The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “Giacomo . . . Giacomo.”

  Cardinal Angeloni touched his shoulder, gave it a shake.

  “Giacomo?”

  Giacomo’s eyes focused. “Andrew, twice in one day?”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “Yeah . . . I was . . . I don’t know, I don’t know . . . so real.”

  “What, Giacomo?” Andrew sat in the pew in front of him.

  “I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Do you sleep with your eyes open?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you were having a seizure—it was freaky.”

  “Did you say ‘freaky’?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  Giacomo sat quietly as Andrew glowered.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew. My mind takes me to another place. I can’t control when the vision occurs. A gift my father had as well—but unlike my dad, I’ll take action.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought about our conversation. I’m not going to stand by like Dad did. I need to walk through the door and believe there is a reason why I’m having these visions.”

  “What did you see?”

  Giacomo shared the vision with him and then sat back with a sense of relief. A burden lifted from his shoulders.

  “Usually a vision or dream is nothing more than symbols. The meaning correlates with the individual’s consciousness—aspects of their life.”

  “You’re wrong. I need to be prepared for that day.”

  “What else did the vision show?”

  Giacomo was miffed at Andrew’s comment about symbols. He shrugged off the remark. “People . . . but I didn’t recognize them.”

  The cardinal said nothing for a moment. “Remember what I told you—to think and discern. Promise me, Giacomo, you’ll ask for God’s help. You’ve entered a realm where few have been. Don’t be deceived by this knowledge. Remember—in God’s time.” The cardinal’s eyes traveled upward as he said, “Maybe, Giacomo, you’re being given glimpses of the future to be prepared—not necessarily to prevent it from happening.”

  Giacomo nodded. “You might be right, Andrew. That’s what Dad didn’t understand. You can’t prevent what is meant to be.”

  “No, we can’t. Although we’d like to, it’s all ultimately up to God.”

  Chapter 82

  Giacomo closed the door of the Vatican apartment as he was leaving with a quiet click of the lock. Emily was still asleep at a few minutes before eight. Giacomo revisited the cardinal’s words from the day before as he walked to the office. You can’t prevent what is meant to be. He added a thought: You can sure as hell try. An hour earlier amid paparazzi and television cameras, 120 cardinals in pairs had entered the Sistine Chapel. The conclave to select a new pope had begun.

  Giacomo reached for his satellite phone and called the next president of the United States.

  “Morning, Tom.”

  “Morning, Giacomo.” He yawned. “Excuse me.”

  “No problem. I’m not getting much sleep either.”

  “Yeah, I understand. I received your email last night. I’m having a difficult time with what you said. Can we trust anyone?”

  “Tom, it never feels good when a person close to you is a traitor.”

  “Giacomo, I want to throw up.”

  “I understand. Did you find the listening devices?”

  “Yes, downstairs in my office. I followed your instructions; I left them alone. How did you discover them?”

  “The remote drone that kept an eye on you and your staff captured a high-frequency transmission originating from your study. The range of the frequency is similar to what we use in clandestine operations.”

  “Any idea who planted the devices?”

  “We have our suspicions. Not to change the subject, but the Italian investigators found the tracking device on the airplane. Hopefully, we’ll be able to connect the dots.”

  “That’s good news. Who bugged my house?”

  “I want to be positive before I mention names. Tom, we’ll need your help in catching these bastards.”

  “I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

  “And, Tom, I need to discuss another topic with you.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Giacomo said, “I have my father’s gifts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Giacomo shared with Tom his vision.

  “I’m speechless . . . and it just happens?”

  “Yes, I have no control over it.”

  “No control?”

  “None.”

  “Your vision is poignant.”

  “Why?”

  “The green aura.”

  “Why?”

  “Two days ago, my science advisors discussed with me the recent increases in solar flare activity—the intensity of the northern lights.”

  “Solar flares, the aurora borealis—the vision.” He paused. “The darkness . . . so, what did they say?”

  “They’re concerned our country’s power grids are vulnerable to either a massive solar outbreak or a nuclear detonation. They said we should protect ourselves from potential EMPs. Of course, the warmongers are concerned about the bomb.”

  “Yes, electromagnetic pulses. I studied what would occur if there were a high-altitude atomic detonation. We did an explosion analysis of different magnitudes at various altitudes. For example, let’s say a ten-kiloton weapon exploded over Omaha. At the right altitude, the radius of the EMP would be fourteen hundred miles—the entire US power grid would collapse. If you consider our dependency on computers, electronic circuits . . . let’s just say the devastation of the country’s infrastructure and economy would be insurmountable.”

  “You said Paris would go dark—a tactical nuclear explosion?”

  “Could be, but I doubt it. Years ago, our country worked on a defensive system that would protect us from an EMP attack.”

  “Yes, we discussed it, but the project was never finished due to budget cuts. The program was named Surge Protector. Stalworth’s administration stopped the funding.”

  “Unbelievable. How long before Surge is online?”

  “Three to six months.”

  “I hope we have that long.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If the vision is true, then the electrical networks will be destroyed, and no one is prepared. Do you remember the failure in India in 2012?”

  “Sure do—three hundred million people were without power. Their grids failed.”

  “Do you know how they failed?”

  “No.”

  “A terrorist EMP attack.”

  “Wow. Your vision is forewarning us of an impending power grid failure?”

  “Yes. Let’s hope the cause is a solar flare and not an EMP or worse . . . a nuclear explosion.”

  “This is frightening, Giacomo. The blackout in Paris—power grid?”

  “More than likely.”

  “Should we inform the French government?”

  “I’ll speak to Arnaud, and he can pass the info to their president. It won’t help, though. Paris will go dark—it’s meant to be.”

  “Giacomo, will this happen to us as well?”

  “Let’s hope not. Tom, if I were you, as soon as I entered the Oval Office, I’d make sure Surge Protector is up and running . . .”

  “I agree. Any idea what happens at the inauguration?”

  “No, but we should be prepared.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry. The world will be watching.”

  “Yep. How’s the transition going? Any better?”

  “A little. My chief of staff, Dean Essex, has a relationship with the White House. We’re able to carry out many of the tasks—a tedious process.”

  There
was a long pause. Giacomo’s subconscious wrestled with the name of Dean Essex. What was the connection and why? Coincidental—Rio and him?

  “Giacomo, are you there?”

  “Sorry, Tom.” A church bell clanged. “No pope.”

  “What did you say, Giacomo?”

  “The church bell rang at St. Peter’s, indicating the cardinals cast their first vote. They didn’t elect a pope.”

  “How would you know if a new pope was elected?”

  “White smoke will emanate from the chimney, and all the church bells of Rome will sound.”

  “The Catholic Church always had a special meaning for me. My stepfather was a Coptic Christian, my mom a Muslim. The concept of Catholicism interests me . . . I guess I’m part of it now since the unification of the Christian Church . . .” His voice trailed.

  “I’m sure, Tom, when you’re president, you’ll meet the pope. Maybe he’ll convert you.”

  “I doubt that, my friend, but I do believe in the one true God. Rumor here in the States is that Adadayo from Africa will be the next pope.”

  “I heard the same.”

  “Listen, I need to go back to bed. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Goodbye, Giacomo.”

  Chapter 83

  Giacomo reached the Vatican office. He was troubled by Rio’s inconsistent behavior—it was as if her personality had changed. Why did she call Dean Essex? Now that he knows she’s alive, should I add more security? His thoughts rambled, and then he was plagued by the vision of Essex slapping Richardson. How involved was Tom Maro’s chief of staff and why?

  Giacomo looked at his Rolex—it was ten in the morning. Rio should be here soon. Am I ready for this? I need to be prepared. No matter what the risk or sacrifice, we will . . .

  “Good morning, big brother.”

  “I didn’t hear you enter. Morning, sis. Hi, Sergio.”

  “Hi, Giacomo.” Sergio pushed Rio’s wheelchair into the room.

  “With all the money you have, this is the best you could do?”

  “It suits our purpose.” Giacomo removed a chair from the conference table to accommodate the wheelchair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making room for the wheelchair.”

  “Sergio, help me?”

  Sergio took hold of Rio’s outstretched arms. With painstaking slowness, she baby-stepped to the table.

  “Well, are you going to stand there, or are you going to get me a seat?”

  “Boy, you’re tough.” Giacomo rolled the chair over and placed it behind her.

  “I’m a lawyer, so what do you expect?”

  Giacomo rolled his eyes. She’s in a bad mood.

  “I made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Sure—black, please. Do you have my cell phone?”

  “No. Why would I have it?”

  “Because you’re spying on me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, little sister.”

  “Damn it, Giacomo, stop calling me little sister. My name is . . . is . . .”

  “Rio, are you okay?”

  “Shut up, Sergio, and get me a cup of coffee.”

  Giacomo glanced at Sergio. Both men were wide-eyed at Rio’s strange rantings. Giacomo ignored her outburst and opened the window to let some cool fresh air sweep into the room.

  “Rio, I hope you don’t mind. The heat is unbearable—no thermostat.”

  “The temperature is fine. So, Giacomo, what the f is going on?”

  “You understand, we are in Vatican City. You should mind your language.” She’s never acted like this.

  “What are you, a holy roller now?”

  Giacomo said nothing. He lifted the silver pot, pouring the coffee into three white mugs imprinted with the gold-and-red crest of the Vatican. He sat opposite Sergio and Rio.

  “Start from the beginning?” Sergio asked.

  “How’s that sound, Rio?”

  “Sure, let’s hurry up.” She fidgeted in her chair.

  Giacomo’s eyebrows rose as he reviewed the assassinations of the UN ambassador, Tom Maro’s chief of staff, Saleem, and Nava Ben-Reuven. He recounted the downing of Tony’s plane, the attack in Corsica, the odd communication from the murdered monk, Alessio’s untimely death, and his own abduction when he went to the States. Twenty minutes later, he finished.

  “Giacomo, who’s behind all this?”

  Giacomo rubbed his chin. “Sergio, start with what you found. I’ll follow up with what I discovered. What we do next—that’ll be the problem.”

  Sergio opened his black leather briefcase and took out one of two thick, stapled documents. He handed the first to Giacomo. “This is a financial spreadsheet of the European Union as well as Trivette’s investments for the last fourteen years.”

  “Eten?” Rio snapped.

  “Yes, why?”

  “We were scheduled to meet in Paris after I left Ottati. What does he have to do with anything?”

  “We think he’s involved.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Giacomo.”

  “Rio, I thought the same thing.” Sergio turned toward her. “Let me show you what we found.”

  “Fine, Sergio—but Eten Trivette?” She shook her head in disbelief. “That man will help rebuild America to the financial world power it once was.”

  “What do you mean, Rio? I thought you didn’t like Trivette.” Giacomo’s brow furrowed.

  “I like him . . . I’ve talked with him several times.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. The US is run by a bunch of buffoons who are greedy and corrupt—they care about themselves and not the American people.” Rio’s voice rose. “Another four years of Waldron, shit . . . we’re doomed.” Giacomo and Sergio exchanged glances, but Rio didn’t stop. “We need Trivette’s economic help to secure our . . . our . . . What the hell are you talking about, Giacomo?” Rio began to slap her hands on the table. “What the hell are you talking about? Damn it, are you stupid? Didn’t you hear what I said? Another four years of Waldron.” Her face was pale, her expression stony, and her eyes blank.

  Giacomo frowned at his sister’s words and behavior. “Rio, did you watch the news?”

  “Of course. Why?” Her voice was terse.

  “What month is this?” Giacomo saw uncertainty cross Rio’s face.

  “November, stupid.”

  Giacomo’s voice stayed calm. “Rio, it’s almost Christmas, and President Waldron is dead.”

  “Don’t lie! I know damn well this is November.” Her hands went to her neck as she pulled on the skin. “Where is it, Giacomo? What did you do with it? I know you stole it. My necklace, where’s my necklace? Dean gave it to me . . . I need to call him.” Rio tried to stand.

  “Relax. Listen for a moment.”

  She stared at her brother. “I think . . .” Rio slumped back in her seat.

  “Should we do this another day, sis?”

  She grabbed the paper out of Sergio’s hand and read the headlines. A tear trickled down her cheek. “Giacomo . . .” Her voice fell silent as her eyes rolled back and she collapsed on the table.

  Chapter 84

  “Giacomo, what your sister experienced is common. We’ve sedated her, and in a couple of days, she’ll be back to her feisty old self.”

  “She thought it was November.”

  The Vatican doctor—Francesco Ciccone—gave an exasperated sigh. “She was in a coma for weeks. We don’t have an accurate understanding of what happens in a patient’s brain when they’re in that state. I informed Dr. Adinolfi, who said the confusion is understandable. Rio will recover. The medication should help keep her calm.”

  “Where is Adinolfi? He should’ve been here.”

  “I’m taking over for him.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “Sorry to say, he’s
not coming back. He’s headed to Monte Cassino.”

  Giacomo pondered the words “Monte Cassino” for a moment and then asked, “How long do you think Rio will be this way?”

  “A year . . . maybe more. Your family should be aware that in cases like this, recovery is slow, not only for the body but also for the mind.”

  “I see. A tough road ahead.”

  Giacomo shook the doctor’s hand as Victoria waved goodbye from Rio’s bedside. He couldn’t wait to get outside and talk with Sergio.

  As they walked back to the Vatican office, a church bell sounded. The men glanced at each other. “No pope.” The second vote of the morning session ended.

  “Sergio, the necklace—did you hear what Rio said? She was carrying the transmitter. I knew it. Essex . . . that bastard.”

  “Could that be?”

  “Yes. Why not? I spoke with Tony. He checked with his flight attendant. She doesn’t wear jewelry—some kind of metals allergy.” Giacomo was excited; at the same time, an inner anger brewed within him. He relaxed as they walked. He needed more evidence. “What did you find out?”

  “We inputted the events of your father’s journal into the computer. With the derived data, we compared the EU and Trivette’s investments.”

  “And?”

  “Just as you suspected—Trivette capitalized on every disaster. For example, the European Union was Iran’s largest importer of oil. Further information showed Eten bought the pipeline to the refinery in Tabriz from Tehran. Of course, this did not go unnoticed. The purchase was widely reported by the media but ignored by world leaders. It was only a matter of time before Israel attacked Iran.”

  “You’re right. The Israelis grew tired of Iran’s nuclear threats to wipe out their homeland. It’s a shame that the United States took the blame.”