Artwork: © Dino Franke, Hajo Müller
E-Book-Production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-8387-1460-8
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.
Visit us at
www.apocalypsis.de
www.facebook.com/apocalypsis.de
LVII
May 15, 2011, Ile de Cuivre, Mediterranean Sea
You betrayed her. You sold her out. They will kill her and it will be your fault.
He could not think of anything else, as they unstrapped him to get him out of the room, and the thought filled his mind with the bitter disappointment of having failed. Peter could feel that the drug that Creutzfeldt had injected into his system was quickly wearing off. He could remember every little detail of the interrogation, the terrible fatigue and the overwhelming grief he had felt whenever he told a lie, and the clarity and purity of the truth. But this did not lessen his feelings of guilt about selling Maria out. He had told them everything. Absolutely everything. It had been so easy. So terribly easy.
You should have been stronger. Stronger!
Too late. Peter was sure that Maria’s murderer was already on his way to Montpellier. Another thought washed over him, blended with the feeling of guilt like an antidote against a deadly toxin.
What if you really are crazy? What if Maria and the amulet are just figments of your paranoia? Then everything would be fine. Accept that you are crazy and everything is fine. It is very simple.
But in the end, it was not that simple. Because Peter was unwilling to believe that Maria was nothing but a hallucination. Maria was real, and his guilt was real. He had kissed her. And he had sentenced her to death.
Peter was only dimly aware that the two male nurses were not taking him back to the hospital cell on the upper floor. Instead, they were below sea level. The air smelled of salt, seaweed and sewers. This helped Peter to regain his senses and he made out a dirty stone staircase under his feet. A wooden door opened onto a lightless room. An overwhelming stench oozed out of the room like a poisonous bubble. The two men pushed him forcefully into the cell and locked the door.
Silence. All Peter could hear was his gasping breath, the pounding of his heart, and the sound of the sea above him. The stink of feces hung in the air. Peter tried to breathe shallowly so that he would not throw up. Seeing anything was impossible in the darkness. It took him quite a while before he noticed that he was not alone in the cell.
This realization brought him immediately to his senses. Peter tried to see something in the darkness. But for the moment, he could only smell the pestilential odor of sewage. Then he heard soft shuffling and gasping sounds coming from the rear corner. As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he could make out a figure curled up in a ball, restlessly rocking back and forth.
»Hello?« Peter called into the darkness.
No answer, just the shuffling and gasping.
Peter wondered for a moment what he should do and then he began to crawl towards the figure in the corner. His hands touched something mushy, something putrid. He was overwhelmed with disgust. But he fought the urge to vomit and, cursing under his breath, he wiped his hands on the hospital gown he was wearing. Now he could clearly see the figure that was sitting in the corner, terribly afraid of Peter, trying to crawl away, mumbling.
»Hey, hello! My name is Peter Adam. Who are you?«
Why do you ask? You know the answer!
The figure crawled slowly to the side. Peter leapt at the naked man and knocked him to the ground. The man began to scream.
»Coraxo cahisa coremepe!« The man flailed around with his arms and legs.
Peter fended off the blows and tried to grab the man. Finally he managed to wrestle him down and twist one of his arms behind his back.
»Coraxo od belanusa!« The man began to whimper, as he lay prone under him, gibbering incomprehensible words. »Please not again, cahisa uirequo, beware, fair little flower! Ope copehanu. Mercy! Angel of the night, azodisa siatarisa, the black milk od salaberoxa faboanu, Amen!«
»Shut your trap, Kelly!« Peter screamed at the skinny naked man who was lying under him, and then he threw him violently onto his back so that he could look into his face. There was not the slightest doubt. Despite the darkness and the feces and blood smeared face, Peter recognized the Englishman. The man who had murdered Ellen.
»Please, not back into the hall, Micama!« Kelly stammered, trembling with fear. »Iisononu cahisa!«
Every single day since Ellen’s death, Peter had at some point imagined how it would be to kill Kelly. One day. One sweet day. He had prepared a little speech that he wanted to deliver before sending Kelly off to hell. Every day. Every frigging day. Until the hatred that he was feeling for Kelly had formed a scab, which became a natural part of the person Peter Adam, like an inoperable ulcer. Something that was now part of him, for better or worse, discharging its poisonous secretions day after day after day. Something that would kill him one day.
And now he had him. Kelly. The lousy jerk. He could knock his brains out, right here and now, on the stone floor that was covered with Kelly’s feces.
Peter was gasping for air. The hatred he was feeling for Kelly mixed with the guilt of having betrayed Maria.
»Iisononu basajime, Micama!« Kelly whimpered quietly, adding, »Vaunala cahisa, Master! Kill me. And yet! Death, come here – I do not fear you. Please, kill me. Vaunala cahisa.«
»You lousy little rat! Shut your trap!« Peter drove one of his knees into the chest of the emaciated Englishman to keep him on the ground. Then he grabbed Kelly’s head. Kelly just stared at Peter and went limp.
»Yes,« he said. »Kill me. Please!«
Peter tightened his grip around Kelly’s head and was ready to slam it against the stone floor. Again and again and again.
Do it! Why do you hesitate?
Good question.
Because it is too easy.
As easy as it was to sell out Maria. As easy as it was to make a deadly mistake. As easy as it was to walk into a trap.
Peter let go of Kelly’s head and he let go of Kelly. With a moaning cry of pain, Kelly crawled on all fours into the corner at the far end of the cell.
Peter forced himself to breathe calmly and think rationally. Not so easy when you were held prisoner in a stinking dungeon, while the residues of some unknown drug was still circulating through your body.
Kelly continued to moan and babble in his corner.
»Why didn’t you kill me, Micama? No one will be spared. No one will get away. Laraji same darolanu matorebe, many hundreds of thousands uncounted that only fall to the scythe. Oxiavala holado.«
»Do you know who I am?« Peter asked him.
For a moment, there was silence in the corner. Then:
»Peter Adam. Ohyo! Ohyo! Noibe Ohyo!«
»Why do you want me to kill you?«
»Oanio yore vohima, Saitan. Ool jizod-yazoda od eoresa cocasaji, Saitan.« He began to sing softly. »What today is yet green and fresh, will be cut down tomorrow: the noble narcissus, ornament of the field, many fair hyacinths, the Turkish posies…«
Peter crawled over to Kelly, who was so scared that he tried to back away immediately.
»Calm down. I just want to talk to you. Tell me why you want me to kill you.«
Kelly stared at him like a frightened animal.
»Soon he will begin to cut and we can only suffer,« he sang. And then he whispered, »Because there are things that are far worse than death, Peter. You know that. And we in the darkness, we need to see. Telocahe! Casaremanu hoel-qo.«
»How did you get here, Kelly?«
»Bajile madarida. You brought me here. You came during the night. You took me out of the desert. Bajile hoel-qo. Where are you, little sun? The night chased you away, the
night, the enemy of the day.«
Kelly wanted to get away from him but Peter held on to him.
»Was it on the night you murdered Ellen?«
Kelly gave a hoarse laugh and continued to sing his gloomy old songs. Peter began to shake him.
»I am warning you, Kelly!«
»Yes, kill me, Peter Adam! Vaunala cahisa! Save me. And if the last day turns into night, I will leave my valley of darkness.«
Peter pushed Kelly away from him. »For fuck’s sake!«
»I did not kill her, Micama faboanu.«
»What did you just say?«
»I did not kill her, Peter.« Suddenly he spoke clearly and distinctly. In the voice that was familiar to Peter. In the voice of the self-assured Kelly whom Peter had met in Turkmenistan.
»If you didn’t do it, who did?« Peter asked, gasping.
»You did. Casaremanu hoel-qo. I saw you, Peter. She screamed so badly. Odo cicale Qaa! She begged you for mercy, cahisa afefa, rain from the clouds, kissing the green grass.«
»SHUT UP!« Peter yelled and tried to kick Kelly, who managed to get out of his way. He needed a while to calm down. It was obvious that Kelly was completely insane. But perhaps he was still lucid enough to give him some answers.
»If this were true, why would I have spared you?«
»Because they need me.«
»Who the hell are they?«
»Why do you ask? You know the answer, Peter. Vonupehe doalime. The Light-Bearers. Noco Mada, hoathahe Saitan! Hoathahe Seth.«
»I have no idea what you are talking about. The Light-Bearers? Are they the people who are holding us prisoners here? What do they want from you and me?«
Once again, Kelly became frightened and curled up in a ball, babbling under his breath. »You know it, you know it, you know it. Beware, fair little flower!«
Peter began to shake him. »Stop the shit, Kelly! I’m not in the mood for your little games. Who are these Light-Bearers?«
Abruptly, Kelly sat up and started sniffing as if he were picking up a scent.
»What now?«
»Shhh!« Kelly hushed Peter with a wave of his hand. »Micama dodasa. He is coming.«
Kelly’s entire body began to shake.
»Who is coming? Damn it, Kelly, tell me who the fuck is coming.«
»Wearily Electors!« Kelly replied, trembling from head to toe. »Oh, Wearily Electors! Ohyo Micama, ineffable Caosagonu!«
»What are you babbling, Kelly? Wearily Electors? What kind of English is that? You mean ›Weary Electors‹.«
»Wearily Electors!« he insisted and said each syllable with the same force.
»Well, whatever. What is this supposed to mean? Tired Princes? What does that mean?«
»He is coming!«
»Who?«
But Kelly was no longer responsive. He was just whimpering and humming under his breath. Peter held the skinny Englishman in the darkness and dirt of the cell until he calmed down and the haze lifted from his eyes.
»Who is coming, Kelly? Who are these people?«
»You should – shhh, shhh – get off this cursed yolaci if you want to live, Peter Adam.«
»Do you know a way to get off the island?«
Kelly nodded.
Peter became suspicious. »If that is the truth, why are you still here?« he asked. »Why haven’t you fled?«
»Baeouibe od emetajisa laiadix. There is a reaper who is called Death. Today he whets his knife so that it will cut much better. I am too weak to do it. It is caosaji. Dangerous. Shhh, shhh.«
»Show me the way, Kelly.«
»You have to ataraahe dooainu aai. Do something for me. Hoathahe Saitan! Everything comes at a price in life.«
»What do you want me to do?«
Kelly moved closer to Peter, so close that Peter could smell his foul breath.
»Kill me!«
LVIII
ONE YEAR EARLIER …
June 26, 2010, Via Palermo, Rome
As a child I often wondered what miracles life might hold for me, but I never thought the day would come that a Pope would make me a cup of tea.«
The man in the black suit watched in amazement as John Paul III poured hot, but no longer boiling, water into a small porcelain pot.
»You see!« replied a cheerful John Paul III. »When it comes to miracles, we are still the go-to guys!«
A weak scent of Green Sencha Tea wafted through the tidy kitchen. The man in the black suit looked around. His eyes seemed to be constantly on the move, scanning and scrutinizing everything around him. He was significantly shorter than the Pope and looked almost frail next to the German man. But John Paul III knew that this impression was deceptive.
»A beautiful apartment. Do you come here often?«
»Unfortunately, not often enough. A Pope does not have a personal life. But every now and then I allow myself these little escapes into normality. Even though it is just an illusion.«
»We all need our little illusions,« his guest replied diplomatically. »As long as we don’t allow them to deceive us.«
»And what are your favorite illusions?« asked John Paul III.
The Japanese man in the black suit gave him a thin smile. »That a man like me can have friends.«
The Pope gave the Japanese man an earnest look. »A sincere man is never without friends.«
»How can you tell whether I am sincere or not?«
»I can’t. I am just beginning to find out.«
The Pope carried the tray with the teapot and the cups into the living room of his small, secret apartment on Via Palermo and offered his guest a seat. One week earlier, the office of Takeru Nakashima had unexpectedly asked for a private audience with the Pope. Usually, the office of the Pope declined such requests with a polite letter because at the beginning of his papacy, John Paul III had made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of granting every politician’s or industrialist’s request for a private audience, no matter how powerful or rich they were.
However, Nakashima’s request had caught his attention. He had already himself considered contacting the Japanese billionaire, who was so publicity-shy that there was no current photo and nothing was known about his personal life. All John Paul III knew about the Japanese man was that he was around the same age as him. Like Laurenz, Nakashima came from a humble family background and, with intelligence and the willingness to lead, he had become a billionaire. His company, Nakashima Industries, produced steel, built cars, developed high-tech systems and pharmaceutical products. In addition to this, a few years ago he had founded the Nakashima Group, a company that was involved in international finances and owned high-class properties and luxury hotels all over the world. Even though Takeru Nakashima was »only« number eleven on the list of the wealthiest people in the world, with estimated assets of about 25 billion dollars, he had the reputation of being enormously aggressive and hungry to increase his fortune. And he was known to be a decided atheist. A declared enemy of all world religions. His company built nondenominational schools and universities in developing countries and financed numerous international foundations that all had the same goal: to convince mankind of the fact that all religions were not only redundant but,as Nakashima believed, also the source of great danger.
If this man asked for a private audience with the Pope which, according to the request, was just because he was in Rome for business, then it was definitely not because he wanted to kiss the Ring of the Fisherman. Officially, John Paul III had informed Nakashima’s office that a private audience was not possible for scheduling reasons. At the same time, he had personally called Nakashima and invited him to a private meeting on Via Palermo.
And now this man, who hated nothing more than religion, was sitting in the secret private apartment of the head of the Catholic Church, sipping his cup of green tea politely. His driver and his bodyguard were downstairs in the backyard with Mario, who had, as usual, driven the Pope to Via Palermo in his old Alfa.
Takeru Nakashima. A short a
nd friendly man with a gray crew cut. But John Paul III would not allow himself to be deceived by the unimpressive appearance of his guest, because the attitude of the man exuded strength and determination. His eyes registered everything and he always held eye contact. He had hard and fearless eyes. But while John Paul III had been preparing the tea, he had detected a spark of curiosity in these eyes that had given him hope.
»The tea is excellent,« Nakashima said. »Have you ever been to Japan?«
»I don’t mean to be impolite,« John Paul III replied, »but I have only very limited time for these private moments.«
»I understand. You need to be back in your palatial prison before your entourage notices you are gone.«
»Exactly. So I would suggest, considering we are both men of the same age who don’t need to blow smoke, that we cut right to the chase. Nakashima San, what do you want from me?«
The Japanese man placed his teacup back on the table and looked at the Pope with hard eyes.
»I want to help you. You, the Church, the Vatican.«
No answer could have surprised John Paul III more.
»You want to help us? How?«
Nakashima cleared his throat.
»As you probably know, I am an atheist by conviction. I truly am. I believe neither in God nor in any kind of creation, neither in karma nor in reincarnation. Religion has never meant anything to me. On the contrary, in my opinion, religion is one of the greatest dangers to mankind. An ancient virus humanity has been suffering from for millennia and that will one day destroy it.«
»But isn’t this a dangerously self-aggrandizing attitude? To presume that the entire world is suffering from a virus except you and a few others?«
»Maybe. But we all have our convictions and need to stand up for them.«
»And what kind of convictions are we talking about? What do you believe in, Nakashima San?«
»Wealth,« was the billionaire’s plain answer, as he took another sip from his tea. »I believe in wealth. Wealth means health and security. And that is what people really want. Happiness. Without wealth, there is no happiness.«
Apocalypsis I Page 32
