Apocalypsis 1.03 Thoth (3 page)

XXVII

May 12, 2011, Rome

T
his perpetual disappointment about life as it is. That old, familiar feeling.

How appropriate
.

It would have taken only one further »treatment« and he would have confessed everything to them. The break-in and what he had found, the amulet and who had it now, the rolls of parchment and papyrus and what Don Luigi had already found out about them. Next time he would have talked. He had talked already. He had confessed to murdering Loretta only because he wanted to gain some time, only because he wanted to give them something that they would believe. He had even confessed that he planned to blow up St. Peter’s Basilica. For where was the difference between a vision and reality if there was a wet towel over your face and you were in the process of drowning?

Next time he would have told them the rest, too.

Peter had always imagined that persistent torture would result at some point in indifference, in the wish just to die. But this principle seemed not to apply to waterboarding. The panic and the fear had grown with every »treatment«, and with them grew the desperate wish to survive. Peter didn’t want to die. He wanted them to stop drowning him. And he was willing to do anything to make them stop. He was willing to betray every secret that had ever been confided to him, and to confirm any lie and any insinuation or imputation.

Absolutely everything.

Next time.

But then Alessia Bertoni’s phone rang. She walked into one of the corners of the basement to get some privacy, and there she listened for a while and answered in a soft and upset voice.

There is a problem. You are the problem.

The relief over the unexpected delay.

The frustration of not knowing what was happening on the other end of the telephone line.

The fear of the towel. That horrific fear.

Alessia Bertoni hung up and exchanged a few words with the two Americans, who were not particularly amused. Reluctantly, the shorter one of the two cut the duct tape that bound Peter to the chair, and pulled him to his feet.

»What are you doing?«

»Change of venue.«

»Where are you taking me?«

»Shut your hole.«

Again, they pulled the hateful wet bag over his head and led him out of the room. After the repeated »treatments,« Peter was shaky on his feet. The muscles in his arms and legs were hurting from the spasms he had suffered during the waterboarding. One of the Americans held him on his left side, the other one on his right, and behind him he heard the clicking sounds of high heels. Peter was surprised that they hadn’t tied up his hands. This meant they wouldn’t be going far. Not a good prospect.

The path led over a few narrow stairs and then through some kind of outdoor corridor. Peter could hear neither voices nor traffic noise and he assumed that they had been holding him somewhere in the outskirts of the city. A cool breeze. A door was opened in front of him. The clicking of the high heels moved past him, and he heard the creaking of a car door nearby. A sliding door.

A van.

This was his only chance.

As his muscles tensed, his conscious mind stopped and he went on autopilot. His reflexes took over, motor skills that his body had learned years ago. Despite the fact that he had not used them since then, his body remembered each and every one of them.

In one fluid movement, Peter bobbed his head to the left and broke the nose of the man next to him. Then he swung around and rammed his head into the face of the man on the other side, breaking his nose, too.

The two men by his side gave loud groans and for a brief moment, Peter’s hands were free. But the men were CIA and well-trained. Despite their pain, they reacted immediately and grabbed him again. Peter, still blinded by the bag over his head, clutched the arm of the man to his right and then he spun around again, without letting go of the arm. He heard the dry snapping sound of the breaking bone and a muffled scream. At the same time he kicked the other man between the legs.

»Don’t move!«

Where is she?

Peter expected her to be armed but – like everything else – this was not a conscious thought. He tore the bag from his head and crouched down, just as he was hit by a punch in the stomach that took his breath away.

You’re too slow!

Peter warded off the second blow and the third, and by now he had recovered his breath and delivered a sharp blow to the neck of the man in front of him. The agent slammed against the van and collapsed, gasping. From the corner of his eye, Peter saw that the second American was struggling to his feet again. Then he suddenly felt cold steel at the back of his head.

»I said, don’t move!«

Still no conscious thought in his mind. Yet Peter knew that she would not shoot. He was still of too much value to them for her simply to gun him down.

So he spun around again and struck her in the face with his elbow. Simple rule: whether you’re an old man, a woman, a cripple or a child – if you hold a gun to my head, you are my enemy.

The bullet hit the side of the car, right next to him. The sound of the blast reverberated in his ear and momentarily deafened him. But this was just one more thing that Peter barely noticed. He grabbed the woman and wrenched the gun out of her hand, and then he hit her again and pushed her away from him. By now, the second American was back on his feet and getting ready to attack him again. Peter grabbed the gun from the ground and aimed at him. The American froze.

»You don’t have a hope.«

»The key.«

Slowly but surely, reality crept back into his consciousness and he began to notice details of his surroundings. An industrial area. A huge parking lot for trailers. Warehouses. An old brick building. A fence, bushes and a street. All badly lit. Peter saw that Alessia Bertoni and the man with the broken arm were struggling back to their feet, moaning. It was time to hit the road.

»The key! … THE KEY!«

»In my purse.«

»You get it. And you two – over there!«

None of the three reacted.

Peter aimed at the man who was standing in front of him and shot him in the leg. Simple rule: If you try to drown me, you are my enemy. It was all quite straightforward.

The American screamed out and fell to the ground.

»You, over there, go! … The key, Alessia! Empty your purse.«

The American with the broken arm crawled over to his colleague, while Alessia Bertoni emptied her purse on the ground and fished the car key out.

»Leave it. Move back. Further. Stop!«

Without leaving the agents out of his sight, Peter snatched the key and walked around the van. He expected backup to arrive any moment now and there was only a single access road to and from the parking lot.

While still keeping the three in his sight, Peter started the car,

»You don’t have a hope, Peter!« she shouted. »You’re a murderer. The whole country will go after you. The whole world!«

»I am not a murderer,« Peter said, and then he stepped on the gas.

»SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!«

Peter was yelling and screaming as he pushed the pedal to the metal, driving through the barely lit street without having the slightest idea whether he was even still in Rome.

»Fucking hell!«

The swearing was helpful. Cleared his head and swept away the last doubts that all this might have been just another of his migraine dreams. When he reached the first main road with traffic signs, he knew where he was. In Rome! He was still in Rome, in the Eternal City, in the city he loved. Peter knew that he had to get rid of the car as quickly as possible, but right now this was not an option. He threw a brief glance to his right. At the cold, black, deadly gun that lay on the passenger seat. Reflections of the golden light from the sodium streetlamps were glistening on its barrel. The last time he had shot a gun, someone had died. That person had been an enemy, because he had also shot at him. Simple rule, but what did it help? On that day, Peter had sworn to himself that he would never again touch a gun and that he would never kill again.

Well, look how great that worked out.

»What a fucking, fucking mess!«

Peter slowed down – he didn’t want the police stopping him for speeding. He opened the glove compartment and found a cell phone. Probably with a secure line but they would, of course, be able to trace back whom he had called.

Who gives a rat’s ass?

»Peter, thank God! I’ve been trying for hours to reach you. Where are you?«

»Up to my neck in trouble, Don Luigi. Where are you?«

»In my car, on my way to the Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. I was attacked. By a woman. Peter, she took the documents.«

Loretta!

»What about the amulet? Have you heard from Maria?«

»Where are you, Peter? Is everything all right with you?«

»Where is Maria?«

»I can’t reach her. By the time I was free again, she’d left me a message on my cell phone saying that she was on her way to this pilgrim church to meet with someone who is allegedly acting on my behalf. I am terribly worried.«

»Shit! … Be careful, Padre! I know the church, I’m on my way.«

He hung up and looked again at the evil black beast by his side. It was laughing at him. The gun knew what he didn’t want to know.

That he would need it again.

XXVIII

May 12, 2011, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Rome

A
s Maria entered the old pilgrim church from the 12
th
century, the nave was almost in darkness, only lit by the glow of the votive candles by the entrance and a few candles in the sanctuary.

Maria knew the church. Santa Croce in Gerusalemme was one of the Seven Pilgrim Churches of Rome, famous for its passion relics, among them the panel with the inscription »INRI,« which had hung on Christ's Cross. It was said that Saint Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, had brought it from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 326 AD, together with small wooden pieces and nails from the True Cross. During the Late Middle Ages, the place was considered so holy that women were forbidden access to the church.

Maria entered the Chapel of St. Helena, to which the church owed its name, since it was said that the floor of this chapel had once been covered with soil from Jerusalem.

She seemed to be alone. Maria heard neither footsteps nor voices. Slowly and carefully, as if she were walking on thin ice, she crossed the nave, praying a silent Hail Mary to calm her nerves.

»You are late, Sister Maria.«

Maria was startled to death and spun around. In the shadow of one of the pillars, she perceived a figure clad like a Capuchin Monk, with the hood pulled low down over his face.

»I was delayed,« she said in a firm voice and took a step back. »Father Nikolas?«

»Do you have the relic?«

The man didn’t move, not even an inch. And yet he frightened her. Maria cursed herself for having been so stupid as to come here.

»No,« she answered, and cast a glance towards the exit.

»Where is it?«

»Give me proof that it was really Don Luigi who sent you and I will take you there.«

Before she could react, the man with the hood was standing next to her. It almost seemed as if he had flown out of the shadow behind the pillar. Maria didn’t get a chance to see his face. He grabbed her, spun her around, and began to choke her from behind with fingers that felt like steel.

»Where is it?«

His voice sounded sharp even though he was whispering. Maria tried to struggle out of his grasp and lash out at him. She tried to scream. But the man who called himself Father Nikolas held her in an iron grip and began to choke the last breath out of her.

»Where is it? If you scream, I will kill you here and now.«

He loosened his grip around her throat and Maria gasped for air. She was desperately trying to come up with something that she could tell the man.

»In my cell in the monastery.«

The man choked her again. Maria was panicking.

»You shall not lie. Do not lie to me, Sister. I can smell if someone lies.«

Maria was desperately trying to come up with something that she could do, with something that she could tell the man. She didn’t want to surrender the amulet to him. But she didn’t want to die, either.

»I will take you to it,« she gasped as soon as the man took his hands from her neck. Next she felt the touch of cold and sharp steel against her throat and the fear of death began to wash over her entire body.

»No,« said the man, »I will kill you now, Sister. But before I do, you will tell me where you hid the relic. If I believe you, your death will be quick; you will barely even feel it. But if I smell a lie oozing from your mouth like mucus from purulent tissue, then you will have an agonizing death. Then I will skin you, Sister Maria. From the tips of your toes all the way up to your beautiful neck. Pain, Sister Maria. Do you know what pain is?«

Maria was gasping in panic and she began to shake uncontrollably.

»Please,« she whispered, »please, don’t.«

»Where is it?«

Maria no longer doubted that the man would do what he threatened to do. Christ had died in agony on the cross, from exsanguination and from thirst. He had died with broken bones and dislocated joints in the scorching heat of Judea. But Christ had been the Son of God and she was nothing more than a bundle of gasping and sweating fear.

The excruciating fear of pain.

»I will not lie, I swear by our Lord Jesus Christ that I will not lie.«

»That’s good, Sister Maria. So where is it?«

»I will not lie but I won’t say it either,« Maria gasped. Because in spite of her panic and her fear of dying, there was one thing that became clear to her: this man would kill her anyway. Whether she surrendered the amulet or not – she was already dead. So what difference did it make how she died?

Nikolas tilted his head forward slightly and began to sniff at her. For quite some time. It seemed to take forever.

»I see. Well then, Sister Maria. May the light be with you.«

She felt his hand tensing against her neck for the fatal cut. Maria prayed to the Holy Virgin.

And then the shot rang out.

It ripped through the silence of the church, rolled with crunching sounds through the nave, and surged over the altar before sweeping through the side chapels. The only sensation Maria felt was that the blade was no longer pressing against her throat. She heard a muffled sound and noticed that the man let go of her. At the same moment, she slumped forward.

Nobody was holding her. Maria fell hard on the cold marble floor, saw a shadowy movement right next to her, and instinctively doubled up to protect herself.

A second gunshot. Something shattered. Maria saw the figure with the hood fleeing towards the back section of the church.

Hasty footsteps, very close. A hand that grabbed her. Maria started screaming.

»Calm down, Maria, it’s me! Are you okay?«

She nodded. She nodded even though this was another lie. She simply nodded because she recognized Peter Adam kneeling next to her, holding a gun in his hand. He pulled her carefully to her feet, as his eyes darted through the dark church.

»We have to get out of here. I think I hit him but he might not have been alone.«

»He was,« she managed to utter, »alone. He has a huge knife.«

»Let’s go. Hurry. Do you still have the amulet?«

She nodded again, still unable to move. With trembling fingers she pointed at the offertory box by the entrance.

An ancient Fiat Panda was waiting on the other side of the street and its headlights flashed briefly as Peter and Maria came storming out of the church. Peter recognized the driver, who looked oddly squished in the small car, and pulled Maria behind him.

»I’ve only just arrived,« said Don Luigi, holding the passenger door open. »What happened?«

»Drive, Don Luigi, just drive!«

»But where?«

»Anywhere, just away from here. Go. Drive!«

Don Luigi stepped on the gas and steered the rickety car through the night-time streets of Rome. He was worried about Maria. He could see her in the rear mirror and it seemed as if she were still in a state of shock, not saying a word.

»You look terrible, Peter. What happened, for goodness sake?«

»I will explain it to you later. First we need to find a place to think for a while, in peace. And avoid police checkpoints.«

»Is the amulet still in your possession?«

Peter showed it to him. The Padre nodded in relief.

»I know a Carmelite monastery on Via dei Baglioni. The sisters are very discreet and helpful.«

»Good.«

Peter turned around to Maria. »Everything okay?«

She shook her head but tried to smile. »Thank you,« she said.

Peter gave the Padre a brief overview of what had happened during the night, and the Padre told him that Loretta really had stolen the documents they’d found in the papal apartment.

»CIA? Mossad?« Don Luigi shook his head.

»You don’t seem overly surprised.«

»It was clear that the secret service agencies would be alarmed by the disappearance of the Pope. But I never would have thought they’d go that far.«

»Well, they think I’m a murderer and a terrorist.«

Don Luigi looked at him. »But
did
you kill this agent, Peter?«

Peter didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say? He wasn’t sure anymore. When they crossed the Tiber, he asked Don Luigi to stop for a moment and threw the gun into the river. He’d left the van in the vicinity of the pilgrim church. It wouldn’t take them long to find it. Peter figured anyway that they were already conducting an intense search for him.