Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  Those in the Pope’s circle talked about his handshake, which was so strong that it could crush a horse’s hoof, and about his jovial slaps on the back that could knock people off their feet. Old friends talked about his affectionate hugs, so strong as to threaten suffocation to the recipient. The head of the Vatican Gardens once confessed on Radio Vaticano, while laughing, that the Pope had shaken him so forcefully, when one of the rose bushes had died, he saw visions of the Holy Virgin for three days.

  However, hardly anyone knew how tender and gentle these hands could be when stroking the pages of books or ancient scrolls of parchment in the Vatican Secret Archives.

  Pope John Paul III was a human being who had to touch the world in order to understand and shape it. His hands were his antennas, allowing him to connect with the feelings of mankind, and were the secret of his persuasive power.

  Now these hands were folded in prayer, resting on the old prayer kneeler in the Pope’s private chapel on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, looking like huge creatures in peaceful slumber.

  But the former Pope was not sleeping. He was desperately imploring his God for forgiveness. He had changed from the white papal cassock into a plain black suit and clerical collar, resembling a simple and amiable country pastor. Only the heavy golden Piscatory Ring with the papal seal on his right hand revealed that just a few hours earlier he had been one of the most powerful religious leaders in the world.

  »Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and trespassed against you. I was not worthy of representing your kingdom. I disappointed you and all the people who believed in me. And yet, I do not see any other alternative.«

  Franz Laurenz’s eyes looked bleary. Forsaking sleep, he had spent the night in prayer.

  »Help me, Father, in this hour of hardship. Give me strength for what I must do. For the evil is waiting at our gates and there is no one to fight it.«

  He had been left with no other choice; he knew it immediately when he received the news from Nepal and Houston. He had no alternative, if he still wanted to find a way to prevent what he had seen coming all these years, even though he had always tried to disavow it: the Antichrist, the Whore of Babylon, the Beast had come to open the gates of hell.

  »Lord, it is my fault. I hesitated; I’ve been hesitating far too long. I was not worthy of my ministry. Father, forgive me my sins and give me the strength to confront the evil now.«

  Laurenz was not a mystic. He had always interpreted the Book of Revelation not so much as a true vision, rather as an opulent and magnificent call for perseverance, directed at the early Christian congregations throughout the Roman Empire. But after everything that had happened over the previous twelve months, his opinion had changed. The Antichrist was real. He had a form and a name. His name was Seth.

  However, he was unsure who was hiding behind the pseudonym of the Egyptian God of Chaos and Destruction. Although Laurenz had met the man a few times during the last year, Seth had always donned a black hooded monk’s habit, his face covered with a black silk shawl. Initially, Laurenz had not taken him seriously because of this masquerade. A grave mistake, as he now knew.

  Then, last night, Laurenz had made the most painful decision of his life. Between prayers, he had completed three brief phone calls and then formatted the hard drive of his personal laptop and destroyed it. For a moment he had wondered if he should simply run, flee in secret, just vanish from the world, without a trace and forever. This would at least have given him a head start. But this was neither in his nature, nor was it his plan.

  As soon as the sun rose, Laurenz freshened-up. First he fed the cat and let him free, then he called his private secretary, Alexander Duncker. Shortly afterwards, hell broke loose all around him. Duncker wasted no time in informing Menendez and only thirty minutes later they were both in his office. The Cardinal Secretary of the Vatican State yelled at him, confused and angry. Laurenz could not blame him. They had known each other for a long time, since they had worked together in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Despite the fact that they had spent their lives arguing endlessly about Church issues, and that Menendez had run against him during the conclave, publicly calling him »a danger to the Church«, Laurenz admired the Spaniard for his candor. Privately, they were even friendly towards one another. However, this did not mean that they were friends. Au contraire.

  »Give me one sensible reason, for God’s sake!« Menendez had yelled. »One damned reason!«

  »Do not swear in the name of God,« Laurenz reprimanded him.

  »Don’t try to change the subject! I want to know why!«

  »I can’t tell you. It’s personal.«

  »Are you sick?«

  »No.«

  »Are you insane? Is that the reason?«

  »No, Antonio, my mind is completely clear.«

  The ascetic man uttered a grunt of annoyance.

  »You’re giving up, that’s what this is. You have realized that your reform plans will lead to chaos and that you don’t have any answers in this time of questions. And now you’re quitting to dodge your responsibility.«

  »I can empathize with how you might come to such conclusion.«

  »You know what I think about your reform plans, Franz. They are poison for the Church. But I never thought you were a coward. Not until today, that is.«

  Laurenz kept silent, but this infuriated Menendez even more.

  »Admit it, this is just another one of your dirty little tactics,« Menendez snapped at him. »With your resignation, you are forcing me to resign as well, and then you’ll be rid of me.«

  »You can become pope now, Antonio, don’t forget that.«

  »You know precisely that only three Cardinal Secretaries of State have become pope in five centuries. But this is not about you or me, this is about the ministry of the Vicar of Christ on earth.«

  For a moment, Laurenz regretted that he and the Spaniard had never managed to become friends, a reality that could clearly be ascribed to the fact that Menendez belonged to the Opus Dei, the most powerful and most dangerous society within the Church.

  »Do you think I don’t know that? I do, believe me. But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.«

  »And what do you intend to do? Do you plan to become the éminence grise in the background? The Antipope?«

  »Do you really think that?«

  »I want to understand the reason. Why?«

  Laurenz shook his head. »I am sorry, Antonio.«

  Filled with anger, Menendez straightened himself up. »I do not believe you, Franz Laurenz. I know you too well to believe you.«

  Laurenz could not help but notice that the demeanor of the Cardinal Secretary of State had changed in that he had become distant.

  »You are not the kind of man who abandons everything,« Menendez continued. »Overnight, so to speak. I am convinced that you have a plan and that this plan will split the Church. You named me your Secretary of State and, in so doing, you bound me to loyalty. But that’s over now. From now on, I will be your fiercest enemy. I will keep an eye on you. On you and your people. I will follow your every step. I will fight you no matter what you might be doing. I will protect my church from you, so help me God.«

  These were his last words. The Spanish Cardinal had exited the room without saying goodbye.

  The sound of someone timidly clearing his throat startled Laurenz from his deep thoughts. He ended his prayer and turned around. Duncker stood at the door of the chapel. He was wearing a black cassock with a purple fascia, identifying him as an Honorary Prelate of His Holiness.

  »It is time, Holy Father.«

  Laurenz nodded and stood up.

  »I am no longer the Pope, Alexander. I’m not even a bishop anymore. From now on ›Reverend‹ will be enough.«

  »With all due respect, Holy Father,« Duncker replied stiffly, »as long as you wear the Ring of the Fisherman, you are the Pope and I will address you accordingly.«

  Laurenz understood that this was Duncker’s way
of expressing his disapproval of the abdication.

  Unlike Menendez and all the others that Laurenz had already seen that morning to take all the necessary steps, Alexander Duncker had not yet asked him for his reasons. The Thuringian-born man had been tactful as usual when he heard the news, had arranged for the press conference, and had informed the Camerlengo, the Pope’s chamberlain, who would now serve as the acting representative of the highest ranking official in the Catholic Church. At the age of forty-seven, Duncker was still very young for his important position. The good-looking Monsignore with a penchant for custom-made suits, fine restaurants and modern art was considered a heartthrob among the women of Rome, and the Italian tabloids liked to compare him to George Clooney. In public, he was gregarious and open-minded and this made him a popular talk show guest. In private, however, this highly intelligent man with an analytical brain was rather shy and reserved, and when it came to Church issues he was even extremely conservative. As a divinity student, he had contemplated joining the Carthusians, the strictest Roman Catholic religious order that demanded a commitment to almost complete silence. Laurenz, who was at the time his thesis advisor, had called him to Rome to work for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the body which had previously been known as the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition. One year later, he had appointed him his private secretary. He appreciated and valued Duncker’s tactful nature and the smoothness with which he managed to spare him the daily grind of office routine – getting rid of people asking for interviews, answering emails, organizing secret meetings, and staying in touch with the individual bodies of the Roman Curia; and with certain other circles that operated from the shadows, controlling the fates of the world. However, what Laurenz valued most was the fact that Duncker knew how to hold his tongue. A very rare virtue in the Vatican.

  »The Cardinal Camerlengo is expecting you in the reception room,« Duncker said. »Your luggage is already in the car, and the chauffeur is waiting in the courtyard. It’s an inconspicuous car with a Roman license plate, exactly the way you wanted it. They are expecting you at the Abbey of Monte Cassino.«

  »Very good.« Laurenz straightened himself up. »Well then, let’s get it done…«.

  The appartamento, the four thousand three hundred square foot private apartment of the Pope, included not only a private chapel but also five rooms and an ample reception hall. The furnishing was simple, tasteful and expensive. Here and there a Giotto or a Tintoretto appeared on the walls from the collections of his predecessors. Amongst them some private photos of Laurenz; some of them were showing him with his parents and with his two siblings in Duisburg. Today, only his younger brother was still alive.

  The papal apartment was located on the Terza Loggia, on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, right next to Saint Peter’s Basilica. On the second floor were various government offices of the Roman Catholic Church and the Holy See, and on the floor above, right under the roof, was the apartment of the private secretary of the Pope. The roof of the Apostolic Palace had a huge garden terrace and Laurenz had loved to spend time there – especially in the evening – enjoying the view over the Eternal City.

  »Please do me a favor, Alexander,« Laurenz said with a sigh. »Please deliver me from your indignant silence.«

  Duncker stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. »You will have your reasons, Holy Father. For your abdication as well as for your silence. This is something I have to respect.«

  Laurenz put his hand on the shoulder of his secretary. »I would like to thank you, Alexander. For everything. May I ask you for one last favor?« Laurenz pulled a small air-cushioned envelope from his coat pocket. On the envelope was an address outside of Rome written in the typical handwriting of the Pope, in neat block letters, which looked as if they had been carved into the paper. »Would you deliver this letter on my behalf? By hand? Right now?«

  Laurenz put the envelope into Duncker’s hands as if it were fragile and precious. Then he held Duncker’s hands between his.

  »It would be best if you took the helicopter.«

  Duncker cast a glance at the address on the envelope and raised one of his eyebrows.

  »That’s against the rules.«

  »That’s why I am asking you for a favor.«

  »May I ask what is in the envelope?«

  Instead of giving him an answer, Laurenz just looked at him, steadfastly. A look as heavy as a rock. With a sigh, Duncker put the letter away.

  »Is there anything else I can do for you, Holy Father?«

  »No. That was it. God bless you, Alexander.«

  Cardinal Giovanni Sacchi was already waiting for the Pope in the reception hall. Until the Middle Ages, the papal chamberlain had been in charge of the fiscal administration of the Holy See. In the meantime, the Camerlengo was left with only one task: to keep the office of the pope during the sede vacante, usually following the pope’s death. Part of this task was to destroy the signet ring of the deceased pope and to seal his private apartments. He would then hold the highest office in the Church until the new pope was elected.

  Sacchi was a grumpy and tight-lipped man in his late seventies. He had spent almost his entire life in the Vatican and he had seen a lot, at times too much, so that he was used to not asking many questions. To him it made no difference whether the Pope had died or resigned; his task remained identical. Silently, he took the Ring of the Fisherman as it was handed to him, and equally silently he locked it away in a small box. Within the next few hours he would crush the ring with a silver hammer in the presence of the College of Cardinals.

  One last time, Laurenz glanced around the room which had become so familiar to him during the past five years. He would never see any of this again in this life, and he would not need any of it.

  Laurenz looked at his watch. Eleven-forty AM. It was time. High time. He turned to the Camerlengo. »Would you allow me a last moment in private, Cardinal Camerlengo?«

  »Of course, Reverend,« the Camerlengo replied.

  The Camerlengo had barely left the room when Laurenz rushed through a door at the far side into his study and from there into the library, which contained the most valuable and precious editions of his nearly twenty thousand books. Like every other room of the appartamento, the library had a phone, a modern telephone with a secure line, which stood on a Baroque writing table. But Laurenz suppressed the impulse to make a final call. Everything was prepared. Everything else was in God’s hands.

  For a brief moment, Laurenz was simply standing there bidding farewell to his private library, his beloved refuge. He inhaled the familiar scent one final time, a blend of old paper, leather, floor wax and bygone times. Then Laurenz opened the only window in the room and, without wasting another thought, he climbed down the narrow fire escape leading into the shadowy courtyard, hoping that the employees of the Palace were all so overwhelmed by the events of the last hours that they were too busy and too distracted to cast a glance out of the window. He also hoped that the cat had found his way.

  Two minutes later, Laurenz stood next to a Lieutenant of the Swiss Guards, who was wearing a dark suit instead of his traditional and flashy Renaissance uniform. It was quiet down here in the small courtyard; there was hardly any noise, only the distant gurgling of a fountain. The irresistible scent of bacon and tomato sauce wafted from somewhere in the distance, the classic Roman pasta all’amatriciana, one of Laurenz’s favorite dishes. But Laurenz knew how deceptive the peaceful ambience and the warm May air were. The news of his abdication was already surging through the world like a tsunami. St. Peter’s Square had begun to fill with distraught believers and curious onlookers; the media was moving in with fleets of broadcasting vans and the paparazzi had rented helicopters and were swarming the rooftops around the Vatican; the cell phone networks surrounding the Vatican were collapsing with the government leaders of the biggest industrial nations already consulting each other in a panic.

  Laurenz turned to the Lieutenant of th
e Swiss Guards.

  »Do you have them?«

  »Of course, Holy Father.«

  The guard handed Laurenz two keys. One of them was an old skeleton key with a gray plastic label that was marked with a single word in block letters: PASSETTO.

  V

  May 1, 2011, Vatican City

  Hatred is good. Pain is good. Hatred and pain are heavenly brothers, the divine energy of the soul, the source of the light. The light forged you from hatred and made you its instrument, your mission to sow pain. You are the second apocalyptic horseman, the warrior in red armor. The light has sent you out to cleanse the world through bloodshed, death and war. This is exactly what you are going to do.

  Nikolas pressed himself into the shadows of an ancient oak tree and observed the private secretary of the Pope as he hurried across the Campo Santo Teutonico, the German cemetery. Nikolas himself was not in a hurry. He knew precisely where the man in the black cassock was headed.

  You are the instrument of the light. Through the brotherhood, the light revealed to you your divine mission, and taught you that hatred and pain are good and that they are one. But it also taught you that you may only appear in a cunning disguise in this depraved and sinful world, if you do not want to jeopardize your mission.

  The private secretary crossed the square in front of the Palace of Justice and disappeared behind the building. Nikolas stepped out of the shadows and followed him. Still he did not particularly hurry, but his strides were long enough to catch-up with the man just before he reached his destination.