“I just know . . . I just know.” Paolo stood and reached out his hand. “Father, it has been a pleasure. Remember when my son comes to make sure he receives the envelope.”
“I will, Senor DeLaurentis. May God bless you.”
Paolo and the priest exited the piazza. When they reached the Via Daniele Manin, Paolo stopped to sit on a stone bench. His mind took him to a place that caused him to grieve.
“Paolo, do you need anything?”
He stared at the priest. “No, Father Luccati. I guess I’m a little tired.” Paolo wiped the tears from his eyes and departed the ancient city.
Chapter 106
“That was spectacular. The gnocchi light, the sauce fantastic.” Giacomo gazed into Emily’s eyes and held her hand. “I love you, Em. Everything will be fine.”
“I hope so.”
The couple ate at Vinecia Osteria on Via Vinzaglio—a cobblestoned street that was little more than a car width wide. The owners lived above the eatery. On either side of the road were apartment buildings with small shops on the ground floors. Overhead, the stone walls were painted orange, yellow, and pink, highlighting the living space. The windows were covered with green-slatted shutters.
“Giacomo, I love this place—nice and quiet. It reminds me of Ottati.”
“Ottati is peaceful, an oasis of tranquility.”
“You like the silence and the breezes from the mountains.”
“Yeah, the clear air. It’s fresh, untouched compared to the world we live in.” He placed his hand on hers. “I can’t wait for all this stuff to be over. No matter what you believe, when this is finished, I’m done.”
“How can you say that, Giacomo?”
“Because inside me I know this is wrong. Our life is crazy.”
“You don’t mean our life like you and me?”
“No, no, the world—the chaos. Dad was right about simplicity of life and love—that’s the key. It’s clear to me—maybe because our boys will soon be born. This life—this world—is too crazy.”
“Hmm. Giacomo, there are good people in the world. Not all are bad.”
“True. Still, do we have it wrong? I mean life in general. When we were in the cathedral earlier, and you left so I could pray, only the echoes of my thoughts were in my mind.”
“The echoes of your thoughts? Do you have a fever?”
“No. Can I continue?”
“Yes, mon amour. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you. This sense of peace came over me. I looked up, and there was the crucifix. I wondered why anyone would give up their life for us—what sacrifice we as a people have to give up for our own salvation.”
“You’re starting to scare me.”
“Why?”
“You’ve never talked this way. Your life has always been a fight for justice. What’s right and what’s wrong—an eye for an eye. Why now?”
“I don’t know—this, this . . .”
“This what, honey?”
“It’s hard to explain. My mind is conflicted. I’ve done terrible things.”
“What do you mean, Giacomo—terrible things?”
“I killed wounded people as a soldier. All the bad . . . my involvement—damn. The evilness that surrounds us. I’m afraid of being drawn further into it. I need to retire. Two weeks ago, I was in one of the chapels in Vatican City. This cardinal came up to me and said, ‘Talk to Him the way you would speak to your father.’”
“God?”
“Yeah. At first I felt foolish—I giggled. Then, in the quiet of my thoughts, I talked to Him. A sense of peace came over me—as it did this morning. Then I had this concern. What will I need to sacrifice in my life for the good of us?”
“Very deep, Giacomo. Perhaps God is going to use you.”
The waiter placed the check on their table as they continued to chat.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I talked to Andrew about my past as a soldier. I asked if God would forgive me. He said all things are possible with God. We sat and talked. I should say I confessed, and he gave me absolution—forgiveness of my sins. Then you know what he said?”
“What?”
“‘Forgive yourself. We as a people are hindered by our lack of forgiving each other. Most of all ourselves.’”
“Isn’t that what your father said?”
“Yep.” Giacomo reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out two twenty-euro notes along with the small manila envelope. He slipped the money under his plate. “Wanna take a stroll? I’m tired of talking.”
Emily pointed to the envelope. “Where do you think the key goes?”
“No clue.” He placed it back in his pants pocket.
“Let’s go sit in the piazza.”
They arrived at the large circular area of the Piazza Dante Alighieri. There was a statue in the center with seven stone benches around its perimeter. The afternoon sun warmed the western wall. Its orange-yellow brilliance infused the ancient village. The temperature dropped to a mild fifty degrees. They sat next to an outdoor cafe. The cathedral was to their left. Residents and tourists promenaded the piazza. The New Year’s Eve celebration had started, with libations and laughter.
“The hotel receptionist told me the fireworks for tonight are spectacular. The best viewing point is on top of the walls of the city. Do you think we can go, Giacomo?”
“Why not? We’ll celebrate the new year on the Medici fort. Do you think you can . . .” Giacomo jumped—startled by a movement he’d seen from the corner of his eye.
“What’s the matter?”
“I guess I’m hypervigilant.”
“Relax, honey. Nothing can happen to us here. Oh, look. Here’s my dad . . .”
“Why don’t we go? I have an uneasy feeling.”
“Sure.”
Giacomo detected the hesitation in her eyes. He took her hands as he helped her stand. The married couple’s eyes fixed on each other, and they kissed. A man rushed out of a nearby store and pushed Giacomo and his pregnant wife with so much force they toppled over. A bullet ricocheted off the stone bench as it struck an unsuspecting tourist. Three armed men surrounded the couple, their guns drawn. They scanned the sky for the sniper. A fourth man knelt beside Giacomo.
“Are you all right, General?”
Dazed, he asked, “What?”
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes—Em, Em?” He rolled on his side to see his wife.
“What happened, Giacomo?”
Time slowed for the husband and wife. Love radiated from their eyes; no words were spoken as sorrow overwhelmed the couple.
More shots echoed through the air. People in the piazza fled into stores and restaurants as they scurried for a place of refuge. A passerby was shot; his body lay on the cold stone. One of the men took aim, fired at where he thought the gunman hid. They scanned the walls in their quest to find the marksman. A flash caught their eye from the bell tower of the church. The bodyguards unleashed a torrent of gunfire at the killer, who fired two shots in turn—one whizzed by Giacomo, lodging itself in a piece of wood. In a matter of minutes, a SWAT team encircled the house of God. They hand-signaled each other. With precision, the elite soldiers entered in pursuit of the slaughterer.
From the south wall of the city came a series of thuds as a volley of mortar shells escaped their launchers. The deadly rockets struck targets in and around the piazza. The sacristy at the rear of the cathedral collapsed. White dust from the destroyed stone exploded into the sky and coated those who were screaming in fright as they tried to escape the horror. Tourists and citizens were strewn about on the sidewalks, injured or dead. Within moments, Italian Air Force helicopters flew over the once-fortified village as they tracked the terrorists. Members of the elite forces were tethered to the choppers’ landing skids. Armed with the Beretta ARX 160 assault rifles, they
scanned the southern wall. With pinpoint accuracy, they killed the assailants without causing any civilian casualties. In the distance, sirens blared from emergency vehicles as they sped to the scene of pandemonium and sadness. Flames exploded from a restaurant. The attack ended. People cautiously rose from the rubble and moved as they helped others.
Giacomo covered his wife with his body and wiped the white dust from his head—his ears still rang from the concussion of the explosions. Emily’s hand clung to his shirt. Arnaud turned the corner. Then he stopped—he knew.
“Em, you can let go.” Her face was covered with pulverized stone. A tear left a trail through the dust—her eyes open. Blood trickled from her ear. “Em—Emily, can you hear me? Damn it, Emily.” He spoke louder, and grabbing her shoulders, he shook the lifeless body. Her hand fell to her side. The wedding band that united the two in this world slipped off her finger. The sound of the ring hitting the cobbled stone rang in his ears. “Emily DeLaurentis, talk to me! Em—no! Em—no!” He sat back on his haunches. His hands covered his face as he shook his head. His father-in-law touched his shoulder. Arnaud knelt beside him, tears in his eyes.
“She’s dead, Giacomo.”
“No, Dad, no! It can’t be . . . Em . . . Em . . .” He touched her stomach. “My boys . . . I’ll never see my boys.”
An ambulance pulled up. The attendants jumped out of the vehicle and rushed over to Emily. The leader of the security forces tried to stop them. With a resigned shake of his head, he indicated that a life had been lost. They pushed him aside and tended to the pregnant woman.
“Come on, son—nothing more we can do.” Arnaud’s lip quivered. His chin wobbled. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He gasped at the sight of his only child as she lay dead with her swollen belly that nourished his grandchildren—Giacomo’s two sons.
Giacomo struggled to his feet, his grief overtaken for a moment by anger. He shouted at one of the guards. “Give me your gun.” He threw out his hand. “Now!”
The man protected the pistol.
“Giacomo, what are you going to do?” a voice from behind him asked.
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”
The piazza filled with military, the local police tended to the wounded and placed towels over the heads of those who had perished. With agonizing strength, the residents gathered to help the injured. The SWAT team trotted out of the cathedral. They dragged the sniper behind them.
“I’m going to kill him! I want the gun now!”
Arnaud stepped away as Sergio came closer. With the wave of his hand, Sergio whisked the security man away.
The Italian, handkerchief in hand, wiped his eyes at the sight. “Giacomo, let the police do their job. The sniper is in custody.”
“I want him dead. He killed my wife . . . my children. I want him dead!”
“I understand, but that will not erase your pain.” Sergio wrapped his arms around Giacomo. He tried to pull away; Sergio tightened his grip. “Your father would not agree. You’ll get your justice but not today.”
The dreaded pop-pop of a gun was followed by a crack that resounded in the piazza. Everyone ducked, running for shelter—then there was silence. Giacomo ran to the doors of the church. Sergio trailed behind him. The SWAT team aimed their rifles at the two as they approached.
“It’s all right,” a voice shouted. The men stepped back. The lifeless sniper was on his back from a gunshot to the head. A few feet away, his face to the sky, was the corpse of Arnaud Chambery. A priest knelt beside him, closed his eyelids, and administered last rites. Furious over the death of his daughter, the leader of the DGSE with his gun drawn shot the sniper as a member of the SWAT team in return killed Arnaud.
Giacomo was in shock. He said nothing, for nothing could be said. Sadness swept his heart. A military helicopter approached the piazza. White dust swirled from the downwash. The aircraft hovered over its landing spot.
“Giacomo, come on. I have to get you out of here.”
With a simple acknowledgment, Sergio and a security guard escorted Giacomo to the waiting helicopter. The airship lifted. The damaged village, the destroyed sacristy at the back of the church, the bodies scattered about, the scores of military police with their guns drawn—the scene was nothing more than surreal. The sound of the rotor blades transfixed Giacomo’s attention on the ambulance that carried the dead body of his wife, Emily DeLaurentis, pregnant with their two unborn sons. He watched the vehicle as it traversed the streets of the ancient city en route to the morgue.
* * *
Rio walked the road from her father’s house in Ottati to the Church of Cordanato, nestled in the fields below the ancient village. Dust from the dirt road rose into the sky. An old orange Fiat approached her. The car stopped, and the driver rolled down the window.
“Senora, the prophecy has been destroyed.”
“Grazia.” For a moment, she was confused. Prophesy destroyed . . . what does that mean? Then her confusion vanished. She smiled as the car drove back to the village.
Chapter 107
The person on the other side of the phone line spoke in Italian. “The priest is dead. The key has been destroyed. DeLaurentis, his wife, and your nemesis Chambery are dead as well. Where is Essex?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in weeks.”
“Essex knows nothing about us?”
“Correct—nothing.” Trivette stumbled on his words as he spoke.
“We don’t need another problem like your sister Nava caused. Et Tu Spiritus Sanctus.”
Trivette was confused as he rubbed his head. “Et Tu Spiritus Sanctus—what the hell does that mean?” As he sat in his office and admired the view of Paris, the memory of the conversation dissolved. Two months had passed since the fateful day of Nava’s death. Now her last journal entry haunted him. He’d grown sick of listening to his sister—Colin Payne’s other child prodigy.
He muttered to himself. What did they know? Both foolish, idiotic—their plans—their ability to see the future. Thwarted by Paolo DeLaurentis—another idiot who did not realize what he had. We were always one step ahead of him—but the so-called messenger of God had the genuine gift. DeLaurentis waited until now—with his warrior son and his ideological idiot daughter—to defeat me. The pain in Trivette’s head increased as his mind transformed. Fear overcame him as he yelled out loud, “Not going to happen. I am the most powerful person in the world!”
Trivette’s mind swirled with anger and discontent. The Frenchman grimaced. His body contorted, and he thrashed as the evilness of man overtook him. Eten Trivette’s soul was black, filled with pride and greed. A flashback of a doctor hovering over him caused him to panic. Eten’s mind sought but did not find the hidden truth. As his discomfort increased, the puppet rubbed the back of his neck and right temple. Would he become a device for the one who now controlled him?
Chapter 108
January 4
Giacomo was disillusioned with life. He returned to Vatican City because he couldn’t bear to go back to the States. The coldness of the winter morning wrapped its arms around Rome. The weather had drastically changed since his return. In the three days that had passed, the record-high temperatures had plummeted to record lows.
Giacomo refused to speak with anyone. Rio and Victoria were transported back to the Vatican despite an irrational protest from Rio. Although always under tight surveillance, Giacomo roamed the streets of the city. He traveled the circuitous paths of the gardens. He grieved alone.
An ashen, overcast sky shed its tears of white fluffy snow. The purity of the ice crystals was little antidote to the sadness of Giacomo’s family and friends. The funeral of Arnaud Chambery, his daughter, Emily DeLaurentis, and her unborn sons took place in a private chapel within the pontifical city.
“We’re gathered today to celebrate the lives of Emily and her father, Arnaud. Although the term celebrate i
s contrary to today’s reality. We are filled with sorrow and pain. There is no justification for the tragic deaths of these two beautiful people and the unborn children of Giacomo and Emily. To celebrate is to acknowledge their acceptance into the hands of God and His eternal kingdom of heaven. For this is what faith teaches us. If we believe, and our lives are one with God, then surely we will be one with Him in His kingdom.
“I believe Arnaud, his daughter, Emily, and her two sons—Paolo and Arnaud—are in the loving hands of God, enjoying eternal life with Jesus, Mary, and the saints. The heartache we sense at the loss of our brother and sister is insurmountable. During this trying time, we must, we must rely on God. To be angry is understandable. It is what we do with the anger that lies within us that will define who we are and who we become.”
Giacomo sat in the last pew at the back of the chapel as he listened to his friend Andrew give the eulogy. His mind was a void. At his request, no one sat next to him, but he felt the presence of an entity. A tear trickled on his cheek as Andrew concluded the tribute.
“For whatever consolation I might give can only come from a man, a father who just maybe was a messenger from God. A man whom I never met but whose memory and words we will never forget. I love you . . .”
A hand touched Giacomo’s shoulder, and he knew at once that his father was with him—just as he’d been with him all those years ago when Payne’s men tortured him. Although he could not see him, Giacomo realized everything would be better . . . eventually. A weak smile crossed his face. He sobbed as the caskets of his family were wheeled past him. The realization of the sacrifice of his wife and children invigorated him with the will to live, to move forward, to stop the evil that threatened humanity.
Pope Peter Andrew stopped by Giacomo’s pew. He reached out his hand and with tears in his eyes said, “Come, my brother.”
Giacomo grabbed hold of his hands, and the men embraced. Andrew pulled back. “God is with you. Be not afraid—for your sacrifice is great. He will help you destroy the wicked. Open your heart. He will show you.”
The Third Trumpet Page 33
