Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  His life.

  Pope John Paul III remembered how he had groaned after the tenth round of voting, as Cardinal Nguyen began to read aloud the names on the ballots and it became more and more evident with every ballot he unfolded that he would be the one to be elected. He remembered vividly the brief moment when rage washed over Cardinal Menendez’s face, as Cardinal Nguyen asked the elected candidate whether he would accept the office.

  During the past five years, Laurenz had gradually gotten used to his office and the burden and he had even found a certain satisfaction in the strength of his authority. The diplomatic skills, sangfroid and mulishness of his predecessor had turned the Vatican into a global player in world politics. The most important government leaders requested personal audiences and asked the Pope to act as mediator in delicate diplomatic missions.

  Nonetheless, John Paul III did not see himself as a politician. He was a man of faith. And, as such, his most important duty was the protection of the Church.

  And in its two-thousand-year history the Church had never been in greater danger than it was now. Nobody knew this better than John Paul III.

  As always, the Pope’s working day began at seven in the morning with a mass in the private chapel of the appartamento. His predecessor had liked to celebrate mass with invited guests. John Paul III preferred a small gathering with his two private secretaries, the four housekeepers from the movement Comunione e Liberazione, and his Camerlengo. Just as every morning, John Paul III took a few minutes for himself after breakfast to meditate, and then Alexander Duncker and Franco DiLuca presented him with the daily press releases and with certificates of Episcopal ordinations that he needed to sign. The papal routine.

  Around eleven o’clock, he and his two secretaries took the old wood-paneled elevator down to the Seconda Loggia, where the offices of the Holy See were located. Down here, the decisions of the Pope were transformed into files, handouts and memos. It was the realm of the office clerks and secretaries, of the counselors and chamberlains, and it was the realm of the Latin translators who transcribed each and every piece of correspondence into the official language of the Vatican. With a little imagination, there was not a single modern word that could not be translated into Latin. A center-forward became a campus medius and a condom a tegumentum; vodka turned into valida potio slavica and the weekend into exiens hebdomada. It was quiet in the hallways. The Curial employees scuttled over the 500-year-old floor tiles as employees elsewhere scuttled over linoleum floors, and they communicated with each other in Latin in a curial jargon that had developed over centuries and was about as comprehensible as the NATO-English of fighter pilots. There were, for instance, dozens of ways of saying no. The meaning of reponatur was: will be put on ice for now. Non expedire meant: might work out but is not appropriate right now, and in decisis et amplius was unequivocal: the decision is final; period.

  Normally, the Pope met with bishops or heads of state in the mornings. This morning, however, two special guests were waiting for him in the reception hall. Delicate guests.

  »How long have they been waiting?« John Paul III asked his private secretary in the elevator.

  »They’ve only just arrived, Your Holiness. Monsignore Benini is taking care of them.«

  »Good. It will be a battle. So let’s go in and win it.«

  John Paul III wiped his hands on his cassock, a bad habit that he tried to hide as often as he could.

  Three men were sitting in the armchairs of the hall. One of them was Monsignore Benini, a long-time Vatican diplomat, a paragon of discretion, and a man with plenty of experience in the field of international politics. He was sitting between two men who were ignoring each other to the best of their abilities: Sheik Abdullah ibn Abd al Husseini, the Grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia, and Chaim Kaplan, the Chief Rabbi of the Ashkenazi Jews of Jerusalem. As John Paul III entered the room he could literally feel it on his skin, not only the hatred that brewed between these two men but also the distrust that they both fostered against him. He realized at that moment that everything was going to be even more difficult than he had expected. One of the Sheik’s predecessors had been an admirer of Hitler, supporting him in his determination to exterminate the Jews. The parents of the Rabbi had been murdered in Birkenau. And John Paul III knew how much Kaplan hated the Germans. In his eyes, a German Pope had to be the ultimate historical cynicism and the greatest imaginable danger to Judaism. At the same time, both religious leaders had the reputation of being pragmatic and modern. And therein resided the spark of hope.

  Monsignore Benini displayed his usual tact, rising from his chair and leaving the two guests alone with the Pope.

  »Gentlemen!« John Paul III said buoyantly, welcoming them in English and shaking their hands cordially. »I’m very pleased that you accepted my invitation.«

  »What’s the deal with all this secretiveness?« the Rabbi began in an annoyed tone. »As long as the sheiks finance Hamas terror, we will not sit down at a table with murderers. Even less when the sitting-down is arranged by a German Pope.«

  The Sheik’s face contorted in rage. »As we speak, Israel is organizing the genocide of the Palestinian people. And you, Jew, dare to call me a murderer?«

  »There is no such thing as a Palestinian people!« Kaplan hissed back. »The Palestinians are an anti-Zionist invention of the Sheik.«

  Abdullah ibn Abd al Husseini shot from his chair. »That’s enough.« He turned towards John Paul III. »Listen, Christian, your attempt to mediate was honorable, but you will have to find yourself another pet project to make your name in history.«

  With gentle force, John Paul III pushed Sheik Abdullah back into his seat.

  »You will not leave before you hear me out, Sheik Abdullah.«

  Obviously, the Sheik was so bewildered by the strength of the papal hands that he obeyed.

  »Please stay,« the Pope added in a more conciliatory voice and turned towards the Rabbi. »This is a strictly informal meeting; we have complete privacy. We have one hour and I am kindly asking you not to waste this hour with further mutual accusations. As far as I am concerned you can continue with that as soon as you have left the Vatican. But I doubt that you will be in the proper mood.«

  A mere assertion, but it hit home.

  »You are making me curious, Christian.«

  »Keep it brief,« was the Chief Rabbi’s cold retort.

  John Paul III gathered himself for a moment before he began. »First, I would like to ask you to keep this conversation confidential. I did not invite you to distinguish myself as a mediator between Islam and Judaism. We are sitting here as the representatives of the three Abrahamic religions. Our religions are based on the same roots, the Patriarch Abraham. We have much more in common than there is that separates us. I don’t need to give you a full picture of the global crisis that the world is experiencing today. I know that you suffer from powerlessness as much as I do; unable to do anything to stop the world from being on the brink of collapse from wars, climate change, and an inhumane economic system.«

  »Spare me the sermon, Christian.«

  »Yes, cut to the chase.«

  »The world needs faith. Faith and peace. And we are responsible for providing mankind with this peace.«

  »Big words, Christian.«

  »Cut to the chase. Or are you planning on holding one of your seminars?«

  »I am planning on establishing a new congregation for interfaith dialogue.«

  »How very honorable of you, Christian,« the Sheik mocked him, adding, »but we are already talking with you crusaders.«

  Chaim Kaplan greeted this remark with an annoyed sigh.

  »I do not mean bilateral talks. The new congregation will only be the first step. My goal is a general assembly of all world religions.«

  »This is absurd,« Kaplan called out. »I’d never have thought that you, of all people, would indulge in such romantic notions. The United Nations of Religions? Shmontses!«

  »Just for a change, I have to agree wit
h the Zionist, Christian. What is this? Another badly disguised attempt by the Catholic Church to proselytize the world? Come on, Christian, you want your exclusive salvation back. You want to run us down, destroy and extinguish us. You want power!«

  »No,« said the Pope, »the only thing I want is peace. If we want to prevent mankind from perishing – soon, very soon – we will have to stand united for the first time in the history of our religions and stand up to our mutual enemy.«

  »And who would that be, Christian?«

  »Yes, I am very eager to hear that, too,« said the Rabbi in a decidedly amused tone.

  John Paul III looked at the two men sitting before him. »Satan,« he said. »He is already on his way.«

  XXVII

  May 12, 2011, Rome

  This perpetual disappointment about life as it is. That old, familiar feeling.

  How appropriate.

  It would have taken only one further »treatment« and he would have confessed everything to them. The break-in and what he had found, the amulet and who had it now, the rolls of parchment and papyrus and what Don Luigi had already found out about them. Next time he would have talked. He had talked already. He had confessed to murdering Loretta only because he wanted to gain some time, only because he wanted to give them something that they would believe. He had even confessed that he planned to blow up St. Peter’s Basilica. For where was the difference between a vision and reality if there was a wet towel over your face and you were in the process of drowning?

  Next time he would have told them the rest, too.

  Peter had always imagined that persistent torture would result at some point in indifference, in the wish just to die. But this principle seemed not to apply to waterboarding. The panic and the fear had grown with every »treatment«, and with them grew the desperate wish to survive. Peter didn’t want to die. He wanted them to stop drowning him. And he was willing to do anything to make them stop. He was willing to betray every secret that had ever been confided to him, and to confirm any lie and any insinuation or imputation.

  Absolutely everything.

  Next time.

  But then Alessia Bertoni’s phone rang. She walked into one of the corners of the basement to get some privacy, and there she listened for a while and answered in a soft and upset voice.

  There is a problem. You are the problem.

  The relief over the unexpected delay.

  The frustration of not knowing what was happening on the other end of the telephone line.

  The fear of the towel. That horrific fear.

  Alessia Bertoni hung up and exchanged a few words with the two Americans, who were not particularly amused. Reluctantly, the shorter one of the two cut the duct tape that bound Peter to the chair, and pulled him to his feet.

  »What are you doing?«

  »Change of venue.«

  »Where are you taking me?«

  »Shut your hole.«

  Again, they pulled the hateful wet bag over his head and led him out of the room. After the repeated »treatments,« Peter was shaky on his feet. The muscles in his arms and legs were hurting from the spasms he had suffered during the waterboarding. One of the Americans held him on his left side, the other one on his right, and behind him he heard the clicking sounds of high heels. Peter was surprised that they hadn’t tied up his hands. This meant they wouldn’t be going far. Not a good prospect.

  The path led over a few narrow stairs and then through some kind of outdoor corridor. Peter could hear neither voices nor traffic noise and he assumed that they had been holding him somewhere in the outskirts of the city. A cool breeze. A door was opened in front of him. The clicking of the high heels moved past him, and he heard the creaking of a car door nearby. A sliding door.

  A van.

  This was his only chance.

  As his muscles tensed, his conscious mind stopped and he went on autopilot. His reflexes took over, motor skills that his body had learned years ago. Despite the fact that he had not used them since then, his body remembered each and every one of them.

  In one fluid movement, Peter bobbed his head to the left and broke the nose of the man next to him. Then he swung around and rammed his head into the face of the man on the other side, breaking his nose, too.

  The two men by his side gave loud groans and for a brief moment, Peter’s hands were free. But the men were CIA and well-trained. Despite their pain, they reacted immediately and grabbed him again. Peter, still blinded by the bag over his head, clutched the arm of the man to his right and then he spun around again, without letting go of the arm. He heard the dry snapping sound of the breaking bone and a muffled scream. At the same time he kicked the other man between the legs.

  »Don’t move!«

  Where is she?

  Peter expected her to be armed but – like everything else – this was not a conscious thought. He tore the bag from his head and crouched down, just as he was hit by a punch in the stomach that took his breath away.

  You’re too slow!

  Peter warded off the second blow and the third, and by now he had recovered his breath and delivered a sharp blow to the neck of the man in front of him. The agent slammed against the van and collapsed, gasping. From the corner of his eye, Peter saw that the second American was struggling to his feet again. Then he suddenly felt cold steel at the back of his head.

  »I said, don’t move!«

  Still no conscious thought in his mind. Yet Peter knew that she would not shoot. He was still of too much value to them for her simply to gun him down.

  So he spun around again and struck her in the face with his elbow. Simple rule: whether you’re an old man, a woman, a cripple or a child – if you hold a gun to my head, you are my enemy.

  The bullet hit the side of the car, right next to him. The sound of the blast reverberated in his ear and momentarily deafened him. But this was just one more thing that Peter barely noticed. He grabbed the woman and wrenched the gun out of her hand, and then he hit her again and pushed her away from him. By now, the second American was back on his feet and getting ready to attack him again. Peter grabbed the gun from the ground and aimed at him. The American froze.

  »You don’t have a hope.«

  »The key.«

  Slowly but surely, reality crept back into his consciousness and he began to notice details of his surroundings. An industrial area. A huge parking lot for trailers. Warehouses. An old brick building. A fence, bushes and a street. All badly lit. Peter saw that Alessia Bertoni and the man with the broken arm were struggling back to their feet, moaning. It was time to hit the road.

  »The key! … THE KEY!«

  »In my purse.«

  »You get it. And you two – over there!«

  None of the three reacted.

  Peter aimed at the man who was standing in front of him and shot him in the leg. Simple rule: If you try to drown me, you are my enemy. It was all quite straightforward.

  The American screamed out and fell to the ground.

  »You, over there, go! … The key, Alessia! Empty your purse.«

  The American with the broken arm crawled over to his colleague, while Alessia Bertoni emptied her purse on the ground and fished the car key out.

  »Leave it. Move back. Further. Stop!«

  Without leaving the agents out of his sight, Peter snatched the key and walked around the van. He expected backup to arrive any moment now and there was only a single access road to and from the parking lot.

  While still keeping the three in his sight, Peter started the car,

  »You don’t have a hope, Peter!« she shouted. »You’re a murderer. The whole country will go after you. The whole world!«

  »I am not a murderer,« Peter said, and then he stepped on the gas.

  »SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!«

  Peter was yelling and screaming as he pushed the pedal to the metal, driving through the barely lit street without having the slightest idea whether he was even still in Rome.

  »Fucking hell!«
/>
  The swearing was helpful. Cleared his head and swept away the last doubts that all this might have been just another of his migraine dreams. When he reached the first main road with traffic signs, he knew where he was. In Rome! He was still in Rome, in the Eternal City, in the city he loved. Peter knew that he had to get rid of the car as quickly as possible, but right now this was not an option. He threw a brief glance to his right. At the cold, black, deadly gun that lay on the passenger seat. Reflections of the golden light from the sodium streetlamps were glistening on its barrel. The last time he had shot a gun, someone had died. That person had been an enemy, because he had also shot at him. Simple rule, but what did it help? On that day, Peter had sworn to himself that he would never again touch a gun and that he would never kill again.

  Well, look how great that worked out.

  »What a fucking, fucking mess!«

  Peter slowed down – he didn’t want the police stopping him for speeding. He opened the glove compartment and found a cell phone. Probably with a secure line but they would, of course, be able to trace back whom he had called.

  Who gives a rat’s ass?

  »Peter, thank God! I’ve been trying for hours to reach you. Where are you?«

  »Up to my neck in trouble, Don Luigi. Where are you?«

  »In my car, on my way to the Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. I was attacked. By a woman. Peter, she took the documents.«

  Loretta!

  »What about the amulet? Have you heard from Maria?«

  »Where are you, Peter? Is everything all right with you?«

  »Where is Maria?«

  »I can’t reach her. By the time I was free again, she’d left me a message on my cell phone saying that she was on her way to this pilgrim church to meet with someone who is allegedly acting on my behalf. I am terribly worried.«

  »Shit! … Be careful, Padre! I know the church, I’m on my way.«

  He hung up and looked again at the evil black beast by his side. It was laughing at him. The gun knew what he didn’t want to know.