The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “But, sir . . . our instructions.” The two men winced as the verbal rampage continued.

  “I don’t care. You work for me, not that troll of a woman. At least you morons were able to steal the journal. Who were they working for?”

  “We questioned them but got no answers.”

  “Bah. Where’s the journal?”

  One of the men reached into his briefcase and handed Richardson the writings of Paolo DeLaurentis.

  “What? Why is this sealed? What the hell?” Richardson threw the book on his desk.

  The two men grimaced at one another, afraid to speak. Spit erupted out of the balloon-faced politician. “Get the hell out of my office!” The vice president rose from his chair, turned, grabbed a paperweight, and threw it across the room. The object struck a picture of Richardson with Waldron, their hands raised in victory on the day of their election. “Out!”

  The office door burst open as two Secret Service agents ran in with guns drawn. “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes. Everyone out!”

  The men did as commanded.

  Richardson threw himself into his chair, pulled the blue trash can from underneath his desk, and vomited. A photo of his family toppled from the force. He picked up the framed snapshot and gazed at the picture. A wave of regret swept his being. He touched the face of his wife. They’d been married for twenty-five years when his Georgia peach succumbed to liver disease in April. He’d tried in vain to help her. The onset of her disease had occurred when he was a freshman in the Senate. Involved in a near-tragic car accident, she never forgave herself for almost killing her two children and drank to ease her pain. Now that he had nothing to lose, he would make them pay for what they did to her. Not wanting to revisit the memory, he opened the right top drawer and reached for the secure phone.

  “Is she there? No? Well, screw her. I have the journal, and it’s sealed. What do you mean, you know? So I wouldn’t read it? Screw you!” Richardson yelled. “You can’t use me anymore. Hello? Hello?” The bastard hung up on me.

  Richardson contemplated removing the seal and taking a peek. Why not? What are they going to do—kill me? Kill my wife? Well, that option is off the table. I didn’t sign up for this—people dying. Now I’m a friggin’ traitor. I was to serve another term and then be president. That was the plan. Innocent people are dead. Maybe I should shred the damn thing. He smirked, vomited again, and then pressed the intercom button.

  “Donna, come in here and bring me two aspirin.” They got the first one, but they’re not going to get this one. Screw them.

  When the secretary entered the office, Richardson lifted his head.

  “Where’s Donna?”

  “Home sick. I’m filling in for her. Anything else, sir?”

  “Yes.” He reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a red envelope marked SHRED. Richardson took the journal and sealed it inside.

  “Make sure this gets taken care of today.”

  “Yes, Mr. Vice President.”

  Chapter 25

  Several miles down the road in the White House residence, Giacomo and Thomas Maro sat in Arthur Waldron’s living room. A painting of Abraham Lincoln and pictures of the current first family adorned the walls that were decorated in floral tones. A full-screen TV faced the six-foot couch. The oak door opened as the two men stood.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Mr. President.”

  “Gentlemen, please sit.” They continued to stand. The struggle of the presidency showed on Waldron’s face—dark circles under the eyes, creased skin, and the famous smile diminished to a frown. Arthur shook Tom’s hand. “I’ve missed our nightly talks, my friend.”

  “Me as well. A rough couple of days for you, I’m sure.”

  “Yes—I hate this job.”

  Giacomo found the words of the commander in chief disconcerting. A man whose hope had vanished during his sojourn in the institution that fought for freedom and democracy. Nothing had changed in his four years as president. The electoral college voted him into office with the hopes Waldron would shake up the system. The ruling party behind him failed. The animosity and outrage of the opposition party fueled the revolution. He’d been defeated by elected officials who embraced their personal agendas above the needs of the American people.

  Waldron shook Giacomo’s hand. “Tell me, how’s your sister?”

  “Still the same, Mr. President. In a coma—but safe. I’ll visit her tomorrow. I leave for Rome this afternoon.”

  “Good. When will you be back? By the way, Giacomo, we’re on a first-name basis here—call me Art.”

  Giacomo nodded in acceptance. “Depends on the investigation.”

  “Understand . . . please . . .” Waldron motioned with his right hand to a sitting area in the corner of the room. Arthur unbuttoned his navy-blue jacket as he sat in one of the three high-backed upholstered leather chairs. A maplewood coffee table centered between the seats. Three portfolio-style notebooks had been placed in front of the president. Tom Maro’s cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. My chief of staff.” He spoke into the phone. “Yes, Dean. I need to get back to you. I’m in a meeting. No, it’s personal.” Maro ended the call and looked at the president. “Sorry, Arthur.”

  Waldron handed copies of Paolo’s journal to Maro and DeLaurentis. “Giacomo, thank you. Your father’s predictions were written twenty-nine years ago?”

  “Yes, if not longer.”

  “Tom, what did you think?”

  “This is remarkable—still trying to wrap my head around it. We had this information, yet we did nothing?”

  Waldron leaned forward as he turned a page. “I’ll tell you, Tom—I’m shocked.”

  Giacomo shook his head in disgust. “Sorry, I relied on the previous administration to take action. Guess that was a mistake. It won’t happen again. Remember, gentlemen, hindsight is great.”

  “You’re correct. The journal is in our hands now. We must move forward.”

  Giacomo studied their questioning faces. “Let’s be honest. My financial resources and global connections can circumvent the government if need be. The facts are my sister is in a coma, and the ambassador to the UN and Tom’s cousin are dead, as well as twenty-three civilians. There’s a trail of bodies, and it leads back to my father’s second journal. We need to act now on the remaining predictions. If you can’t, I will. Regarding Dad’s first journal, well . . . the words you used the other day, Mr. President, sum it up—fait accompli. The final event will happen.”

  Waldron sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. Maro gazed into Giacomo’s eyes and held his stare.

  “First, we must stop Israel from attacking Iran,” Maro said.

  “The secretary of state contacted the Israeli prime minister this morning. I’m deeply troubled by his response.”

  “What do you mean, Arthur?”

  “He didn’t deny it, Tom. His comment was ‘We can’t rely on our allies.’ We told him the attack would have dire consequences for the American people. He said, ‘My people are just as important.’ Then the phone line went dead. Subsequently, the State Department reached out to their ambassador here in DC.”

  “And?”

  “No response, Giacomo.”

  “Are we prepared if they attack?”

  “Yes.” Waldron opened the journal to a tabbed page and read aloud. “‘When Israel attacks Iran, the enemies of the US will join the disgruntled citizens and attack American cities.’” Waldron took a breath. “I ordered the Joint Chiefs to mobilize our troops throughout the world, should the need arise.”

  “The need will arise, Mr. President. Be assured it will happen,” Giacomo said, wishing he wasn’t so certain he was right.

  Chapter 26

  Giacomo showered and dressed after his two-hour workout and martial arts joust with a local military a
ttaché. He wandered the streets of Vatican City. Three stone walls to the north, south, and west bordered the country. St. Peter’s Basilica, the pontiff’s residence, and the Vatican Museum guarded the east side. The gardens held rows of waist-high green hedges that outlined the brick pathways. The Holy See encompassed 110 acres. Separated by the Tiber River and the city of Rome, the fortress protected him.

  “Good morning, Mr. DeLaurentis.”

  Giacomo returned the greeting to the Swiss Guard as he entered the papal residence. The building housed one thousand rooms, of which two hundred were residences for the pope’s staff and, in this case, one for Rio.

  “How is she, Mom?” Giacomo walked to his sister’s bed as pain and angst tugged his heart. He leaned over and gave his twin a kiss on the forehead.

  “The same.” Victoria wiped a tear from her eye. With rosary beads clenched in her hand, she asked, “When did you arrive?”

  “Couple of hours ago—dropped my bags off at the hotel and had a quick workout. How’s your apartment? Any problems?”

  “No, everything is fine. Cardinal Andrew visits often. Even the pope came by one night and prayed for her.”

  “Wow.” A tinge of sorrow echoed in his voice.

  Rio heard their voices penetrate her comatose state. Unable to move, she called out in her mind: Mom, is that you? Don’t leave me. What’s that? Why is it so dark? Where am I? Giacomo, is that you? What happened to me? Oh God, oh God! No one heard her silent voice.

  “Where’s Emily?”

  “In Corsica with Arnaud.”

  “What’s going on, Giacomo?”

  “I wish I knew, Mom. Whatever’s in Dad’s second journal has people concerned. I’ll be working with President Waldron and Tom Maro. The plan is to recover the journal.”

  “Your father was an amazing man—he never shared with me his . . .”

  “Gift?”

  “Yes, his gift. One time before we were married, he stared at me. I felt his eyes penetrate my soul. It gave me the willies.”

  “The willies?”

  “Freaky.”

  The brown maple door to Rio’s room opened. “Giacomo, my friend.”

  “Andrew.” A smile crossed his face.

  “Giacomo! It’s ‘Your Eminence.’”

  “Victoria, we’re on a first-name basis. How is Rio today?”

  “The same,” she said as she moved her finger to the next rosary bead.

  “God protects her.”

  “It’s hard to watch my daughter suffer.”

  The cardinal put his hand on her shoulder. “Just a matter of time.”

  She bowed her head to continue her prayers. “Yes, a matter of time.”

  “What brings you back to Rome, Giacomo?”

  “The Italian AISI asked for my help in the investigation.” It was a partial truth—they did ask. His primary goal was to protect the interests of the United States and find the journal and those responsible for the attempt on Rio’s life. Hopefully he would go unscathed.

  “Makes sense. Where’s your beautiful Emily?”

  “In Corsica at her dad’s house. She’s not happy. I’m going to the island this weekend.”

  “Dinner tonight at the Piazza Novano?”

  “Sure. Should be a comfortable evening. Do you want to walk?”

  “Yeah, I could use the exercise. Your mother told me you met America’s potential new president.”

  “Sure did—a nice guy. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Are you making any headway with the reunification?”

  “Slow, to say the least. If we only thought like Jesus instead of relying on ourselves, there would be no issues. The minds of men destroy the works of God.”

  Chapter 27

  Giacomo exited Vatican City at the St. Anne’s entrance into St. Peter’s Square. Tourists strolled with the hopes of glimpsing the humble pontiff, who often came to greet the people of God. Giacomo wandered past the four-thousand-year-old obelisk and Bernini’s granite fountain. The pool of water bubbled from the gentle stream that cascaded from its domed top.

  An unmarked police car waited for Giacomo. He gazed back into the piazza as he entered the vehicle. Tuscan colonnades topped with giant statues of popes, martyrs, and other religious figures appeared to touch the sky. The dome of St. Peter’s Basilica loomed above the massive gathering place, said to hold sixty thousand people. Giacomo shook his head in awe as the car pulled away from the holy site. The ride to the Marriott Flora hotel took twenty minutes. After a hot shower and a cup of espresso, he headed to his Rome office.

  Giacomo sat with Sergio in the operations center as the analysts reviewed the attack on Tony’s plane. The thirty-by-thirty-foot room resembled a movie theater. Where the stage would have been were six pilot station cubicles. Along the wall above them, six large television screens projected the images of the drone’s cameras. Ten feet behind the cubicles, two curved, twenty-foot countertops housed ten computer stations. Each workspace had the capability to access the Italian, French, and United States governments’ satellites, as well as their municipal security cameras.

  “We had two remote drones in the vicinity. With the satellite images given to us by the US government, we pinpointed the origination and path of the weapon,” Ben, the analyst, explained. “Without a doubt, the Gulfstream G750 was the objective. You can see by this projection of its track.” One of the screens flashed the track of the missile with a dotted line.

  The other analyst, Alyssa, spoke as she typed a string of commands into the computer. “To be more specific, the Tower of Erchie, located close to SS 163.”

  “That’s where we captured the helicopter pilots. Alessio has them locked up at AISI headquarters,” Sergio said.

  “Good.” Giacomo studied the image. “No doubt they were after Tony’s airplane?”

  “No doubt,” both analysts said at the same instant.

  “Any intel that suggests my sister was the target?”

  “No, not now,” Ben replied.

  “Keep up the good work,” Giacomo said and followed Sergio out of the operations center, heading to Sergio’s office. A camera scanned the ex-prime minister’s retinas, and the door opened with a hiss. Remote, LLC occupied the top floor of the building on the Via Del Corso, located close to the Tiber River. The modest offices did not announce the wealth of either man.

  “When do we meet with Alessio?”

  “In two hours. Giacomo, what’s going on?”

  “I wish I knew. We’ll have a better idea after the interrogation of the two pilots. Do we have any information on them?”

  Sergio opened a desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder, and handed it to Giacomo.

  “Alessio gave this to me.”

  Giacomo took out the typewritten single-page report stapled to the photos of the two men. “Anything from Interpol?”

  “No.”

  “It says here they are immigrants of Middle Eastern ancestry?”

  “Yes. One of the first tasks the AISI does when they bring in a suspect is to do a DNA test as well as a voice analysis. The information is then downloaded into the computer. With an accuracy of 98 percent, the results show they’re of Middle Eastern origin.”

  “That and four dollars will buy me an espresso.” Giacomo wasn’t impressed.

  “What I found interesting is toward the bottom of the page.”

  Giacomo read the paragraph aloud: “‘We entered the Erchie Tower and found a hidden room with three Polish-made Grom handheld rocket launchers, one with its missile discharged.’” Giacomo put the document on Sergio’s desk. “The range on these?”

  “Seven to ten miles.”

  “The aircraft was three to five miles from Erchie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder why
it didn’t explode.”

  “An angel on Rio’s shoulder . . .”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Giacomo handed the folder back to Sergio. “I think, my friend . . . the next couple of weeks will be interesting, to say the least.”

  “I believe you’re right, Giacomo. We should step up security.”

  “Our offices here?”

  “Totally secured. Any intrusion—within one minute, our computers will self-destruct. Our paper files will be destroyed as well.”

  “The gas?”

  “The perpetrators will be asleep within sixty seconds of entering the facility.”

  Chapter 28

  The Same Day

  The Oval Office was one of the most intimidating places in the world, particularly if you provoked the ire of the president. Seated in the room in that wrath were Senator Robert Schwartz and Congressman Arnold Belmont, leaders of Congress. They sat opposite Lou Holtz, Waldron’s chief of staff. Each man held a copy of a report. The two politicians fidgeted in their maroon leather chairs.

  President Waldron, his back to the politicians, glared out the south-facing windows. The American flag was to his left, the president’s flag to his right, separated by a cherry wood hutch topped with framed pictures. The room was impressive—thirty-five feet in length, twenty-nine feet wide, with an eighteen-foot ceiling. There were four doors: the east door opened to the Rose Garden; the west door led to the president’s private study and dining room; the northwest and northeast doors opened to the central corridor and Waldron’s secretary, respectively.

  Waldron adjusted the drapes, turned, and sat in a brown leather chair. He tilted his head up at the presidential seal carved into the ceiling. He held the report for what felt like a long time and then slammed the document on his desk. Congressman Belmont jumped.

  “These are the final numbers?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Holtz replied.

  “So, what you are saying is two hundred . . .” He shuffled through the papers.