The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “Copy that, General.”

  “Gentlemen, when you find Sergeant Gaines’s body, make sure he’s given the respect of a hero. He saved our lives tonight.”

  Giacomo and Jason ran to the car and sped to the Vatican embassy.

  * * *

  “They’re both dead. I don’t know—it wasn’t our team. We couldn’t reach them in time. The good news is they’re finished.” Dean Essex ended the phone conversation. A broad smile crossed his face as he sat at his desk in his study. He couldn’t see the amber laser beam bounce on the window as it recorded his words.

  Chapter 101

  December 27

  A breeze whipped around the fallow White House Rose Garden. The air was crisp; the blue sky sparkled with winter sunlight. Jerry Richardson sat in the Oval Office. Jason had been there earlier, his search revealing six high-frequency listening devices.

  The door to the president’s sanctuary opened. Giacomo and Arnaud, dressed as utility workers, entered. Richardson said nothing. He shook their hands and accompanied them to his private study. Jason was seated in the corner, and he stood to greet them.

  An hour later, the intercom buzzed, “Mr. President, President-elect Maro and his chief of staff are here.”

  “Please send them in.”

  Richardson stayed behind his desk.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Please, Tom, call me Jerry.” A broad smile crossed his face.

  “Mr. President, a new secretary?” Dean Essex said.

  Richardson ignored him. He smiled. “Please sit,” he said, pointing to one of the two facing couches. He sat opposite Essex.

  “With less than a month to go, Tom, I thought I would give you the fifty-cent tour. Sorry it had to be so early in the morning.”

  “I wish I had known. I would’ve arranged for Mrs. Maro to be here,” Essex said.

  Maro’s tone was condescending. “When the president and I spoke the other day, he suggested it should be just us men.”

  Essex was bewildered and shocked. He fidgeted.

  “Dean, I don’t need to tell you everything. Besides, you’ve never been in the Oval Office, or have you?”

  “Of course I’ve been here, Tom.”

  “With me, right?”

  “Of course.” A bead of sweat on his brow.

  “Ever been here without me?”

  Richardson smiled as Essex squirmed.

  The cockroach tugged at his left ear. “What do you mean, Tom?”

  “Well, let’s see. I believe the first time was—Jer, do you remember?”

  “Oh, do you mean when Stalworth was in office?”

  “I think so, Jer. A journal?”

  “Yeah—you know the journal, don’t you, Dean—or is it Foster? I’m confused as to your real name, you little piece of shit.”

  Essex’s right leg bounced. His eyes darted. He unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt, loosened his blue silk tie.

  “What’s the matter, Dean? Is it hot in here? I’m comfortable—and you, Jer?”

  “I’m comfortable, and you, Dean? I can open a window.”

  The toad squirmed as he tugged on his left ear again. A door opened to his right, and his head swung toward the sound.

  “Hello, Dean.”

  Essex sat on the couch, stunned, as Giacomo approached him.

  “Let me introduce myself. I’m Giacomo DeLaurentis.”

  The chief of staff rose from the couch. “I . . . I . . .”

  With his opened right hand, Giacomo slapped Essex in the chest. He fell backward onto Tom. The president-elect shifted and allowed the traitor to sit by himself.

  “You’re surprised to see me, Mr. Essex?” Giacomo’s sarcastic, cold voice shattered the traitor’s demeanor. “Could it be that your assassin failed again last night?”

  Essex said nothing for a moment but then lashed out with spunky arrogance. “If it’d been my men, you’d be dead. Whatcha gonna do, DeLaurentis—kill me? You stupid moron.” He jumped up, eyes ablaze, face red, a bead of sweat dripping from his chin.

  “No, I’m going to leave that up to the Italian government.”

  “I’m an American citizen! You can’t take me away!”

  “Oh, he can, and he will,” President Richardson said. “You’re a threat to national security, so by executive order, I have agreed with the Italian government to release you to them.”

  “By the way, you little shit, how did you know I was in DC?” Giacomo’s voice roared.

  With contempt, Essex said, “Why, your little sister, of course. She can’t keep her mouth shut. What an imbecilic wench.”

  Giacomo stepped back. He cocked his arm, his clenched fist ready to smash the toad, when he remembered his promise to Andrew not to hurt the man.

  Essex snarled at Richardson as he rubbed his left ear. “You can say goodbye to your family—they’ll be gone by the end of the day.”

  “You pissant.” Richardson rose and with a quick right punched Dean Essex squarely on the chin. Essex collapsed, falling backward on the couch, unconscious. Blood ran from his mouth, splattering his pristine white shirt.

  “Damn, that hurt,” Richardson said. He shook his hand as he tried to rid himself of the pain. “But it felt great.”

  “Damn, Jerry—a hell of a punch.”

  “It was, wasn’t it, Tom?”

  Giacomo eyed his father-in-law.

  “You didn’t break your promise, son. It wasn’t by your hand.”

  “True, Dad. That makes me feel better.” He gazed at the collapsed body of Dean Essex. “One kick to the face. Do you think that will be okay?” He answered his own question; he knew better. “All right, let’s remove this creep. Jason, let’s get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir.” He pulled out a syringe from a small black zippered case.

  “Giacomo, roll up his sleeve—will you?”

  “Sure. Excellent punch, Mr. President.”

  “Boxing lessons when I was a kid. I guess they paid off.”

  “Remind me not to get into a fight with you,” Arnaud said.

  “Kind of scary for you guys last night?”

  “Yeah, we’re lucky the fireball never touched us. If it weren’t for Sergeant Gaines, we wouldn’t be here. In fact, my head is still buzzing from the explosion.”

  “Who do you think they were?”

  “No idea, Mr. President. We’ll find out and nail their asses. No one is going to come into my house, kill my people.”

  The tone of Jason’s voice comforted Giacomo. His top man dead, the colonel would have his retaliation. Giacomo had complete confidence in Jason. The nagging question for him was, who couldn’t he trust? When he found out, he would take his revenge.

  Tom grabbed Dean’s legs and threw them on the couch while Jason injected him with an amnesia drug.

  “Jason, he won’t remember anything?”

  “He won’t remember a thing, Mr. Maro.”

  “What’s our next step, Giacomo?” Maro walked over to Richardson, and the two leaned against the president’s desk—their arms crossed.

  “As we agreed, we take him to Italy and hand him over to the Italians for questioning. When we have our answers, he comes back to the States for prosecution. Sergio made the arrangements. If we can’t implicate Trivette, at least we’ve got him.”

  “They’re not going to kill him, right?”

  “No. I said that to scare him.”

  “How are you going to move him out of the White House?”

  “In a box. We’re gonna fold him like a pretzel and carry this son of a bitch out the front door. A BOET mobile hospital truck is waiting. The doctor will strip him, remove any transmitters that are on or in him.”

  “In him?”

  “Yep. Not only is there a GPS transmitter surgically inse
rted in him, we also discovered a microphone, the receiver implanted behind his left ear. Every move and sound this guy makes is being monitored and recorded.”

  “Wait—are they monitoring our conversation right now?”

  “No, no. After we went our separate ways last night, I contacted Sergio back in Rome. He placed two additional remotes over Dean’s house, one equipped with infrared and the other fitted with a high-frequency monitor. The infrared picked up his heat signature. When Sergio analyzed the photo, he noticed another area coming from his ear. The monitor triangulated and confirmed the hidden GPS, microphone, and receiver. This morning, we jammed the frequency, replacing it with a ghost frequency—so whoever is monitoring him will think he’s still at home.”

  “Wow—the White House cameras, the visitors’ log?”

  “Everything is taken care of, Tom. I had Jason replace my entire staff with BOET members. The cameras? Well, they’re turned off.”

  “Your secretary?”

  “BOET as well. The time has come to stop these people. I’ll do anything I can to capture these bastards.”

  “I’m sure red flags are being raised.”

  “Without a doubt—we must act fast. Remember, every move we make is being watched,” Giacomo said.

  The Oval Office door opened. A parade of men in work clothes entered, carrying a wooden box. The military elite acknowledged the president and their commanding officer.

  “Gentlemen, are the other vehicles ready?” Vandercliff asked.

  “Yes, sir, Colonel. The three trucks are at the service entrance.”

  “Very well—let’s place this dirtbag in the box. Gentlemen, don’t seal it too tightly; we don’t need him to die of suffocation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the men put the limp body of Dean Essex in the box and carried him out of the Oval Office, Giacomo received a text from Sergio. “You’re cleared back to Italy. Land in Grosseto.”

  “Grosseto? My father used to visit there. And the man who was killed near the Vatican—he mentioned it. What the . . .”

  “What, Giacomo?”

  “Nothing important, Mr. President.” He paused. “Jerry, you have a country to run. We’ll keep Jason abreast of our progress. We’ll work silently from this point on.”

  “Godspeed, son.” The two men shook hands.

  “Tom, for you as well. All our communication ceases.”

  “I understand. Good luck, my friend. See you at my inauguration.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Eten Trivette sat in his office. Troubled by a headache and a terrifying emotion, he focused his attention on the Eiffel Tower, obscured by fog. Dark clouds rolled across the sky. The EU president filled with anger as he read Nava’s final journal entries.

  The winter months will be unkind. Your decisions will cause your ruin, your death. Those below you thwart your efforts; your house has become divided. Your wisdom will fail you. You cannot change what is already foretold. The child of long ago survived, now his heirs and theirs can’t be stopped. The ancient village holds the key. Destroy the key, and the door can’t be opened, the prophecy will never be known. For the two heirs know nothing of the prophecy. Neither do you. Passover will bring darkness as the souls are condemned . . . You cannot escape what you have done, you foolish man.

  Trivette threw the journal across the room. “We? Prophecy? You stupid, traitorous bitch. I’ll exact my revenge.”

  * * *

  From the air vent, a light mist began to fill the room. Eten Trivette fell asleep, his head rested on the desk. A bearded man entered the workspace with two others. He whistled as he monitored Trivette’s pulse and then nodded to the other men.

  “Clean the desk and lay him on top of it.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  The physician carried a computer tablet and a wooden box. He whispered as he opened the case and arranged the vials of DNA and stem cells. “This will be the last time you and I shall meet, Mr. Trivette.” He picked up the syringe . . .

  Chapter 102

  December 28

  F-35 fighter jets escorted the Gulfstream from the United States. Midway across the Atlantic, two Italian Euro Typhoon aircraft joined them. They landed at the airbase in Grosseto, Italy, at seven in the morning. Armed vehicles surrounded the plane as it taxied to the military side of the airport.

  The ancient city of Grosseto was founded in AD 803. Brick walls filled with mortar protected the original village. In 1574, the Medici family began reconstruction, and nineteen years later, the fortress was completed. Located five miles off the Tuscan coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea, the area was known as Maremma. The land overflowed with vineyards and olive groves, attracting tourists from all over the world. Of the 83,000 inhabitants, only a small percentage lived within the city walls.

  Giacomo paused in the doorway of the plane. He was still plagued with the sense that there was another scenario being played. Two plus two does not add up to four. The notes . . . and what did Essex mean when he said, ‘If it’d been my men, you’d be dead.’ Whose men were they then? What if Trivette is only part of this . . .

  “I appreciate the ride, Danny. I’ll call Tony later.”

  The cool air refreshed him as he descended the stairs. Giacomo’s attention was drawn to the bright blue sky as the two Typhoon fighters roared overhead.

  “Glad you made it here, my friend.”

  “Me too, Sergio.” The two men hugged.

  At the tail of the aircraft, Arnaud supervised the removal of the wooden crate they’d used to transport Essex. The seven military personnel placed the box onto a waiting military vehicle.

  “We need him alive. Sergio, make sure your people understand—don’t kill him.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend. Do you want to witness the interrogation?”

  “No, the last one almost got me killed. You’re going to keep him here?”

  “Yes, at the base hospital.”

  “Excellent.” Giacomo scanned the area. He took Sergio to the side, out of earshot. He whispered, “Trivette may not be our only threat. The people who tried to kill Jason and me—they were not his people. And look . . . we found this on the body of one of the attackers.”

  Giacomo removed the note that he’d hidden in his wallet. Sergio’s eyes widened.

  “And Sergio, Essex made a remark that is concerning.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘If it’d been my men, you’d be dead.’ So . . . who sent those men?”

  Sergio was silent, his head lowered as he reread the note. He looked up at Giacomo. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you have to apologize for?” He looked at the time on his cell phone. “Emily and my family will be here in two hours. We’re going to spend New Year’s here. Take a couple of days off.”

  “Time off? Wouldn’t you all be safer at the Vatican or back in the States?”

  Giacomo didn’t answer the question, his mind preoccupied.

  “What am I going to do, Sergio? I can’t stay hidden in a bubble forever. Essex is in custody. Who could possibly know we’re here?”

  “The people who tried to kill you.”

  “As far as they’re concerned, I’m dead.”

  Sergio lowered his head. “Still, you have to be careful. Where are you staying?”

  “A hotel within the walls of the Medici fort. And you?”

  “With my cousin.”

  “Good.”

  “Giacomo, a change of plans,” Sergio said as he finished reading an email on his phone.

  “What now?”

  “Your sister decided to go to Ottati.”

  “She what?”

  “No worries. She has a protective detail. She’ll be fine.”

  “Damn her—she’s so independent. Sergio, did
you get her cell phone?”

  “Yes. Our people are still checking her calls and texts.”

  “I don’t understand what’s taking so long.” Giacomo shook his head. “You didn’t say anything to her about Essex, did you?”

  “No. I told her Vatican security needed it. I replaced the phone.”

  “Excellent. Thanks, Sergio. I need to go to the hotel. Are you ready, Dad?”

  “Oui. I need to sleep.”

  “Me too.”

  A security detail dropped Giacomo and Arnaud off at the Grand Hotel Bastiani, located within the Medicean walls of Grosseto. Giacomo entered his hotel room—not big but comfortable. He felt relieved that Essex was in custody. He welcomed the three-day respite with his wife, her due date just three weeks away. He hoped he could wash away the beleaguering concerns.

  After a much-needed hot shower, Giacomo exited the bathroom.

  “Nice abs, soldier.”

  “Em.” A smile crossed Giacomo’s face. “When did you get here?”

  Emily lay down on the bed as the chiseled body wrapped in a white towel approached.

  “Let’s just say in time to hear you singing in the shower. Between Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ and James Taylor’s ‘You’ve Got a Friend,’ please, honey, don’t quit your day job.”

  “That bad?”

  “If you come over here and give me a kiss, I’ll lie and say you sounded great.”

  “Sounds good to me. Should I let my towel drop?”

  “You’d better.”

  Eventually, husband and wife fell asleep, both exhausted.

  Chapter 103

  New Year’s Eve

  Giacomo woke at dawn. The morning sun poked through the opening of the brown curtain. Transfixed by a sunbeam that frolicked across Emily’s sleeping face, his mind formed a picture. Out of his body, he watched the vision.

  In the distance, a tree overshadowed a meadow of bright green grass. The color of the leaves changed. The orange and red hues of fall had arrived. His hair was long, his black beard trimmed. He wore blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and a long brown leather coat. A young boy sat nestled between two overgrown oak roots that stretched to the horizon. Knees to his chest, the youngster gazed out over the field. Another boy—his twin—approached. He whispered in the brother’s ear. Together they climbed the tree and sat on one of the thick, sturdy branches. They waved to Giacomo, who responded in kind. As he moved toward the boys, the wind howled. The bottom of his coat fluttered behind him. Giacomo tried to run, but the force against him was unyielding. In an instant, the two boys vanished. He stood alone—empty and heartbroken.