As if by command, Peter’s instincts kicked in. He opened the passenger door, dashed out of the car and started running. From behind him he heard gunshots ringing out. After finding cover behind an old Citroën 2CV, he saw that the gendarmes had also arrived at the intersection and that they were firing at Haruki, whereas Haruki was firing at the man with the machete as he hid behind the Mercedes.
Then Haruki let out a scream. A bullet fired by one of the gendarmes had hit him and sent him flying backwards before crashing to the ground. At the very same moment, the killer with the machete bolted from behind the Mercedes and started running.
Frozen and unable to move, Peter watched as the man headed straight for him. He could see his face, this familiar and yet so unfamiliar, almost alien, face. The face of the man who had murdered Ellen and Loretta.
This cannot be! This must not be!
The gendarmes continued to fire. The man with the machete ducked down without breaking pace. He reached Haruki as he lay bleeding, fumbling for his gun. Without breaking step, the killer lunged out and rammed the machete into the Japanese man’s head. Almost simultaneously, he grabbed Haruki’s gun and killed the two gendarmes with two well-aimed bullets.
This was the moment when Peter unfroze from his state of shock and started running again. He didn’t know where he was running; he just ran. Straight ahead. He ran for his life. As he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the killer was catching up. However, he appeared to be limping slightly. Peter figured that he would not be able to maintain the fast pace much longer.
The question is whether YOU can maintain it!
His lungs were burning. Yet, Peter continued to run, driven by the fear of death, the face of the man, and the adrenaline pumping through his body.
Keep going. Run. Keep going.
Peter left the avenue and took a side street that led into a residential area, where he hoped to find a place to hide. He kept running, zigzagging back and forth; he just kept running.
Until he saw the cab.
It turned onto the street right in front of him, stopping at a red light. Peter did not think twice. He did not have any other choice. He ripped the backdoor open and yanked the woman out of the car.
»Get out! Move!«
The woman screamed. The driver jumped out of his cab and berated Peter with a barrage of Arabic profanities. Peter lunged forward and knocked him out with a well-placed uppercut. The woman ran away.
»I am sorry,« Peter gasped. Without hesitating another second, Peter threw himself behind the wheel of the cab and just as he was about to start the engine, the front side window burst into a thousand pieces.
Peter had not seen him come. Just a brief moment of inattention marked the fine line between life and death.
The man punched his face, hard, and then he grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out of the car. Peter tried to fight him off but as he was wedged behind the wheel, he couldn’t. He was thrown onto the pavement right in front of the cab. Even before he could react, the man was kneeling on his chest. Peter felt the cold steel at his throat and barely dared to swallow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pool of blood right next to him. The cab driver. His face gaped open like a split melon.
»It is so sharp that my body weight alone will be enough to slice right through your neck,« the man with the machete whispered.
Peter did not move. Filled with shock and horror, he stared into this face that was so close to his; this familiar and yet so endlessly unfamiliar face.
His own face.
His mirror image.
The man who was kneeling on his chest holding a machete to his throat, he was that man. With one little difference that Peter could not put his finger on.
There is something wrong with his eyes. As if they have no color.
The man with the machete searched the pockets of Peter’s jeans, found the golden medallion, and confiscated it as if this were the most natural thing in the world. The whole time, he stared at Peter, steadfastly. Finally, he moved the machete away from Peter’s throat, where the blade had already left a superficial cut that was bleeding. He did not move it much, just enough so that Peter could swallow and speak. If Peter had tried to fight the man off, it would have meant his certain death.
»I will kill you now,« he said.
Peter swallowed. »I know.«
His mirror image continued to gaze at him as if he were searching for something in Peter’s face. For a memory. A sign. An explanation. In the distance, Peter could hear the sirens of police cars. Too far away to save him.
»Who are you?« Peter asked in a hoarse voice, as he stared into the coldest eyes he had ever seen.
»I am pain. My name is Nikolas.«
»We should talk, Nikolas.«
It was worth a try. But Nikolas shook his head.
»No, Peter. You will die now.«
He raised the machete. Peter closed his eyes, waiting for death to take him.
Death was a sharp breeze in front of his face. The cold breath of a demon made of steel. Just a brief moment of cold, not more than a fleeting shudder. Death was a soft electronic clicking sound. Then the pressure on his chest subsided. Peter opened his eyes and saw Nikolas standing over him, the machete casually in one hand and in the other a cell phone, which he had apparently used to take a picture of Peter.
Peter’s thoughts were racing as he tried to figure out whether or not he had enough time to jump to his feet and subdue Nikolas. But then he scrapped the thought.
No chance. He would be too fast.
So Peter continued to stare at his twin brother. Because one thing was absolutely clear to him: the man with the machete, this exact mirror image of his own self, had to be his twin. Nothing else would make any sense.
Nikolas. My brother.
The shock of this realization was greater than the fear of his imminent death. The realization that he had always kind of known, throughout his entire life. All those moments when he had not felt complete. All those nightmares in which he had encountered himself, yet felt as if the other self were a stranger. And now, all of a sudden, all these things made sense. And then again, they didn’t. But what did it matter on the brink of death?
But just as Peter was looking into Nikolas’s eyes, waiting for his death, he saw a shadow of hesitation pass over his twin brother’s face. An expression that suggested bewilderment about something that had always felt natural but suddenly no longer seemed possible. Just for a brief moment. And Peter understood that Nikolas could not kill his own mirror image. He could not kill his brother.
»Why…?«
Nikolas gazed at him without blinking. »I did kill you, Peter. Do you understand me?« He put his cell phone away. »You are dead. Stay dead. Forever. For everybody. Evaporate from the face of this earth and don’t ever come back, not even as a ghost. For I am pain. And I will come to everyone to whom you appear as a ghost. Do you understand me?«
Peter sat up and nodded. Yes, he had understood.
The sirens were coming closer. Nikolas looked down at Peter, somehow undecided, as if there was more to say. He appeared to be far less bewildered by the encounter with his twin brother than Peter was; he just seemed to be curious. As if he had already known about his existence.
»Do you sometimes suffer from headaches?«
Peter nodded. »Yes, I do.«
»And when you have them, do you see pictures?«
Peter nodded.
»Do you see her?«
»Yes,« Peter replied. »Her hair is burning. Until now, I didn’t know who she was.«
Nikolas nodded seriously. He seemed to think.
»Do you sometimes see a tower?«
The tower. Don’t go there. Run away!
»Yes,« Peter said. »I remember a tower. It is not big. It is gray. It stands by itself. A car is parked in front. It is raining.«
Nikolas nodded as if this had clarified everything between them.
»You are dead,« he repeated one more ti
me, like a mantra, like a seed that he wanted to implant in Peter’s mind. »I am pain. Should you resurrect, I will find you. Don’t you ever forget that.«
With these words, he turned around and disappeared behind the cab, vanishing like a phantom in the mild spring air that was filled with the scent of salt and rain.
By now, the sirens were approaching quickly; they were only a few streets away. Peter staggered to his feet. The dead cab driver was lying next to him.
You are dead. Vanish from this world. Evaporate.
Peter tore his eyes from the sight of the murdered driver, climbed into the cab and started the engine.
LXV
ONE YEAR EARLIER …
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
July 5, 2010 14:34:33 GMT+03:00
Re: Re: Warning
Peace be unto you, Christian!
I thank you for the warning. However, I see no reason to become active in this matter. It is obvious that these so-called »Light-Bearers« are an occult Christian sect and therefore an internal issue of your church.
If you want to save the Vatican’s fortune, you will have to do it by yourself, my friend. In any case, what are these »sources« that you have mentioned? Share the water of your source with me and I might be willing to give the matter another thought.
Furthermore, I won’t give that Jewish bastard in Jerusalem another chance to insult me: I will never again sit at a table with the miserable wretch.
May Allah be with you,
Sheik Abdullah ibn Abd al Husseini
The Permanent Committee for Islamic Research and Fataawa
Makkah Al-Mukarramah
PO Box 8072
Saudi-Arabia
* * *
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
July 5, 2010 15:02:01 GMT+02:00
Re: RE: Warning
Dear Mister Laurenz,
All due respect for your well-intentioned concern for our mutual interests, but I cannot see how these so-called »Light-Bearers« could constitute a threat to Judaism and the State of Israel. Instead, this seems to be a problem that you will have to tackle by yourself. We have already more than enough problems with orthodox separatists and fanatic fundamentalists.
Furthermore, I find your request to confront this alleged danger with headquarters in Nepal (!) not only disconcerting but also typical. The Satanic Beast, of which you spoke in May, has shriveled to a bunch of financial sharks that engage in speculative trading against the Vatican. In plain terms: with an invented threat, the Catholic Church is trying once again to use Judaism for the sake of its own expansionist politics. The fact that you do not reveal your sources only confirms this assumption.
Therefore, as long as you have nothing else to offer and as long as al Husseini, this racist hatemonger from Mecca, continues with his diatribes against Judaism and the State of Israel, I am out of the three-way talks.
Shalom and sincerely yours,
C.K.
Chaim Kaplan
Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem ABD
Hekhal Shelomo
85 King George St. POB 2479
Jerusalem 91087
Israel
* * *
July 7, 2010, Apostolic Palace, Vatican City
Stagnation. Paralyzing stagnation. Paralyzing heat. There was nothing in this world that John Paul III hated more. The heat, the true ruler of Rome, had reconquered the Eternal City and held it firm in its grip, tormenting the Pope with stagnant air, frustrating emails and a nagging headache. For weeks, an area of low pressure over North Africa had been pumping hot desert air towards Italy, which picked up moisture over the Tyrrhenian Sea and hit Rome like a hot and muggy fist. A sand-colored bell of humidity, haze and exhaust fumes hung threateningly over the city, pushing Romans and tourists into air-conditioned offices and bars and the consumption of Gelato and aspirin to a record high. Hospital emergency rooms were filled with people who had collapsed from dehydration, and anyone who could, fled to the ocean. The rest yearned for Ferragosto, August 15, the day when the entire Italian nation abided by tradition and took a collective vacation, congesting freeways and beaches.
This year, the Pope would leave later than usual for his summer residence, Castel Gandolfo. The summer residence in the Alban Hills had been one of the extra-territorial properties of the Holy See since the 17th century. The atmosphere in the small palace was more informal and relaxed than in the Vatican, and the air, which was filled with the resinous scent of pine trees, was fresher and lighter than the mugginess of Rome. John Paul III loved the summer residence and its parks and gardens, especially the meditation garden, Giardino della Madonnina, where he liked to go after lunch to spend some quality time alone. The weeks in Castel Gandolfo gave him freedom from papal audiences and annoying organizational tasks. Instead, he finally had the opportunity to refocus on his Encyclicals and his Paulus biography.
But for now, the coolness of Castel Gandolfo was still a distant dream because there was nothing but bad news, beginning with the emails from Mecca and Jerusalem. During their first meeting, the Pope had been able to demonstrate the seriousness of the situation to the Grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia and the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem, but their unity had been short-lived and they were already back to provoking each other with the same old, seemingly unending hostilities and thereby throwing his warning of the Light-Bearers to the wind.
John Paul III deleted both emails from his personal mailbox and discarded the idea of trying to reinforce his warning. Because he had given his word to Nakashima he had, at this point, no new argument to offer to Sheik al Husseini and Chaim Kaplan which might have convinced them.
Nakashima had sent him satellite images of an area in Nepal. The high-resolution pictures showed a Buddhist monastery complex that belonged to an American mining company, which was part of the almost inscrutable web of corporations owned by the Light-Bearers. Strangely enough, though, the mine that was operated by the mining company did not yield anything. According to Nakashima, the inaccessible monastery ruins housed the headquarters of the Light-Bearers.
But the bad news, like the heat, did not end. Two days ago, Don Luigi had returned from India. During a private conversation, while they were taking a walk on the roof terrace of the Apostolic Palace, he had handed the Pope a list of 21 names.
Moe, Thein
Yangon, Burma
Adam, Peter
Hamburg, Germany
Aharon, Shimon
Jerusalem, Israel
Babcock, Frank
New York, USA
Brinks, Thomas
Cologne, Germany
Bühler, Leonie
Bern, Switzerland
Corelli, Franco
Rome, Italy
Das, Mina
Mumbai, India
Delgado, Alejandro
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Djordjevic, Aleksandra
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Egan, Christal,
Des Moines, USA
Horovitz, Rinat
Tel Aviv, Israel
Huang, Maggie
Singapore, Singapore
Kowaljow, Marina
Moscow, Russia
Kwaheri, Grace
Arusha, Tanzania
Matube, Nafuna
Gulu, Uganda
McKee, Conor
Dublin, Ireland
Saparow, Usman
Ashgabat, Turkmenistan
Szekel, Sándor
Karcag, Hungary
Torres, Fernando
Santiago de Compostela, Spain
Witkowska, Ewa
Kraków, Poland
John Paul III glanced over the list of 21 names and places and frowned. »And these are all the names now, Don Luigi?«
»I believe so.«
John Paul III tapped his finger on one of the names. »Him, too?«
Don Lui
gi raised his arms. »I knew that you would ask this question. But yes, it looks as if he was also part of it.«
The Pope let out a sigh. »Do I have to remind you of what is written in the Fourth Secret of Fátima, Padre? Or in Malachy’s Prophecy? Or in the Apocalypse of Adam?«
»I can see the contradiction, Your Holiness. The question is now: which source should we trust more? Fátima or the list?«
For a while, the Pope kept staring at the list and then he looked over the rooftops of Rome. From up here, it was clearly visible that the Eternal City was suffocating under a yellow haze of heat, dirt and desert sand.
»Where is he now?« he suddenly asked.
»In Hamburg. Four weeks ago, he… lost his fiancée.«
»He lost her?«
»She was violently murdered. In Turkmenistan. Shortly thereafter, one of my sources confirmed that he was on the list.«
»I don’t trust him, Padre. I still believe that he is one of the key players in the apocalypse. I want you to keep an eye on him.«
Don Luigi nodded. »As you wish, Holy Father.«
»Lately, something else is causing problems,« the Pope continued. »Sophia informed me that Alexander Duncker has recently begun to pay regular visits to the Opus Dei headquarters.«
»Which is not a crime,« Don Luigi interjected.
»Of course not. Just vulgar and distasteful, nothing more. I found it strange, though, that my private secretary had never told me about these visits. So I confronted him.«
»And?«
»Monsignore Duncker explained to me in the most circuitous way that he was trying on an ›informal‹ level to campaign for my reform program within the conservative wing of the Church. I did not even have to look at him to know that he was lying. And to be perfectly honest with you, this lie hurts me more than the hypocrisy of the entire Curia.«
Apocalypsis 1.09 Wearily Electors Page 2