The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  The two men entered the office building. Their voices resonated in the hallway.

  “It is. The fact that Trivette knew this would happen allowed him to stockpile enough oil reserves for thirty years.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. The EU also purchased a pipeline in Russia.”

  “That’s why gasoline is cheaper in Europe than in the States.”

  “Yes, the EU controls the pricing. There’s more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The catastrophes that occurred in India . . .”

  Giacomo put the key in the lock, turned it, and they entered the office.

  “Yes, 10 percent of their population was killed. The labor force was literally decimated. Their economy was ruined, and their cities destroyed.”

  “Correct. Trivette acquired the businesses that were the prime outsources for American and European companies. Within days of the catastrophes, he transferred the work to the member states of the EU. He became a lifesaver, a hero to the jobless. In the process, the unemployment rate in the surrounding countries dropped to 2 percent. He’s positioned the EU in every major industry with most of their investments in computer manufacturers and software companies.”

  “Wow. How did they make their money? We’re talking vast amounts.”

  “One guess.”

  “Gold.”

  “Correct again. Trivette controls 80 percent of the gold mines outside of the United States.”

  “Shit—this is unbelievable. It can’t be true—no way this could happen. It sounds like a James Bond movie.” The logic in his brain erupted as he repeated, “No way this could happen. It can’t be true. Sergio, this is unrealistic.”

  “Not if he got his hands on your father’s journal. Trivette capitalized on the prognostications. Now he’s manipulating the economies of the world.”

  “The only issue is we lack proof.”

  “Come on, Giacomo, even I am convinced—no other way he could do this without your father’s writings.”

  “Damn it. I should’ve never turned the journal over to Stalworth. We had the resources, and we did nothing. Damn, damn . . .” Giacomo moved to the window and took a deep breath, sucking the fresh air into his lungs. “What else?”

  “Richardson’s phone—the last three months of numbers.” He gave Giacomo the list.

  “Winston Tarmac on the day he died—they were good friends, so nothing unusual there.” Giacomo browsed through the papers. “Humph.” He reached inside his coat pocket that hung over a chair, pulled out his cell phone, and scrolled until he found a number. “Why would he speak with Dean Essex?”

  “What?”

  Giacomo ignored the question. “Are the analysts in the office today?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want them to cross-check Dean Essex’s phone calls with the assassinations of Saleem, Tarmac, Ben-Reuven, and the attack on Tony’s plane. Oh, let’s not forget the attack in Corsica. Can you do that while I review these numbers? I need to go to the bathroom—be right back.”

  Sergio nodded and reached for the phone on Giacomo’s desk. Five minutes later, Giacomo returned.

  “It might take a few hours—tomorrow morning at the latest. The cell Essex is using is a high frequency like Richardson’s. The software program we developed should be able to cut through the codes.”

  “Great. There are several incoming numbers here. Can we find out where they originated?”

  “No. We tried—no success.”

  Giacomo was quiet for a moment as he processed events and information. The dream of Essex slapping Richardson filled his mind. The necklace he gave Rio. He wondered . . . What was Essex’s motive? Is he connected to Trivette? Giacomo’s inner sense convinced him. He said firmly, “Even without the info, I can assure you Dean is a bad guy. That bastard is the one responsible for bugging Tom’s home office. I’ll see him rot in hell for what he did to my sister. Much more than that—he controls Richardson.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Giacomo sat across from Sergio and leaned forward. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  Sergio’s eyes were wide open, shocked. Giacomo shared with him the real dream. How he proved Dean Essex slapped the president of the United States with the drone’s video images and listening devices.

  “Now the question is: what is Dean’s involvement with Trivette? I’ll lay odds he reports to him.”

  “Trivette? I think you’re wrong, my friend. Yes, the journal . . . but the assassinations? That might be hard to prove.”

  Giacomo glared at Sergio. “I’ll get that bastard, put him in the grave along with anyone else who’s involved.”

  Chapter 85

  The weather in Paris was overcast with snow flurries. The white frozen fluff melted as it kissed the cement, leaving tiny wet spots. Eten Trivette stood by an elevator under the awning of the Jules Verne restaurant at the base of the Eiffel Tower. The area fenced off by police barricades, his security detail of five men hunkered next to the wooden structures as they scanned the area. Trivette tried to erase the recurrent dream of a doctor opening his eyelids and the terrifying emotion that followed. He waited for his driver to return with the car. It had been twenty minutes. Annoyed, he began to pace.

  Suddenly, a cascade of bullets whizzed through the air and ricocheted off the steel beam next to him. An innocent passerby was struck in the leg. The crowd of tourists dispersed in a panic. His bodyguards fell to the ground as Trivette found protection behind the steel girder; Arnaud emerged from the shadows. He placed the tip of his walking stick on Trivette’s shoulder. “Next time, we won’t miss,” he said. He disappeared into the crowd as the cowering leader huddled behind the iron leg of the iconic tower.

  * * *

  Giacomo’s consciousness morphed, for a moment, the Eiffel Tower flashed in his mind’s eye. The sound of the bells of St. Peter’s suspended the vision. Giacomo said to Sergio, “No papa—no pope.” The third vote yielded no consensus for a new Holy Father. He noticed the strange, questioning look on Sergio’s face.

  “What?”

  “You had a blank expression on your face.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So, where do we go from here?”

  “I’ll hold off telling Tom about Essex until we can come up with a plan. We must surprise the bastard and bring him back here. The Italian government can prosecute him. The problem is, what do we do with Richardson?”

  “What’s Dean’s motive?”

  “No clue, and I don’t care.”

  “Will your country allow us to take him back to Rome?”

  Giacomo twirled his green Waterman pen. “I’ll talk with Jason.”

  “This is not going to go well with your sister.”

  “I know. She’s got a thing for Essex. I caught her speaking with him the other day.”

  “How are you going to stop that?”

  “I’m not. I don’t want him to find out we’re on to him. Rio is well protected here. No one will harm her in Vatican City.”

  Sergio hung his head. Giacomo noticed his eyes tear up.

  “Sergio, she’ll be fine.”

  “I know.”

  Giacomo gazed at his friend. For a moment, he felt conflicted. He shook off the sense. “I believe Essex will lead us to Trivette.”

  “Maybe. Why would Rio speak with Trivette?”

  “No idea. She also talked to Tom Maro. He said he would consider her for a cabinet position. Rio’s relationship with Eten is concerning.”

  “Why?”

  “Rio’s idea that Trivette’s style of government will benefit the States is flawed.”

  “The troubling issue is that your government signed on to the euro standard. Let’s not forget, Trivette was only able to advance the EU status by stealing your father’s jour
nal.”

  “True.”

  Giacomo scanned the room and then said, “I’ve got an idea.” He typed in a series of numbers on the keyboard and hit the enter key. He turned the screen around for Sergio.

  “Is that the conversation between the president and Essex?”

  “Yep. Do you think Richardson is fond of Essex?”

  “Not after he slapped him. Why didn’t he have him arrested?”

  “Good question. Why don’t we ask him?”

  “What?”

  “Richardson’s ego is the size of Texas. He hates Essex—so let’s turn him around.”

  “Do you think we can?”

  “Yes. With the information we gathered, we can play them against each other.”

  “It might backfire.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Together the two friends worked out a strategy. Two hours later, Sergio’s phone rang. “Pronto—hello. When? Ciao.”

  “What’s going on?

  “They tried to assassinate Trivette!”

  “The Eiffel Tower?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Giacomo turned on the TV.

  The Eiffel Tower provided a backdrop for the Italian newscaster. A picture of Arnaud Chambery was in the corner of the screen. Words scrolled across the bottom. Arnaud Chambery, director of the DGSE, is accused of arranging an assassination attempt on Eten Trivette.

  “Sergio! Arnaud.” A video clip from a security camera showed his father-in-law shove a cane into Trivette’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on?” He reached for his phone. “Damn. Emily’s not answering. She must be with Rio.” He stood. “I need to find my wife. I’ll call you later.”

  The bells of St. Peter’s rang as he ran out the door. The final session of the day concluded with no pope.

  Chapter 86

  Giacomo ran out of the Vatican City government building. As he hurried to the residence, he noticed Cardinal Andrew walking in the garden. Their eyes met. Giacomo saw sadness in his face. Vatican rules allowed the cardinals in conclave to wander within the city, but they had to maintain strict standards of silence and have no verbal contact with anyone.

  He entered Rio’s room. Victoria sat on a blue upholstered chair as she read one of Tony’s books—The Considerate Man. His mother glanced upward.

  “Giacomo, what’s wrong?”

  “Mom, where’s Emily?”

  “Hush. Be quiet. Your sister is sleeping.”

  Again, louder, “Mom, where the hell is Em?”

  “Giacomo, calm down. She got a phone call and left the room.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Maybe an hour. What’s going on?”

  “Turn on the TV.” He exited the room as his mother’s voice echoed in the hallway, calling his name.

  Giacomo arrived at their apartment a few minutes later. A plate with a half-eaten sandwich and a half glass of milk were on the kitchen table. Emily sat on the loveseat, her eyes fixed on the television as she followed the news reports about her father. She clicked the remote as tears trickled from her red eyes down her chin, splattering her blue shirt. Giacomo watched her feverishly change channels. He sat next to her and slowly took the remote from Emily’s hands. He wrapped his arms around her. She placed her head on his chest and wept. Giacomo kissed her forehead.

  “Mon amour, please find him,” Emily said in a whimper. She sat straight, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hands.

  “I will. Em, your father will be all right.”

  “Yeah.” She stood and went to the bathroom.

  Giacomo tore out of the building, followed by two Swiss Guards in blue suits.

  “Mr. DeLaurentis! Mr. DeLaurentis, please stop.”

  Giacomo abided by the command and stopped short of the steps of the administrative building. With the arrogance of a general, he said, “Yes. What is it?”

  “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes—fine. I need to get back to the administrative building.”

  He was barely out of breath, while the two younger Swiss Guards were huffing and puffing from trying to keep up with him. He stormed into the office.

  “Sergio, we have to find Arnaud. Emily’s distraught. Start with the drone footage of the Eiffel Tower.”

  “We had no coverage today.”

  “Let’s tap into the satellites and the French street cameras.”

  Giacomo peered over Sergio’s right shoulder as he watched the video stream come to life. Thirty minutes passed. “Damn it, where is he?”

  “Giacomo, look! I got him on a street camera.”

  The two men watched as Arnaud hurried into the back of a black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows. The car careened down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The vehicle exited to the right on Rue de Berri. Making a sudden stop, the doors flew open. Surrounded by armed men, Arnaud entered a white van, but before he did, he looked up into the street camera and gave a wave. The picture went blank.

  “Sergio, what the hell happened?”

  “We lost the signal. I think one of the men shot the camera.”

  “What is my father-in-law doing?”

  “Giacomo, Arnaud is not stupid. He’s been around the intelligence field for most of his life. Believe me—he’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 87

  Giacomo and Sergio tracked Arnaud’s four-hour circuitous route to a small airport outside of Paris. The evening evolved as the director of the DGSE boarded a helicopter that took him to a field near the small village of Roussillon. Giacomo tapped into a US Army infrared satellite camera that showed Arnaud enter what appeared to be a military truck. At around three a.m., they lost contact as the vehicle entered the mountainous terrain near Nice, France.

  Giacomo was exhausted. He did his best to get some sleep on the floor of the Vatican office. The sunlight moved across the room until the warmth settled on his face. He rolled over and opened his bloodshot eyes to see Sergio asleep on top of the conference table.

  Startled, he jumped up. “What the hell?”

  Behind his desk sat Arnaud Chambery.

  “Dad, are you all right?”

  “What! What?” Sergio sat upright.

  Giacomo walked over to his father-in-law. “What’s going on?”

  “How do you say it . . . the poop is hitting the fan.”

  “I’ll say. How did you get in here?”

  “The Swiss Guards let me in.”

  “Emily is worried sick.”

  “I know. I called her when I arrived in Rome. She told me you and Sergio tracked me into the mountains.”

  “We did.”

  The two men sat at the conference table, Sergio opposite them. Giacomo stared at his father-in-law.

  “Fill you in?”

  “Yeah, that would be a good idea, Dad.”

  “This is not what you think.”

  “I hope not.”

  “I and many others in France, Italy, and Spain know Eten Trivette is not who he says he is. Twenty years ago, Eten Trivette’s name was . . . Sharif Laden.”

  “A Muslim?”

  “No. He lives by another belief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wish I knew, Giacomo. Before I met your father, I traded in firearms—working with the French government. A Saudi Arabian national approached me to acquire a cache of weapons. In our meetings, a young man with haunting blue eyes stood by his father. Long story short, the transaction was interrupted.”

  “What do you mean, interrupted?”

  “We were ambushed by American and English forces. The Saudi turned out to be the young man’s father.”

  “Let me guess—the young man was Eten Trivette?”

  “Correct. At that point, I decided to leave the business. Sharif, aka Eten, blamed me for the death
of his father. He vanished. Several years later, he kidnapped Emily. What you’re not aware of is that Doctor Colin Payne and Eten were—how do you say? Partners.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. Why would I tell a joke now?”

  “Sorry—a figure of speech.”

  Arnaud shrugged. Giacomo ignored him.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I recently paid him a visit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what your prisoner said in the interrogation.”

  “I don’t understand. He didn’t mention Trivette.”

  “He kind of did.”

  Giacomo, frustrated, said, “Come on, Dad. Get to the point.”

  “The prisoners last word was ‘Sha . . . ’”

  It took a moment, and then Giacomo understood.

  “Sharif is what the prisoner tried to say?”

  “Yes.”

  The bell at St. Peter’s Basilica rang. Giacomo and Sergio in unison said, “No papa.”

  Sergio’s phone rang, and he checked its screen. “You guys want some coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure,” replied Arnaud.

  “Holy shit, Dad! He admitted that he kidnapped Emily?”

  “Yes. That investigation I told you—”

  “Trivette and the EU?”

  “Yes, everything legal in their business transactions. We tried to put the pieces together, with no success and plenty of questions. How did an extremist become the leader of the European Union? How did he rise to power? Who else was involved? Then we infiltrated his organization.”

  “A person close to Trivette?”

  “No, too risky—a janitor.”

  “A janitor?”

  Sergio returned with a coffeepot in hand. Giacomo noticed a hurried glance from Sergio.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “The janitor?”

  “He’s not your everyday janitor. Let’s say he has an extraordinary talent for acquiring information.”

  “In other words, he’s a computer expert and well versed in eavesdropping techniques.”

  “Exactly, my son. What puzzled us was how Eten knew when to make investments that always coincided with a major world event.”