Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  »I’ve already told you: I don’t know.«

  »But you spent an awful lot of time with Padre Luigi. Perhaps you are possessed. Perhaps it wasn’t actually you who killed Mrs. Hooper but your demon. Perhaps you will even get away with it.«

  »This is ridiculous.«

  Suddenly Bühler leaned towards Peter. »No, it is far from it, Mr. Adam,« he hissed at him. »You are a murderer and you broke into the papal apartment. I want to know why. I want to know everything. Even if I have to tear you a new asshole to get it out of you.«

  Peter looked up at the two commissarios. Bühler shook his head.

  »Forget it. Unfortunately, they don’t understand German. Italians. What else can you expect from them?«

  »I did not kill Loretta.«

  »Let me give you some good advice, Mr. Adam: cooperate with me. At this point you are still among friends.«

  »Why are you threatening me? I won’t say another word without a lawyer.«

  The older commissario cleared his throat loudly and motioned with his head toward the door. Bühler threw another icy look at Peter, rose to his feet and left the room. The two commissarios followed him.

  What now? What was the point of that?

  They made him wait. Time passed, or it didn’t. They had taken his wristwatch. Peter estimated that it was long after midnight. The wait increased his tiredness but he forced himself to stay alert. At some point, he heard Bühler’s voice outside, hollow and loud. He couldn’t understand what Bühler was saying. But he sounded upset and angry.

  Only seconds later, the door flew open and a young woman in a gray suit entered the room. A woman Peter had seen once before.

  The beautiful Roman woman!

  »My name is Alessia Bertoni,« she said without greeting him or paying any mind to his surprise. She presented him with a document and handed him a pen.

  »Sign this and we can go.«

  »Who the hell are you?«

  »I am your lawyer.«

  »Who sent you?«

  »I would suggest that we talk about these things outside. Please sign this agreement, Signor Adam.«

  Peter was too baffled to continue arguing. Assuming that Don Luigi had pulled a few strings, he briefly checked the document. It was a representation agreement between him and a Roman law firm. Peter’s full name and his home address in Hamburg had already been inserted into the form. Nonetheless, he hesitated to sign the paper.

  »Why would the police let me go? They’re accusing me of murder.«

  »There are, of course, restrictions. For the moment, you may not leave your hotel.«

  »That’s it?«

  »Only if you sign.« Now she sounded impatient.

  Bühler was waiting with the two commissarios in front of the interrogation room, and he glared at Peter with suppressed rage. Bertoni strode right past him without deigning to look at him and made the older commissario sign two documents.

  What’s going on here?

  A black SUV with tinted windows was waiting for them at the rear exit of the building. Peter had just seen his new lawyer get into it. Except for the driver, no one else was in the car.

  »Where are we going?« Peter asked, as they left the grounds of the Questura di Roma.

  »To your hotel.«

  »Now will you tell me who hired you?«

  Alessia Bertoni turned to Peter and smiled, for the first time since she had entered the interrogation room. She seemed relieved to have done her job without any major difficulties.

  »You have something on your neck…,« she said gently.

  »Really?« Peter was briefly irritated. »Where?« he asked and bent forward.

  »There!« said his beautiful lawyer and rammed the injection needle into his neck.

  XXIV

  May 12, 2011, Rome

  The hours after the compline, the last prayer of the daily Liturgy of the Hours, had always been her favorite time of day. When the monastery was enveloped in a silence that felt like a sheltering mantle. When she had the freedom to sit alone in her cell and to listen to the night and exhale the images of the day in prayer. In prayers that contained an outrageous secret that she never included in any of her confessions.

  In Uganda, the nights had always come early, mild and cloudless nights which had been filled with the scent of clayey earth and smoke, countless stars and the intermittent screams of hyenas. Strangely enough, Maria had liked the hyenas for they, too, were creatures of God and had their place in this world like any other living being, fulfilling God’s magnificent plan. Not so the militia of the Lord’s Resistance Army, who were in Maria’s eyes the brood of Satan. Perhaps not the adolescent boys with their machetes and their dead eyes, who deserved everyone’s compassion, but each and every one of the older sergeants who were pumped up with drugs and hatred. For Maria, they were all personified demons, and the worst of them was their leader, Joseph Kony, the Beast incarnate.

  Despite the ever-present suffering, despite the mutilations and the rapes, and despite the genocide committed by the LRA, Maria had enjoyed her time in Uganda. Because she felt needed. So it amazed her even more how far away Africa felt now, barely two weeks later.

  She was fully clad and lying on her bed in one of the cells of the International House of the Merciful Sisters of the Holy Cross. She reflected on the last two weeks. On the telephone call that had urged her to come to Rome immediately. On the fears and the worries of the past weeks. On her strange work with Don Luigi and on the instructions he ingrained into her mind, time and again. In Uganda, Maria had seen enough insanity and suffering to be able to maintain composure when she assisted Don Luigi during the daily exorcisms. She even enjoyed the work. What frightened her, though, were his instructions. Because these instructions placed a responsibility on her shoulders which seemed too hard for her to bear.

  »Holy Mother of God, I am begging you. Help me to accomplish this task that you have chosen for me. Help me to avoid despair. Help me to resist temptation. And help all those who are worthier of your mercy than I am. Holy Mary, full of grace, I am begging you. Amen.«

  As she was cradling the rosary in her hands, she caught herself having a thought that she would later need to confess – again. Angry at herself, she sat up and called herself to order. She was just worried about him; nothing was wrong with that. After all, it was part of Don Luigi’s instructions. Nonetheless, since Sicily she had been thinking about him more and more often. In Sicily, he had lost his cool and self-assured attitude and this had allowed her a look inside the person, the human being Peter Adam. And she had liked what she had seen.

  Maria sat on the edge of her bed and admitted to herself that she was really worried about him. Tremendously worried. He had a terrible vision and together they unveiled a terrible secret, which perhaps should never have seen the light of day. She hadn’t heard from Peter or Don Luigi all day. She wasn’t worried about the Padre. Don Luigi was not the kind of man you needed to worry about. He was a man who kicked every demon’s ass straight back into hell.

  This silly thought lifted Maria’s spirits and she decided to call Peter and ask him how he was doing. No harm in that.

  She turned the cell phone that Don Luigi had given her back on, and entered Peter’s telephone number, which she had memorized. Another one of the Padre’s instructions. But she only got the voicemail. Maria didn’t leave a message and thought for a while. Somewhere in the back of her head she felt a dull throbbing, which was familiar to her. In the bush, it had always been a warning of impending danger.

  Maria decided to commit another sensitive breach of the Convent rules and leave the monastery again. At that moment her phone began to ring. She was startled and looked at the display. Unknown name, unknown number. Assuming that it was Peter, she accepted the call with relief.

  »Sister Maria?«

  The unknown voice of a man. It could have been Peter but there was a sharpness and a coldness in his voice that made Maria shudder, even over the phone.

/>   »Who is this?«

  »Call me Father Nikolas. I am a friend of Don Luigi’s. He asked me to contact you. It’s about your friend, Peter Adam.«

  »He’s not my friend,« she rushed to say, »but what happened to him?«

  »Don Luigi believes that he is in danger.«

  Maria clutched the phone even tighter. »Go on, please.«

  »Padre Luigi asks you to meet him in the pilgrim church of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. Do you know the church?«

  »Yes, I do. But why doesn’t Don Luigi call me himself?«

  »For certain reasons it is currently not advisable for him to make telephone contact with you. Can you be there in one hour? It is very important.«

  »Of course I can.«

  »Very good. Oh, and one other thing. The Monsignore asks you to bring the relic from the papal apartment. Is it still in your possession?«

  »Yes, one of the relics.«

  »Which one? The amulet?«

  »Yes.«

  »Very good. Make sure that you bring it with you.«

  And with these words, the caller hung up.

  For a moment, Maria just sat there, listening to the throbbing in her head that had increased to a loud pounding. She tried to think. The danger was somewhere out there. But her instructions were clear.

  »Holy Mother of God, help me to do what is right!« she prayed. Then she reached into the drawer of her nightstand, and felt for the pale blue amulet.

  XXV

  May 12, 2011, Rome

  He’s coming to.«

  A voice from the darkness. English with an American accent.

  »Mr. Adam? Can you hear me?«

  Someone yanked his head up. Drifting streaks of light broke through the darkness. Shadows of movement.

  »Give him another moment and we’ll get started.«

  A second voice. Female. English with an indeterminable accent.

  »Mr. Adam!«

  The darkness was followed by nausea. Overwhelming nausea. Peter vomited out the entire contents of his stomach. The acid in his throat made him retch and twitch. But at least the darkness continued to lift and the streaks slowly gathered to form a picture that rolled up and down with unsettling velocity. A room. Two people. Three.

  »Mr. Adam, we need to talk.«

  »I don’t want to talk,« he heard someone croak.

  Is this me?

  Slowly but surely the picture stopped rolling and Peter made out some kind of windowless basement room.

  Of course. What else did you expect?

  He could not move. Absolutely impossible. The distress of not being able to move. The horror of being tied to a chair in a basement and freezing.

  »I am … cold.«

  »That will pass.« Again the female voice. Where did it come from?

  At that moment, he could only see the two men in shirt-sleeves who were standing right in front of him. Tall and proper-looking men with small noses and wide cheekbones, the typical physiognomy of Americans from the Midwest. They looked at him with calm, hard eyes and appraised him with as much emotion as a slaughterer appraising his cattle.

  Peter fought desperately against a new wave of nausea and tried to get his bearings.

  »He is ready,« said the shorter of the two men.

  The woman entered his field of vision. The woman whose name was Alessia Bertoni. She sat down on a chair in front of him.

  »Mr. Adam, can you understand what I am saying?«

  Peter nodded.

  »Good. I will briefly explain to you how this is going to work. I will ask you a few questions and you will answer them. If I am satisfied with your answers, it might not even take long. Do you understand what I mean?«

  Peter nodded. She was still wearing the same suit.

  No Italian accent. She’s not even Roman.

  »Good. Let’s start with something easy. Did you kill Loretta Hooper?«

  Peter tore his eyes open and looked at the woman.

  »No,« he croaked.

  She seemed disappointed.

  »Think again. Did you kill Loretta Hooper?«

  »Who are you? Where am I?«

  Alessia Bertoni nodded towards one of the men. Swiftly but without any haste, they pulled a small cotton bag over his head and knocked him and the chair backwards onto the floor. Before Peter could scream, one of the men had placed a towel over his head, which was immediately soaked with water. The entire world began to soak with water. With water and panic, overwhelming panic. Instinctively, Peter held his breath. But the pressure on his lungs combined with his panic only increased the drowning feeling. As he was still firmly tied to the chair, Peter’s panic became so intense that he began to twitch and tense up while the fear ate away at him. At the whole world, at everything. He could no longer think, not a single thought was possible, only fear and the water surrounding him, filling everything. His lungs screamed for air as the men continued to pour water on the towel. Peter breathed water and choked and he tensed up so badly that breathing became altogether impossible.

  Then they pulled the towel and the cotton bag from his face and lifted him and the chair back up off the ground.

  Peter retched and coughed and gasped for air.

  »That was only a few seconds, Mr. Adam,« said Alessia Bertoni in a calm voice, »and time is really not our concern right now. So let me ask you again: did you kill Loretta Hooper?«

  Peter stared at the young woman’s face.

  »I don’t know.«

  »Better, but not the ideal answer. How long have you known that Mrs. Hooper worked for the United States Secret Service?«

  »What?«

  »You should not disappoint me again, Mr. Adam. Loretta Hooper was assigned to gather intelligence about the disappearance and the current whereabouts of the Pope. And she used you to help her. But it’s obvious that she underestimated you. We will not make the same mistake, trust me.«

  »Loretta worked for the CIA? Jesus! I didn’t know that.«

  »What are the current whereabouts of Pope John Paul III?«

  »Do you work for the CIA too?«

  Not that this question would have been of any relevance at this point. But Peter wanted to gain some time. He knew that they would »treat« him again with the towel and the water, but he wanted to delay the »treatment« for as long as possible. Because Peter Adam suddenly doubted that he would leave this room alive.

  She saw through his tactics, of course she did. Nonetheless, she answered his question. »These two gentlemen do,« she said. »I work for another international agency. The world is rattled by terror attacks and the lead agencies have decided that this crisis can only be overcome if we all work together.«

  Mossad! She speaks with an Israeli accent.

  »Where is Pope John Paul III, Mr. Adam? And don’t tell me he’s hiding in some monastery in Sicily. We checked that already.«

  »But that’s where he was! And that’s all I know.«

  Again, the two CIA men grabbed him and subjected him to the horrific waterboarding procedure. Death was a water creature. Death was the excruciating and endless process of drowning. Peter had always known it. All that swimming had never done anything to conquer this fear.

  As soon as Peter was sitting once again in front of Alessia Bertoni, she continued: »We are convinced that there is a direct connection between the ISS disaster and the Pope’s resignation,« she said. His gasping did not faze her in the least. »One of the astronauts aboard was a Jesuit priest.«

  »Loretta told me about that.«

  »Shortly before the disaster, he sent off a radio message through a secure line. What was the content of this message?«

  »How should I know?«

  »Because you are part of a worldwide terror network, Mr. Adam.« Now her voice sounded sharp.

  »This is absurd,« Peter screamed, »I’m a journalist. You can check it out!«

  »We did.«

  She pulled a file from underneath her chair.

  »We’ve lear
ned quite a lot about you, Mr. Adam. We know that your parents died in a car accident when you were four years old. We know that you grew up with adoptive parents in Cologne. And that you were trained by the military.«

  »I served my time in the Bundeswehr. So what?«

  »No, Mr. Adam. You were trained as an Army Special Forces Officer and you even made the grade as a combat swimmer. Afterwards you left the Bundeswehr but continued to serve as an embedded journalist with the German forces during combat operations in Afghanistan. Quite strange, isn’t it? In Afghanistan, the Taliban lured you into an ambush and kidnapped you. A friend of yours, a journalist by the name of Heiner Degner, was killed in the process. After two days, special commando forces rescued you from a dugout. Since that time, you’ve been suffering from regular migraines.«

  »How do you know all these things?«

  Alessia Bertoni shook her head irritably and continued. »Last year you lost your girlfriend, Ellen Frank, under mysterious circumstances during a work-related trip to Central Asia. According to your statements, Mr. Adam, she was murdered by a British archaeologist by the name of Edward Kelly.«

  Edward Kelly, you filthy rat. I’ll kill you.

  »However, this Edward was never found, not the slightest trace of him. Even though it could never be proven, there is a strong suggestion that you killed your girlfriend, Mr. Adam. Probably in the course of one of your migraine attacks. Just like you killed Loretta Hooper. Which brings us back to the issue at hand.«

  Peter saw that the two Americans were getting ready again.

  »I don’t know what happened. But why would I have killed Loretta?«

  »Perhaps because she found out that you’re planning an attack on the Vatican?«

  XXVI

  ONE YEAR EARLIER …

  May 8, 2010, Apostolic Palace, Vatican City

  He had never wanted to be Pope. God knew that he had never aspired to the papacy. But God had placed this burden on him and so now he had to carry it for the good of the Church that he loved and that was his home.