Good question!
Peter gave her a helpless look. Bühler understood. And he also understood what was going on between Peter Adam and this nun.
»I’ll send an explosives team down there,« he said. »They can check the areas in question.«
He was about to roll the maps back up when Peter stopped him.
»Wait, Bühler. Nikolas will be down there, somewhere. If you send in the cavalry, there is a chance that he will detonate the bombs right away.«
Bühler flexed his jaw muscles. He did not like this objection at all. He already had a hunch what it meant.
»Okay then, so what do you suggest?«
LXXXVIII
May 18, 2011, Casa di Santa Marta, Vatican City
On the evening of the first day of the conclave, the black fumata told the world that the second ballot had also been unsuccessful and that the cardinals had not been able to come to an agreement. As tourists and Romans began to leave St. Peter’s Square to populate the restaurants and trattorie of the Eternal City and speculate on the outcome of the conclave over saltimbocca, a glass of heavy Primitivo, or a Birra Moretti, Antonio Menendez made a beeline for St. Martha’s House. In the second ballot, he had received a mere 23 votes, whereas Alberti had managed to obtain 61, hence achieving the overall majority. Now Alberti was considered the favorite, obviously. The College of Cardinals had turned their backs on Menendez as if they could sense that God had done the same, a long time ago. Menendez knew: once Schiekel realized that he, too, could no longer win, he would stick up for Alberti and the election was decided. And this could happen as early as the next ballot.
Cardinal Menendez was not the kind of man who gave up easily. Throughout his entire life, he had thought of himself as a fierce fighter. His failures had only made him stronger and stoked his competitive streak to fight back with a vengeance. For him life had always been a never-ending struggle that acknowledged only one person as winner: him. But Antonio Menendez also knew when the game was over. He knew that finally the time had come for God to punish him. And He had only just begun. As the other cardinals were gathering for dinner, Menendez secluded himself in his small suite with the number 32, and prayed. For the first time in years, he prayed as he had as a young man, with the fervor of a desperate man who was searching for God. He prayed through his tears to the God he had lost a long time ago. And finally, when he rose to his feet again, he had made a decision. Cardinal Menendez had understood that there was only one path that would lead him back to God, and he was willing and prepared to walk that path. He was willing to clear things up with the College of Cardinals, with the Church, and with the entire world. He was prepared to accept God’s punishment. He collected himself and sat down behind the small desk. He wrote a short letter and addressed it with utter care before hiding it in one of the drawers. Then he sat down to wait for his guest.
As the cardinals gathered at the dinner table and began to discuss the scandal of Menendez’s poor showing, Franz Laurenz managed to sneak into the guesthouse without anyone’s knowledge. No one paid any mind to the monk in the hooded habit who was let into the house by Colonel Bühler himself. The staff members were much too busy listening in on the discussion in the dining hall.
When he reached the second floor, Laurenz knocked against the door of room 32, softly but loud enough for someone to hear. But even after knocking three times, there was no answer. He pulled out the duplicate key that Bühler had procured for him. When Laurenz slipped into the Cardinal’s room, it was already getting dark outside. In the golden light of the Roman sunset, Laurenz saw his former Cardinal Secretary of State lying naked on the bed. He did not recognize the Spaniard right away, as his head had been severed from his body and was jammed between his scraggy thighs, his penis stuck in his mouth. But this had not been enough for the Cardinal’s murderer. In the victim’s blood, he had written on the wall:
I AM PAN
I AM THY MATE,
I AM THY MAN,
GOAT OF THY FLOCK,
I AM GOLD,
I AM GOD,
FLESH TO THY BONE,
FLOWER TO THY ROD.
Laurenz stared in complete shock at these blasphemous and pornographic writings and then back at the violently mutilated Cardinal. He said a prayer, as he stepped in front of the bed and carefully touched the Cardinal’s head to move it from its humiliating position and place it on the blood-soaked pillow. The Spaniard’s face was contorted by an expression of unspeakable terror.
»Good Lord, Antonio, what have they done to you?«
Stricken with grief, the former Pope kneeled down in front of the bed to pray for the soul of the man he had once regarded as his greatest enemy. It was the last thing he could do for him.
Laurenz struggled back to his feet. Suddenly, he felt old. Too old and too powerless to be able to avert the apocalypse. Whether Menendez had cooperated with the Light-Bearers and if so, to what extent, would remain his secret forever. It was time to leave.
As Laurenz turned towards the door, his eyes fell on the writing table in the corner. He had already grasped the door handle, but something made him hesitate. He walked over to the small desk. Prior to his death, Menendez had drawn something on the uppermost sheet of the stationary that was provided by the guesthouse. Laurenz let out a sound of surprise when he saw the symbol. Three short spirals arranged in a triangular array and connected to one another in the center as if they were endlessly circling around each other.
The triskelion, the mystic symbol of Trinity. Laurenz knew that Menendez had often teased him for his interest in mystic symbols. The fact that he had chosen Laurenz’s favorite symbol for his last manifestation of life could mean only one thing.
»What was it that you wanted to tell me, Antonio?«
Laurenz began to rummage through the desk, hastily. Finally he found the letter in one of the drawers, between the pages of the New Testament. It was written in Latin and addressed to Franz Laurenz, Ioannes Paulus PP. III.
Mister Laurenz, Your Excellency,
Forgive me. I betrayed the Church, I betrayed you, I betrayed God. But I am willing and prepared to accept God’s just punishment. I do not know how much time I have left. Therefore, I am writing this letter in great haste…
Laurenz read the letter twice. And for a third time. Then he put it carefully into the pocket of his habit and made the sign of the cross over the dead body of the Cardinal, who had found his way back to God before he died. It was time to leave. For now Franz Laurenz knew who Seth was and where he would find him.
LXXXIX
May 18, 2011, Necropolis, Vatican City
The fear of being buried alive. Again. Peter tried to focus all his attention on Bühler as he rushed through the narrow pathways of the Necropolis, the cocked SIG P220 in his right hand. Nonetheless, the narrowness, the darkness and the stuffy air that was charged with death and eternity reminded him with every step of his most dreadful nightmares. He had a hunch, though, that the worst was still to come.
Don’t think about that! Stop thinking! Keep walking!
The seemingly endless catacombs branched out in all directions like a monstrous creature that inhaled their footsteps, their gasping breaths, and the light of Bühler’s headlamp, exhaling these signs of life as oppressive silence. They were foreign bodies in this world of the dead. Parasites that this organism would devour and digest just as it had, for centuries, been devouring and digesting all living things. Down here, death was palpable. It had a substance. A slow poison that they breathed in with every step; a poison for which there was no cure.
Maria had insisted on coming with them. Neither Peter nor Bühler had been able to talk her out of it. Bühler had even gone so far as to tell her that in his eyes she was nothing but a liability, but she dismissed his objection with a disdainful look. Anyway, there was no going back now.
Bühler seemed to know his way around the Necropolis, because whenever they reached a junction where several corridors branched off, a brief lo
ok at the map was enough to get his bearings. In the beginning, Peter had tried to memorize where they were going. But only a few minutes later he knew that he would no longer find his way back, despite his excellent sense of direction.
Surprisingly enough, it was much easier to find the bombs than they had expected. They gave themselves away. As they entered the areas of the Necropolis that Peter had roughly marked on the map, they were attracted by suspicious bluish lights glowing from sepulchral niches and wall recesses, and hidden inside they found small boxes. Each of these boxes contained a vial with a thick red liquid and was equipped with a diode that emitted an intensive blue light. By now, Peter was convinced that the light had to be some sort of detonator for the Red Mercury.
And it was able to heal you.
One by one, Bühler pocketed the vials and then he took the boxes, placed them on the ground and stamped on them until the blue lights went out. Six little boxes. Six vials glowing red in the dark, like fluorescent deep-sea creatures that had been charged by a blue light.
Six bowls of wrath. One was still missing.
»Stop! Quiet!«
Bühler gave them a signal and immediately switched his lamp off. Peter tried to breathe shallowly as he listened into the darkness. Then he heard the footsteps. Distinctly. He pointed to the left where they could make out an opening with a late Roman relief. It led into a passage that descended steeply. A dim shimmer of light was streaming up to them.
Bühler cocked his gun and walked ahead. Peter saw the colonel’s body move through the opening. Then he heard a muffled sound. A gunshot burst in the stuffy air without reverberating from the walls. Maria let out a short scream. Peter turned around to her.
»Go back,« he whispered. »Quietly!«
»Peter? Are you there?« he heard a voice from behind the opening. »Peter!«
Peter did not answer. He heard gasping noises behind the opening and then footsteps that quickly faded in the distance. The dim shimmer of light disappeared.
»Go back, Maria,« Peter whispered urgently. »Please! Hide in one of the caverns.«
She shook her head energetically. Peter saw the despair in her face. And something else. For the first time, he realized how much she really loved him. He bent forward and kissed her. Then he crawled towards the opening until he could see Bühler on the steep staircase. The Swiss man was moaning.
»Where did he hit you?«
»In the shoulder. But I think I hit him too.«
Despite the darkness, Peter could see a gaping cut on Bühler’s shoulder; blood was gushing out of it.
»Where is he now?«
»He left. I think. He was in a hurry.«
Peter wanted to help the Swiss man on his feet. »I’m getting you out of here, Bühler.«
But the Colonel did not allow Peter to touch him. »Don’t!« he said. »Here…« He pressed his SIG into Peter’s hand. »I will get the vials out of here. You go and find number seven and then you finish off the bastard. Even if he is your brother.«
»Do it, Peter! Go!« Maria’s voice, very close. Harsh and different, like the voice of another person. She bent over the colonel. »Can you get up?«
In the darkness, he smelled the scent of her hair under the coif and felt the warmth that was radiating from her face. This seemed to be the only thing that could still prevent this horrible darkness from crushing him to death. Peter struggled to his feet.
»Maria… I love you.«
XC
May 18, 2011, Castel Sant'Angelo, Rome
His Hebrew name meant »Who is like God?« And this was the question that he hurled with a thundering voice into the faces of all the Lord’s enemies, all doubters and skeptics, and all those who were haughty and proud. The Archangel Michael stood ready with his sword to fight off the demons that were emerging from the depths of Hell to destroy the Church of God. Alone and with his wings spread wide, he was prepared for the battle against evil that had awoken from its 1000 year sleep. Dappled in the light of the floodlights, the Archangel Michael stood on top of the Castel Sant’Angelo, frozen in an eternal and unwavering stance, the symbol of a watchful Church. He was standing guard over the nighttime city of Rome, the Eternal City with its cars, taxis and motorini that rushed past him, and with its cooking smells that wafted through the air like the laughter of the city’s inhabitants, who had no idea what danger they were in.
The man in the monk’s cowl who followed the call of the archangel was feeling incredibly small and weak. A moment of hesitation washed over him at the sight of the statue. The doubt that he would be able to do it. But the archangel had stood by him in the inferno of Kampala, and so he had no right to ignore his call. Even if it meant that he had to betray his faith and kill. He had no other choice.
Franz Laurenz was hiding the precious saif under his habit as he rushed through the Passetto di Borgo. The Arabic scimitar was over 400 years old; its single-edged blade was made from hundreds of folded layers of Damascus steel and its shape was reminiscent of a Japanese katana, its hilt adorned with an engraved spiral symbol. An elegant and light weapon, hard, flexible, almost indestructible. It could even cut through steel. Laurenz had owned it all his life. Or rather it had owned him, because it was always death who chose his executioners.
The sword pressed firmly against his hips as Laurenz rushed through the deserted and dark fortress, up to the rooftop terrace of the castle, and to the side of the archangel.
»You took your time, Laurenz!«
»But now I am here, Crowley.«
As Laurenz stepped closer, he could see that the man waiting for him on the rooftop was wearing a white monk’s habit with a large circular symbol in gold on the chest. The symbol of the light, which had long ago led him on the trail of a hermetic sect, the sect that he had underestimated for too long.
Crowley, who had a katana in his hand, which he held out casually to the side, away from his body, did not move even as Laurenz came closer. Laurenz figured that they were about the same age. He could not remember ever having seen this bald-headed man before, but boxing had taught him to analyze an opponent’s abilities at a glance, and he could see right away that this man was in excellent shape, despite his age. The manner in which he was holding the sword was an indication that he knew how to handle the weapon. Laurenz pulled his saif from its sheath, adopted the fencing stance, and said a prayer. At the next moment, Crowley leapt towards him and opened the fight by thrusting the sword from above. Instinctively, Laurenz stepped to the side and held his scimitar across his head, so that the blow hit the blade and almost kicked the saif out of his hand. An ugly sound, steel on steel.
»I am Pan!« Crowley screamed, turning away with lightning speed. »I am Crowley! I am Seth! I am hatred! I am the light! I am … downfall!«
He lunged out to deliver a massive diagonal blow, but Laurenz parried this one too.
»I knew that you could fence, Laurenz!« Seth screamed. »I have always known who you really are. You deceived them all. But you could never deceive me!«
Now it was Laurenz who readied himself for attack. With as much force as he could muster, the saif in both hands, he delivered a series of blows, but Seth parried them all. Never before had Laurenz been forced to demonstrate his fencing abilities in a life-and-death fight. But the brotherhood to which he had belonged all his life and to which he owed everything considered it hugely important that all their members knew how to handle a sword. The most important factors were to keep a straight posture, with the feet planted firmly on the ground, and that the fencer had the courage to stretch out his fighting arm. The fencing, as well as the boxing, had taught Laurenz early on always to align action with intention. Never to stand back and take things as they came. To recognize that everything was in motion and flux. Not to be thwarted by difficulties or pain. To accept the task and the inevitable.
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?«
Apocalypsis 1.12 Conclave Page 3
