Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  The brotherhood has taught you to hide your hatred. It has not even been difficult. Everyone who gets to know you in your worldly disguise praises your friendliness, your modesty, your willingness to help, and sometimes even your charm. The brotherhood taught you all this. Everything you know and everything you are you owe to the brotherhood. And now the time has come to show your gratefulness to the holy brotherhood by helping to accomplish the great work.

  The time of the light has come.

  On the right side behind the Palace of Justice were the Vatican Gardens with the building that housed the Governorate of Vatican City. Nikolas noticed, however, that the private secretary passed the Palace on the left side, rushing past the church Santo Stefane degli Abissini, and so he increased his speed. He caught-up with the man as planned, shortly before he reached the helicopterum portum, the papal heliport, which had been built in 1976 at the behest of Pope Paul VI. The Sikorsky SH-3D »Sea King« was ready for take-off, waiting on the reinforced concrete slab by the north wall of the Vatican. Still walking, the private secretary signaled to the pilot to start the engine. This was the moment when Nikolas called to him from behind.

  »Monsignore! One moment please!«

  The private secretary turned. Nikolas enjoyed the irritated look on the face of the man, obviously annoyed by this unknown priest who tried to keep him from his urgent mission.

  Prepare yourself. Tame your temper. Pain you shall sow and light you shall reap. Yours is the kingdom and the light and the glory.

  »What do you want from me?« the private secretary seemed edgy and angry.

  »In the name of the light,« Nikolas said in a gentle voice and then he pulled the machete from his cassock and in a single trained motion he rammed it deep into the priest’s head.

  The priest’s face burst open like a ripe mango. His blood splattered onto Nikolas’s cassock as he collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Nikolas struck him again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Until the skull of the now lifeless man also burst open like a melon and his blood and brain matter scattered over the helicopter landing site.

  The machete is sharp, a single cut can be deadly. But you are not supposed to kill elegantly. You are supposed to create pain. In your victims as well as in those who are grieving for them. For it is only pain that will prepare the way for the light.

  Nikolas heard the screams of the helicopter pilot, who was still strapped in his seat, and he looked up. The pilot was panic-stricken, trying to free himself from the safety belt. He was wearing a pilot’s helmet and yelled something in Italian into his headset. Without any haste, Nikolas walked around the helicopter, the machete still in his hand. The pilot was still sitting in his seat when Nikolas killed him with a blow that nearly decapitated him. His blood sprayed against the plexiglas canopy of the cockpit. Then, there was quiet.

  Nikolas returned to the private secretary, who was lying in a pool of blood that seeped slowly into his cassock. He checked the cassock pockets, found the letter with the Pope’s handwriting, and took it. He didn’t bother about his fingerprints. He rushed to get out of his own cassock and threw it carelessly, together with the machete, onto the dead body of the private secretary. Then he wiped his hands and his face clean with two moist towelettes, threw them on top of everything else, and quickly disappeared towards the direction of the rose garden.

  VI

  May 1, 2011, Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome

  The Passetto di Borgo, a two thousand six hundred foot long escape route, linked the Vatican with the Castel Sant’Angelo, the Castle of Saint Angelo, the fortress of the popes. What looked from the outside like a regular wall was on the inside a narrow passage that had allowed numerous popes throughout the centuries to flee into the papal stronghold – or to get discreetly and without being seen to their mistresses, waiting for them in the lavishly furnished parlors of the Castle of Saint Angelo.

  The Passetto left the Vatican at the Via dei Corridori, followed the Borgo Sant’Angelo, crossed the Roman traffic chaos at the Piazza Pia, jumped over the battlements of the Castle of Saint Angelo, and finally entered the northwestern corner tower of the repellent bastion, which had originally been built as a mausoleum for the Emperor Hadrian.

  The Passetto was now opened to tourists a few times a year. The rest of the time, the Swiss Guards kept the keys to the two access doors safe.

  At that moment, Laurenz had only little sense for the secret passage’s checkered history, as it seeped from the mold-ridden walls and hung in the dank air. He rushed through the half-dark, which received its only light from narrow slits every few yards in the wall, and at one point he cursed quietly as his right shoulder bumped against something jutting out of the wall.

  Upon arriving in the Castle of Saint Angelo, he cautiously locked the door and turned to his left, into a steep and narrow stairwell. Laurenz hurried down the stairs. This was not his first time in the castle; he knew his way around and he also was cognizant as how to avoid the hordes of tourists that used to flood all five levels of the castle at this time of day. Guarded by the Archangel Michael from high above the castle, the tourists rolled in over the spiral ramp on the ground floor and up to the former dungeons and the storage rooms for wheat and oil, and then they poured into the Cortile dell’Angelo laughing and photographing while drinking their cokes, proceeding to the fourth floor with the magnificently decorated halls and the treasury. Hardly any of these people had the slightest idea what secrets the Castle of Saint Angelo still hid today.

  Only once on his way down did Laurenz run into a scattered group of American teenagers, but they didn’t recognize him, preferring to practice their French kissing. Swiftly and a little out of breath, despite his impressive physical fitness, Laurenz finally reached the ground floor. He slipped outside through a non-descript door, which the second of the two keys fitted.

  As agreed, his chauffeur Mario was waiting at the eastern exit of the Castle in his private car, an older model black Alfa Romeo 156. When Laurenz rushed to get in the back of the car, the young Roman with the fashionable sunglasses could not help but be shocked by the facial expression of the man who only a few hours earlier had carried the name John Paul III.

  »My God, Holy Father, you look as if you were fleeing from the devil!«

  »Get going, Mario,« Laurenz replied in a weary voice.

  »To the apartment, as we discussed?«

  »Si.«

  Laurenz was grateful that his driver merged into the lunchtime traffic without asking any further questions. He had more trust in the thirty-two-year-old Roman than in some of the Cardinals of the Curia, and over the last few years he had always been able to count on him when he had to leave the Vatican incognito to attend secret meetings with politicians, industry leaders and representatives of other religious communities. Besides, Mario’s old Alfa with the tainted windows, the Roman license plate and the fan scarf of the AC Roma on the rear parcel shelf was less conspicuous than the official Mercedes with the license plate SCV-1 for Stato della Città del Vaticano.

  What’s more, Mario was the only person in the Vatican who knew their destination, which was in San Lorenzo, the 3rd Municipio of Rome. He knew it because he had acted as the Pope’s representative four years earlier when he bought the two-bedroom apartment in the exuberant neighborhood that was popular with students. The money for the purchase was from the personal estate of the Pope.

  Mario constantly checked whether they were being followed. He kept changing lanes and went with the flow of traffic to avoid drawing any attention. After approximately ten minutes, he braked abruptly making a sharp right turn into a filthy parking garage. He parked the car on the third level, exited, and after ensuring that the coast was clear, he gave Laurenz a sign. As if they had been practicing for weeks, the two men switched cars and left the garage three minutes later in a Japanese compact car.

  »My apologies to you, Holy Father, but this is my cousin
Vittoria’s car. There was so little time that I couldn’t find anything else.«

  »Don’t worry about that, Mario. I would even ride on the back of a Vespa with you if you deemed that safer. Did you notice anything?«

  »No, Holy Father. No one is following us.«

  Laurenz put on his sunglasses and stared out of the window. All around him, Italian life was in full swing and the traffic was almost at a standstill. Every day at lunchtime, the entire city of Rome seemed to have a secret arrangement to use all available vehicles at precisely the same time. Teenagers on Vespas raced at breakneck speeds through gaps between the cars, and the trattorie filled with tourists, businessmen, and women with large sunglasses and the latest designer handbags. Laurenz relaxed a bit.

  »How is your wife, Mario?«

  »Beh. She is doing very well, Holy Father. She’s always complaining about my irregular work hours.«

  »A sign of love, Mario. And how is little Laura?«

  »She will become a beauty, Holy Father! Blabbering incessantly. She inherited the looks from her mother and the mouth from her grandmother. Madonna, one day she’s going to talk us all into the ground.«

  Laurenz laughed. »Bravissimo! So she has what it takes to become the Secretary of State.«

  He laughed for the first time that day, and this laughter dispersed a little of the dark shadow weighing on his soul. For a brief moment, he thought that it might not yet be too late. That there might still be hope.

  »Did you prepare everything, Mario?«

  »As you told me, Holy Father. Salvo has set up an internet connection that is redirected through numerous proxy servers and he has assured me that no one can hack into it for about ten minutes.«

  »That should leave us enough time. Did Salvo ask any questions?«

  Mario laughed. »He thinks that I am having an affair with a Swedish spy. I denied it, of course, but he was envious.«

  They reached Via Palermo later than expected. Mario parked the car in a driveway next to the small hotel Caravaggio, and after making sure that nobody was watching them, he helped Laurenz out of the vehicle. Laurenz looked at his watch, realizing he didn’t have much time left. He stormed into the stone hallway and ran up the stairs to the third floor, where he waited impatiently for Mario to fish the key out of his pocket.

  Mario was the first to enter the apartment. So Laurenz didn’t see him right away: the man in the black hooded monk’s habit who had made himself comfortable in a wicker chair in the corridor. He also didn’t see the man with the gun who was standing behind him. Laurenz only heard the thud of the silencer and Mario’s muffled cry as he collapsed in front of him, gurgling and coughing up a stream of blood. The bullet had hit Mario squarely in the throat.

  »Did you really believe you could get away from me so easily?« an age-old and piercing voice crowed. The man under the hood spoke German with an oddly drawling accent that Laurenz had never been able to place.

  »What did I tell you? People will die if you don’t stick with the instructions. People who are close to your heart. And only because of your pride, Laurenz.«

  From the wicker chair, Seth made a brief gesture with his hand, and the man standing next to him stepped up to Mario, who was gasping for air, and shot him in the head.

  Laurenz spun around and fled back into the hallway, but there a muscular figure in a ski mask headed him off. Although Laurenz was already over sixty, his reflexes were still every bit as quick as when he was young, when he had honed and trained them in the boxing ring and in the streets of Duisburg. He ducked from the punch of the masked man and put all his body weight into one blow that he placed directly on the assailant’s kidney. The blow hit home. The masked man convulsed with pain, moaning. Laurenz kicked the man out of his way and ran down the stairs. He heard another thud but the bullet hit the wall, only inches from his head.

  Laurenz continued to run. He paid no attention to the footsteps of the two killers running after him. He reached the front door. However, a third man was waiting for him there, aiming a gun with a silencer at him. Laurenz knew that he was going to die now and the realization brought a sense of peace. He sent a final prayer to his Lord and to the Holy Mother of God, and then he straightened himself up, preparing to die. The Asian-looking man shot. Once. Twice. Laurenz winced and didn’t really register the rumbling behind him. The Asian pushed him aside and fired again. As Laurenz turned around in surprise, he saw that the killer who had murdered Mario was lying on the staircase with a bullet in his head. The beefy man with the ski mask was crouching next to him wheezing and holding his stomach.

  The Asian stepped toward him and shot him in the head. Then he turned to Laurenz.

  His voice was sharp. »Let’s get out of here!« he said. »Now.«

  VII

  May 8, 2011, Rome

  As usual at lunchtime, the little bar at the Piazza Sant’Eustachio was jam-packed. Businessmen in designer suits, senators and elegant Roman ladies, the young Gucci jet-set, priests, and a few scattered tourists were crowding in front of the polished bar counter to grab a quick espresso after lunch or a caffé con panna, which was served in a cappuccino cup together with a scoop of freshly whipped cream. Peter Adam visited the Bar Sant’Eustachio every day when he was in Rome. For him, this bar was a magical place with the best caffé in the world. Furthermore, it was close to the seat of the Italian Senate, making it the ideal place to meet the right people, tap into some secret insider information, or simply listen to the rumors and the lively gossip that enabled the Romans to recognize each other as Romans.

  Although Peter Adam lived in Hamburg, the thirty-five-year-old journalist spent several weeks each year in the Eternal City. A series of tell-all articles, critical of the Church, had garnered him the reputation of being a Vatican expert and secured him a full-time job with a big Hamburg news magazine that had sent him now, as the conclave was about to begin, as a correspondent to Rome.

  Peter Adam knew how to behave in Rome and how important it was in this town to cut a good figure, a bella figura. He was wearing jeans, a tapered white shirt, and a blue jacket in the latest fashion. His look was completed with light-brown brogue Oxford dress shoes and, of course, accented by matching socks. No jewelry except for the Jaeger-LeCoultre on his left wrist. Being badly dressed was deemed a deadly sin in Rome and could close many a door before one even had a chance to knock on it. What to wear and what not to wear was a fixed rule in Rome and could determine your success, for better or worse. In this particular case, Peter Adam’s outfit said that he was either a media lawyer or a journalist – successful either way. As his blonde hair and his smooth North German facial features did not allow him to pass as Roman, he could only be a foreign journalist. This, together with his looks and his almost accent-free Italian, secured him the interest of the senators that were present, as well as the goodwill of their wives. Ultimately, this was what mattered in Rome.

  At this very moment, however, Peter Adam’s focus was on something entirely different. He stood right in front of the monstrous coffee machine and tried to figure out how the hell the old barista, who was hiding from view, clattering around with cups and spoons and portafilters, created this delicious coffee. In more than fifteen years, Peter had only been able to find out that the old man brewed the caffé together with the sugar. Of course, it was also possible to order unsweetened coffee, but this was regarded as extremely strange. After all, making coffee was just a caffeinated way to liquefy sugar.

  »Summer is coming,« Peter said. »Slowly but surely.« He was attempting to engage the barista in a conversation, even though the man didn’t even greet his regulars.

  »Eh. Era ora – finally, ›twas time,« the old man growled in response. That was it. Then he served Peter his caffé con panna.

  As Peter sipped his espresso with whipped cream, he watched a young woman in a striking suit. Her classic nose and the way she stuck out her little finger when she talked were clear signs that she was Roman. Early thirties, Peter assume
d. Daughter of a wealthy family, Law school, fluent in three languages, good in bed, and very, very bitchy. Old Roman Patrician nobility.

  She had noticed him and every now and then their eyes would meet for a moment. Peter was wondering whether he should approach her when he suddenly realized how much she resembled Ellen. Ellen, whom he had also brought to this place, often. Ellen who had loved Rome as much as he did. Ellen, who was dead now, simply dead. Only Rome still existed and would continue to exist forever. Abruptly, Peter turned around and opened the Corriere della Sera which was reporting again – as it had done throughout the entire last week – on the ISS catastrophe. The wave of shocking news and apocalyptic images had no end. The devastating earthquake in New Zealand, the financial crisis in Europe, the riots and civil wars in North Africa, the Tsunami and the nuclear disaster in Japan, and finally the catastrophe on the ISS. As if the human race urgently needed to understand that they were on the brink of doom.

  And now the Pope. All the newspapers reported the abdication, the mysterious disappearance of the Pope, and the tragic, fatal accident of his private secretary. The tabloid papers were speculating wildly about a possible connection with the ISS disaster and about murderous conspiracies in the Vatican. Peter knew from his colleagues in the Hamburg office that the government leaders of the most important industrial nations were holding crisis talks over the phone on a daily basis.

  However, the Vatican seemed to have fallen into a state of shock. There were hardly any statements and even the unofficial channels and the wise guys kept silent. Radio Vaticano aired its regular programming as if nothing had happened, and Cardinal Menendez was not available for any interviews. Not to mention Franz Laurenz. No one knew where he was right now. Or whether he was even still alive.

  Peter thought about the conclave that was supposed to begin in ten days. The first Cardinals had already begun to arrive. No one expected the election of the new pope to be swift. Even though the media was speculating on possible favorites – which was also the only topic that was discussed in the bar – Peter was sure that they would have to brace themselves for a long conclave. Perhaps enough time to track down John Paul III and convince him to sit for an interview. He looked at the Jaeger-LeCoultre that Ellen had given him as a gift shortly before her death. It was a little before two o’clock. He still had to draft an article about the finances of the Vatican and he decided that afterwards he would pay a visit to his friend Don Luigi in the Vatican. Maybe the well-informed Jesuit priest had some news for him.