Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  Unnoticed by the hustle and bustle of Rome by night and the River Tiber that flowed lazily by, a duel to the death was raging on the rooftop of the Castel Sant’Angelo. The two men were focused and fierce as they struck each other with their swords. It wasn’t long before they both began to gasp for air and sweat profusely. Laurenz’s sword arm started to feel as if it had been torn out of its socket. Yet neither of them relented. They remained tough and focused because they both knew that the slightest mistake could be deadly. Laurenz parried every blow, made Seth run and twist and turn and used the momentum of every failed blow to launch his own attacks. The gasping sounds of their breaths filled the night and the warm air whimpered with every blow as their blades spat out sparks into the night sky. Until suddenly, the two men stood motionless in front of each other after a series of fierce blows – face to face, blade to blade – and Laurenz decided that it was now time for some dirty little tricks. One of the things that he had learned in the streets of Duisburg.

  He spat into Seth’s face.

  This unexpected and childish attack took Seth by complete surprise. For a split second, Laurenz could feel that the pressure of the katana weakened. He shoved the man in the white habit away from him and pulled the saif in a diagonal motion from the upper left to the lower right. The blade split Seth’s face, took the sight from his right eye, mangled his nose, shredded his mouth, and gave Laurenz proof that he was still dealing with a human being, a creature of God, condemned to suffering and mortality. Seth let out a scream and his blood splattered over Laurenz’s habit. Yet he tried to parry Laurenz’s next blow. To no avail. With all his might, Laurenz delivered another blow and slammed the katana out of his opponent’s hand. Seth stumbled backwards against the stone parapet of the terrace. Laurenz was standing before him, gasping, the scimitar raised above his head.

  Seth was blind with rage and pain. »Now you have to kill me, Laurenz,« he grunted.

  »I know.«

  »But you can’t do it.«

  Laurenz was still holding the saif above his head, ready to strike. »It doesn’t matter. It’s over, Seth. Where are the bombs?«

  Seth straightened himself and then he hissed into Laurenz’s face, »You are doomed! I am the pain and the hatred. I am the light. Hoathahe Saitan!«

  Laurenz raised his arm higher to deliver the deadly blow.

  »May the Lord have mercy on your soul.«

  But as his saif came down, Laurenz saw that Seth was bending his mutilated body in weird contortions and then, with a last exertion of will, he rolled himself over the parapet. Before he could kill him with a final blow, Seth had thrown himself from the Castel Sant’Angelo, down into the night where the River Tiber was glistening. No scream. No sound of impact. Seth returned whence he had come, the endless night.

  Laurenz sank to his knees, weak and tired, and prayed to his God for forgiveness and salvation. He prayed for the soul of the man he had killed and he prayed for his own soul. He prayed until he was hit by a beam of light from above that mingled with the roar of rotor blades. Laurenz looked up into the blazing light and recognized the silhouette of a helicopter soaring above him, right next to the statue of the Archangel Michael.

  »Don’t move!« yelled a very earthly voice from above that was coming from a loudspeaker. »Put the sword down! You are under arrest!«

  XCI

  May 18, 2011, Necropolis, Vatican City

  How long have you been chasing after him?

  Peter had no idea. He had been running for so long that he had lost all sense of time and orientation and could no longer believe that there was still another world above him. Yet he continued to stumble through the darkness, following the sound of the footsteps and the heavy breathing of a figure he never managed to catch. It was like a nightmare that would never end. Endless winding pathways and steep staircases leading deeper and deeper into the earth. Deeper and deeper.

  But he kept running, following the footsteps of his brother, who was carrying the seventh vial with him. He kept staggering through the nightmare of his life, stumbling through the web of his helplessness and the undergrowth of his memories, which had only become denser during the last weeks, more opaque with every discovery, almost impenetrable. Every answer was like the head of a monstrous and invincible Lernaean Hydra, always growing new questions. So one might as well walk on. Stagger. Stumble. Run. Walk. Keep walking.

  Keep walking. Keep. Walking.

  Straight into the trap.

  For one fatal moment, Peter did not notice that he could no longer hear Nikolas’s footsteps. He just kept running, straight ahead, without realizing that there were suddenly bars beside him. When he stormed into the small crypt and dashed against the wall, it was already too late. There was a metallic sound. Peter spun around and fired blindly into the dark. And in the brief illumination of the muzzle flash he saw bars being slammed shut in front of him. A lock snapped closed. Peter fired again but the shell got stuck in the barrel. He hurled himself against the gate and began to shake the iron bars. No chance.

  »Nikolas!« he screamed into the darkness. »NIKOLAS!«

  No answer. Just a hoarse coughing. Peter fought against the panic that was choking him.

  »It’s all over, Peter.« His brother’s voice sounded strained.

  »Why, Nikolas? Why the Church?«

  »Much greater things are at stake, Peter.«

  »What things?«

  Nikolas did not answer. Peter could see his hunched figure behind the gate.

  »There is a way, Nikolas. Let us walk out of here. Together.«

  He heard his brother chuckle. »How naïve you are, my brother. You disappoint me. Why did you have to follow me? I had saved you. Twice.«

  »You buried me alive!«

  »But together with the light. And the light deactivated the virus. I healed you, brother.«

  »Do you expect me to thank you for that?«

  Nikolas did not answer him. Peter could hear a soft moaning. It seemed as if Bühler’s bullet had done more damage than they had thought.

  »Our mother was beautiful, wasn’t she?«

  »Yes, she was, Nikolas. She wanted to protect us, till the very end. Do you remember her now?«

  »I need to go now, Peter.«

  Stop him! Don’t let him go!

  »Where is the seventh bomb, Nikolas? Talk to me!«

  Again, that hoarse chuckle. »You still haven’t figured it out?« he asked.

  »Where is it, damned?«

  »You are the seventh bomb, Peter! The backup, just in case something goes wrong. And now you are exactly where you are supposed to be.«

  The panic turned into a wild animal mangling his guts.

  »What do you mean, I am the bomb?«

  »Take a look at your left hand.«

  Peter inspected the palm of his hand. And it was only then that he noticed it.

  Shit!

  A weak reddish glow, barely noticeable even in the darkness of his dungeon. A subtle reddish shimmer in the middle of his palm, like a glowing stigma.

  »Fuck! Damn it! How did you do that?«

  »They implanted it on the Ile de Cuivre.« Nikolas’s voice sounded exhausted.

  »Why wasn’t I aware of this? Why wasn’t there any pain? Where is the incision? Where are the fucking sutures?«

  »We have better techniques. It is just a small vial. But it will serve its purpose. The light has already activated the Red Mercury. You can no longer stop the reaction. A few hours from now, it will all be over. Hoathahe Saitan!«

  Peter could hear Nikolas staggering to his feet, moaning. His footsteps slowly fading in the distance.

  NO! No, no, no!

  »DON’T LEAVE!« Peter screamed into the dark. »Nikolas! Stay! Please, stay with me!«

  But Nikolas disappeared. Disappeared from his life without a word, without saying farewell. Left him behind like a gift that had become worthless. As the silence descended upon Peter, the darkness around him turned into blackness. The on
ly thing that Peter could see was a weak reddish glow in the palm of his hand.

  * * *

  From: c.kaplan@hekhalshelomo.il

  To: o.madar@gov.il

  May 19, 2011 7:03:11 GMT+02:00

  Re.: Laurenz

  Prime Minister,

  I need to ask you again for your assistance and support. It has just come to my attention that Franz Laurenz was arrested by the Italian authorities. They are currently interrogating him. Needless to add what consequences this might have in the aftermath of operation »Temple.«

  C.K.

  Chaim Kaplan

  Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem ABD

  Hekhal Shelomo

  85 King George St. POB 2479

  Jerusalem 91087

  Israel

  * * *

  * * *

  From: alhusseini@pcirf.sa

  To: c.kaplan@hekhalshelomo.il

  May 19, 2011 8:29:43 GMT+03:00

  Re.: Re: Laurenz

  Damn it, Jew, then DO something!

  Sheik Abdullah ibn Abd al Husseini

  The Permanent Committee for Islamic Research and Fataawa

  Makkah Al-Mukarramah

  PO Box 8072

  Saudi-Arabia

  * * *

  XCII

  May 19, 2011, Vatican City

  In a single day, Rome had changed. The skies stretched over the seven hills were still as blue as they had been the day before, the air was still as warm, and the River Tiber was still flowing in its bed, as usual, unperturbed and lazy. But this day started out with a silence that had never been there before. There was hardly any traffic in the streets. As if the Eternal City had sensed that its days were finally numbered and that it was about to fall. The weight of a nameless and unnatural burden was bearing down on the people who made their way along the Via della Conciliazione to St. Peter’s Square to pray and wait for the next fumata. As if they knew that the day had come which would bring all prophecies to fulfillment. An oppressive silence hovered over St. Peter’s Square. Even the ever-present television teams seemed less busy than usual, as they pointed their cameras at the Sistine Chapel and limited their comments to brief and hushed statements for their offices at home. Nobody had a name for it, but they all shared the same trepidation that cast a dark shadow over everybody’s soul.

  While Franz Laurenz, Urs Bühler, and a young Clemens Sister by the name of Maria were still being interrogated by the Italian Police, the cardinals in St. Martha’s House were discussing the mysterious disappearance of Cardinal Menendez. In the morning, the Cardinal had not shown up for breakfast. They had knocked on his door several times, and when they finally brought themselves to open his suite, all they found was an untouched bed. Nobody had seen when and how the Cardinal had left the guesthouse during the night, nor did anyone know where he was. There was no letter, no explanation, no trace. And the specialist unit of the Roman Gendarmerie could not find any evidence that pointed to a kidnapping. The Cardinal’s clothes were hanging neatly in the closet and Menendez himself seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  At the same time, the most unsettling rumors began to seep into the guesthouse. One rumor was that the Commander of the Swiss Guards had been arrested the previous night, in a hospital. And that Franz Laurenz, the abdicated Pope, had also been arrested. The rumors soon grew into wild speculations about murder and conspiracies. Many of the men in scarlet were praying, some of them were even crying.

  »We have to suspend the conclave until these matters are resolved,« demanded Cardinal Molohan from Dublin in a thundering voice, only further inflaming the situation.

  »No!« shouted Cardinal Alberti, who thought that the moment of his life had come. »We are gathered before God to elect a new pope. And that is exactly what we are going to do. Why do we have the conclave? So that we can make our choice before God and only before God, unfazed by the hustle and bustle of the outside world. In the history of the Church, many conclaves have been held in times of war and conspiracy. It is our holy duty to bring this election to an end. By continuing with the conclave we are sending a message to all believers across the globe: we are strong! Our Church is strong!«

  His unusually imperious speech did not fail to have the desired effect. The cardinals fell silent in agreement.

  »Let us pray!« Cardinal Alberti called out. And now he was sure that he would win the next ballot.

  Shortly afterwards, the now 117 Cardinals made their way from the Casa di Santa Marta to the Sistine Chapel to continue with the election of their new pope. Each and every one of them felt the same trepidation in his heart, the exact same nameless despondency that had taken hold of the people in St. Peter’s Square. However, none of the cardinals had any idea that their fates and the fate of the Church were not being decided in the Sistine Chapel but underneath it, right now, at that very moment, deep inside the bowels of the Vatican, in the cursed place that a man by the name of Peter had discovered 2000 years previously before sealing it for all eternity with a blue amulet.

  »Peter! Peter, where are you?«

  The voice shook him out of the apathy that had been holding him in its iron grasp for hours, squeezing the last energy out of him, wiping out his last spark of hope.

  Peter Adam struggled to stand up from the crouched position in which he had spent the last hours, waiting for the end. He listened into the darkness.

  »Peter!«

  A second voice. Closer now. Familiar.

  Maria. Don’t come closer, Maria.

  It took him a while until the realization trickled into his mind that these voices were not another hallucination, that they were not just new figments of his overwrought imagination. These voices were real; they were palpable. And they were coming closer.

  »Peter? Are you there?«

  »I am here!« His voice was nothing but a squeak. Peter swallowed violently to gather the last saliva he could produce and then he cleared his throat and screamed as loudly as he could.

  »I AM HERE! HERE! HERE!«

  Hasty footsteps. And then – then she was standing in front of the gate. A beautiful and fragrant shadow, a glimmer of hope amidst the greatest bewilderment.

  »Maria!« Peter stammered her name as he reached his hand through the bars to touch her. Only when she grabbed his hand did he believe that she was real.

  Someone was rattling at the iron bars. This was when Peter saw Laurenz standing next to Maria.

  »Where… have you been?« Peter croaked.

  »Unfortunately, we were detained. Without my friends in Jerusalem and Mecca, we would not be here. Did Nikolas lock you up in there?«

  Peter croaked something else.

  »Why didn’t he kill you?«

  »Dad, what are you doing? He is alive!«

  Peter showed Maria and Laurenz the palm of his left hand, which was now glowing brighter than before. Maria let out a gasp of horror.

  »What in God’s name is this?«

  »The bomb,« Peter replied in a hoarse voice. »It will soon detonate. Get yourselves out of harm’s way.«

  »De manu mercurii,« Laurenz whispered. »Saint Malachy’s prophecy, for me. From Mercury’s hand. Or: From the hand of mercury. My God!«

  He seemed desperate.

  »You would not have been able to prevent it,« Peter said quietly.

  Laurenz pulled himself together. »Take a step back!«

  Peter obeyed without a word and watched as the former Pope pulled an oriental saber from his habit. He lunged out and struck the padlock with full force. Peter saw sparks fly. A clinking metallic sound. Almost simultaneously, he ripped the gate open. Maria leapt towards Peter and embraced him.

  »Thank God you are alive!«

  Peter pushed her gently away from him. »No. I am dead. You have to leave. Some reaction has started to happen with the mercury. I think it will go off soon.«

  »Stop talking such baloney!« Laurenz grabbed Peter. »First we will get you out of here and then we will take it from there.«

&nbs
p; Angrily, Peter freed himself from Laurenz’s grasp. »You know damn well that we don’t have enough time for that. There is no way out, nowhere to run. I will die in here.«

  And this is perhaps the best that could happen for all of us.

  Peter stared at his glowing hand that would kill him and destroy the Vatican. »Get moving! Get out of here! Get Maria out of here while there’s still time.«

  Peter looked back up at Maria and then at Laurenz. At Laurenz who was still holding the saif in his hand.

  The saber.

  Suddenly he had a thought. A thought that was as horrifying and insane as it was promising. The thought that there might still be a way out. That there might still be a chance. To have a life.

  Peter looked into Laurenz’s eyes. And Laurenz understood.

  Maria interpreted Peter’s look correctly, too. »No, Peter! Good Lord, you cannot do that!«

  Peter did not react but continued to look firmly into Laurenz’s eyes, gasping from the fear of death and hope.

  »It won’t be sufficient,« Laurenz said. »If the blast is really as enormous as we think, you will have to move the bomb to a deeper location.«

  »Do you have any suggestions?«

  Laurenz did not answer. He just stared at the saif in his hand.

  »God in heaven, Laurenz!« Peter screamed in despair. »Do you have a suggestion?«

  Laurenz took a deep breath. »… Yes.«

  »Then do it. Now!«

  Peter placed his glowing hand on a small stone protruding from the wall and leaned his body slightly backwards. He saw Maria’s desperate face. Laurenz hesitated.

  »Damn it, Laurenz, we’re running out of time!«

  Laurenz grimaced in distress and took another deep breath. »Lord, forgive me!«