“Mr. Maro! Mr. Maro!” a woman’s voice yelled from the group.
He scanned the crowd and pointed to a lady with a tiny nose. “Yes.”
“Sir, Marie Greenway from the Boston Herald.”
“Yes, Marie.”
A Secret Service agent whispered in the candidate’s ear. He nodded. Maro’s slate-blue eyes locked on the reporter. Two agents moved forward from the street.
The Massachusetts accent was unmistakable. “Is it true you are a Muslim?”
“I am neither Muslim, Jew, nor Christian. I believe in the one true God of Abraham.” The cameras ignited in a maelstrom of clicks.
“Your cousin Saleem—was he a Muslim?”
Maro’s heartbeat increased; he could feel the pounding in his chest. Tell the truth. Who is this woman? “Yes, but our work relationship was not based on our religious beliefs.”
“Interesting.” Her tone was unabashedly sarcastic. “Are you familiar with your cousin’s father?”
Where is this going? “No, I am not.” Saleem refused to discuss his deceased father when asked. Maro never wanted to intrude. He did remember a conversation his father had with Saleem’s mother but couldn’t remember the details.
“You have no knowledge that his father was associated with the traitor Dr. Colin Payne?”
Silence. Maro froze, stunned by the question.
The reporters pelted him. “Is this true?” “Do you think you’ll lose the election?” “How could you not tell the American people?”
Maro motioned to calm the crowd.
“Please, please.” A deep wind rustled, and a single maple leaf floated aimlessly. The crackle of a reporter stepping on a twig broke the stillness.
“No, Miss . . . Greenway, I did not know this.” The shock on his face was a testament to his truth. “Why don’t you tell us who you are? You’re not with the Boston Herald.” His voice was calm.
Suddenly, a woman screamed, and the scene erupted into mayhem. The reporters scattered as Secret Service agents grabbed Thomas Maro. With great force, they hauled him into the house. Maro was pushed to the foyer floor as his wife was hustled to a nearby safe room. Within minutes, police and FBI surrounded the property.
Outside, “Marie Greenway” lay on the front lawn, a bullet hole through her heart.
Chapter 18
Giacomo and Rio’s mother had aged gracefully. Victoria had remarried four years after the death of Paolo. Her husband, John, treated her like a queen. Content, she lived a joyful life.
“Tell me about Rio. Don’t leave anything out,” Victoria said.
“Rio is stable, breathing on her own, still in a coma. She’ll get well, Mom.” Giacomo’s firm voice reassured his mother. They sat at her round kitchen table with John. Emily placed espresso cups in front of the two men and a plate of chocolate-chip biscotti on the lazy Susan.
“Is she gonna die?”
“No, Mom. Come on. She’s surrounded by priests and nuns. Plus, the pope lives next door.” He tried to ease his mother’s mind.
Victoria wept as John wrapped his arms around her. “She’ll recover, Vic. She’s a fighter.”
“That she is. Listen, Mom. After the funeral tomorrow, we’re flying you both to Rome. You’ll be safe there with Rio.”
“What do you mean, ‘safe’? What’s going on, Giacomo?”
Giacomo shook his head. Emily held his hand. They glanced at each other.
“What are you not telling me?”
“Rio’s house was broken into.”
“What? Why? Damn it. Is it because of what she said? Her Italian temper . . .” Victoria’s words trailed off. She bowed her head. “Giacomo, is what they’re saying on the news correct? Is this related to the other assassinations?”
“I’m not sure.” Giacomo rubbed his left ear as he told her some of what he knew.
“It was the helicopter pilot?”
“Yes, I recognized him from the surveillance video.”
“Do they know Rio is alive?”
“Probably not. Still, we don’t want to take any chances.” Giacomo’s cell phone rang. “Hello. What? Are you kidding me? Em—turn on the television.”
“Why? What happened?”
“A reporter was shot in front of Tom Maro’s house.”
Chapter 19
The Next Morning
Giacomo sat on a love seat and enjoyed the simple task of putting on his socks. When he had renovated his childhood home, he’d converted the au pair apartment into the master bedroom. Decorated in light earthtones, the area was comfortable and pleasant.
Emily walked in from the bathroom, dressed in black. Giacomo gazed at his wife. “You’re gorgeous.”
“I don’t feel gorgeous. This morning sickness is a killer.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“Not your fault.”
“Well, kinda is.”
“Nice grin. Fine—it’s your fault.”
“I thought you’d be better after your first trimester.”
“Me too.”
“Did you see the reports on Maro’s cousin? The media is crucifying our next president. They say he should have known about his uncle—whom, by the way, he never met.”
“Our next president?”
“Yeah, he’ll win the election.” Giacomo hesitated. “That’s strange . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“Thomas Maro will be the next commander in chief. I sense it—I know . . .”
“Oh boy. Spooky—I hope you’re not getting like your father.”
“God forbid . . . please.”
“Giacomo, the limo is here,” his mother’s voice echoed through the intercom.
* * *
The feigned funeral was private; only family members were allowed into St. Thomas More Chapel at Yale. It didn’t stop the paparazzi from taking pictures. The ride to St. Lawrence Cemetery was eerie. Rio was in a coma—not dead but not alive. Would there be a real funeral in the near future?
New Haven and West Haven police blocked the entranceways. No one could enter except for the DeLaurentis family. Parked to the side was a black SUV with government license plates. Rio’s empty casket would be buried in the family plot. The pallbearers escorted the coffin to the gravesite, which was surrounded by floral arrangements. The bereaved exited their limos and, stepping with careful purpose, began the quiet trek across the green grass. The doors of the SUV swung open. Two well-dressed passengers exited the vehicle, followed by two men from the Secret Service.
The warmth of the morning sun broke through the scattered clouds. A dove cooed in the distance. This was more difficult for Giacomo than he’d thought it would be. His sister was breathing, yet the reality was that she might die. The priest raised his eyes from the prayer book as he said the final blessing. He stopped midsentence when he saw President Arthur Waldron and Thomas Maro standing behind the attendees.
Giacomo turned. He was not surprised that the two politicians were present. When the service was over, President Waldron gave his condolences to Victoria and then to Giacomo, as did Maro. A slight hum of a drone echoed overhead. Relatives said their goodbyes and departed, leaving Giacomo, Emily, Victoria, and John talking to the candidates.
“Giacomo,” the president said. “Can we speak in private?”
“Honey, why don’t you, Mom, and John wait in the limo for me?”
Emily leaned forward and kissed her husband. “Don’t take too long?”
He rolled his eyes. The three men strolled to the SUV, their bodyguards close behind.
“When is she due?” Maro asked.
“Middle of January.”
“May God bless your child.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to hear about your cousin.”
“Thank you.”
Giacomo sat oppos
ite the two men in the modified presidential SUV.
The commander in chief spoke first. “Colonel . . . you don’t mind if I call you Colonel?”
“No, sir.”
Waldron reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper—one side torn.
“Best if I let you read this first.”
Dear Mr. President and Mr. Maro,
This past week has not been kind to us. The attempt on my daughter’s life and the assassinations of the ambassador and Tom’s cousin inflict us with deep pain. Our people are confused as they wonder what will happen to America. The upcoming attack on our infrastructure and financial institutions will cause many citizens to question the strength and resolve of the current administration. It will galvanize those who want to overthrow our government. We stand on the precipice of a rebellion that will be instigated by an allied aggression on Iran. My journal has been whisked away. Its contents were not heeded, written off as a fluke. Ego and pride were more important than saving lives. The people who read the words knew they were true. They manipulated the outcomes of the future events to benefit their greed and thirst for power.
A civil war will arise on two fronts—the people versus the rich, the citizens opposing the government. This is the beginning of a coup to abolish our American way of life, to change the rules of freedom, to prevent the truth from reaching the people. We need to go no further than look within our own country and government, for the misguided are led by sources outside of our borders. They are the ones who want to destroy the fabric of democracy. The enemy is divided among themselves, which will allow our victory. Our shining moment is before us. In the months and years to come, America will become the bright star of the world once again—but at a cost. Be vigilant, my friends. The journey is difficult, filled with heartaches and joys.
Paolo DeLaurentis
April 5, 2000
P.S. Hello, Giacomo. Remember: what is hidden will be revealed in time.
Giacomo handed the paper back to Waldron, who shook his head. “Why is the word ‘time’ emphasized?” Giacomo whispered to himself.
“What?”
“My father emphasized ‘time,’ and I’m wondering why.”
The men glanced at each other and shrugged.
“Is that your father’s handwriting?”
“Yes, Mr. Maro.”
“How . . . ?”
Giacomo explained to them how he and Rio had received the first letter a year after Paolo died and then three subsequent envelopes.
“Do you think there could be more?” the president asked.
“I hope not.”
The men were silent for a moment.
Waldron spoke first. “Colonel, I remember the day when your father addressed the world’s leaders at the United Nations. He said a time would come when devastating events took place, that we must throw away our indifference, love one another, and live in peace. Maybe that is what he meant by time—the time is now.”
“Maybe.”
The commander in chief continued, “What the world witnessed this past decade has been horrific—the loss of millions of lives due to natural and man-made disasters. Mother Nature slammed our country in February. The violent terrorist attacks, coupled with the economic collapse, the rise of the European Union.” Waldron shook his head. “The threats of the FFB and now this—a potential attack on our infrastructure and economy.”
“Yep.” Giacomo didn’t know what else to say.
“Last week, I was informed by Tom’s new chief of staff that your father kept a journal. He prophesied events that have come to be. Is that true?”
Giacomo’s left eyebrow raised. “You mean to tell me, Mr. President, you never read the journal?”
“Never.”
“Giacomo, you’re surprised?”
“I am, Mr. Maro. The deaths we could have prevented. Now, hundreds of thousands of innocents will be lost when Israel attacks Iran.” Giacomo moved his head in disgust. His attention was drawn to the gray headstones in the distance. The gravediggers threw sand on his sister’s empty coffin. A shiver traveled through his body.
Both men flashed a look of doubt at Giacomo.
“Israel is going to attack Iran?” Waldron’s forehead creased with concern.
“Yes, they will, Mr. President. The attack on our infrastructure will happen as well. I hope you’re prepared.”
Waldron glanced at Maro. Giacomo didn’t let them answer.
“What happened to the journal?”
“Last week, President Stalworth’s widow called me. She read his diary. He mentioned the journal and how he lost it. He was distraught at the events that occurred on February 14 and 17. From what she said, he was troubled when he realized the truth after doing nothing. He died several days later.” He paused. “Colonel, can you send us a copy of the journal?”
“You’ll have my father’s writing by the end of the day.”
“Good. I heard Stalworth made life difficult for you.”
“Yes, he did. I was silenced—but it took heroic efforts to keep my sister quiet.”
“That must’ve been a challenge.”
“You got that right, Tom.”
“I wish you hadn’t retired.”
“No choice, Mr. President. Any idea why Stalworth didn’t say anything?”
“I think he was embarrassed that he’d misplaced the journal. Most of all, pride. He wouldn’t allow anyone to tell him what to do. I call it the curse of the presidency. Pride can easily overcome you. I’ve been there.”
Giacomo’s patience was waning. He needed to get back and find those responsible for the attempt on Rio’s life. His mind failed to register how Tom’s chief of staff knew about the journal.
“Can I ask why you’re here together? This is unusual. You’re running against each other.”
“We need your help, Giacomo.”
“My help? Seems a little odd. I’m listening.”
Waldron drew a sigh.
“I will not be reelected. As the French say, it’s a fait accompli. I’m finished.”
“Why don’t you drop out of the race?” Giacomo’s words caught Waldron off guard.
“I don’t have faith that our party will do what’s best for our people. I trust Tom. We’ve been friends for many years. He’s the better man.”
“You can still win, Arthur. This is not a given.”
“Believe me, I’m done. Nothing will pass in Congress as long as I’m in the Oval Office. Another four years of my administration won’t accomplish a thing.”
“Arthur and I have been meeting secretly to discuss strategies to help save the nation.”
Waldron swallowed. “When Stalworth’s widow informed me of your father’s journal, and then when we received this letter, it was evident that we had to meet with you.”
“Why?”
“Outside of the obvious, your father mentioned your name. Damn, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that the three of us need to work together.”
“I can buy that. What are you proposing?”
“We agreed that if I win, you should become part of the transition team.”
“I’m honored. What is it you want me to do?”
“First, we need to discuss your sister,” Maro said.
“What does Rio have to do with anything? She’s dead.”
“Our intel sources tell us otherwise.”
Arthur Waldron held out his hands. “We don’t need the details. To be honest, her views are what this country needs.” He smiled. “The way she blasted the leadership—what did that TV commercial used to say? Priceless.”
Giacomo laughed. Can I trust these two? His gut said yes.
“Yes, Rio is alive, though in a coma. She’s safe.”
“I’m glad. Induced coma?” Maro asked.
“No.”
“Earlier, you mentioned your father wrote you a letter. Can you share it with us?”
Without hesitation, Giacomo informed the two about what his father wrote and about the robbery at his sister’s house.
“Do you know what was in the journal?” Maro asked.
“No.”
“We have a proposition for you,” President Waldron said. “I want to reinstate you as commander of BOET.”
“I’m not sure I want that responsibility again.”
“Colonel, this is what I propose. Your replacement—Colonel Jason Vandercliff—will be your number-two man. Jason will run the day-to-day operations. You report only to me and no one else.”
Giacomo hid a faint smile. He and Jason were friends. Four years earlier, he had recommended him for his job. BOET with its five hundred soldiers became an extension of the executive branch. Its commander reported directly to the president.
“I believe that your father’s predictions will happen. Giacomo, our country needs you to uncover the enemy, find out who they are. Now that there’s a second journal . . .” Waldron hesitated. “Giacomo, reinstating you would allow you to have more leeway in your search for those responsible for the assassination attempt on your sister and help you find the journal. The resources of the American government would be at your beck and call as you tracked those who wish to destroy our democracy.”
“Well, it would help—”
The warbled sound of a satellite phone interrupted them. Waldron answered. “Yes, I understand. How many dead? Damn—what?” He hung up the phone. Two squad cars raced into the cemetery, and the Secret Service agents jumped into the SUV. Sirens blared on the way to the New Haven airport. Giacomo locked eyes with Tom Maro.
Giacomo said, “I told you it would happen.”
Waldron squinted at Maro, then touched Giacomo’s arm. “The Golden Gate Bridge collapsed. At least a thousand dead. Plus, the North Koreans hacked our financial institutions’ computers.” Waldron’s anger surfaced, his face a crimson red. “Every American’s bank account is frozen. Our economy no longer functions. The stock market just crashed. The Dow dropped five thousand points in the last fifteen minutes.”
The Third Trumpet Page 7