that the missile had homing capabilities.”

  “Are you serious? I had that same thought the other day. How else could the airplane be shot down?”

  “You were right. When the investigators dismantled the device, they discovered a tracking chip.”

  “Did they find the transmitter on the airplane?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Umph.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Tony keeps his airplane under tight security. His pilots are ex-Secret Service and intelligence agents. I wonder how the transmitter got aboard the aircraft.” Possibilities swirled in his mind.

  “Do you believe Trivette is behind this?”

  With an authoritative, uncompromising voice, Giacomo replied, “I do. Trivette acquired the second journal.” He took a deep breath. “Sergio, I have to tell you something—I have my father’s gift.”

  “Your father’s gift?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? How?”

  Giacomo noticed the intensity of interest in his friend’s eyes. “The real dreams . . .”

  “Like your father?”

  “Yes but more.”

  “More?”

  Uncertain, Giacomo said, “Yeah . . .”

  “Trivette was in your dream with the journal, and you trust this to be true?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Eten Trivette? You’re drinking too much Italian wine, my friend.”

  “Glad to see your sense of humor is back.”

  Sergio’s reaction perplexed Giacomo.

  Sergio gave a slight laugh. “How are you going to prove Trivette’s involvement?”

  “I’m going to talk with my father-in-law. He can’t stand the man. He’ll help us.”

  “One of the most influential men in the world, who saved more economies and soon the United States, is involved? You’re crazy.”

  “Listen, Sergio, outside of us, who prospered the most? Well?”

  “You’re right. The European Union.”

  “Who runs the EU?”

  “Eten Trivette. Your reasoning behind his complicity?”

  “Speculation, really.”

  “Speculation?” Sergio shook his head.

  Giacomo sat back, pondered for a moment. “Let’s initiate a financial investigation into Trivette. Compare the events in my father’s journal with his economic successes. If we can couple Richardson’s phone calls with the dates and times of the attacks, we might find our answers.” He sensed his friend’s uneasiness. “What’s your issue, Sergio?”

  “Giacomo, what good is our investigation going to do? He’s one of the most influential men in the world.”

  “So are we. If this guy’s involved, I want him to hang. We’ll make the dominos fall, and we’re starting with Trivette.”

  “Now I need a drink.”

  “One other issue—I meant to ask Andrew. Can priests be doctors?”

  Sergio seemed to stumble on his reply. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw a priest who could’ve been Rio’s doctor.”

  “Oh . . . I think they can.”

  “Interesting . . .”

  Later that night, two men sat next to each other and whispered in the darkness. The red glow of votive candles flickered in the distance.

  “He has his father’s gift?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s pursuing Trivette?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That will keep him off our backs.”

  “Only for a short time.”

  “Long enough.” As the man rose and exited the pew, he spoke his parting words: “Et Tu Spiritu Sanctus.”

  Chapter 78

  Giacomo awoke with a sudden tremble, the nightmare fresh in his mind. He gasped for air. Not able to breathe, he sat up and threw the white sheets off his body.

  “Giacomo, what is it?”

  “Bad dream.”

  Emily rubbed his back. “Try to relax, honey.” Her voice was soothing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Befuddled, Giacomo considered for a moment. “It was so real—I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “Washington. What time is it?”

  “Ten after twelve.”

  “Six o’clock in the States?”

  “Yes, ten after six. Why?”

  “In my dream, a clock on a wall read six o’clock.”

  “Who was in the dream?”

  “President Richardson and another man were discussing Rio. The other person said Rio was alive. They had to find her and kill her. She’s a danger to them. Richardson said no, he wouldn’t allow it. The man admonished him. Richardson’s face turned red—he yelled. The man slapped Richardson. He shook his finger at him and said, ‘The DeLaurentis family must die. If we don’t kill them, they will topple us. Start with the Frenchman.’ The president said no—and threw the man out of his office.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, honey. Try to go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it happened.”

  “Only a bad dream, honey—nothing more.”

  Giacomo placed his head on the pillow. His mind struggled. This must have been what my father referred to as a “real” dream. Like the one I had on the airplane. I really do have my father’s gift. Do I want it? Do I have a choice? How do they know Rio is alive?

  Giacomo waited until Emily fell asleep, then dressed and left a note on the kitchen table. The clock on the wall read one thirty. Bundled up in a blue jacket, he headed to the Vatican administrative building. He yawned, and a cold shiver traveled his spine. Was it the chilly air or the reality of the dream? The winter stars sparkled overhead. He strolled past two Swiss Guards. They nodded, acknowledging the friend of the camerlengo.

  Giacomo’s footsteps reverberated in the empty hallway. The whirls of a floor polisher hummed in the distance. The lights flickered for a moment. He entered the office. Perplexed, he sat in one of the chairs at the conference table, his jacket still on, and let his mind take him on another journey.

  Giacomo viewed the valley of colors in Ottati as he grasped the black wrought iron fence. The crisp air swept across his face. In the blue sky, the wispy white clouds played hide-and-seek with the tips of the Alburni Mountains. “Dad, Dad . . .” The voices of two young boys—but they were nowhere to be seen. A dark gray cloud rolled overhead as day turned to night. A light rain began as small drops of water made their imprint on the portico. The shower increased to a pelting deluge. Unable to move, Giacomo let the water cascade over his face. His hair flattened to his scalp. The wind howled through the trees. The crackles of thunder, a flash of lightning—the sound was unbearable. He stayed steady as the winds churned around him and whisked him away from the mountain village. Giacomo was brought to a room with two doors. He opened the one on the left—an enormous elm tree shaded a deep meadow. Branches clothed with massive leaves of golden yellow, red, and orange touched the sky. In front of him. an endless row of crosses with the Star of David over each. Giacomo walked among the graves, stopping at each one. There were no names, just the same inscription again and again: “The truth never changes.” He went back to the room and opened the door on the right. Before him the elm tree; beyond it rolling green pastures with bright, colorful flowers of yellow, red, and purple under a magnificent blue sky. He stood in the meadow as peace swept his being.

  Giacomo’s office door swung open with a crash. Startled, he jumped out of the chair, his hands ready for battle.

  “Mi scusi, signore—excuse me.”

  Giacomo squinted at the janitor. “No problem.”

  The man closed the office door and c
ontinued to buff the hallway. Giacomo shook his head. His heart still pounded. The clock on the wall read two thirty. What a crazy dream. Was it a dream? He turned on one of the four computers. Grabbing the keyboard, he typed a string of commands. The screen came alive with video images of the current drones that traveled the skies. He inputted more programming language. A few more commands, and he’d isolated the ones flying around Washington, DC. Again, he instructed the computer and called up a video of the White House.

  Dawn crept through the office window. He sat back, stunned. He knew now that he had his father’s gift of remote viewing. In his dream, he’d discovered who slapped Richardson . . . the person who was really in charge. Now he had to prove it, and when he did, someone might die.

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  Filled with angst, the appointed president found himself in a predicament. Awake at three in the morning, Richardson fumed over the literal bitch-slapping he’d received the previous night from Dean Essex. A mix of sadness, dread, and anger strengthened his resolve for revenge. His decision was clear in his mind. Screw ’em. He strolled the halls of his private residence on his way to the Oval Office. A Secret Service agent walked four steps behind him as the marine guard saluted.

  Richardson sat behind the desk and picked up the photograph of his family. A tear slid down his face, splattering the legislative bill. The signing of this document would change the dollar to the euro. The ceremony was to take place at ten that morning. He reached forward, grabbed a pen, paused for a moment, and then etched his name underneath his nine-word rationale of why he refused to sign the bill. As he wrote, he said, “Screw you, you little pissant.”

  Chapter 79

  Giacomo entered the Vatican apartment—it was beginning to feel like home. Emily sat at the kitchen table drinking a glass of orange juice.

  “Morning, mi amore.” Giacomo kissed Emily on the forehead.

  “Bonjour, mon ami. You’re up early today.”

  “After the dream, I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the office.” Giacomo pulled out a chair, sat down, and placed his left hand on Emily’s arm. “I inherited my father’s gift.”

  “Are you hungry? Do you want breakfast?”