The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

“No comment?”

  “What would you like me to say, Giacomo? ‘Whoopee’ as I jump up and down with joy?”

  Giacomo leaned back, withdrew his hand. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “I’m sorry. Our life is far from normal . . . and now this.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” Giacomo lowered his head.

  “Why do you think you inherited this gift . . . or should I say curse?”

  Giacomo told her of what he’d discovered.

  “Oh.” Emily’s voice was cold.

  “Honey, don’t you realize? Good can come from this. Not like Dad—who didn’t know what to do, except mail letters to arrive after he’d been dead for so many years.”

  “Eggs?”

  “Em . . .”

  “Giacomo, I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what? That you’re going to disappear—or worse. It’s not just you and me.” The expectant mother rubbed her belly. “The boys—what about them? If the government discovers this gift? Our life will no longer be our own.”

  Giacomo faced Emily and spoke in French. “Mon amour, there is nothing to fear. As to the government, I promise I will only tell the people whom I trust. Should the gift be like Dad’s . . . I’ll write letters like he did.”

  “So they can be used after you’re dead?” Emily’s tone of voice cascaded up and down when she said, “I don’t want you to be a picture on the mantel. A memory faded away by time.”

  Giacomo saw the anger in his wife’s face. “Why do you say that? I’m not going to die.”

  “Do you even care about us?” A tear welled in the corner of her eye.

  “What a crazy question. Of course, I do. I love you with all my heart. You mean more to me than my life.” That was a stupid thing to say. “I mean I’d do anything for you and the boys.”

  “Then quit. Let’s go back home.”

  Giacomo said nothing.

  “See? You can’t.”

  Emily turned and walked into the bedroom.

  Giacomo gazed out the window. He touched the cold pane. Emily’s right. This is nonsense. What do I do? I have no control. Do I ignore it? How can I?

  “Giacomo, I’m sorry,” Emily said as she leaned against the entranceway to the kitchen.

  Giacomo didn’t turn around; he continued to stare out the window. “You’re right, Em—this life is not for us. We don’t need this aggravation; I should say, you don’t need it. We can retire, live comfortably for the rest of our lives. What will be will be. This is not up to me.”

  Emily rubbed his back. He turned to face her.

  “What’s the matter—you can’t wrap your arms around me?”

  “You’re such a jerk.”

  “Thank you very much.” Giacomo smiled.

  “Were you serious when you said you’d retire?”

  “Yep. I hope you understand . . .”

  “You need to finish this job.”

  He lowered his head. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Why don’t I take off the next day or two? We can shop for a Christmas tree. What do you say?”

  “Christmas tree and presents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think . . .”

  “We’ll be safe?”

  “Don’t worry. All is well.”

  Chapter 80

  Two days had passed since Giacomo’s real dream and the argument with Emily. Together they explored the streets of Rome, Vatican security never far behind. The weather was fresh and crisp with a bright blue sky.

  “Em, how’s this one?” Giacomo pointed to a five-foot-tall evergreen spruce.

  “Nice pick, honey.”

  Giacomo motioned to the two bodyguards. “Do you think this will fit, Angelo?”

  “Yes, Giacomo.”

  The men placed the Christmas tree in the trunk. The thoroughfare was busy—three scooters zoomed by the vehicle.

  “Em, why don’t you stay in the car. You must be tired. I want to buy a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar for Tony D.”

  “He’d like that. You’re right; I’m tired, and my feet are killing me.”

  “Angelo, stay here with Emily. Rico, come with me.”

  The two men trotted to the corner.

  “Do you want me to call for a backup, General?”

  “No, let’s handle this on our own.”

  As the two men crossed the street, they approached a thin, short man. A camera hung from his shoulder. Rico circled to the left, positioning himself in front. Giacomo, a head taller, placed his right leg between the photographer’s, and with a quick kick, the cameraman dropped to the pavement.

  “I’m so sorry,” Giacomo said with sarcasm. He put his knee on the back of the photographer as he held the man’s face against the sidewalk. “Stay right where you are. Don’t move.”

  Rico showed his credentials to the onlookers, who quickly dispersed.

  “Why were you taking pictures of me?” Giacomo whispered with a growl.

  “Please . . . let me explain.”

  The security agent took the camera.

  “What do we have, Rico?”

  Rico leaned over and showed Giacomo the digital screen. He lifted the man by the collar of his jacket. “Why are you following me?”

  The man reached inside his coat. Rico grabbed the man’s arm.

  “I’m unarmed. I only did what I was told.” He pulled out an envelope. “Here.”

  Giacomo shook his head and grabbed the sealed envelope with his father’s initials. He crumbled the note and placed it in his pants pocket. “Let him go. I’m sorry.” Giacomo counted out ten large bills and handed the money to the photographer. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem, mister.”

  “Who gave you the envelope?”

  The man rotated his head, pointing. “That guy over there.”

  The two men turned, but it was too late—the person had escaped into the crowd. Giacomo apologized again and touched Rico’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “What did you do to that man? I am disappointed in you. People do have rights. You just can’t do what you did.” Emily scowled as Giacomo entered the car.

  “My paranoia got the best of me. I thought he was taking pictures of you.”

  “Was he?”

  “No.”

  Giacomo placed his hand in his pants pocket. The envelope from his father crinkled to his touch. The husband and angry wife focused their attention outside their respective car windows. The silence was disrupted by Angelo as he cursed the driver of a speeding Vespa that came close to tearing off the side mirror. When they arrived at the Vatican, Giacomo elected to take a walk to give his wife time to calm down.

  The papal conclave was the next day. Giacomo noticed workers tidying up the grounds around the Sistine Chapel. He moseyed along the Via del Seminario Etopico, and when he reached the seminary, he took a right toward the western part of Vatican City. The doubt in his mind overcame him. He recalled the words his father once told him: “I see the pictures in my mind, and within my being, I’m convinced they are true—yet I’m held back by fear, a dread I can’t describe.” So very true. Giacomo was a soldier, a warrior, who had escaped the clutches of numerous enemies, and yet he was afraid.

  “Giacomo.”

  He stopped. Cardinal Angeloni and another cardinal stood near the Fountain of the Eagle. Giacomo greeted the men of the cloth.

  “Your Eminence.”

  “Eminence?”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew.”

  “Giacomo, I’d like you to meet Cardinal Adadayo.”

  “Your Eminence.”

  “Hello, Giacomo.” They shook hands. Adadayo said, “Andrew, we’ll talk later. I must go pray.”
/>   “Sounds good, Dayo.”

  The regal man who was soon to be the first African pope bowed his head in acknowledgment and went on his way.

  “Andrew, can we talk?”

  “Let’s sit. What’s on your mind, my friend?”

  Giacomo joined his friend in the afternoon sun on a park bench near St. Peter’s Basilica. He explained his dream and what he’d discovered. Andrew listened, his right elbow resting on his leg as his hand covered a part of his face.

  “I’m filled with fear, Andrew. Why?”

  “If you have a gift like your father, fear might be attributed to the fact he believed he could do nothing with his visions. You said your father considered himself a failure for not speaking out more.”

  “True.”

  “And you?”

  Giacomo stared past the cardinal. “I’m afraid that the lives of innocent people rest in my hands, and I don’t want to fail them.”

  “Hasn’t that always been the case with you, especially during your military service?”

  Giacomo considered the comment. “Yes, but everything was black and white—no gray areas. This . . . this . . . whatever it is, it occurs in my mind.”

  “Remember one thing, Giacomo. You proved that your dream happened.”

  “Well, partly. I confirmed the two men met. I’ll have a transcript of their conversation later today—when I’m able to analyze the laser sound recording.”

  “Laser sound recording?”

  “A listening device. Sergio and our team set it up. The beam is focused on the window. The modulating frequency picks up the noise vibration, which in turn is analyzed. If a conversation took place, the words are recorded to my computer. Then I can compare the written text with what I heard in the dream.”

  “Amazing how technology and the mystical intersect. I’m glad you’re my friend, not my enemy.” He paused. “Maybe your fear is based on the unknown. That by itself is scary. Should the vision occur again, embrace the knowledge imparted to you. I caution you, Giacomo, don’t act. You must discern or prove the reality, then take action. Don’t be afraid—God will guide you as he did your father.”

  Giacomo pondered the statement. “I guess you’re right, Andrew. Thanks. Speaking of my father . . .” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “I got this yesterday.” He handed the message to Andrew.

  “You didn’t open it?”

  “No.” Giacomo changed the subject. “Em and I had an argument the other day. I told her I have my father’s gift. She’s not happy.”

  “The pressure?”

  “Yeah. She thinks I’ll end up like Dad—or worse, I’ll be a pawn for the government. We decided I should retire after we’ve gotten some resolution on the attacks as well as everything else that’s going on with the president pro tempore and the president-elect. She’s right. I need to spend time with my family, not try to save the world, not put my unborn children at risk.”

  “You’re correct; family is important.” The cardinal waved at the envelope. “Are you going to open it?”

  “No, you can.”

  “Me?”

  “Welcome to my world. I’m tired of hearing how bad our future will be. Please, you open it.”

  Andrew looked at the envelope. It was dated December 25, 1999. He took the sheet of paper out and smiled. “Here, this is for your eyes.” He handed Paolo’s note back to Giacomo.

  Hello, Andrew.

  Giacomo, I love you. Be strong, my son.

  “This is amazing, Giacomo. Your father knew I would read the letter. We should all be as blessed as you to have a father who can tell you that he loves you from beyond the grave.”

  Giacomo smiled. “Yeah, I wish I knew how he did this . . . this envelope thing.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find out in time.”

  Giacomo sat back, more relaxed as he said, “In time. Are you ready for the conclave?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. It should only be a couple of days. Did you see the news coming in from the States?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “The House and the Senate approved the euro bill.”

  “Not a surprise.”

  “Well, this is: Richardson vetoed the bill.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. The reports say that his veto will be overridden. Congress has enough votes to do so.”

  “He wants to distance himself.”

  Cardinal Angeloni tilted his head and frowned. “Maybe . . . do not fret, my friend.”

  The two men embraced. “Thanks for listening.”

  “No problem.”

  Giacomo continued his stroll through the Vatican Gardens. A dove cooed in the distance. Three of the white birds jumped from their perch. They circled the Sistine Chapel, and together they landed on the dome.

  Chapter 81

  Giacomo entered his sister’s room. The window was open; a cool breeze ruffled the curtains as he entered. Her bed was made, and Rio sat in an armchair. She wore a black sweater with blue jeans. A walker had been stowed in the corner. Giacomo surprised Rio as she talked on her cell phone.

  “I need to go now. No, I’ll call you. Bye.”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “You sound annoyed. I can’t speak to people now?”

  “Rio, you have to be careful.” Out of nowhere, the thought entered his mind. Was she talking to Dean?

  “Careful of what? Why am I here?” She froze, a blank stare on her face. “Hi, Giacomo. Did you just get here?”

  Concerned, he said, “Rio, where’s Mom?”

  “She decided to go with Emily. Our mother is driving me crazy. Watch this.”

  “Rio, what are you doing?” He rushed over to her.

  “Standing, you fool—what does it look like?”

  “Are you supposed to be doing that?”

  “Why not? Giacomo, this place—I need to go back home.”

  “Rio, you aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Bullshit. I want to go to Ottati.”

  “That can’t happen. Everyone still thinks you’re dead. Well, almost everyone, except for Dean Essex.”

  “Dean Essex is none of your business. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not dead; I’m very much alive. And speaking of my life—stay out of it!”

  Giacomo was taken aback by his sister’s outburst. He watched as Rio took two steps and started to fall. Giacomo rushed to catch her, then guided her back to the chair. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

  “Big deal. Did you find out who shot down the airplane?”

  “We’re getting close.”

  “Close? When are we going to talk?”

  “We’ll discuss this tomorrow with Sergio. Any problem waiting?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. When you came out of the coma, you said, ‘Be careful of who you trust. It’s not what it seems.’ What did you mean by that?”

  Rio looked confused and then smirked. “I . . . we’ll discuss this tomorrow. Any problem?”

  “Oh. Kind of sarcastic, baby sister.”

  “If I can wait, so can you.”

  “You gonna stick your tongue out at me now?”

  “No, you ass.”

  “Ah, my wonderful little sister is back. Rumor has it you had a date with Dean Essex.” Giacomo waited for the onslaught of anger, but instead Rio blushed.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I have my ways.” Giacomo headed to the doorway.

  With a smug smile, Rio repeated, “You’re an ass.”

  “I love you too.”

  Giacomo entered the hallway, reached for his cell phone, and called Rio’s doctor. He leaned against the wall as he explained his sister’s confusion and lack of lucidity. Adinolfi assured Giacomo he
would check on her.

  As he placed the phone in his pocket, he received another call.

  “Sergio, what’s going on?”

  “They found the transmitter on the plane. A heart-shaped charm on a necklace.”

  “Interesting. Do we know who it belonged to?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll have Tony check with his flight crew. Anything else?”

  “We’ve traced the numbers from Richardson’s satellite phone.”

  “Excellent. What took so long?”

  “A computer malfunction with the uplink.”

  “Let’s meet tomorrow. Rio will be there. She wants some answers.”

  “Ten?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Giacomo found a small chapel behind St. Peter’s Basilica. He entered the centuries-old church. A musty smell of age permeated the air. Statues depicting the stations of the cross were lined in sequence between the rows of blue-and-red stained glass windows. A gold tabernacle was tucked in a vestibule to the right of the altar. A life-size cross with a sculpture of the crucified Christ hung on the far wall. Red votive candles flickered in front of a statue of St. Peter. In the sanctuary, two cardinals prostrated in prayer.

  Giacomo chose an empty pew in the middle of the church. The military man sat on the hard wood, blessed himself, reached down for the padded kneeler, and knelt in the quiet of God’s house. Raised a Catholic, Giacomo had stopped going to Sunday Mass when he left West Point. His conversation with God was a daily Lord’s Prayer.

  A cardinal strode the center aisle, stopped, put his hand on Giacomo’s shoulder, and said in Italian, “Talk to Him as you would speak to your father.”

  Dad. He started to chuckle. Damn, what do I say? Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to swear. Giacomo’s mind was empty; sorrow gripped his heart. Please forgive me. I’ve lost it. He sat back on the brown-varnished wood—and as he closed his eyes, the vision arose.

  The air is cold—a light snow descends from the white-gray clouds. The flakes hang in the sky before they drift to the ground. Tens of thousands of people are gathered. The Capitol is behind me—Tom Maro and President Richardson smile. Fighter jets fly overhead in tight formation. The afterburners emit a bright orange glow as the engines roar . . . A commotion begins. I can’t reach Tom—Emily squeezes my hand, and then she’s gone. People scream in fear. The scene changes. Three people stand before me—two men and a woman. Their faces are hidden. One man is dressed in white, the other in a blue silk suit. The woman is clothed in black. The flesh of her brain is exposed. Again, the backdrop changes, and the sunlight is blinding, then plunges into the blackness of night. Bright green auras high on the horizon highlight the heavens. The scene shifts to Paris. Commotion and disorder roam the streets; darkness envelops the City of Lights.