Dream War

by Stephen Prosapio

  Moments later, the three were bouncing through the narrow streets in Alfonso’s sleek, gray Alfa Romeo.

  “Where are we going?” Nadia asked, sitting next to Alfonso.

  “To the Hotel Domus Sessoriana.”

  “Is that far from here?” Drew asked from the backseat. He was barely able to keep his eyes open, and was too tired to think. He’d heard jetlag had something to do with not having enough oxygen in the blood.

  “Not to worry,” Alfonso said with the wave of a hand.

  *****

  Alfonso parked fifty yards off the nearest street in an open stone courtyard. A crescent-shaped concrete path connected the piazza to the street. On either side of the stone-tiled area, lay an expanse of olive green grass.

  An hour into their trip, Drew had filed a meek protest that the detective had not told them they were leaving Naples. Alfonso explained that their safety demanded their departure. Drew was too exhausted to fight, and too frustrated to doze off. Soon enough, they had entered the walls of Rome.

  They’d not stopped at a hotel, but in the shade of a large church.

  “What? You’re stashing us away in some choir loft?” Drew asked.

  “Not to worry. Wait, I show you,” Alfonso said.

  He exited, trotted around the sports car, and had opened Nadia’s door before Drew had a chance to pry himself out of the backseat.

  The church’s façade was massive. High above, on the roof, statues of the four evangelists, accompanied by the Emperor Constantine, his sainted mother Helena, and two angels stood watch over the courtyard.

  Inside a small doorway to the right of the church entrance, a sign welcomed them to the Hotel Domus Sessoriana. The stone walls and marble pillars stood as testament to its history as a monastery. The glass walls that divided the hotel offices from the main lobby, as well as the flashing computer monitors, gave the room the appearance of a world where the past collided with the future.

  *****

  The room was sparse in its décor; on the wall above the bed was a white crucifix. Alfonso had led them through an outdoor courtyard, up a glass elevator and through cavernous hallways that reminded them they were in a converted monastery. Having survived a trying day, the least of which included crossing several time zones, neither Drew nor Nadia was ready for their unpacking race; besides, they had nothing to unpack. After making sure the small room was empty, Drew bolted the door. They slid under the covers of the inviting bed and, within minutes, were fast asleep.

  Neither suspected it would be their final night in Italy.

  - Chapter Nine -

  Three days prior to Night of Nights - Naples, Italy

  Upset with the incompetence that typified the country of Italy, Dr. Ponterosso entered the control center of the Vesuvius Observatory. That week, too many mistakes had already been discovered.

  Nestled on a knoll of the volcano’s western slope, the complex had monitored the world’s most dangerous volcano since 1845. An established shift system ensured that at least two staff members monitored the seismic measurements around the clock. They were responsible for notifying the authorities of any threat to public safety. No significant activity had occurred since October 1999, four years before Ponterosso had been instated as the Director.

  A lone volcanologist, Tomio, sat in a room filled with computer monitors, poring over reports, graphs, and charts. The room reeked of his body odor.

  “What are you doing?” Ponterosso asked, causing the young man to wince and drop his pencil.

  “I wanted to make sure that Pasquale’s findings were correct.” He pointed to a series of graphs on one of the monitors. “Wednesday, he expressed concerns to me about some collected data. He’s called in sick the last few days and I can’t reach him, so I recalculated his findings from the beginning.”

  Tomio had no way of knowing what Ponterosso did—that Pasquale was already dead.

  “What did you find?”

  “I’ve found an anomaly in the seismic data for the volcano,” Tomio said.

  “Is it showing signs of an eruption?” Ponterosso reached theatrically for a telephone.

  “No, but there is something else,” Tomio reported. “Pasquale told me he’d discovered the remote sensor in Nola is transmitting data at a 0.324 second delay compared to the sensors here.” Tomio scowled as an American baseball fan might react to an article that claimed Babe Ruth hit 741, rather than 714 home runs.

  The sole analog transmitter reporting seismic information independent of the nine sensors on the volcano was located in Nola, a town fifteen kilometers to the northeast of Mount Vesuvius. Because of the distance, the seismic readings on the volcano had always been ahead of Nola’s sensor by 0.342 of a second, not 0.324 of a second—a fact everyone at the observatory took into account whenever studies were conducted or reports were submitted to the authorities.

  “0.324 of a second?” How can that be?” Ponterosso asked. “Have you checked your findings against any of the digital sensors?”

  “No I have not cross-referenced the digital data yet but,” he said, raising a finger, “in researching, I noticed that the frequencies of the radio transmissions reporting the data have registered minuscule changes over the past week.” Tomio reached for a stack of papers as if to substantiate his claim.

  “Of what consequence is that, Tomio?”

  “Well doctor,” he began with an air of subtle indignation, “it’s as though the sensors are not measuring the actual changes in the volcano but are broadcasting recorded data to us. I cannot understand why someone would want to intercept our readings and transmit to us false information about the volcano’s status.”

  “Neither can I. There must be some sort of malfunction with either the sensors or the radios. Pasquale should have informed me,” Ponterosso said.

  “He claimed that he did tell you, doctor.”

  “I assure you that he did not. We need to investigate this immediately.”

  “Yes, yes, we should investigate and inform the authorities as well.” Tomio looked down and tapped his data for emphasis.

  “Pasquale is the only person you have spoken to about this, then?” Ponterosso asked pointing a Walther PPK at Tomio’s lowered head.

  Tomio looked up and only stopped nodding when the .38 caliber bullet penetrated his forehead and entered his brain.

  Looking at the bloodstained reports, Ponterosso sighed with disgust. The Sogno di Guerra’s leader put the nickel-plated gun down, pulled out a tiny cell phone, and pressed the redial button.

  “I have another sick employee at the observatory. Send for a cleaner, and get me replacements here immediately. Make sure they are ours.”

  After completing the call, Ponterosso swore at the incompetent engineers-in-absentia who had programmed the transmitters. Unless the engineers’ ghosts lingered about the observatory, they would not hear the complaints. The sensor timing error that obscured the volcano’s harmonic tremors would matter little in the final analysis, but carelessness could not be tolerated. Luzveyn Dred did not accept mistakes.

  Night of Nights is nearly here.

  Another team had executed their mission without error. That group had manipulated sensors to conceal the ground swell caused by the recent buildup of lava in the magma chamber. The naive public believed they would have several weeks notice before a massive eruption; however, they could not be more wrong. Despite merely parading as a volcanologist through the assistance of the Sogno di Guerra, even Ponterosso knew that volcanoes often show little sign of activity until days before eruption. The false transmitted data of a quiet volcano rather than the actual data of a volcano ready to erupt, the threat of catastrophe would remain camouflaged until it was too late to prevent.

  Ponterosso stepped outside and waited for the replacements to arrive. The sun peeked over the rugged hills to the east of Mount Vesuvius. By midday, the sun’s rays would bake the surrounding Naples metropolitan area with unseasonably warm temperatures, but by then, Ponterosso would a
lready be gone.

  There was additional business to attend to in Rome.

  *

  *

  *

  Drew wound back and forth in a rented Smart Car, up the two-lane thoroughfare towards the top of Mount Vesuvius. He was not going to miss out on hiking the rim of the volcano. The more the road weaved back and forth, the more difficult it seemed to keep the car inside the lines. No cars had come from the other direction.

  Why is no one coming down the mountain?

  Suddenly, the blue and red lights of a police car flashed in his rearview mirror. Drew’s heart rate accelerated as if approaching a roller coaster’s peak, but rather than feel the anticipatory excitement of the imminent plunge on a thrill ride, panic overtook the depths of his stomach. It was amazing how guilt resurfaced instantly, even though he knew he’d done nothing wrong.

  He pulled the car over, hoping that the cop would speed past. He didn’t. The flashing lights on the squad car blazed from behind his vehicle. As Drew waited, he saw a bright purple house across the road that he’d not noticed just seconds earlier. From the opposite direction of traffic, a doublewide trailer lumbered by. It had been the clog that held back the now steady stream of cars that inched by like a bad Disney parade. Most of the people in the cars stared. A couple of Italian children, faces pressed to the backseat window, waved.

  Why are they waving?

  A tap on his passenger-side glass alerted him that his stay of execution, so to speak, had been denied.

  “Please step outside,” a shadow whispered from beyond his window.

  Geez, can’t you just run my information from here?

  During his drinking days, a broken rib and a busted lip had taught Drew that situations with the police were better navigated without a demonstration of his debate skills. He climbed out of the tiny car, and proceeded to the back. The cop stared at him for what seemed like a minute—a full, uncomfortable minute. Drew said nothing for as long as he could manage it.

  “Why did you stop me, Officer?”

  “You tell me.”

  Drew was certain that anything he said would carry a hint of disdain, so he decided to turn the tables. He would wait as long as it took for the cop to speak. An awkward moment elapsed.

  “Have you been drinking?” The cop’s long nose moved closer, like dotting an exclamation mark on the accusation. His dark eyes glared, as if trying to extract the answer from Drew’s soul.

  Perhaps recovering from shock, Drew almost proclaimed that he had been a sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous for thirty months.

  Nope—Too much information.

  “No, sir, nothing.”

  “Are you sure, Drew?” The words felt like a pounded gavel.

  Are you sure, Drew? The voice seemed to come from both within and outside his head.

  “I’m, I’m sure. I’m positive.”

  It took Drew a few seconds to realize that the officer had learned his name from his driver’s license, but one mystery led to another. He didn’t remember handing it over. Besides, his license read, “Andrew Faulkner” not “Drew.”

  Am I dreaming?

  “I haven’t had a drink in over two years,” Drew blurted.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” the cop said. “I will overlook the fact that you are drunk, if you give me that fucking key.”

  “What? What key?”

  “The one around your neck.” The cop nodded in that direction.

  On Drew’s chest, supported by a thin chain, was the silver medallion. Something was wrong; the situation felt familiar, yet terrifying.

  This isn’t even an Italian cop.

  Drew bolted. The rental car had disappeared. He knew he had to escape. But how? With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he saw the cop’s blurred figure drawing his gun.

  With each step toward volcanic boulders stacked along the tree line about forty yards ahead, Drew seemed to sink deeper into the warm powdery salt beneath his feet. He was going to die. Words from behind ripped through him.

  “I want that fucking key back!”

  The boulders were just twenty yards away. If he could just—

  A dark-haired priest materialized in front of Drew. The man’s emerald eyes peered at him. He wore a silver medallion on a chain around his neck.

  “Mr. Faulkner,” he said softly and without judgment in a thick Italian accent, “do you always run from problems?”

  Drew glanced backwards in time to see the cop’s gun flash but instead of hearing a bang, there was only ringing.

  *****

  The blaring jangle of the hotel telephone jolted Drew awake. He sprang to a sitting position on the bed. Another dream, a nightmare…about—

  “Honey???” Nadia’s sleepy tone exaggerated her accent.

  Drew grunted and surveyed his surroundings. He’d barely looked at the hotel room when they stumbled in. It was small and modestly decorated. A cross hung above the bed’s headboard; on the opposite wall was a painting of a Venetian canal lit by a setting sun.

  The phone rang again.

  “Honey, pleeease?”

  With a trembling hand, Drew reached over and grabbed the ringing intruder on her nightstand.

  “It can’t be time to wake up yet,” she protested, rolling facedown away from him.

  Drew answered the phone in what he knew to be the Italian way. “Pronto.”

  “Mr. Faulkner, this is Detective Alfonso Simone.”

  “Yeah.” Drew stood up and, with thumb and middle finger, rubbed the sleep away from the corners of his eyes. Despite Nadia’s claims of an ungodly hour, the digital clock read 7:48 AM.

  “Signore, the coin you found in your luggage is indeed, how you say, a rare antique. Only one hundred of those coins were made by Julius Caesar two thousand years ago.” He paused, apparently to let Drew appreciate the impact of the discovery.

  Drew used the time to shake away the residue of sleep cobwebs in his brain.

  “He made them when Cleopatra visited Rome. Legend says that the coins were used to pay her hotel bill.”

  The story sounded familiar. Nadia lay motionless and oblivious.

  “No one knew about the coins except the wife of Caesar. She was suspicious, and did not share his admiration for Cleopatra, so she destroys the coins. She melts them into ornaments for herself. Today, only a few of these coins survive.”

  “That is amazing,” Drew said slowly. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Si, Signore Faulkner, that coin is very valuable. Now you see why this thing yesterday happens. They kill that lady. This coin is very dangerous. To protect you, I meet you in the lobby in one hour and you give to me the coin.”

  Drew agreed to the terms. He roused Nadia from her slumber, and briefly related what the detective had told him.

  “We’re going to give him the coin?” She staggered out of bed as if against her will.

  “No way.”

  Nadia’s face narrowed to an expression of confused disapproval. “Honey, shouldn’t we just turn it over to him and be done with it?”

  Drew sighed and, for a moment, drank in the tempting thought of leaving the medallion and getting away from all of this, whatever this was. Nadia stared at him, waiting for an answer.

  “It’s a lie.”

  “What is?”

  “His story.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “It’s a story about Cleopatra and Julius Caesar like the one in the movie, The Bishop’s Wife,” Drew said, attempting to shake the prior day’s shirt free of wrinkles.

  Nadia stared blankly.

  “In the film, Cary Grant portrayed an angel summoned by the prayers of a priest who—”

  He looked at the cross on the wall. Had he dreamt of a priest?

  “Earth to Drew,” Nadia said.

  “Sorry. Anyway,” Drew said, giving up on trying to make his shirt look fresh, “in the movie, the angel inspires a burned-out professor with the same fictional history that detective just told me.
”

  “So what should we do?”

  “Hurry up and get dressed. We’re going to report this to the American Embassy.”

  *****

  Drew and Nadia waited nearly two hours in a small, drab conference room within the American Embassy. With no windows, there was not much to look at, save the yellowed wallpaper that was peeling from the wall.

  “Welcome to the romance of Rome!” Drew quipped before Nadia could again complain about the wait, or, for that matter, anything else. Instead, she rolled her eyes and pouted.

  A few months ago, even during a time of stress, he’d have been able to make her laugh, but things had changed. Eight weeks earlier, she’d let him know that she expected him to decide soon if the relationship was going to move to the next level. Nadia wanted another child and seemed obsessed with that pesky, ticking clock of the biological nature.

  And she was only thirty!

  He loved her. He wanted to marry her, but he could tell that she didn’t really grasp the importance of his sobriety. He sometimes complained to his AA sponsor that not having known him through the years of lies, debts, and self-pity, she couldn’t appreciate the progress he’d made. She didn’t understand that avoiding alcohol was merely a single snowflake atop a mountain and that just one downward sliding icicle could initiate an avalanche. His sponsor, of course, encouraged him to work through it, one day at a time. Therefore, he’d been extra attentive in his planning of the two-week vacation to Italy.

  The trip designed to ignite sparks had provided excitement, but certainly not much romance. He didn’t know what to expect next, but he would have sworn that nothing could have surprised him. He was wrong.

  The door to the conference room opened, and there stood Alfonso Simone.

  The detective shuffled into the room accompanied by a uniformed American soldier.

  “Okay, I know I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” A sheepish smile spread across his face as he spoke English with no trace of the former Italian accent. “I brought Sergeant Manning with me to verify my identity. Then, I’ll explain everything.”

  “You’re an American?” Nadia exclaimed, as she pored over his documents.

  “Yes. I was born in Chicago.”