Apocalypsis 1.0 Signs (4 page)

VII

May 8, 2011, Rome

A
s usual at lunchtime, the little bar at the Piazza Sant’Eustachio was jam-packed. Businessmen in designer suits, senators and elegant Roman ladies, the young Gucci jet-set, priests, and a few scattered tourists were crowding in front of the polished bar counter to grab a quick espresso after lunch or a
caffé con panna
, which was served in a cappuccino cup together with a scoop of freshly whipped cream. Peter Adam visited the Bar Sant’Eustachio every day when he was in Rome. For him, this bar was a magical place with the best
caffé
in the world. Furthermore, it was close to the seat of the Italian Senate, making it the ideal place to meet the right people, tap into some secret insider information, or simply listen to the rumors and the lively gossip that enabled the Romans to recognize each other as Romans.

Although Peter Adam lived in Hamburg, the thirty-five-year-old journalist spent several weeks each year in the Eternal City. A series of tell-all articles, critical of the Church, had garnered him the reputation of being a Vatican expert and secured him a full-time job with a big Hamburg news magazine that had sent him now, as the conclave was about to begin, as a correspondent to Rome.

Peter Adam knew how to behave in Rome and how important it was in this town to cut a good figure, a
bella figura
. He was wearing jeans, a tapered white shirt, and a blue jacket in the latest fashion. His look was completed with light-brown brogue Oxford dress shoes and, of course, accented by matching socks. No jewelry except for the Jaeger-LeCoultre on his left wrist. Being badly dressed was deemed a deadly sin in Rome and could close many a door before one even had a chance to knock on it. What to wear and what not to wear was a fixed rule in Rome and could determine your success, for better or worse. In this particular case, Peter Adam’s outfit said that he was either a media lawyer or a journalist – successful either way. As his blonde hair and his smooth North German facial features did not allow him to pass as Roman, he could only be a foreign journalist. This, together with his looks and his almost accent-free Italian, secured him the interest of the senators that were present, as well as the goodwill of their wives. Ultimately, this was what mattered in Rome.

At this very moment, however, Peter Adam’s focus was on something entirely different. He stood right in front of the monstrous coffee machine and tried to figure out how the hell the old
barista
, who was hiding from view, clattering around with cups and spoons and portafilters, created this delicious coffee. In more than fifteen years, Peter had only been able to find out that the old man brewed the
caffé
together with the sugar. Of course, it was also possible to order unsweetened coffee, but this was regarded as extremely strange. After all, making coffee was just a caffeinated way to liquefy sugar.

»Summer is coming,« Peter said. »Slowly but surely.« He was attempting to engage the barista in a conversation, even though the man didn’t even greet his regulars.

»Eh. Era ora – finally, ›twas time,« the old man growled in response. That was it. Then he served Peter his
caffé con panna
.

As Peter sipped his espresso with whipped cream, he watched a young woman in a striking suit. Her classic nose and the way she stuck out her little finger when she talked were clear signs that she was Roman. Early thirties, Peter assumed. Daughter of a wealthy family, Law school, fluent in three languages, good in bed, and very, very bitchy. Old Roman Patrician nobility.

She had noticed him and every now and then their eyes would meet for a moment. Peter was wondering whether he should approach her when he suddenly realized how much she resembled Ellen. Ellen, whom he had also brought to this place, often. Ellen who had loved Rome as much as he did. Ellen, who was dead now, simply dead. Only Rome still existed and would continue to exist forever. Abruptly, Peter turned around and opened the
Corriere della Sera
which was reporting again – as it had done throughout the entire last week – on the ISS catastrophe. The wave of shocking news and apocalyptic images had no end. The devastating earthquake in New Zealand, the financial crisis in Europe, the riots and civil wars in North Africa, the Tsunami and the nuclear disaster in Japan, and finally the catastrophe on the ISS. As if the human race urgently needed to understand that they were on the brink of doom.

And now the Pope. All the newspapers reported the abdication, the mysterious disappearance of the Pope, and the tragic, fatal accident of his private secretary. The tabloid papers were speculating wildly about a possible connection with the ISS disaster and about murderous conspiracies in the Vatican. Peter knew from his colleagues in the Hamburg office that the government leaders of the most important industrial nations were holding crisis talks over the phone on a daily basis.

However, the Vatican seemed to have fallen into a state of shock. There were hardly any statements and even the unofficial channels and the wise guys kept silent.
Radio Vaticano
aired its regular programming as if nothing had happened, and Cardinal Menendez was not available for any interviews. Not to mention Franz Laurenz. No one knew where he was right now. Or whether he was even still alive.

Peter thought about the conclave that was supposed to begin in ten days. The first Cardinals had already begun to arrive. No one expected the election of the new pope to be swift. Even though the media was speculating on possible favorites – which was also the only topic that was discussed in the bar – Peter was sure that they would have to brace themselves for a long conclave. Perhaps enough time to track down John Paul III and convince him to sit for an interview. He looked at the Jaeger-LeCoultre that Ellen had given him as a gift shortly before her death. It was a little before two o’clock. He still had to draft an article about the finances of the Vatican and he decided that afterwards he would pay a visit to his friend Don Luigi in the Vatican. Maybe the well-informed Jesuit priest had some news for him.

»Well, gorgeous?« said a familiar, honeyed voice behind him.

Peter turned around and looked at the breathtakingly deep décolleté of a skin-tight scarlet red dress.

»Loretta, hello. Nice to see you.«

The red-haired woman in the red dress gave him a throaty laugh and kissed him on the mouth. »You are a miserable liar, darling, and that will never change.«

Loretta Hooper was the Italy correspondent of the
Washington Post
and, like him, she was responsible for issues relating to the Vatican. They had known each other for several years and had even had a brief affair, which ended when Peter met Ellen. Unlike him, Loretta was systematically ignoring the Roman dress code. As usual, her dress was too tight, too red and the neckline was much too low for this time of day. Peter liked it.

»No, Loretta, it’s true. I’m always happy to see you. Would you like a drink?«

»Are you in the middle of something?«

»Not at all.«

»I’ve been watching you, Peter. You were about to hook up with that little Roman slut over there.«

Peter ordered another two espressos with whipped cream to shut Loretta up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the young Roman woman had seen him with Loretta, and now she frowned and turned away.

Thanks, Loretta, thank you very much!

»What brings you here, Loretta?«

»I thought it would be nice if we had drinks together. It’s been a while.«

»I have nothing that could help you.«

»And this is another lie, honey! What about this friend of yours, this priest?«

»Don Luigi is very shy. He only talks to me.«

With vigorous movements, Loretta stirred the whipped cream in her cup into the coffee until the mixture had turned into a creamy pulp, and then she drank the whole thing down in one gulp. »
Bullshit
. But who cares. I’ll tell you what I want. I want an interview with John Paul III.«

»That’s what we all want.«

»But you and I, darling, we’re the best. We’re the only people who are capable of finding him.«

»He might not even be in Rome anymore.«

Loretta gave him a suspicious look.

»You know something!«

»If I knew something, I would already have my interview.«

»Where do you think he is?«

»One thing’s for sure: he’s not in the Monastery of Monte Cassino, as the Vatican claims. But perhaps he’s not that far away either. Franz Laurenz loves the Latium and he’ll want to stay within calling distance of Rome. I would place my bet on a small and secretive little monastery less than sixty miles away. That’s what my gut tells me.«

Loretta was beaming at him. »Exactly, honey! And you and I, as clever and cute as we are, we’ll find and interview him. We’ll share the work and share the glory.«

Peter looked at Loretta, once again marveling at how fast she had grown out of the role of a little typist from rural Illinois to become what she truly was: a star journalist with a hunting instinct who would never give up. Never.

»Come on, darling! Stop with the bedroom eyes, we’re just talking business.«

»Well, do you have anything to offer, Loretta?«

»Perhaps.«

»No games. Tell me what you have, and maybe I’ll introduce you to Don Luigi.«

»So, we have a deal?«

Peter nodded. »We have a deal.«

Loretta rummaged through her purse and placed a folded piece of paper onto the table. It showed the photocopy of a symbol shaped rather like a scribbled spiral.

»Have you ever seen this before?«

Damn, where did I see this before?

»No idea. What is it?«

»It’s one of the oldest symbols of mankind and can be found in almost all cultures of the world. They found rock engravings from the Stone Age with this symbol in Sweden, in Northern Spain, in China, and on the American continent. Virtually all over the world.«

Where did you see this symbol before? Where, where, where?

»A symbol from the Stone Age? What’s the point, Loretta?«

Loretta placed three newspaper articles onto the counter, one by one. All been published during the previous week and she made sure that no one looked over their shoulders. As Peter followed her glance, he saw that the beautiful Roman woman was just leaving the bar without deigning to look at him again.
What a bummer.

»Three people died last week,« Loretta explained. »Shortly before the Pope resigned. One mountain climber from Chicago – she fell to her death in the Himalayas; one Polish astronaut – he vaporized together with the ISS; and an investment banker who worked for the
Istituto per le Opere di Religione
, the Vatican Bank – he fell to his death in a Milan elevator. And then there is also the fatal accident of the Pope’s private secretary.«

»And, Loretta? Where are you going with this?«

»It was a coincidence, really, a total coincidence. Sherpas from another expedition found the corpse of the mountain climber in a crevasse. A good friend of mine who works in Chicago conducted the autopsy and he called me. He told me that he had found something and wondered whether I might be able to use it.«

The symbol. What does it mean?

»What did he find?«

»A diary. It was filled with these symbols. Apparently, the young climber had discovered them on the rocks during her expedition and had copied them.

Where did you see this symbol before? Where, damn it?

»I busted my ass,« Loretta continued without taking a breath. »I filtered the news and checked with all the photo agencies. I drank one of the NASA speakers under the table until he gave me what I wanted.«

»Please, Loretta, the short version!«

»The short version is that the Polish astronaut took a book with him aboard the ISS. Astronauts are allowed to take one personal item aboard, and most of them take a camera. Not the young Pole. He took a book. This book.«

She placed a small, old pocket book onto the counter. The spiral symbol jumped at Peter from the cover.

»It’s long been out of stock. I stole it from a library.«

›Mystic Symbols of Man – Origins and Meanings.‹
The book had been published fifteen years ago. The author was: Franz Laurenz.

Loretta looked at Peter, triumphantly. »This book was also found in the briefcase of the investment banker who fell to his death.«

Peter was irritated and stared at the little book. »How did you find that out, Loretta?«

»This will remain my precious little secret forever. In the book, Laurenz discusses the spiral symbol very often.«

She opened one of the pages and directed Peter’s attention to the illustrations.

»These are from England, Sweden, Utah, and New Mexico and they are probably over five thousand years old. The question is: why would people in the Stone Age put so much effort into carving a spiral symbol into solid rock? Hundreds of times?«

»You tell me.«

»It’s all written in here. An archaeologist figured it out in the early nineties. He interpreted the spirals as stars and compared the spiral patterns on the computer with the night sky at the approximate time when the spirals were created. The result was mind-blowing. The spirals were pretty precise and sophisticated celestial maps. They always referred to a very specific and rather unsettling astronomical event. A solar eclipse. At least, Laurenz assumes that the spiral symbol stands for a solar eclipse. An event which was associated in all cultures with the end of the world. And when is the next solar eclipse?«