Peter hissed with annoyance. He forced himself to rid his mind of all thoughts of the young nun and to refocus on the spiral symbol. Thus far he had not gotten anywhere with his research. Spiral symbols dating from the Neolithic Age to the present day had been found all over the world. Just about every culture had left behind caves and stonewalls that were covered with spiral symbols. As of yet, the only thing that he thought might be a vague lead was the triskelion, a motif consisting of three interlocked spirals. Apparently, it had been especially characteristic of Celtic culture, and could be found on the official flag of Sicily. It seemed to be an early symbol for Cultic Trinity – past, present and future – birth, life and death – body, mind and soul – and later modified versions were also used by the churches.
Peter was lying on his bed and staring at the illustration of a triskelion on his iPad. The symbol began to fade into the image of Maria’s face, perhaps because it stood in the cabbalistic tradition for purity and innocence. Peter hesitated. He was not sure whether he should click it away and continue to search. The triskelion on the screen whispered something to him, seemed to give him a secret promise.
»Okay then!« Peter groaned and sat up. Since he was already fishing around in muddy waters, he might as well follow his intuition. Another hour of research later he was still not much wiser. There were not many rock engravings on the island of Sicily, only on the west coast and in a Stone Age cult site close to Mount Etna, which seemed to baffle archaeologists because they had not found any traces of dwellings in the area.
From outside, the noise of Rome’s evening rush hour poured into the room, reminding Peter that he had an appointment with Loretta. He put the iPad away, took a shower and changed into new clothes. He was in a bad mood. He didn’t have much to offer to Loretta.
Peter was reaching for his wristwatch when his cell phone began to ring. An unknown number.
»Pronto?« Peter barked into the receiver.
For a moment, there was no answer. Then:
»How are you doing?«
Warmth and mockery, sympathy and disapproval – all in one voice. Peter recognized the voice immediately. He swallowed his surprise and his delight and tried to appear cool.
»Fine, thanks. Why, are you worried about me?«
»Don Luigi asked me to call you.«
»Why doesn’t he call me himself?«
»I’m afraid he’s tied up right now. He asked me to tell you something.«
Peter wasn’t sure whether she was deliberately being so short with him, and he wondered whether she didn’t like him or whether she simply didn’t like talking over the phone. For the moment he wanted to believe that it was the latter.
»Go ahead.«
»He found a Benedictine monastery from the 12th Century whose front gate is adorned with a relief of a triskelion. A symbol with a threefold rotational symmetry.
Suddenly Peter was clutching his cell phone.
You knew it! You knew it the whole time!
»I know what it is,« he said. »Where is this monastery?«
»It’s in the vicinity of a Stone Age excavation site on Sicily. … Hello? Peter? Are you still there?«
One hour later, Peter had a rental car and was speeding southbound on the A1. There hadn’t been any flights to Catania so late at night, but despite the prospect of an almost ten-hour drive, and despite the fact that he couldn’t be sure that Laurenz was really hiding in this old abbey, Peter had not hesitated a second. Because if… if… if… if – he didn’t want to waste another minute.
Peter had cancelled his meeting with Loretta under the pretense that he had to speak to Don Luigi again, and then he had packed his dictaphone. Nothing else. Of course, Loretta had not believed him but he ignored her like he ignored the speed limit, racing through the night in the fast lane. He only stopped to get gas and a few rushed cups of espresso at the Autogrill outlets along the route. In Calabria, he was so tired that he fell asleep behind the wheel, only for a few seconds but enough to make him drive to some godforsaken rest stop in the middle of the Calabrian mountains and take a two-hour nap. He arrived in Reggio Calabria just in time to catch the first ferry to Messina. By the time he reached Catania, the sun was rising above the Mediterranean Sea, casting a red glow over the snow-capped peak of Mount Etna. South of Catania, he left the freeway and followed the signs to Bronte. The small mountain town near Mount Etna derived its name from a Cyclops and prided itself with producing the best pistachio nuts in the world. Nearby was the Stone Age cult site with the spiral symbols, and also the Abbey of Santa Maria di Maniace that Luigi had found. With every passing hour that brought him closer to his destination, he became more and more convinced that he was on the right track. After all, as of late he had been having visions.
Peter reached Bronte a little before seven o’clock. The town was located at an altitude of two thousand six hundred feet and up there the morning was rather chilly. No sign of the mild Roman spring weather. When Peter got out of the car to go into a bar and ask for driving directions to the Abbey and eat a Cornetto con crema, he regretted that he had not packed a warm jacket.
Who gives a rat’s ass? We won’t be staying long anyway.
XV
May 10, 2011, Abbey of Santa Maria di Maniace, Sicily
The Abbey was a complex of old squat structures built from basalt and sandstone. Peter parked his car out of sight. As he approached the monastery, he immediately saw the weather-beaten relief with the symbol of the three interlocked spirals above the cross-barred entrance gate. One of the few remains of the original medieval monastery. Peter knew that the monks ought to have been up for hours by now; nonetheless, he didn’t see anyone in the courtyard. There was no bell by the gate, and the entire complex looked completely deserted. But he did notice a surveillance camera attached to one of the buildings.
Peter moved along the perimeter wall until he found a spot where a lone pistachio tree grew close to the wall. Without hesitating, he climbed into the tree, stepped onto the wall and jumped into the courtyard.
Still there was not a single sound or movement. For a brief moment, Peter stopped in the shadow of the wall and looked around to get his bearings. Then he sneaked around the building, keeping his eyes constantly on the surveillance camera. Unless it was a dummy, he expected something to happen any moment now. He moved calmly, without any haste and without paying too much attention to whether or not he had cover. After all, this was a monastery. But nonetheless, a metallic taste in his mouth told him that his body was on high alert. Peter had learned to sense danger before seeing it, and this deserted and silent place of prayer almost screamed danger. This feeling intensified with every step he took. However, he didn’t get much time to trace this gloomy feeling back to its source. A sound behind him made him spin around. Peter saw a hooded monk holding a small device in his outstretched hand. Before Peter could react, the monk placed the taser against his neck and pushed the button. An electric current of several thousand volts hammered through Peter’s body, sending every muscle in his body into an instantaneous state of shock. He felt as if he were on fire. His whole body seemed to explode with pain. Then Peter lost consciousness.
When he came to, moaning, he found himself bound to a chair, with duct tape over his mouth. The pain from the taser was still lingering in every fiber of his body. Even though Peter was barely able to move, he could tell that he was in one of the monastery rooms. Perhaps a former refectory. Above him was a high vaulted ceiling with modern light installations. To his left was a row of high windows, to his right a long wall with a crucifix and a tapestry. Otherwise, the room was empty. Peter pulled at his shackles. Not a chance. He tried to scream but all he could muster was an unintelligible and muffled gasping sound.
He tried to calm down and to prepare himself for what was to come. If they had wanted to kill him, he would already be dead. So, there was still a chance.
At the far side of the room was a door that Peter hadn’t noticed before. Now he did, bec
ause the door opened and three men entered the room, two monks and a man in a black priest’s suit. Peter recognized Laurenz immediately. The former Pope stepped up close to him and in one abrupt motion he ripped the duct tape from his mouth. Again, Peter gasped in pain. The two monks stayed back.
»Mister Adam!« Laurenz said to him in German and in a distant tone of voice. »We have met before, as I recall.«
Peter had to gather saliva before he could say a word. »Untie me.«
Laurenz looked at him without blinking. »How did you find me?«
Peter withstood his look. »Untie me and I will tell you.«
Without warning, Laurenz slapped him in the face, with the back of his hand and with so much force that Peter almost fell from his chair.
»How did you find me?« repeated the former Pope.
»Shit!« Peter cursed. The slap had made him bite his tongue. »Why are you doing this, Laurenz? Are you insane? I’m a journalist; you know that. So I found you. So what?«
»What do you want here?«
»Damned, Laurenz! What do you think I want? An interview, of course. I admit that I had pictured it being a little different – but really. Okay then, why did you resign from office?«
Laurenz didn’t answer. He only looked at him with piercing eyes.
»Why are you hiding, Laurenz? What are you planning here? Why are you abusing journalists?«
Laurenz made a sign to one of the monks. Peter flinched as the monk stepped towards him, but instead of beating him, he just taped another strip of tape over his mouth.
Laurenz moved up closer to Peter.
»You are a danger, Mister Adam. A danger for the Church and for the entire world. You are a murderer. And I will do everything in my power to ensure that the Fourth Prophecy of Fátima will not come to pass. I will protect the world from you.«
He stepped back and again he made a sign, this time to both monks. The monk who had gagged him the second time pulled the taser out of his habit. Peter screamed in panic into the tape over his mouth and tried to move out of the way. Not a chance. Once again, the monk placed the taser against Peter’s neck and pushed the button. The last thing that Peter saw was Laurenz turning away.
This time, when he came to, he found himself lying in a crouched position on a hard surface. It smelled musty and damp. He was still suffering from the after-effects of the electric shock and could see nothing but a blur in front of his eyes. Peter made out walls, close around him. All around him. Very close. The air he inhaled was cool; it seemed as if he were somewhere in the open, outside. But it should have been brighter outside and not so dim. From above, a weak light leaked in.
Why is it so dark here? Where is the light coming from?
The darkness combined with the narrowness triggered an immediate panic attack in Peter. Despite the pain he tried to sit up, moaning. He was relieved to realize that he was no longer in shackles – at least that. In order to get his bearings in the half-dark, he fumbled through the air until his hands bumped into something: two big plastic bottles with water and one plastic bucket. This spurred his panic even further.
Shit, damn it, where am I???
Peter was gasping now.
Don’t freak out! Breathe! Look around you!
He tried to breathe away his fear, which was already holding him in its claws like a vicious animal. He tried not to freak out. He tried not to admit to himself what he already knew.
That he was at the bottom of a well.
It can’t be true. It can’t be true. It can’t be true. Not this, please, not this.
Gasping from fear and panic, Peter stood up and looked upwards. The shaft of the well was about thirty feet high and just wide enough to prevent Peter from touching both sides at once. From above, pale daylight was seeping in. A well. The classic Sicilian method to get rid of unwanted witnesses. They had provided him with water and with a bucket for nature’s call, which meant that they didn’t intend to let him out of here anytime soon.
Peter felt through the pockets of his pants. Everything was gone – money, cell phone, car keys, even his belt. From above, he heard the distant sound of engines. Car doors were slamming. Cars were driving away. Shouting. Then silence. Suddenly a booming sound coming from high above, tearing the air apart with heavy strokes. Finally, Peter saw the helicopter. For a moment, it hovered over the well. Just like that, like a huge and curious insect. Then it veered off and flew away. Peter heard himself scream. He screamed for help, and he tried to scream away the fear and the panic, which were seeping down on him together with the dampness and the pallid light, merciless. He screamed for his life. He screamed until his lungs were hurting. He screamed until he understood that nobody would hear him scream down here, that he was all alone with himself and with the narrowness, the darkness, and the fear. He screamed until he fully comprehended that they had buried him alive in this well. He even continued to scream when he understood that he might lose his mind screaming like this. It didn’t matter. He just kept on screaming. He screamed until evening came. And when night fell, he screamed whenever he regained the strength to scream. On and on, because the screaming was the only thing that prevented the fear from eating him alive and digesting him. But the fear was already digesting him.
It had started long ago.
EPISODE 2
ANCIENT
Lübbe Webnovel is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG
Copyright © 2011 by Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG, Cologne, Germany
Written by Mario Giordano, Cologne
Translated by Diana Beate Hellmann, Los Angeles
English version edited by Charlotte Ryland, London
Editors: Friederike Achilles/Jan F. Wielpütz
Artwork: © Dino Franke, Hajo Müller
E-Book-Production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-8387-1442-4
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole, or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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XVI
May 10, 2011, Santiago de Compostela
The man rushing to cross the Praza do Obradoiro had no eyes for the beauty and architectural harmony of the square and its cathedral, wrested skillfully and delicately from pale Galician granite. He paid no mind to the souvenir vendors, who had just begun to reopen their stalls after the rain, nor to the trios of students in Renaissance costumes who were singing suggestive and salacious songs to the tourists and pilgrims. Neither did the man notice that the people in the square were instinctively moving out of his path, as if they could sense that he was pushing a wave of death ahead of him. Heavy and threatening gray clouds were looming over the city, which was notorious as the rain capital of Europe. Gusts of wind were blowing plastic bags over the square and chasing groups of pilgrims back into the cathedral or into their guesthouses.
Nikolas headed straight for the Hostal de Los Reyes Católicos, a former hospital from the 15th century, which had been founded by Queen Isabella of Castile and King Ferdinand of Aragon. It was in this hotel that Christopher Columbus had been granted financial support for his uncertain expedition to the West. Today, the striking building housed a five-star parador, which was said to be the best hotel in the world.
Nikolas was wearing designer shoes and a plain English raincoat over a gray flannel suit and open-necked shirt. Less than an hour ago, he had been wearing waterproof overalls, rubber boots and gloves to ensure that he didn’t soil his clothes with the blood of the Cardinal. There had been a lot of blood in the Cardinal’s body; now it was flowing towards the Atlantic Ocean, together with the city’s sewage. The exsanguinated and skinned lump of flesh that had once been a popular cardinal was now lying, together with its skin, under a plastic sheet, carelessly hidden in a little pine forest by t
he beach, waiting to be found in the very near future.
At first, Nikolas had kept the Cardinal under surveillance for a few days, as Seth had commanded. But it had been to no avail. Then, yesterday evening, he had finally received clearance to pay the Cardinal a personal visit. In his gentle, almost juvenile voice, he had asked him a few simple questions. At first, the old man had not shown any fear and proved surprisingly resistant to the pain. Until Nikolas had begun to skin him alive with his machete by slicing him up from the toes to the neck, slaughtering him like a sacrificial lamb. And let’s not forget that, before he started, he had sewn the man’s lips shut so that he could not scream.
Hatred is good. Pain is good. Pain is the light in the darkness and in the chaos of the world. Pain is order. And hatred is the mother of all pain, the pure, eternal and holy flame, the manna of the light.
He had allowed himself plenty of time. Over and over again he had asked the Cardinal the same simple questions. When he finally got the answers, he had simply continued – despite his promise of a quick death. It was a question of order.
Of course, Nikolas knew that he was insane. Only an insane person was capable of doing these things. According to all diagnostic criteria available in this world, he had to be a monster. However, this did not mean that he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. He didn’t enjoy killing, and he didn’t experience a feeling of ecstatic euphoria, nor did he feel dull pressure when he had not killed for a longer period of time. The only thing that he felt afterwards was satisfaction – the satisfaction at having done the right thing. Having fulfilled his sacred duty. He did not have to kill. The act of killing aroused him just as little as the sight of a child’s toy. But killing was necessary and, like everything else in this world, killing had to follow a clear order. And the name of this order was pain.
The Master, all clad in white, was expecting him in his suite. Even though Nikolas had known him his entire life, his personal encounters with the Master were still moments of sublime grandeur for him. He kissed the Ring of the Light and threw himself on the ground in front of him. There he lay prone, stretched out flat with his face down, his arms sprawled out to the sides, waiting to be spoken to.
Apocalypsis I Page 8
