Apocalypsis 1.09 Wearily Electors

by Mario Giordano

  »I can understand that,« Don Luigi said. »What are you going to do?«

  »Nothing, at least for now. As there is no hard evidence at the moment that would prove that Monsignore Duncker betrayed my confidence or that he is conspiring against me with Menendez and Opus Dei, I will let the matter rest for now.«

  »Do you think this is wise, Your Holiness?«

  »I have known Duncker for a very long time,« the Pope answered. »He has always been loyal to me. He is ambitious. It may just be a moment of confusion that will pass.«

  »Do you really believe that, Holy Father?«

  The Pope gave Don Luigi a pensive look.

  »Keep an eye on Duncker. I don’t want to bother Sophia with that. She already has enough on her plate with Menendez, who has people spying on her to compromise me.«

  »No problem, Your Holiness.«

  »The Cardinal Secretary of State is my most relentless critic. But up until now, he has always exercised openness and fairness in the choice of his means.« With a pensive expression on his face, the Pope looked over the Eternal City that was blanketed in haze. His headache began to worsen again. The Pope pressed his hand against his temple and turned back to Don Luigi. »Menendez has a brilliant mind and he is ruthless and hungry for power. But he is still a man of faith and a man of the Church. What do you think, Don Luigi: how far would he go?«

  LXVI

  May 16, 2011, Montpellier

  As he drove the stolen cab through Montpellier, Peter made a decision. He could not simply vanish from the world or »evaporate« as Nikolas had demanded. He wanted his life back, now more than ever. He wanted answers. And in the meantime, there was something else that he wanted. He had not even realized how much he wanted it until he found himself in the dungeon on the Ile de Cuivre. Something completely impossible. But at least he wanted to try, and in order to do so he had to live.

  Live? You will kill her. You are leaving a trail of death behind you.

  As Haruki had said, someone was waiting for Peter at the airport.

  She looked lost as she stood in the small General Aviation Terminal. She was wearing her habit again and appeared nervous.

  And incredibly fragile.

  But she was alive. When Peter saw her he knew that there was no going back. Not for him.

  He saw the relief in her face as he entered the small terminal. But he could also see the dread and the doubt that briefly washed over her face. The doubt whether it was really him. Peter knew it immediately.

  She had run into Nikolas.

  »Hello, Peter,« Maria said in a low voice.

  »I thought you were dead.«

  »I thought the same about you.«

  Suddenly, she seemed self-conscious and she was still hesitant, as if she did not trust him. When Peter stepped up close to her, she even winced a little.

  »Shhh,« Peter whispered. And then he stepped even closer, as close as possible, cupping her head with his hands, kissing her. She did not even seem surprised, actually, she seemed almost relieved, and this time, she reciprocated his kiss because it was the kiss that made her sure that it was really him. She opened her mouth a little and when the tips of their tongues touched, they could inhale each other’s breath and essence, and all fear was replaced by desire. Until the official behind the counter cleared his throat in the most indignant manner.

  »What are you doing here?« Peter asked, as she pulled away from him, gently but with determination.

  »Don Luigi called me. I was hiding in a convent. The little hotel was no longer safe.«

  »You had an encounter with Nikolas, didn’t you?«

  »With whom?«

  Peter looked at her. »With my twin brother. At least I assume he is my brother. His name is Nikolas.«

  Maria avoided Peter’s eyes. »I spent the entire time with the Franciscan nuns on Rue Lakanal.«

  »You are a miserable liar, Maria.«

  She forced herself to smile. »We have to go. Do you have your passport?«

  Thus far, Peter had not opened the passport that Haruki had given him. Now he saw that it was issued under the name Robert Stamm. The passport photograph was new. Peter wondered how they had got it. Immediately his thoughts returned to Nikolas. His brother Nikolas. His brother, the killer. The man who had murdered Loretta and Ellen. The man who was the reason why there was an international warrant for his arrest.

  »Don’t worry,« Maria tried to soothe him. »There won’t be any problems with passport control. Everything has been prepared.«

  And Peter’s suspicion returned with a vengeance. »There won’t be any problems?« he repeated, flying into a rage. »Prepared? Damn it, Maria, what is going on here? I barely avoid drowning and wake up in a hospital; Franz Laurenz calls me and a Japanese bodyguard picks me up; I get caught in the middle of a shootout and then I almost get killed by my own twin brother, who I didn’t even know existed an hour ago; and then you are standing here and I kiss you and you lie to me, but then you tell me with the innocent eyes of a cocker spaniel that I should not worry about passport control? Maria, there is an international warrant for my arrest – for murder!«

  Maria pulled him aside. »If you continue to scream like a pubescent idiot, you won’t need to worry about anything any more because your goose will soon be cooked! Don Luigi will explain it all to you as soon as we get back to Rome. Until then, he asked me to keep my lips sealed.«

  Peter calmed down and looked at Maria. The vein on her forehead was back, the anger vein that he loved so much.

  »Good,« he said. »But first we fly to Cologne.«

  »I know,« Maria replied. »Can you perhaps tell me why?«

  »I want to introduce you to my parents.«

  * * *

  From: nikolas@ordislux.np

  To: master@ordislux.np

  May 16, 2011 10:17:54 GMT+01:00

  Re: P.A.

  Attachment: IMG_0035.jpg

  Master!

  All your orders have been executed (see picture). Requesting further instructions.

  With you in the light,

  Nikolas

  * * *

  * * *

  From: master@ordislux.np

  To: nikolas@ordislux.np

  May 16, 2011 10:21:31 GMT+01:00

  Re: RE: P.A.

  What happened, Nikolas? Just one tiny little cut? You even closed his eyes. Could it be that you had a weak moment? That you were choked up by emotion or even befallen by regret?

  Nonetheless: good work. I am expecting you in Rome.

  May the light be with you,

  S.

  * * *

  The turbines of the twin-engine Cessna Citation hummed as the plane took off and quickly climbed into the cirrus clouds. Peter closed his eyes so that he would not see the sparkling Mediterranean that spread out below. It was so friendly and so eternal and so enormous, so treacherous, so evil, and so deceitful…

  … like God.

  Peter kept it brief but described to Maria what had happened to him on the Ile de Cuivre, and he also shared with her what Kelly had told him about the Light-Bearers. When Peter told her about his run-in with Nikolas, she grimaced in agony. Peter was more than ever convinced that she had met Nikolas.

  »Do you still have the amulet?«

  She showed it to him. As Peter held it in his hands, he was deluged with ancient memories that were like an enormous tide flooding a dried-out riverbed. Images rose from the spume, nightmarish images. Flames. A car. A car filled with sand. A woman with burning hair who was screaming his name. A tower on a rise. A car parked in front of the tower. Then, all of a sudden, blazing light. Light everywhere.

  Hoathahe Saitan! Seth. Creutzfeldt. Behemoth. Baphomet. Pazúzú. Blavatsky. Wearily Electors. He has many names. You know him. He knew you. Little rabbit in the hole, try to remember! Oxiavala holado, telocahe hoel-qo! Try harder!

  Peter remembered that he had heard the name Seth once before in his life. At a time in his life that only remained in his
mind as traces of scum on the edges of his memory.

  The time before his fifth birthday.

  Hoathahe Saitan! 306. Wearily Electors.

  »Edward Kelly, you say?« Maria suddenly asked.

  »Yes. Why?«

  She hesitated a moment. Then she said, »In the 16th century, when John Dee discovered the Language of the Angels, as he claimed, he had a medium, a man by the name of Edward Kelly. A convicted fraudster whose punishment included having one of his ears cut off.«

  Suddenly Peter remembered the night in Misrian. Kelly had claimed to be very old. That he had had a lot of time to learn all those languages.

  »You mean to tell me that he was six hundred years old? Please, Maria!«

  She shrugged her shoulders. »Sure. What did this Kelly guy say?«

  »Wearily Electors« – tired princes.

  The grammar was wrong. It did not make any sense. Yet anything that didn’t make sense could be a hidden code.

  »Do you have a pen?« he asked Maria abruptly.

  She handed him a piece of paper and a pen. Peter wrote in big letters WEARILY ELECTORS on top of the page.

  »What does this mean?« she asked.

  »I have no idea. But maybe it’s an anagram.«

  He crossed the words out and wrote ›WEARILYELECTORS‹ underneath and then he went, with Maria’s help, through all reasonable terms and words that could be formed with these letters. Peter assumed that the anagram stood for an English expression. It was possible that it also consisted of two words. When the piece of paper was almost completely covered with words and scribbling, he paused, groaning. He thought about Kelly, who had slipped away from him at the buoy and been enveloped by the dark depths. Kelly – filthy, emaciated, and abused, a shadow of the man he had met in Misrian a long time ago.

  Peter sat up, suddenly electrified. In his mind’s eye he saw Kelly sitting in his yurt, bragging to Ellen and telling her crude details about the treasure of the Templars. Kelly had mentioned a name.

  »Helena Blavatsky,« he said aloud and tried to form the name with the letters in ›WEARILY ELECTORS‹. Wrong. But there was another name that Kelly had mentioned.

  Come on! Try harder! Remember.

  Peter stared at the letter sequence. Then he saw the name and wrote it into the last free space on the piece of paper and circled it.

  ALEISTER CROWLEY

  »The Aleister Crowley?« Maria asked.

  Peter nodded. »English occultist of the early 20th century,« he started his little lecture. »Lodge founder, kabbalist, drug-addicted trickster and pornographer. As far as I know, this man’s legacy consisted of debts, disgust, criminal complaints and a scandalous and outrageous legend that arose around his person, which was later gratefully adopted by the New Age movement. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes any sense!« Peter scrunched up the piece of paper. »Shit!«

  Maria gave him a compassionate glance and then she gently stroked his hair. An intimate and tender gesture that surprised Peter.

  »The encounter with Nikolas must have been awful for you.«

  Peter nodded silently.

  »And he took the medallion from you. So we have to start from scratch.«

  Peter looked at her. »Yes, Nikolas has the medallion. But I… I have this…«

  He pulled something out of the pocket of his jeans and put it into the palm of Maria’s hand. It was the small white SIM card.

  LXVII

  ONE YEAR EARLIER …

  JulY 7, 2010, Trastevere, Rome

  Do you want to be pope, Cardinal?«

  »How did you get this number?«

  The man, who had introduced himself as Aleister Crowley, answered in flawless Spanish. »That is irrelevant,« he said. »We have to meet. In one hour. At the ›Tre Cani‹ in Trastevere. You know the restaurant.«

  »I don’t have to do anything,« Cardinal Menendez grumbled into his private cell phone, whose number was known to only four people in the Vatican. »I will…«

  »In one hour, Cardinal. Unless you want to blow your last chance of ever becoming pope.«

  The connection was cut. Menendez was furious. He put his cell phone away and tried to refocus on his speech for the upcoming Eucharistic Congress in Cologne. But he couldn’t. Because Menendez had a keen sense for the voice of power. For the subtle nuances in attitude and speech patterns that, without fail, distinguished people as either part of the obedient masses or as representatives of the small elite of leaders to which he belonged himself, at least in his personal opinion. The voice on the phone was used to giving orders that were obeyed without question. The tone of voice had something to it that was threatening and intimidating, too much to ignore, even for a man like Menendez. The more so as this voice had made him an outrageous offer.

  One hour later, the Cardinal arrived in the small and elegant trattoria on the other side of the River Tiber. The Tre Cani was a favorite meeting point for Curial employees and Roman politicians as it offered not only fish specialties but also privacy. The owner welcomed Menendez with a submissive bow and led him through the full restaurant to a table at the far side of the room, where a man was expecting him. He was bald and about sixty years old. He was wearing a white suit and looked like a former soldier.

  »Cardinal,« the man greeted him without getting up, as he pointed at the free chair. He ordered a bottle of Menendez’s favorite Ribeira del Duero and then he looked into the Cardinal’s face.

  »Are you Crowley?«

  »You may call me that. But it won’t help you if you plan to dig into my background after our conversation.«

  »What do you want?«

  The man who called himself Crowley took a sip of water.

  »No, Cardinal! What do you want?« He placed some documents onto the table. »Read.«

  Menendez did not touch the papers and cast only a brief glance at them. He recognized that it was the transcript of a conversation and saw his name.

  Crowley gave him a thin smile. »Well, then I will explain it to you. I am representing an international group who is interested in a quick change in the leadership of the Church. And this is where our interests converge.«

  Crowley waited for the restaurant owner to uncork and pour the wine, hastily, as Menendez was making an annoyed gesture with his hand to hurry up.

  »What kind of group is this?«

  Crowley waved dismissively. »All that matters is: as soon as John Paul III is dead, you can become Pope.«

  Crowley took a small sip of the heavy red wine and watched, unfazed, as Menendez’s face turned pale.

  »Dead?« the Cardinal repeated in a creaking voice.

  »An accident, an assassination attempt by a fanatic; the life of a Pope can be very dangerous.«

  This was the moment when Menendez came back to his senses. A thought flashed through his mind, the thought that he was walking right into a trap, like the last imbecile in the world. It was an almost comforting thought that this Crowley person might just be an investigative journalist or one of Laurenz’s snitches, who was taping this absurd conversation with a hidden camera only to use the footage later to publicly discredit him. Or to blackmail him.

  Crowley seemed to be reading his mind.

  »Cardinal, you know better than that. You know very well who I am.«

  Menendez turned ashen and rose from his chair. »This conversation is over.«

  »Sit down!« Crowley hissed at him, tapping on the documents in front of Menendez. »These papers contain the transcript of a confidential discussion among the leadership of Opus Dei, during which you, Cardinal, are elaborating on exactly this point.«

  Menendez began to feel nauseous. »These were just… hypotheses.«

  »Which are enough to get you excommunicated. Not to mention criminal prosecution.«

  »It has absolutely no evidentiary value.«

  »It doesn’t need any. And you know that, Cardinal. It would be more than enough if the press got their hands on it. And trust me, there will be confession
s to confirm the authenticity of this conversation.«

  »You are insane!«

  Crowley took another sip of his wine. »I am offering you the chance of a lifetime. You will be the next pope.«

  Menendez moaned. »And what is the price?«

  Crowley leaned back in his chair. »Loyalty. Absolute loyalty.«

  LXVIII

  May 16, 2011, Cologne

  The western part of Germany was in the grip of a fierce storm, which was unusual for this time of year. Trees were snapped like matches and freshly sown spring flowers were wrenched from front yards. On its approach, the Cessna Citation got caught between two cold fronts and was tossed around violently. Yet the pilot landed the plane safely on Runway 14R at Cologne/Bonn Airport. Again, there were no problems during the checks in the General Aviation Terminal, which was separate from the Main Terminal. A young Japanese man in a dark suit, who introduced himself as Akiro, was expecting Peter and Maria and led them to a rental car, which was waiting in front of the building.

  »You know the way?« he asked.

  The way. Didn’t you lose it a long time ago?

  »Of course.« Peter hesitated. There was something that he had to know.

  »May I ask you a question, Akiro?«

  »Please, go ahead.«

  »Haruki, the man who gave his life for me in Montpellier…«

  »Sir, you don’t have to feel guilty about that,« Akiro said in a stiff voice. »It’s our job.«

  »Do you happen to know whether he has a family?«

  »None of us has a family.«

  »What will happen with his body?«

  »His remains are already on their way to Japan. The company made all the necessary arrangements.«

  The company.

  Peter could guess which company Akiro was talking about, but the question that remained was why Nakashima Industries had an interest in saving his life. And what his connection was to a resigned Pope, to Don Luigi, and to Maria who had lied to him. But these were only the most insignificant of all the many questions that Peter asked himself while he drove to a small house in Cologne’s Königsforst district, where he finally hoped to get some answers. About himself. About his nightmares. About Nikolas. About his parents.