The tissue in her hand had deteriorated with her tears. Maria nodded.
“Dad?”
His father turned. “I’m sorry, son.”
Andrew cried. “I, I don’t understand. You look healthy.”
Maria took a deep breath and spoke softly. “I haven’t been feeling well for a while. Always tired—I didn’t think it was anything.”
“You should’ve gone to the doctors when I told you.”
“I’m sorry, Frank.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Frank stormed out of the room.
Perplexed, Andrew asked, “Mom, why is Dad so mad?” He sat next to her.
“Because . . .” She placed her hand on her son’s leg and bowed her head. “Because I’m terminal—I’m going to die.”
“What? No . . . that can’t be.”
“I’m sorry, Andy.”
“Did you get a second opinion?”
“Yes, we’ve done that, honey.”
“Oh.”
Andrew tried to come to grips with the upsetting news. The young man leaned forward, placing his head in his hands. His mother rubbed his back to comfort him.
“How much time?” His voice trailed.
“Doctors said six months.”
“Six months?” Shit.
Frank returned to the room and stood in front of his wife and son. “I’m sorry, Maria. I didn’t mean to yell.”
Maria died in her sleep six weeks after watching her son receive his high school diploma with honors.
* * *
A few months passed. Andrew prepared to leave for St. Anselm’s College in New Hampshire. With a recommendation from the prioress of the Abbey Regina Laudis, he had received a full scholarship to the Benedictine school.
“You’re packed.”
“Almost, Dad. Were you at the cemetery?”
“Yeah. Mom’s headstone arrived.” He shook his head. “All those prayers those stupid nuns said did nothing to save your mother. No, he took her away from me. There is no God.”
“Dad, you’re just mad. Don’t say things like that.”
“Yeah, you’re right—I am angry. My life is ruined. Now you’re going to a dumbass Catholic school. You could go to Cornell—I have the money. You could get a good education. No, instead you listened to those senseless nuns.”
“Dad.”
“Don’t ‘Dad’ me, Andrew—I’m your father!”
“Dad.”
“Do what you want—it’s your freakin’ life. By the way, I’m selling the house.”
A pang of hurt swept through Andrew. “You want to move up to New Hampshire with me?”
“Thanks, son, but no. I’m moving to Manhattan. No sense in commuting anymore with you away at school. Too many memories . . .”
“I understand.”
“I checked the oil in your car. You’re set to go. Can I take that downstairs for you?” He pointed to a suitcase.
Andrew’s black Chevy Malibu was jam-packed with clothes and books, the rear seat filled with his personal possessions.
“I guess I should be leaving.” Andrew entered the car.
“Yeah. Andrew?”
“Dad?”
Andrew got back out of the vehicle and rested his arm on the door.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll survive.”
Andrew’s father extended his arms, pulling his son close. “I love you, son. Time will heal our pain.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
* * *
Andrew settled into the quiet, peaceful campus of St. Anselm’s. Drawn into the Benedictine community, he quickly made friends. In his sophomore year, he felt the call of the priesthood touch his heart. His father had no time for Andrew’s Catholic God. The two seldom talked, and eventually his father remarried—a much younger woman. By the time Andrew was twenty, he had a stepbrother.
Accepted to the Pontifical North American College in Rome, where Andrew received his master of divinity. He was ordained in St. Peter’s by the pontiff. He pursued his doctorate of religious studies at the American College in Leuven, Belgium. His thesis was titled “The Reunification of the Christian Churches.”
The acclaimed 377-page doctoral dissertation made its way to the pope. Asked to return to Rome, Andrew respectfully asked to continue his studies at Yale Divinity School. He believed in the necessity of understanding the current Christian philosophies outside of the Catholic doctrine. After he’d served at the Vatican for six months, his request was granted.
Andrew studied Protestant dogma for two years. His arguments for balance and synergy between the churches influenced Yale to offer him a professorship. Rome approved the appeal without hesitation. When not in class or lecturing, Andrew performed his priestly duties at St. Mary’s Church on Hillhouse Avenue in New Haven. Eventually, he resigned his teaching post in favor of contemplative prayer and ministry to the parish, which was where he was stationed when Paolo died.
* * *
“We are gathered here this day to honor a man whom people say saw the world through God’s eyes. There are those who said he spoke the words of God. One thing is sure—he understood the nature of humankind. His remarkable gift of unconditional love for people can only be given by God. Through his adversity and pain, Paolo witnessed the love of God for others. He was a good man, and his death only solidified God’s love for his people. I pray that all will heed the words he wrote about the need for and importance of love.”
Giacomo and Emily were next to Father Andrew in the vestibule of the 120-year-old church. As the congregation exited the Gothic structure, one after another they paid their respects to the children of Paolo DeLaurentis.
“Father Andrew, thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, Colonel DeLaurentis.”
“We’ve known each other for a year. Please, Father—Giacomo.”
“I don’t often have the opportunity to rib the military elite, my friend.”
One of the youngest colonels in American history at twenty-six and the commander of Black Operations Elite Team, or BOET, Giacomo reported to one person—the president of the United States. Giacomo was credited with the capture of the American traitor Dr. Colin Payne. Payne, a member of the NSC, was responsible for the atomic detonation in the Ural Mountains of Russia and the placement of a nuclear bomb in Detroit. Giacomo DeLaurentis never asked for fame, but many in the armed services still considered it unjust that he rose through the ranks as fast as he did.
“How long are you here for?”
“Two days. Then I head back to DC. I’ll be here for Sunday Mass.”
“I read your father’s journal—a modern-day Nostradamus. The poems regarding his love for his wife are beautiful. The hand of God undoubtedly touched your dad.”
“Why don’t you come over for dinner so we can discuss the journal?”
“Yes, Father. You must, I’m cooking coq au vin,” Emily said.
“Sounds delicious. We can celebrate my news.”
“What news?” Giacomo asked.
“I’m headed back to the Vatican. I’ve been asked to lead an exploratory committee to unify the churches.”
“Congratulations, Andrew! Next they’ll make you a bishop.” Giacomo smiled at his friend. “Tonight, we will celebrate.”
“And when are we going to celebrate you two having children?” The priest’s eyebrows arched.
“Not until I retire. A soldier’s life is no way to bring up children.”
Rio walked through the large wooden door into the vestibule, her face stained with tears. “Children? Emily, you’re pregnant!”
“No, no, no.” Emily blushed.
“Oh. That would’ve been news to brighten up the day. Thank you, Father, for saying Mass.”
“You’re welcome, Rio. I wis
h I had met your dad. I understand he donated copious sums of money to the Catholic Church?”
“Copious, really?”
Emily backhanded Giacomo on the chest and mouthed “stop.” Giacomo shrugged.
“Yes, we never realized how wealthy our dad was.” Rio touched the priest’s red robes as she glanced at his face. “In his writings, he mentioned you several times. Yet you two never met?”
“No, never. I told your brother your father’s donations ensured my placement here at St. Mary’s.”
“You mean he paid off the pope.”
“Giacomo! I’m sorry, Father—my husband speaks before he thinks.”
“Quite all right, Emily. It was funny.”
“I’m funny.” He put his arm around his wife and kissed her on the head. “Rio, Andrew’s going back to the Vatican.”
“Andrew—when?”
“Next month.”
“I’m so happy for you, Father.” She kissed the priest on the cheek.
Chapter 8
“Your Eminence.”
“Marcello, please come in.” Cardinal Andrew Angeloni waved the man into the office. “What can I do for you?” he asked as he placed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. Half-rimmed glasses rested on the tip of his nose. His once-brown hair was now gray at the temples. The sixty-three-year-old had a few wrinkles around his eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
“No, not at all. I can use a break. Do me a favor and adjust the air-conditioning—too warm in here.”
The young priest did as asked and then spoke. “I want to review your calendar before I leave for vacation.”
“Sure. Please sit.” He pointed to one of the two chairs opposite his desk. “What’s the schedule?” The American cardinal leaned forward as he listened.
“On Thursday, you meet with the Greek, Russian, and Serbian Orthodox Church representatives. That will begin at nine at the Rome Marriott. Friday, you travel to the mountain village of Ottati to be with the DeLaurentis family. You’ll celebrate Mass at St. Biaggio on Sunday morning. You return to Rome on Monday for a meeting with the Holy Father on Tuesday to discuss the reunification. On Wednesday, you meet with the representative of the Egyptian Coptic Church here at the Vatican. I’ll be back on Friday.”
“A busy week.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Marcello, you can call me Andrew. I go to the bathroom the same way you do. I am no different.”
“Yes, Your Em—Andrew.” Marcello chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“The bathroom.”
“Well, I do. Don’t I? I stand to pee just like you.”
They were both laughing as the cardinal’s phone rang. Marcello jumped to answer it.
“Marcello, relax.” Andrew put out his hand and answered, “Hello. Cardinal Angeloni.”
“Andrew?” The voice was somber.
“Giacomo, you sound terrible. What’s the matter?”
“Is there a TV in your office?”
“Yes.” The cardinal motioned to Marcello to turn it on. “What’s wrong?”
“Rio’s plane crashed as it approached the Italian coastline.”
“May God have mercy on us!” He signaled to his assistant. “Marcello, switch to the news station.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
The headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen—“American revolutionary killed in terrorist attack”—as the announcer spoke: “American revolutionary Rio DeLaurentis is believed to have died today in a missile attack on the private plane she traveled in. A staunch advocate for the people and protector of the poor, DeLaurentis fought for the rights of Americans against the injustices of the United States government. The leader of the American Party, she lambasted the political status quo . . .” Video played of Rio calling for the resignation of the leaders of the House and Senate. Her now-famous tirade in which she called the legislators “moronic a-holes” had garnered international attention.
“Giacomo, this is terrible. Did Rio die? Where are you?”
“No, she didn’t. I’m in Pontecagnano with Emily and Sergio. Everyone’s rescued, alive with minor bruises, except for Rio.”
“What’s the matter with Rio?”
“She’s . . . in a coma.”
“A coma?”
“Yes. And, Andrew, I need a favor.”
Chapter 9
“The missile passed through the fuselage without exploding. Last report said four of the five occupants survived, DeLaurentis died.”
The transmission ended. Winston Tarmac, the United States ambassador to the United Nations, walked over to his secretary’s desk. A stout man, Tarmac was as tall as he was round and deserving of his nickname: Santa Claus. The gray-haired sixty-one-year-old reached for the pink sheets of paper with his telephone messages. He scanned and memorized them.
Ruth looked up, shaking her head.
“I know it would be easier if you emailed me the messages.” The ambassador was not a fan of electronic communication.
“Easy day, Mr. Ambassador—lunch at La Mela, then a two o’clock meeting with the staff.”
“Cancel the staff meeting.”
“Do you want to reschedule?”
He paused for a moment. “No. Make sure my car is here by eleven thirty.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”
Tarmac waddled back to his office. A friend of Vice President Jerry Richardson, he had easily won Senate confirmation of his appointment. Not President Waldron’s first choice, but an agreement was an agreement. Favors done and favors repaid.
“Ruth, get me the vice president on the phone.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”
A moment later, “Winston, how the hell are you?”
“Fine, Jerry. You?”
“Same ol’ stuff. Cleaning up Waldron’s messes.”
“I understand. Do you think we’ll still be working in January?”
“I doubt it. But you never know.”
“Come on, Jer. He’s so far behind in the polls—no way he’ll be reelected.”
“Only if something earth-shattering occurs.”
“You got that right. I take it you heard the news coming out of Italy?”
“Yeah, what a shame.”
“Do I detect sarcasm in your voice?”
“Me? Sarcasm? This good ol’ boy from Georgia—sarcastic?”
“How stupid of me. I’m sure your friend Boyle is happy.”
“That bitch. She’s no friend of mine.”
The ambassador swiveled his black leather chair around and gazed out on the Turtle Bay neighborhood of Manhattan. The view of the East River from the twenty-fourth floor was spectacular. Gray clouds hid the sun, a hint of imminent rain.
“At least the next presidential election is looking better for you. We don’t need DeLaurentis around. Do you think she was really connected to the FFB?”
“No way. She was out there in la-la land, but she wouldn’t back them.”
“I have news—your line secure?”
“Of course.”
“I have a lunch meeting today that promises to be enlightening.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been promised information on goody-two-shoes president-wannabe Maro.”
“What kind of information?”
“The kind that will make sure you and I are still employed come inauguration day.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
* * *
Neither man noticed the third phone disconnect. Two women sat by a speakerphone. The one with a long face and disproportionately tiny nose leaned back in her chair. The other with midnight-black hair removed her finger from the disconnect button and adjusted the window shade to ob
scure the view of the crumbled Washington Monument in the distance. Senator Boyle turned to her companion and said, “You understand what needs to be done. The helicopter will take you to Manhattan.”
Chapter 10
The black SUV with diplomatic plates turned on Mulberry Street and stopped at La Mela Italian restaurant. It was one of Tarmac’s favorite eateries.
“Hello, Mr. Ambassador. Your table is ready.”
“Hello, Anthony.”
Due to the ambassador’s girth, Anthony seated him near the door where there was ample room.
“Ambassador Tarmac, your usual scotch?”
“Hello, Dominique. Yes, please. My guest should be here shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tarmac pulled his black-onyx-cufflinked left shirtsleeve up and gawked at his gold and diamond bezel Rolex. A half hour passed, two scotches down, and no guest. Dominique approached the table.
“Would you like to order lunch, Mr. Ambassador? Or continue to wait?”
“Lunch. Screw them—their loss.”
“Gnocchi and meatballs?”
“Yeah.” He lifted his scotch, swirled the ice. “Another one of these, please.”
He finished his lunch with an espresso and a slice of New York cheesecake. Dominique brought the check. The round ambassador exited the eatery. His driver held the limo’s door open as a casually dressed woman moved toward Tarmac.
“Mr. Ambassador?”
“Yes?”
He couldn’t help but stare at her long and disproportionate face as her eyes held his gaze. Transfixed, he waited for her to speak.
“My client apologizes for not being here today. This is for you.”
Tarmac smiled. He grabbed the white envelope and entered the car with a huff. Handkerchief in hand, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The vehicle drove up Mulberry, took a right on Bond, then a left on First Avenue. Tarmac tore the envelope, anxious to see the contents. He read the note in shock—the message spoke of the vice president in derogatory terms that caused him to panic.
When they stopped on the corner of Thirty-Ninth Street, a motorcycle squeezed next to the automobile. The rider placed a device on the car’s hood—the clanking sound reverberated through the limo.
The Third Trumpet Page 4