The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  Chapter 95

  December 26

  The Gulfstream G750—N7PD—landed at Washington National Airport and was directed by air traffic control to the cargo ramp. Airport handlers met the airplane, attached a tow bar, and tugged the jet into the hangar. The forty-foot-high doors clanked shut. With the plane hidden from potential prying eyes, the stair door hummed as it opened. A black SUV with tinted windows and Vatican diplomatic flags pulled up. Arnaud, Giacomo, and the flight crew exited, followed by two Vatican security agents.

  “Tell Tony I like the new digs.”

  “Be careful, Giacomo.”

  “Will do, Pat.”

  “Danny, thanks for the gun.”

  “No worries. We’ll be standing at the ready should an issue arise.”

  “Thank you.” Giacomo shook their hands.

  The back door of the SUV opened. As he entered the vehicle, his friend Colonel Jason Vandercliff and two other men greeted him.

  “Nice to see you’re alive.”

  “Yeah, I’m glad too.”

  “You remember Captain Dave Carrano and Commander Don Ham?”

  “I do. Gentlemen, great to be with you again.”

  “Same here, General.”

  “I like the beard and the long hair. You should be on the cover of a magazine.”

  “Funny, Jason. Are we set for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, President-elect Maro has arranged to meet Richardson privately. You’ll be part of his security detail.”

  “And Arnaud?”

  “An advisor on foreign intelligence.”

  “Will Essex be there?”

  “No. Tom promised to keep him busy.”

  “Once you’re on the White House grounds, there will be no place for you to escape if you can’t convince him to turn on Essex.”

  Giacomo looked at his father-in-law. “It’s the only way it will work, Dad.”

  “I know.”

  “How many people are tailing us?”

  “We counted three—as expected. The police will escort us to the Vatican embassy.”

  “Any idea yet how they discovered us?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Is the plan still the same—making a stop along the way?”

  “Yes, the traffic jam will give you and Arnaud two minutes.”

  “You have our clothes?”

  “Right here.”

  “Arnaud, put these on.”

  “Here are the full-face masks. You’ll be able to communicate with each other through a Bluetooth link. Oxygen tanks are in place.”

  “How long of a wait?”

  “Close to five hours.”

  “Five hours? Are you crazy? It was only supposed to be for an hour at most. Why the change?”

  “Sorry, Giacomo. Trust me. Issues cropped up that need to be addressed. We want to make sure our enemies believe you’re at the embassy. That way, you can meet with Tom in the cloak of darkness.”

  “Cloak of darkness? You’re reading way too many thrillers. All right, but let’s hurry.”

  The vehicle crossed the Memorial Bridge. To the right, work crews repaired the Lincoln Memorial. The Washington Monument still lay crippled on its side. The iconic structure toppled in 2017, not able to withstand the fifth earthquake in the region in six years.

  They turned right and entered Rock Creek Parkway, sandwiched between a police car in front and Vatican security forces. They traveled in the right lane. A car with two teenagers slowed, and they tried to peer through the darkened windows. The squad car sounded its siren. The officer with his hand out the window motioned the car to move ahead.

  “We’re almost there, Giacomo. Traffic is slowing.”

  “How are we going to do this?” Arnaud said.

  “By good ol’ American ingenuity, Dad. Explain it to him, Jason.”

  Jason opened his laptop, and the screen came alive. “This is where we are. This flashing ring is our drop point. With the traffic, it will take us five minutes. Once we are over it, I will activate the sequence.”

  “Sequence?”

  “Watch your feet.”

  He pushed a button. The floor of the SUV slid open, revealing a steel plate beneath the base of the chassis. The sound of air and the smell of asphalt filled the Chevy.

  “When we’re directly over the point, that iron slab will be placed on top of the cover. An electrical current will magnetize the metal. The winch will tuck the manhole cover under the vehicle behind my seat, and both of you will descend into the sewer. Once you’re secured, we’ll take your stunt doubles—Dave and Don—to the embassy.”

  “Colonel, we’re ready.”

  “Have fun, gentlemen.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Don’t forget us.”

  “We won’t.”

  The two men climbed down the ladder into the sewer where they found two oxygen bottles and a flashlight before a clank of the manhole cover sealed them in darkness.

  Chapter 96

  For nearly five hours, Giacomo and Arnaud sat in the sewer, neither of them happy.

  “Didn’t I say this was like a James Bond movie? All these gizmos and gadgets.”

  “At least we have masks. The real 007 would be dressed in a suit, smoking a cigarette. We’re stuck in the bowels of Washington, DC, like the Greeks when they hid in the Trojan horse.”

  Giacomo chuckled at Arnaud’s sense of humor.

  “Good analogy, Dad—Trojan horse. Our situation is worse. We’re in a sewer with rats and poop. All the Greeks worried about was body odor.”

  Arnaud laughed. Giacomo considered what his father-in-law said. They sat on a ledge while their feet dangled in two inches of water. The beam of the flashlight cast an eerie glow on the black stained walls. Trojan horse whirled in his mind.

  “Dad, can this be a Trojan horse?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are we being played?”

  “Played? I don’t understand?”

  “Maybe we’re being used to take down Trivette.”

  “I think the fumes are getting to your brain. Trivette and his people are bad and deserve to die.”

  “We can’t make this personal, Dad.”

  “Oui,” Arnaud said in resignation. “Giacomo, listen—no matter what my feelings are, Trivette dies, and this all stops. You and Emily can live in peace.”

  “I understand, but there are still unanswered questions. The murdered monk, the email Sergio received, Alessio’s death . . .”

  “Alessio’s death?”

  “We had nothing to go on until Alessio died. Then we saw the video of the interrogation, the Richardson satellite phone . . .”

  “What email?”

  “Sergio received an email from an Italian government source saying Trivette was responsible.”

  “See, my son? The pieces are coming together, yes?”

  “Could be. Why did Alessio keep the video from us?”

  “I’m sure he had a reason.”

  “Exactly, but what didn’t he want us to see?”

  Giacomo didn’t expect an answer, but his gut told him others were involved. More to come, he had no doubt. The scraping noise of the manhole cover being removed roused them. A light shone through the opened drain, a rope ladder dropped, and the men climbed out of the hole. Jason stretched his arm to help them into the SUV. Night had arrived; the bluish light of the car’s instrument panel cast a glow on the men. They took their sealed masks off—a red ring imprinted around each of their faces.

  “You two stink!”

  “Thanks, Jason. I’ll never do that again.”

  “We only have a couple of minutes.”

  Giacomo and Arnaud took off their outer clothes and threw them into the sewer. A

  whirring noise sounded, and the opening in t
he floor closed. Giacomo rubbed his face. “Boy, that feels better.”

  Then he noticed there were four people in the vehicle. He tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness to determine who they were.

  “Hello, Giacomo,” the person in the front passenger seat said.

  “What the f . . .” Giacomo tried to exit the car.

  “Giacomo, Giacomo . . . relax.”

  Arnaud pulled his 9-mm handgun from his holster and aimed the muzzle at the president of the United States.

  “Calm down, gentlemen, calm down,” Jason said as he pointed his gun at Arnaud.

  Chapter 97

  As Giacomo scanned the passengers, a peace settled over him. He took his hand and placed it on Arnaud’s arm. His father-in-law lowered the weapon.

  “Hello, Tom. Hello, Mr. President.” He made no effort to hide the disdain in his voice.

  “Didn’t mean to surprise you like that, Giacomo—but it was necessary.”

  “Sure, Tom.” Giacomo’s anger was not quelled. “I can’t trust this scumbag.”

  In the orange glow of the streetlight, Giacomo recognized a change in the eyes of the president, a different intensity—a realization of truth. Richardson lowered his head. Giacomo sensed a deep sorrow, a profound regret. Damn it, another one of Dad’s gifts. Empathy is a soldier’s worst enemy. Richardson had been transformed. Jason tapped the driver on the shoulder, and the car sped forward.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “No, Giacomo. I’m sorry. I betrayed my country and myself.”

  Giacomo flooded with emotion as he struggled with the empathic gift.

  Tom spoke. “A couple of days ago, Jerry called and asked to meet for lunch. At first, I was skeptical. After we ate, Jerry passed me a note that said he couldn’t speak. He gave me a tour around the White House grounds to avoid the listening devices.”

  “Listening devices?”

  “Yes, General. The United States government is infiltrated by those who wish to destroy us. That is why we are meeting in a car and not at the Oval Office. There are few people we can trust.”

  “Giacomo, we had to sneak the president out of the White House tonight.”

  “Are we being paranoid, gentlemen?”

  Richardson replied with a curt, “No. The FBI notified me today that the Fighters for Freedom Brigade is trying to remobilize. We can’t take chances. We don’t know who our enemies are. First—and I know you’ll agree—we must rid ourselves of Trivette and his cohort.”

  “Aren’t you one of them?”

  “I never wanted to destroy the country. I wanted to restore the country, but it was too late.”

  “What do you mean, too late?”

  “It started long ago, Giacomo. September 11, 2001. I was in my Senate office with the traitor Dr. Colin Payne, Bil Laden—an Uzbek national you now know as Eten Trivette—and one of the evilest persons I’ve ever met, an Israeli woman by the name of Nava Ben-Reuven.”

  “Nava Ben-Reuven?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “We tied her to Essex. You’re saying she was associated with Trivette?” Giacomo sat back.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to worry about her anymore. She’s dead,” Giacomo said.

  “Nava was the reporter who was killed at the press conference at my house,” Maro interjected.

  “What was she doing there?”

  “No idea, Mr. President—other than she tried to discredit Tom,” Giacomo replied.

  “Did they find the killer?”

  “Yeah—dead.”

  Richardson shook his head. “It should’ve happened a long time ago. I bet you Essex knows.”

  “Probably. So, what happened?”

  “A relative newcomer to the Senate, I was being courted by various committee chairmen. Of those, Colin Payne, head of the National Security Council, approached me. Payne told me Nava and Bil were undercover operatives. I said nothing as he spoke—astounded by what I heard. The second World Trade Tower was hit when Payne’s cell phone rang.”

  * * *

  September 11, 2001

  “That was that jackass Paolo DeLaurentis,” Payne said.

  “I told you he couldn’t pinpoint the attack.”

  “That you did, Nava.”

  The fit and trim young senator muted the sound on the television. “Who is DeLaurentis? The name sounds familiar.”

  “A person you should be afraid of, Senator.”

  “Why is that?”

  “When you become president, his son will destroy you.”

  “President? Please, Miss Ben-Reuven. I have no aspirations.”

  “You will,” the dark-haired woman with slate-blue eyes said.

  Richardson stared at the crazy woman. “Not interested.”

  “Oh, you will be president.” Her face was long, out of proportion, with a tiny nose. Five foot eight and thin, Nava wore a black skirt with a white sweater. Her bare legs were as thin as toothpicks, whiter than paper. “Won’t he, Bil?”

  “As sure as you and I are sitting here.”

  “Colin, what’s this shit?”

  Bil pulled out a piece of paper from his coat jacket and handed the report to Richardson.

  “What’s this?” Richardson grabbed the paper. He started to sweat as he read.

  “Relax, Jerry.” Ben-Reuven had a Boston accent. “We know your life story from the first detail of your birth to—well, let’s say . . .”

  “Read the paper, Senator,” said Bil.

  “I did, and this is bullshit.” Richardson threw the document back at Laden.

  Nava approached Richardson. The senator was a head taller than she was. The hair on the back of his neck stood. His head began to ache. He tried to move away but couldn’t. Her eyes met his.

  “How would it appear to the world and your constituents if they discovered you were a sham? If they found out that their great senator is nothing more than a rapist?” She patted him on the shoulder. “Jer—why are you so upset? We can keep your secret. We just want you on our team. What do you say?”

  Richardson stumbled for words, the headache gone. “I didn’t rape her. Our relationship was consensual. I was seventeen. She was fifteen. We were in love.”

  “In love, Jer? Do you think the American people will believe that?”

  The senator’s face bulged with fury as he yelled, “Out of my office—now!”

  Nava sat on the brown leather couch. She crossed her toothpick legs. With an impertinent smile and blazing eyes, she said, “Shut the hell up, you piece of donkey dung. You will do as we tell you. You, young man, do not have a choice.” The sweetness of her voice was gone, and the words were sharp. Now she spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. “Tell him, Doctor.”

  Bil glanced at her, mouthing the words donkey dung? Nava shrugged.

  “Senator Richardson, I apologize for my friends here. You do understand. We want nothing from you other than your cooperation when you’re elected vice president and then president.”

  Nava said, “This will happen.”

  Richardson sat behind his desk, bewildered and fuming.

  “Remember, Jerry, when I asked you to come on board at the NSC, I shared with you the young boy with the unique gifts—he knew things before they would happen.”

  “Yes, you showed me the video of him.”

  “His name was Paolo DeLaurentis.”

  “The billionaire who gave his money away?”

  “Yes. Well, Nava here has the same gift but a little bit stronger.” He held out his hand as he put a space between his thumb and index finger. “Whether or not you raped the girl doesn’t matter. What the public perceives—whether right or wrong—is the issue. I can assure you my colleagues here didn’t mean to threaten you. Nava wanted you to understand
the implications if the information got into the wrong hands. No matter how innocent. Your career would surely be over. That’s what she meant to say.” He squinted at Nava with disdain. “We can make sure your story never goes public, and in return for that, we want you on our team. Right, Nava?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Bil chuckled at the admonishment. Nava elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Why don’t you at least consider the offer? Nava, tell Senator Richardson what will happen.”

  With contempt in her voice, Nava said, “Your wife and two children will be killed in a car accident this afternoon at four fifteen. They will be declared dead when they arrive at the hospital.”

  Richardson sat back in stunned disbelief, his face turning red.

  “If you agree to be on the team by the time the ambulance reaches the hospital, they will have recovered—if not, then your family will be gone.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re all a bunch of crackpots.” He reached for his phone. “Out of my office now before I call the Capitol police!”

  Chapter 98

  President Richardson stopped his story as the SUV made a turn. Tears dripped on his shirt. Giacomo was shocked by what the president had said. Another person with my father’s gift?

  “Mr. President, what happened?”

  “At four twenty, I received a phone call. My family had been in a car accident. Shocked and frightened, to say the least, I called Payne. He answered on the first ring. I agreed—I was scared shitless. And when I arrived at the hospital, they were alive with no scratches.”

  “So, you became a member of the NSC?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Nothing until Stalworth got elected. That’s when I met the son-of-a-bitch Essex—the little troll. Dean was part of the Stalworth transition team—a minor employee with one mission, which was to acquire your father’s journal. His name at the time was Foster Carrington. The arrogance of the piece of shit annoyed me—still does. Essex paid me a visit in my Senate office. He had the journal and threw it on my desk.”

  * * *

  November 10, 2004

  “That journal, Senator, has to go to Bil. You’ll take it with you on your trip to Paris next week.”