Apocalypsis 1.0 Signs (3 page)

Sacchi was a grumpy and tight-lipped man in his late seventies. He had spent almost his entire life in the Vatican and he had seen a lot, at times too much, so that he was used to not asking many questions. To him it made no difference whether the Pope had died or resigned; his task remained identical. Silently, he took the Ring of the Fisherman as it was handed to him, and equally silently he locked it away in a small box. Within the next few hours he would crush the ring with a silver hammer in the presence of the College of Cardinals.

One last time, Laurenz glanced around the room which had become so familiar to him during the past five years. He would never see any of this again in this life, and he would not need any of it.

Laurenz looked at his watch. Eleven-forty AM. It was time. High time. He turned to the Camerlengo. »Would you allow me a last moment in private, Cardinal Camerlengo?«

»Of course, Reverend,« the Camerlengo replied.

The Camerlengo had barely left the room when Laurenz rushed through a door at the far side into his study and from there into the library, which contained the most valuable and precious editions of his nearly twenty thousand books. Like every other room of the
appartamento
, the library had a phone, a modern telephone with a secure line, which stood on a Baroque writing table. But Laurenz suppressed the impulse to make a final call. Everything was prepared. Everything else was in God’s hands.

For a brief moment, Laurenz was simply standing there bidding farewell to his private library, his beloved refuge. He inhaled the familiar scent one final time, a blend of old paper, leather, floor wax and bygone times. Then Laurenz opened the only window in the room and, without wasting another thought, he climbed down the narrow fire escape leading into the shadowy courtyard, hoping that the employees of the Palace were all so overwhelmed by the events of the last hours that they were too busy and too distracted to cast a glance out of the window. He also hoped that the cat had found his way.

Two minutes later, Laurenz stood next to a Lieutenant of the Swiss Guards, who was wearing a dark suit instead of his traditional and flashy Renaissance uniform. It was quiet down here in the small courtyard; there was hardly any noise, only the distant gurgling of a fountain. The irresistible scent of bacon and tomato sauce wafted from somewhere in the distance, the classic Roman
pasta all’amatriciana
, one of Laurenz’s favorite dishes. But Laurenz knew how deceptive the peaceful ambience and the warm May air were. The news of his abdication was already surging through the world like a tsunami. St. Peter’s Square had begun to fill with distraught believers and curious onlookers; the media was moving in with fleets of broadcasting vans and the paparazzi had rented helicopters and were swarming the rooftops around the Vatican; the cell phone networks surrounding the Vatican were collapsing with the government leaders of the biggest industrial nations already consulting each other in a panic.

Laurenz turned to the Lieutenant of the Swiss Guards.

»Do you have them?«

»Of course, Holy Father.«

The guard handed Laurenz two keys. One of them was an old skeleton key with a gray plastic label that was marked with a single word in block letters: PASSETTO.

V

May 1, 2011, Vatican City

H
atred is good. Pain is good. Hatred and pain are heavenly brothers, the divine energy of the soul, the source of the light. The light forged you from hatred and made you its instrument, your mission to sow pain. You are the second apocalyptic horseman, the warrior in red armor. The light has sent you out to cleanse the world through bloodshed, death and war. This is exactly what you are going to do.

Nikolas pressed himself into the shadows of an ancient oak tree and observed the private secretary of the Pope as he hurried across the
Campo Santo Teutonico
, the German cemetery. Nikolas himself was not in a hurry. He knew precisely where the man in the black cassock was headed.

You are the instrument of the light. Through the brotherhood, the light revealed to you your divine mission, and taught you that hatred and pain are good and that they are one. But it also taught you that you may only appear in a cunning disguise in this depraved and sinful world, if you do not want to jeopardize your mission.

The private secretary crossed the square in front of the Palace of Justice and disappeared behind the building. Nikolas stepped out of the shadows and followed him. Still he did not particularly hurry, but his strides were long enough to catch-up with the man just before he reached his destination.

The brotherhood has taught you to hide your hatred. It has not even been difficult. Everyone who gets to know you in your worldly disguise praises your friendliness, your modesty, your willingness to help, and sometimes even your charm. The brotherhood taught you all this. Everything you know and everything you are you owe to the brotherhood. And now the time has come to show your gratefulness to the holy brotherhood by helping to accomplish the great work.

The time of the light has come.

On the right side behind the Palace of Justice were the Vatican Gardens with the building that housed the Governorate of Vatican City. Nikolas noticed, however, that the private secretary passed the Palace on the left side, rushing past the church
Santo Stefane degli Abissini
, and so he increased his speed. He caught-up with the man as planned, shortly before he reached the
helicopterum portum
, the papal heliport, which had been built in 1976 at the behest of Pope Paul VI. The
Sikorsky SH-3D »Sea King«
was ready for take-off, waiting on the reinforced concrete slab by the north wall of the Vatican. Still walking, the private secretary signaled to the pilot to start the engine. This was the moment when Nikolas called to him from behind.

»Monsignore! One moment please!«

The private secretary turned. Nikolas enjoyed the irritated look on the face of the man, obviously annoyed by this unknown priest who tried to keep him from his urgent mission.

Prepare yourself. Tame your temper. Pain you shall sow and light you shall reap. Yours is the kingdom and the light and the glory.

»What do you want from me?« the private secretary seemed edgy and angry.

»In the name of the light,« Nikolas said in a gentle voice and then he pulled the machete from his cassock and in a single trained motion he rammed it deep into the priest’s head.

The priest’s face burst open like a ripe mango. His blood splattered onto Nikolas’s cassock as he collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Nikolas struck him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until the skull of the now lifeless man also burst open like a melon and his blood and brain matter scattered over the helicopter landing site.

The machete is sharp, a single cut can be deadly. But you are not supposed to kill elegantly. You are supposed to create pain. In your victims as well as in those who are grieving for them. For it is only pain that will prepare the way for the light.

Nikolas heard the screams of the helicopter pilot, who was still strapped in his seat, and he looked up. The pilot was panic-stricken, trying to free himself from the safety belt. He was wearing a pilot’s helmet and yelled something in Italian into his headset. Without any haste, Nikolas walked around the helicopter, the machete still in his hand. The pilot was still sitting in his seat when Nikolas killed him with a blow that nearly decapitated him. His blood sprayed against the plexiglas canopy of the cockpit. Then, there was quiet.

Nikolas returned to the private secretary, who was lying in a pool of blood that seeped slowly into his cassock. He checked the cassock pockets, found the letter with the Pope’s handwriting, and took it. He didn’t bother about his fingerprints. He rushed to get out of his own cassock and threw it carelessly, together with the machete, onto the dead body of the private secretary. Then he wiped his hands and his face clean with two moist towelettes, threw them on top of everything else, and quickly disappeared towards the direction of the rose garden.

VI

May 1, 2011, Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome

T
he
Passetto di Borgo
, a two thousand six hundred foot long escape route, linked the Vatican with the
Castel Sant’Angelo
, the Castle of Saint Angelo, the fortress of the popes. What looked from the outside like a regular wall was on the inside a narrow passage that had allowed numerous popes throughout the centuries to flee into the papal stronghold – or to get discreetly and without being seen to their mistresses, waiting for them in the lavishly furnished parlors of the Castle of Saint Angelo.

The Passetto left the Vatican at the Via dei Corridori, followed the Borgo Sant’Angelo, crossed the Roman traffic chaos at the Piazza Pia, jumped over the battlements of the Castle of Saint Angelo, and finally entered the northwestern corner tower of the repellent bastion, which had originally been built as a mausoleum for the Emperor Hadrian.

The Passetto was now opened to tourists a few times a year. The rest of the time, the Swiss Guards kept the keys to the two access doors safe.

At that moment, Laurenz had only little sense for the secret passage’s checkered history, as it seeped from the mold-ridden walls and hung in the dank air. He rushed through the half-dark, which received its only light from narrow slits every few yards in the wall, and at one point he cursed quietly as his right shoulder bumped against something jutting out of the wall.

Upon arriving in the Castle of Saint Angelo, he cautiously locked the door and turned to his left, into a steep and narrow stairwell. Laurenz hurried down the stairs. This was not his first time in the castle; he knew his way around and he also was cognizant as how to avoid the hordes of tourists that used to flood all five levels of the castle at this time of day. Guarded by the Archangel Michael from high above the castle, the tourists rolled in over the spiral ramp on the ground floor and up to the former dungeons and the storage rooms for wheat and oil, and then they poured into the
Cortile dell’Angelo
laughing and photographing while drinking their cokes, proceeding to the fourth floor with the magnificently decorated halls and the treasury. Hardly any of these people had the slightest idea what secrets the Castle of Saint Angelo still hid today.

Only once on his way down did Laurenz run into a scattered group of American teenagers, but they didn’t recognize him, preferring to practice their French kissing. Swiftly and a little out of breath, despite his impressive physical fitness, Laurenz finally reached the ground floor. He slipped outside through a non-descript door, which the second of the two keys fitted.

As agreed, his chauffeur Mario was waiting at the eastern exit of the Castle in his private car, an older model black Alfa Romeo 156. When Laurenz rushed to get in the back of the car, the young Roman with the fashionable sunglasses could not help but be shocked by the facial expression of the man who only a few hours earlier had carried the name John Paul III.

»My God, Holy Father, you look as if you were fleeing from the devil!«

»Get going, Mario,« Laurenz replied in a weary voice.

»To the apartment, as we discussed?«

»Si.«

Laurenz was grateful that his driver merged into the lunchtime traffic without asking any further questions. He had more trust in the thirty-two-year-old Roman than in some of the Cardinals of the Curia, and over the last few years he had always been able to count on him when he had to leave the Vatican incognito to attend secret meetings with politicians, industry leaders and representatives of other religious communities. Besides, Mario’s old Alfa with the tainted windows, the Roman license plate and the fan scarf of the
AC Roma
on the rear parcel shelf was less conspicuous than the official Mercedes with the license plate
SCV-1
for
Stato della Città del Vaticano
.

What’s more, Mario was the only person in the Vatican who knew their destination, which was in San Lorenzo, the 3
rd
Municipio
of Rome. He knew it because he had acted as the Pope’s representative four years earlier when he bought the two-bedroom apartment in the exuberant neighborhood that was popular with students. The money for the purchase was from the personal estate of the Pope.

Mario constantly checked whether they were being followed. He kept changing lanes and went with the flow of traffic to avoid drawing any attention. After approximately ten minutes, he braked abruptly making a sharp right turn into a filthy parking garage. He parked the car on the third level, exited, and after ensuring that the coast was clear, he gave Laurenz a sign. As if they had been practicing for weeks, the two men switched cars and left the garage three minutes later in a Japanese compact car.

»My apologies to you, Holy Father, but this is my cousin Vittoria’s car. There was so little time that I couldn’t find anything else.«

»Don’t worry about that, Mario. I would even ride on the back of a Vespa with you if you deemed that safer. Did you notice anything?«

»No, Holy Father. No one is following us.«

Laurenz put on his sunglasses and stared out of the window. All around him, Italian life was in full swing and the traffic was almost at a standstill. Every day at lunchtime, the entire city of Rome seemed to have a secret arrangement to use all available vehicles at precisely the same time. Teenagers on Vespas raced at breakneck speeds through gaps between the cars, and the
trattorie
filled with tourists, businessmen, and women with large sunglasses and the latest designer handbags. Laurenz relaxed a bit.

»How is your wife, Mario?«

»Beh. She is doing very well, Holy Father. She’s always complaining about my irregular work hours.«

»A sign of love, Mario. And how is little Laura?«

»She will become a beauty, Holy Father! Blabbering incessantly. She inherited the looks from her mother and the mouth from her grandmother. Madonna, one day she’s going to talk us all into the ground.«

Laurenz laughed. »Bravissimo! So she has what it takes to become the Secretary of State.«

He laughed for the first time that day, and this laughter dispersed a little of the dark shadow weighing on his soul. For a brief moment, he thought that it might not yet be too late. That there might still be hope.

»Did you prepare everything, Mario?«

»As you told me, Holy Father. Salvo has set up an internet connection that is redirected through numerous proxy servers and he has assured me that no one can hack into it for about ten minutes.«

»That should leave us enough time. Did Salvo ask any questions?«

Mario laughed. »He thinks that I am having an affair with a Swedish spy. I denied it, of course, but he was envious.«

They reached Via Palermo later than expected. Mario parked the car in a driveway next to the small hotel
Caravaggio
, and after making sure that nobody was watching them, he helped Laurenz out of the vehicle. Laurenz looked at his watch, realizing he didn’t have much time left. He stormed into the stone hallway and ran up the stairs to the third floor, where he waited impatiently for Mario to fish the key out of his pocket.

Mario was the first to enter the apartment. So Laurenz didn’t see him right away: the man in the black hooded monk’s habit who had made himself comfortable in a wicker chair in the corridor. He also didn’t see the man with the gun who was standing behind him. Laurenz only heard the thud of the silencer and Mario’s muffled cry as he collapsed in front of him, gurgling and coughing up a stream of blood. The bullet had hit Mario squarely in the throat.

»Did you really believe you could get away from me so easily?« an age-old and piercing voice crowed. The man under the hood spoke German with an oddly drawling accent that Laurenz had never been able to place.

»What did I tell you? People will die if you don’t stick with the instructions. People who are close to your heart. And only because of your pride, Laurenz.«

From the wicker chair, Seth made a brief gesture with his hand, and the man standing next to him stepped up to Mario, who was gasping for air, and shot him in the head.

Laurenz spun around and fled back into the hallway, but there a muscular figure in a ski mask headed him off. Although Laurenz was already over sixty, his reflexes were still every bit as quick as when he was young, when he had honed and trained them in the boxing ring and in the streets of Duisburg. He ducked from the punch of the masked man and put all his body weight into one blow that he placed directly on the assailant’s kidney. The blow hit home. The masked man convulsed with pain, moaning. Laurenz kicked the man out of his way and ran down the stairs. He heard another thud but the bullet hit the wall, only inches from his head.

Laurenz continued to run. He paid no attention to the footsteps of the two killers running after him. He reached the front door. However, a third man was waiting for him there, aiming a gun with a silencer at him. Laurenz knew that he was going to die now and the realization brought a sense of peace. He sent a final prayer to his Lord and to the Holy Mother of God, and then he straightened himself up, preparing to die. The Asian-looking man shot. Once. Twice. Laurenz winced and didn’t really register the rumbling behind him. The Asian pushed him aside and fired again. As Laurenz turned around in surprise, he saw that the killer who had murdered Mario was lying on the staircase with a bullet in his head. The beefy man with the ski mask was crouching next to him wheezing and holding his stomach.

The Asian stepped toward him and shot him in the head. Then he turned to Laurenz.

His voice was sharp. »Let’s get out of here!« he said. »Now.«