The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “We discovered the same thing. We traced it to my father’s first journal.”

  “So did we.”

  “How? Do you have a copy?”

  “Yes. Our man found two journals in Trivette’s office.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, one your father’s. The other one was written by a different person.”

  “How did you determine it was Dad’s?” Anger welled up in Giacomo.

  “I have old letters from your father. Besides, who else could it be other than your Paolo?”

  “True. The other one, did you read it?”

  “Yes. It was like your father’s.”

  “Really? And there was only one journal of my father’s?”

  “Yes. We believe Trivette does have the stolen journal. We’re searching for it.”

  They were silent for a moment. Giacomo paced the room. The gaze of the men followed him. Sergio’s cell phone beeped.

  “He needs to know the future, and my father’s second journal will give Trivette that information. Without that, he’ll become powerless,” Giacomo said.

  “Providing the second one is like the first.”

  “Good point.”

  “Here—look at this.”

  Sergio gave his smartphone to Giacomo, whose face changed color as he read. His anger escalated as he gripped the instrument. His knuckles turned white.

  “Please don’t throw it,” Sergio said.

  Giacomo’s eyes blazed. Why now? And something else about the email bothered him. He scrolled through it again until he saw it: message sent from cell phone origin Monte Cassino. He gathered his thoughts and handed the phone back to Sergio.

  “Who sent you this email?”

  “A friend in the government.”

  “Really?” Giacomo gave Sergio a hard look, and he lowered his head.

  “What did the email say?”

  Giacomo snapped back from his thoughts and turned to Arnaud. “Eten is behind the assassinations of Tarmac and Tom’s cousin Saleem. The shooting down of Tony’s airplane and probably my kidnapping.”

  Giacomo walked over to the window, turned, and leaned against the pane. Troubled by the email, more uneasiness settled over him. “No doubt about where the stolen journal is now.” He gave a stern glare at his father-in-law. “The Eiffel Tower business?”

  “The incident in Paris is a setup, and we’re trying to push—how do you say?” He tilted his head. “Trivette’s buttons.”

  “A setup?”

  “Oui. We had no intention of assassinating him. Our plan is to put him in a corner.”

  “Rats don’t do well in corners.”

  “That’s why we must act now.”

  “When you say ‘we,’ I understand the governments of Spain, Italy, and France—but how far does this reach?”

  “As you are close to President-elect Maro, I am with the three heads of state. Giacomo, we need your help—your technology.”

  “Technology?”

  “Yes. Trivette’s phone uses a high-frequency satellite transmitter. Our problem is we can’t decrypt it. I believe you can.”

  Giacomo rubbed his belly as he ambled to the conference table. He grabbed the back of a chair. “Yes, we can. Sergio, fill him in. I need to go to the bathroom again.” He glanced at his father-in-law. “Bad stomach day.”

  “You should eat more French food, my son.”

  “Funny, Dad.”

  As Giacomo walked the hallway to the bathroom, his mind became a frenzy of anxiety. He staggered as he made his way to the restroom. His thoughts were overtaken by a video image of the scene with Arnaud and Sergio. Giacomo watched the passage of time. He saw himself. He saw Sergio leave the room and return with the coffee. Sergio’s eyes were worried. What did Sergio know? He thought of Arnaud’s words: “Providing the second one is like the first.” Giacomo saw himself read the email, and the words “Monte Cassino” caused a cold sweat.

  “Senor DeLaurentis, are you okay?”

  Giacomo shook off his nausea. The picture in his mind disappeared. Giacomo gazed at the Swiss Guard, his eyes focused on the opposite wall. He inhaled deeply.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.”

  Giacomo entered the restroom under the careful watch of the security man.

  Chapter 88

  Giacomo arranged for an apartment in Vatican City for Arnaud. With Cardinal Andrew in conclave, he relied on Sergio’s government contacts to help facilitate the housing request. The father-daughter reunion was tearful.

  That night, Emily sat opposite her husband as she ate pasta fagiole. The expectant woman placed her spoon on the plate.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Helping Dad.”

  Giacomo tilted his head and shrugged. “You understand that your father was—or still is—being hunted by every law enforcement agency in Europe. Except maybe here in Italy.”

  “I know. Now I have to worry about two people that I love.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Em. It’s a setup. Your father is undercover.”

  “Ha! Nothing to worry about? Undercover? Come on, Giacomo. Whoever they are, they want you dead. And now they want my father dead or arrested. Damn it—I just don’t understand you.” Emily shoved the bowl of food toward him. She pushed the chair with her foot and walked into the bedroom as tears streamed down her face.

  “Em, come on, sit.”

  “No—you’re such a jerk.”

  Giacomo went to the bedroom where Emily rested on her side. Giacomo sat by his wife and placed his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, Em. You’re right. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Emily sobbed, “I . . . I . . . love you, Giacomo. I don’t want to be a widow.”

  “You’re not going to be a widow. I’m not going anywhere. This will end soon. We must be patient. After the inauguration in January, all will be normal; we’ll be back home in New Haven. I’ll sell the business and retire.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I promise, honey.”

  “Will you nap with me? I’m exhausted.”

  “Sure.” Giacomo curled up next to Emily, placing his arm on her stomach. He could feel the flutter of his two sons in her belly. He kissed her neck. “Love you, Em.”

  * * *

  Giacomo awoke to the sound of banging on the apartment door. He mumbled the words “Monte Cassino.” He was in a dead sleep. “Yes, hold on. I’m coming.” He reached for the cell phone. “We’ve been asleep for two hours.”

  “Mr. DeLaurentis?” the Swiss Guard asked.

  “Yes, Roberto?”

  “Bene. General, I need you to come with me, please.”

  “Sure. Where are we going?”

  “Please, follow me, sir.”

  “Give me a minute.” Giacomo went back to the bedroom. Emily was still asleep. He wrote a note and placed it on the table. “Let’s go. Is everything all right?”

  “No, a problem with Cardinal Angeloni.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s very ill and asked for you.”

  Giacomo grabbed his jacket. Andrew had become the older brother that he never had. His heart palpitated in dread at the thought: My sister . . . and now Andrew. The two men hurried out of the residence and took a left along the Piazza del Forno. The guard escorted him to the Sistine Chapel. They entered a dim hallway. Giacomo’s anxiety grew. The man stopped at a door, unlocked it, and opened the entrance.

  “Mr. DeLaurentis, someone will be here shortly to take you to the cardinal.”

  “Yeah.” Giacomo entered. The room was small, the walls red with an arching white ceiling. A kneeler was positioned in front of a crucifix. Priestly vestments hung on a rack in the corner. The military man felt awkward. He glanced at his watch. To the right, another entra
nce. On the left, a painting of St. Peter. As he waited, he recalled the conversation with Arnaud and Sergio. The email Sergio received with the words “Monte Cassino” visited his thoughts. Eten is the leader . . . Essex . . . Trivette . . . Who else is involved? The nagging questions ended with the sound of the door behind him creaking open.

  “They call this place the Room of Tears.”

  “Andrew, what . . .” As he turned, his mouth fell open in shock. “Your Holiness.” His eyes filled with tears. “I thought you were sick.”

  “Only a ruse, my brother.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Giacomo was speechless.

  “I am just an ordinary man, Giacomo.”

  Giacomo stared at Andrew, who was dressed in the pontifical white outfit. The man chosen to sit in St. Peter’s chair walked over to him. In the distance, the church bells of Rome rang out. The people cheered in the square. The words “Papa! Papa!” echoed from the pilgrims. The two men hugged.

  “I wanted you, my brother, to be the first. I’ll explain later. You and your family will join the celebration tonight?”

  Giacomo was still in shock. “Yeah, sure . . . whatever you say.”

  “Giacomo, I’m just an ordinary man. I must go.” The pope turned. With his white cassock flowing, he exited the Room of Tears.

  Chapter 89

  The news traveled around the globe in a flash. The first pope from the United States—His Holiness Peter Andrew I, the man responsible for uniting the Christian churches.

  To the dismay of the voting cardinals, the new pope chose to have his first dinner with a few close friends, including Giacomo and his family, Arnaud, and Sergio and his wife, Carmella, dressed in black, still mourning her son.

  Andrew sat next to Giacomo, who tapped his wine glass with a spoon. He stood. “To my friend, my brother. By the way, what do I call you now? Pete, Andy, what?”

  “Giacomo DeLaurentis, where on earth did you come from? He is the pope.”

  Andrew laughed at Victoria’s admonition.

  Emily rolled her eyes. “I can’t take him anywhere.”

  “I am just an ordinary man. You are my family. However, Giacomo, you cannot call me Andrew in public. I don’t know if the title Your Holiness is suitable, for who in this world is truly holy?”

  “May I continue?” Giacomo lifted his glass. “To our brother Andrew. May God our Father in heaven fill you with His wisdom and His love for His people. May you guide our church and world in peace, love, and happiness.”

  Everyone ogled Giacomo and said almost in unison, “Where did that come from?”

  “What?” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Thank you, Giacomo, for the kind words.”

  “You’re welcome, Andrew.” Giacomo addressed the dinner guests. “For your information, I do pray. In fact, I was in the chapel the other day. Right, Andrew?”

  “Yes, you were, my friend.”

  “Your Holiness . . .”

  “Sergio, will you ever learn? His name is Andrew.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Yes, Sergio.”

  “The rumor was Cardinal Adadayo would be the next pope. What happened?”

  “Apparently, 119 cardinals didn’t think so.”

  “How many cardinals voted?”

  “One hundred twenty. I voted for Adadayo.”

  “Wow, a landslide. Is that why the first seven votes yielded no pope?”

  “Not really, Giacomo. I turned it down seven times.”

  “What do you mean, turned it down?” Rio said.

  “After the votes are counted, the elected is asked if he wants to be pope. I said no. Every time we voted, I was elected. So, after the seventh time, I said yes.”

  “Why did you say no?”

  “Victoria, I’m just an ordinary man. I’m not infallible. I make mistakes, as we all do. How can I be the pope? Then I came to realize that, for whatever reason, God wants me on Peter’s throne—so what am I to do?”

  “How did you pick your name?”

  “The cardinals were adamant that my name be Peter, representing the first pope, and Andrew, who established the first church. So, I agreed to be called Peter Andrew.”

  “Well, congratulations, Peter Andrew. You’ll be a great pope.”

  “Thank you, Giacomo.” He picked up a glass of water and took a sip. “Rio, how are you feeling?”

  Rio rubbed the back of her head and then her right temple. “Much better now. I had a meltdown the other day. I was confused. I’m doing better, I think.”

  “Rio, believe me, you’ll be back to your spunky self. Like the doctor said, it will take a while.”

  His sister lowered her head. Three nuns with seven staff members carried trays with dishes of food.

  “Sisters, would you care to join us for dinner?”

  Shocked at the pope’s invitation, they each turned down his kind offer.

  “Nice try,” Giacomo said.

  They finished their dinner of fresh pasta and baked Tuscan chicken. The dishes were cleared and replaced with fresh fruit, assorted cheeses, and nuts.

  The pope wiped his mouth with a white monogrammed cloth napkin. “Being locked up in the conclave the last couple of days has kept me from the news. Arnaud?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness?”

  Andrew accepted the formality. “I understand you’re a wanted man.”

  “Sorry to say, yes. We made arrangements with the Italian government to keep me in hiding.”

  “Well, you’re protected here in Vatican City as well. Can you share what is going on?”

  Giacomo, Sergio, and Arnaud eyed one another. “Emily, why don’t you take Mom, John, and Carmella back to our place. We’ll update Andrew.”

  “Giacomo, I’m going to go with them. I’m tired.”

  “No problem, Rio. Sleep well, feel better.”

  “Feel better? I’m fine, you jackass,” Rio snarled through clenched teeth.

  Giacomo lowered his head at his sister’s admonition. He glanced at Andrew and mouthed an apologetic, “I’m sorry.”

  Escorted by two Swiss Guards, the group exited the dining room as the remaining men moved closer to the pope.

  Chapter 90

  Giacomo, Sergio, and Arnaud explained to the new pope what had occurred over the past week. They kept nothing from him. There was no reason to—as a guest of Vatican City, Giacomo believed he had an obligation to be forthright. Forty minutes passed. Orange peels and cracked nutshells lay on the white tablecloth.

  “You think Dean Essex is involved with Trivette?”

  “I believe so,” Giacomo responded to Andrew’s question.

  “Arnaud, what’s Trivette’s motive?”

  “Rule the world.”

  “Rule the world? How does that connect him to wanting Rio dead?”

  Giacomo pushed back from the table and walked to the opposite end. He leaned on a chair, stretched his back. “I don’t know.”

  The men sat silently; only the sound of a cracking nutshell broke the quiet. The pope poured sparkling water into a glass and took a sip.

  Sergio spoke first. “I had a conversation with our prime minister today. He confirmed the three heads of state for France, Italy, and Spain are concerned about Trivette. His ability to manipulate the world’s currency has them worried. Reports are that he wants to change the name from European Union to World Union. One true world order. Sound familiar, Giacomo?”

  “Shit—sorry, Andrew. The two helicopter pilots?”

  “Two helicopter pilots?”

  “The two men who shot Tony’s airplane out of the sky. When they were interrogated, they mentioned ‘one true world order.’” Giacomo returned to his seat next to Andrew.

  “Don’t forget the prophecy,” Sergio said.

  Andrew sat back. “Prophecy? Worl
d order? It sounds biblical.”

  “More like a James Bond movie.” Giacomo’s vision blurred. An image rose in his mind and then faded.

  “Giacomo, are you with us?”

  He shook off the vivid image of a world that had gone dark. “Sorry, Andrew. I believe somebody is manipulating Eten Trivette.” Giacomo was struck by his own words. His mind was being opened to another possibility. How could that be? And why? What was occurring? He left the questions unanswered for the time being.

  “I disagree,” Arnaud chimed in. “This is all Eten. Trivette is evil. His one wish is to control the world. Guess what, gentlemen? He’s almost there. We need to stop him.”

  “How do we stop him, Dad?”

  “Other than killing the bastard . . . no idea.”

  “We can’t kill him.”

  “I understand, Your Holiness, but what else can we do? Before I left France, the chatter between our intelligence agencies was just that—assassination.”

  “We can’t allow that to happen.” Andrew’s voice was stern.

  Giacomo caught the disturbed glare from his friend and returned the look with a questioning face as if to ask, What can I do?

  “I have a bad feeling with regard to Trivette—but what if his idea is right? It could help the world.”

  “Sergio, an evil person can do good as well. Right, Andrew?”

  The pope said nothing as he listened.

  “Maybe he’s redeemed himself.”

  “Come on, Sergio. That’s a bunch of baloney.”

  “Everyone needs redemption, Arnaud. None of us is perfect. Does he believe in God?” Sergio asked.

  “Even the devil believes in God,” said Andrew.

  “Do you understand the problem now? We feel hopeless.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going up against one of the most powerful men in the world. He can destroy the economies of the nations—or better yet, control them.”

  “I understand, Giacomo. It sounds dire. However, we should see where the investigation leads us. What about your friend—President-elect Tom Maro?”

  “He’ll help, but he’s not in office yet. Richardson is our only hope, or we wait until January—the inauguration. I need this to end. So does Emily . . . so does the world.”