Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  »Ready for what?« Laurenz asked.

  Sophia shrugged her shoulders. »You tell me. So far, I haven’t asked any questions. About two weeks ago you called to tell me you were resigning and that the two of us would have to disappear for a while. You told me not to ask any questions. You said it would only be for a short while and that you had arranged everything so that we would soon be back to the way things were. Of course, I believed you. But I did not ask any questions. I went with you to Sicily and then I came with you to this island. And now the two of us are sitting here like a retired couple on their first vacation in forty years, and I have changed my mind. Now I will ask you a couple of questions.«

  Laurenz sighed and took another sip of the spicy tea.

  »I don’t know how long we’ll be staying here, Sophia. It’s not up to me. Right now, I don’t see us as prisoners on this island. We are simply safe here.«

  »What is going on in Rome?«

  »I don’t know. All connections have been cut. I can only hope that Don Luigi stays on top of things and draws the right conclusions. But even if I were able to get in touch with him, it would be best for him not to know where I am. As long as we don’t know exactly what Seth’s plans are, we have to be careful.«

  »I must admit that this does not sound like the apocalyptic battle that you once talked about. And, Franz Laurenz, I am sorry that I have to say this, it doesn’t sound like you either.«

  »I know. But that’s where things stand. Right now, we can’t do anything. Let’s just wait for the news that our host will bring us tomorrow.«

  »Franz, how can you be so calm after everything that’s happened?«

  »I pray, Sophia, I pray. I pray to the Lord that the secret is still safe. As long as the amulet and the documents remain untouched in their hiding place, there is hope. The amulet and the documents are my only chance to avert the apocalypse. If they fall into Seth’s hands, everything will be lost.«

  XLII

  May 13, 2011, Avignon

  On their way back from the bistro to the guesthouse, she linked arms with him.

  »And if people see us?« Peter asked, surprised and at the same time delighted.

  »I couldn’t care less,« she replied, »I’m a little bit tipsy. So if you don’t hold me, I might fall.«

  If you fall, Maria, I will catch you.

  »Tell me about your first boyfriend.«

  »I said I’m tipsy, not reeling drunk, okay? No reason, Peter Adam, to be chummy with me.«

  Only when they reached the entrance to the guesthouse did she let go of him. The suspicious guesthouse owner did not show her face. Peter walked Maria to the door of her room and handed her the room key.

  »Good night, Maria.«

  »Good night, Peter Adam.«

  Again, he resisted the impulse to kiss her. He turned away, more abruptly than he wanted, and walked to his room at the other end of the hallway. Behind him, he could hear her unlocking the door and closing it gently behind her.

  And then he heard her scream.

  Peter spun around and in a few strides he was back at the door to Maria’s room. As he stormed into the small room, he saw several different things at once: the drawer of the desk that had been broken open; the parchment and a pistol that were lying on the floor; the man in the black priest’s suit with the ski mask over his face who was squirming in pain at Maria’s feet, moaning and holding his lower abdomen. Without thinking, Peter yanked Maria out of the room, with so much force that she stumbled and slammed against the wall of the hallway.

  »I kicked him!« she screamed, obviously in a state of shock. »I kicked him!«

  Peter paid no mind to her and threw himself on top of the man, who was reaching for his gun. Peter tried to kick the gun out of the way but the man was quicker, despite his obvious pain. He rolled over and fired. Peter heard the gunshot and felt the draft of the bullet just an inch away from his head. Without giving it any thought, he grabbed the arm with the gun and jerked it violently away from him. The man fired again but this time, the bullet hit the ceiling. The man with the ski mask kicked him in the leg while Peter, still holding the man’s arm, tried to throw him against the desk. But the man was well trained. He stopped Peter with a punch to the liver that took his breath away. Nonetheless, Peter was still gripping the arm with the gun, squeezing it, and then he threw himself with his entire body against the masked priest. They both fell to the ground, right in front of the small bed. The priest fired a third bullet. Peter smashed his elbow into the man’s face and he gave a loud groan, but did not let go of the gun. And so they lay in front of Maria’s bed, wedged together and flailing at each other, both of them with just one arm.

  But finally the man with the ski mask managed to kick Peter away. Instinctively, Peter rolled over and waited for the next gunshot. He saw the man bending over him and aiming the gun at him. Peter recognized the gun type and thought of Maria. Other than that he did not think at all; he just waited for the great darkness.

  Instead, the priest with the ski mask delivered a violent kick into Peter’s belly.

  »Cretino!« the priest gasped, grabbing the parchment and bolting out into the hallway. Peter reached for the amulet that was still lying next to him on the floor.

  »MARIA!«

  He struggled to stand up and staggered out of the room. He was relieved to see that Maria was still standing with her back against the wall, pale but unharmed.

  »Hold this and stay put!« he barked at her and then he thrust the amulet into her hand and ran after the masked priest.

  Where is the guesthouse owner? Why isn’t anyone here?

  Peter stormed out of the building and into the street. He paused briefly to get his bearings and then saw the priest running up the narrow alleyway. As he was running, the priest tore the mask from his face and threw it away. A few passersby gazed after him in surprise. Even though he was well aware that the man was still armed, Peter began to pursue him.

  But then he saw the car. A dark Mercedes, driving through the narrow alleyway, straight towards the priest and at full throttle. The passersby panicked and ducked into the doorways along the alley. However, one woman was hit and thrown over the hood. Without braking, the car continued to bear down on the priest. Peter saw the priest stop for a moment, looking for a way out. This was the point at which the Mercedes hit him with a hideous thud. The priest was hurled through the air and slammed onto the pavement, where he lay motionless. Peter saw a man getting out of the car. A machete in his hand, he rammed it into the priest’s head. Without paying any attention to the screams of the pedestrians, he pulled the parchment out of the priest’s hand, got back into his car and drove off.

  »That’s the man from the church!« Maria screamed behind Peter. He spun around and saw Maria standing in the middle of the alley.

  »Maria, get out of there!«

  Peter bolted towards her as he heard the roaring engine behind him.

  Sixty feet. Forty-five. Thirty.

  The Mercedes picked up speed.

  Peter reached Maria shortly before the Mercedes reached him. Running at full tilt, he threw himself against Maria and threw her into the next doorway. At the same moment, he felt the sharp pain of the side mirror hitting his hip.

  The car drove on without stopping. Maria screamed.

  Peter took no notice of her, but kept his eyes on the car that continued to speed through the alley before it slammed into a concrete bollard, which narrowed the alley exit.

  A French license plate!

  The car’s brake lights flashed. The Mercedes was stuck, and Peter saw the driver trying to reverse the vehicle.

  »Do you have the amulet?« Peter yelled at Maria.

  »Yes. Why…«

  »Come on, let’s go!« He pulled her out of the doorway and started running up the alley.

  »What are you doing?« she screamed, trying to free herself from his grasp. But Peter held her in an iron grip and continued to run towards the end of the alley where
the rented Peugeot was parked. Time and again, he looked back at the Mercedes, which had reversed by now but would still not fit through the narrow gap between house wall and bollard.

  Peter removed the car keys from his pocket, threw Maria into the passenger seat, and ran round to the other side of the Peugeot.

  »Put on your seat belt!« he yelled at Maria, as he started the car, and then he raced, like the Mercedes had done before, at full speed through the now deserted alleyway, past the injured woman and past the murdered priest.

  »Who is that man?« Maria screamed.

  »I have no idea«, Peter gasped. He saw that the Mercedes had finally managed to get through the narrow gap, scraping both sides of the vehicle. With one look, Peter checked how much gas they had and hoped that the half tank and the engine power of the Peugeot would be sufficient for a chase.

  »What do you intend to do?«

  »I want to get the parchment back. And I want to finally know what the fuck is going on here!«

  Peter followed the Mercedes as it turned into the main street, skidding and with screeching tires, and drove through a red light.

  »This man is a killer, Peter!«

  »Exactly!« Peter stepped on the gas. »But as long as he is on the loose, the rest of the world thinks that I am the killer. And I am sick and tired of that.«

  The driver of the Mercedes in front of them slowed down a bit and weaved his way through the nighttime traffic of Avignon. It was not difficult for Peter to keep the car in view, but he had to make sure that he made it through all the traffic lights and intersections with the Mercedes.

  The Mercedes, with the machete killer inside, followed the signs to the southbound freeway A9. The car was still on the slip road when the driver hit the gas pedal again. It was hard for Peter to hang-on.

  »Do you think he knows we are following him?« Maria asked from the passenger seat.

  Peter did not answer, that question did not concern him. Right now, the only thing that mattered to him was not to lose the car in the darkness.

  After a drive of just under thirty minutes, the Mercedes left the A9 at the exit Montpellier-East and followed the signs to the airport. Peter stayed a safe distance behind the car, driving past the palm-tree-lined roads around the General Aviation Terminal enclosure, when all of a sudden a fuel tanker pulled out of a side street in front of them, forcing Peter to slam on the brakes. Peter cursed and swore, as he lost sight of the Mercedes. When he finally got past the fuel tanker, his tires screeching, he saw the Mercedes enter the airport area through a side gate. The sliding gate was already closing again. Cursing and swearing, Peter tried to push the engine of the little Peugeot to the limit.

  »Don’t Peter, don’t!« Maria screamed.

  He practically had to stand with both feet on the brake to stop the car slamming into the sliding gate as it closed.

  »Fuck!«

  He jumped out of the car and ran to the gate. He saw the Mercedes disappear behind a hangar, in front of which was a helicopter with its blades turning and navigation lights flashing. Only seconds later, Peter saw a figure rush towards the helicopter, head ducked, and board it. At almost that exact moment, the helicopter lifted off the ground and air-taxied over the tarmac to the Take-Off-Point, where it rose into the night.

  Peter was so frustrated that he kicked the sliding gate with his feet, without paying any attention to the two security cameras that were installed at both sides.

  »Well, to answer the question you asked a little while ago,« he said when he noticed that Maria was standing next to him, »yes, I think that he knew we were following him.«

  »Where do you think he is going?« Maria asked as she stared into the night sky, where the navigation lights of the helicopter were being swallowed up by the darkness.

  »To the Island of the Light, I guess. Wherever that may be.«

  XLIII

  May 14, 2011, Apostolic Palace, Vatican City

  Urs Bühler had stomach problems, again. An old ailment that he had picked up in Sudan, the result of a Malarial infection. Ever since, he had stayed away from coffee and fatty food and had gone through the hell of giving up smoking. These were only three of the things that kept his mood at a persistently aggressive level. Add to this the stomach cramps that robbed him of his sleep and he became downright unbearable. His guards had learned to see the signs and tried to avoid him when they saw him popping those yellow pills.

  This morning, Bühler had already taken two yellow pills and the second one had done the job. Now he felt able to report to Menendez.

  When Bühler arrived in the Apostolic Palace, the Cardinal didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. »We have a problem,« he said. »Last night, Peter Adam killed an Opus Dei numerary in Avignon.«

  And there were three other things that made Bühler’s stomach revolt: Peter Adam, death, Opus Dei.

  »Why in Avignon?« Bühler seethed through his teeth and slumped into one of the armchairs in front of Menendez’s mahogany desk, without being invited to do so. »What kind of shit has been going on there?«

  Menendez remained seated behind his desk and told Bühler in a few words that the Opus Dei – thanks to its network of interconnections, had been successful in locating Peter Adam in Avignon, where he was in the company of a nun. A specially trained numerary had received the order to secure evidence secretly, keep the two under surveillance, and hand them over to the French authorities, all the while making sure that Opus Dei stayed out of the picture.

  »And then the plan went down the crapper,« Bühler interrupted the Cardinal. »Did the agencies know about this operation?«

  »Not directly. There was an internal agreement that we would be in charge.«

  Bühler cursed under his breath.

  »What did you just say, Colonel?«

  »You screwed it up, Menendez. Your numerary guys are imbeciles. Why wasn’t I informed earlier about this? Ugh, forget it, let’s cut the crap: where is Peter Adam now?«

  »We are working on that. As soon as we find something out, I will let you know. Then you will get your chance. Get prepared and be ready.«

  You can kiss my ass, Bühler thought. Then he popped another two yellow ones and began to think.

  »I am listening, Colonel,« the Cardinal interrupted his thoughts.

  »This whole thing doesn’t really paint a clear picture,« Bühler said. »There are too many players in the game, too many variables that don’t fit. If Peter Adam really is a murderer and a terrorist, then where is his operative network?«

  »The agencies are working on that.«

  »Damn it, Cardinal, spare me the nonsense of the agencies. They know less than we do and are just groping in the dark.«

  Menendez listened up. »Are you telling me that we have new information?«

  Bühler snarled an obscenity and then he gave the Cardinal a brief report about his investigation in Suite 306 and the dead body of the young doctoral student.

  »I can’t quite see the connection, Colonel.«

  »I can’t see it either. And I hate that. I also hate it when people withhold information from me. I hate it when some pissy Carabinieri guys treat me as if I were an idiot. So I did some research on my own about this investment bank that secured the long-term rental of Suite 306.«

  Menendez looked at his watch.

  »Look, Cardinal, either you listen to me now, or I cannot guarantee your safety or the safety of the conclave.«

  »Please continue, Colonel.«

  »This investment consortium by the name of PRIOR Financial Services has its headquarters in Kathmandu and is part of a widespread network of international subsidiaries and holdings. Among other things, they own shares in a private security firm by the name of LIGHTSWORD, which specializes in sending protection forces into conflict zones. However, the deeper I dug in my research, the less tangible the entire business became. I couldn’t reach anyone over the phone. Anywhere.«

  »Are there any connections between PRIOR and Peter Adam
?«

  Bühler shook his head. »That’s the point. But there was another name that kept popping up: Aleister Crowley.«

  Bühler saw Menendez wince at the mention of this name.

  »He seems to be some kind of chairman of this web of companies. Do you know him, Cardinal?«

  Menendez got himself back under control. »No. Who is he?«

  »Well, this man seems to be a phantom, pretty much like his network of companies. No pictures, no biography; nothing. Well, almost nothing.«

  Bühler grinned at Menendez and enjoyed the sight of the Cardinal, who was squeezing the golden fountain pen in his hand hard enough to snap it in half.

  »Please, Colonel! I have appointments to keep.«

  »He is registered with the Commercial Registry of Rome as the chief executive of a mining company by the name of Fratec. Last week, this mining company conducted digging and drilling operations inside the Necropolis. But Fratec is a letterbox company, which also belongs to the PRIOR group.«

  »Is that all?«

  Bühler gave the Cardinal a piercing look, searching for the slightest reaction or emotion. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

  »No. Due to the fact that, as you know, my investigations do not have the support of the Italian Police or the agencies, I had to activate different channels. A friend of mine, or rather, an old comrade, happens to work as a consultant for LIGHTSWORD. Do you remember? The security firm, which is partly owned by PRIOR. You would expect them to be in a line of work where everything is classified information, but lo and behold, my old comrade found something. It was a shot in the dark, so to speak. The name Aleister Crowley appears in the member list of an organization which usually places great emphasis on secrecy and discretion.«

  »Let's dispense with the preliminaries, Colonel. Which organization?«

  Bühler grabbed at his stomach and stared into the Cardinal’s face.