Dream War

by Stephen Prosapio

  “Why did you lie to us?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you everything as soon as you’re comfortable my credentials are valid.”

  They reviewed his documents. As far as Drew knew these could be faked too, but appearing in the embassy with an armed guard was pretty convincing.

  The two sat as Alfonso dismissed the guard.

  “I am so sorry to have had lied to you,” he said, his apologetic tone turning serious. “Everything I’ve done has been with your protection and safety in mind. You see, the medallion you possess is coveted by a terrorist organization. For some time now, they’ve been at war with Italy.”

  He pulled up a chair. “The military stationed me here, and I fell in love with Italy. As we fought the Cold War against the Soviets, my role here expanded.”

  “What about these terrorists?” Nadia asked.

  “It’s a group called ‘Sogno di Guerra,’ which means ‘Dream of War’ or ‘War Dream.’ It is an offshoot of a group called Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigades, that committed thousands of terrorist acts throughout the 1970’s. In 1978, they kidnapped and killed Aldo Moro, one of Italy’s former prime ministers. This offshoot, the Sogno di Guerra, is intent on bringing about some sort of apocalyptic anarchy. As evidenced by their murder of the hotel manager, they’ll stop at nothing to get that medallion from your possession.”

  “But what significance does it have?” Drew asked.

  The old man shrugged and looked away. “We don’t know. We’ve been trying to find that out for years. Do you have it with you?”

  “I left it in the hotel safe.” Drew displayed the room’s safe key as false evidence. He was lying.

  “I see.” Alfonso tapped his thumbs on the table. “You’d be safer without it. I implore you to bring it here. Also, allow me to make safe arrangements for the remainder of your stay in Italy.”

  Drew could tell he was being sized up. He said nothing. Nadia just stared off into space.

  “If you decline my assistance, I beg you to alter your original reservations and continue north. The Sogno di Guerra is most likely still searching for you in Naples but they’ll soon expand their hunt.”

  Drew nodded. His stomach clenched like a fist, and the rest of him was numb.

  Alfonso leaned in and whispered. “Most importantly, remain alert. I cannot stress enough that your lives are in danger.”

  Alfonso’s cell phone chirped. He excused himself with a flurry of apologies, assuring them that the call was beyond urgent. He left his business card on the table, insisted that they call him as soon as they had made a decision, and disappeared out the door speaking Italian.

  - Chapter Ten -

  Three days prior to Night of Nights – Rome, Italy

  The dark-haired priest closed his eyes and silently prayed for the strength to serve any that the Lord should send his way. Padre Gennaro prided himself on being able to communicate with more than seventy percent of the tourists to the Eternal City. While modern Italy marched to the tune of cell phones, iPods, and Blackberries, Padre Gennaro sat in his favorite café on an unusually warm February morning and listened to a symphony of languages that played out conversations of excitement, discovery, and hope.

  Signing the cross, he opened his eyes. There was nothing special about the décor of the Café Roma. Photographs of various sites of the ancient city were displayed behind plastic and surrounded by cheap, black frames. The store’s proprietor, a middle-aged man from a town in the Campagnia region, kept the place immaculately clean, and used the meager profits from the coffee bar to fulfill his modest dream of living in Rome.

  “I take my coffee,” Padre Gennaro muttered, practicing his English.

  “No, no,” he corrected himself. “I have my coffee. I drink my coffee.”

  Padre Gennaro lifted a miniature mug to his lips, sipped down half of his espresso and, without putting the tazza down, gulped the other half.

  He looked at his watch. Tapusscar was well past his usual time; perhaps he would not be stopping by the café today. In the few encounters they’d had, Padre Gennaro hoped that he’d helped the large man shed some of his demons. Yesterday, though, Tapusscar seemed frustrated and anxious from the beginning. When Padre Gennaro had asked Tapusscar to pray with him, his new friend snapped out a tirade before storming out, claiming he didn’t have time for the foolish company of a priest. The troubled soul was not only scarred physically, but with an unfortunate past. In his heart, Padre Gennaro had already forgiven the man for his harsh words. He closed his eyes and prayed for Tapusscar to be guided by God’s Will for him.

  “Is it an ancient coin or just a medallion?” a burly young man at the next table asked in Sicilian-tinged Italian. “I found it in my luggage when I returned after a weekend in Sicily.”

  A second voice, its accent revealing it was not native Italian, responded. “I will research it. Who could have put it in your luggage without your knowing?”

  From the books laid out on the rickety table, Padre Gennaro assumed they were teacher and student, or perhaps tutor and pupil. As he stared, the Sicilian, who appeared to be the student, made eye-contact. His crooked nose pointed upward and then protruded toward the priest as though he were testing the air for a foul smell.

  In Italy, a thousand non-verbal signals communicated various thoughts and feelings. This one meant, “Is there something that you wanted?”

  Padre Gennaro, embarrassed he had been caught snooping, nodded out of respect, but pursed his lips and shrugged, meaning he had reason to intrude. He stood up and approached.

  The teacher swiveled and looked up. “Buongiorno, Padre.”

  “Good morning to you,” the priest countered, “You are English, no?”

  “American, actually. Please, sit down. But I must warn you, if you have approached on a missionary quest, I am a devout atheist.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Padre Gennaro said. “I could not help but hear about the coin.”

  “I see. You know anything about ancient currency?”

  One glimpse of the silver medallion with the image of a horseman, sword to heaven, confirmed his suspicions. It was one of Luzveyn Dred’s medallions, forged with elements of the Spatium Quartus. He quickly prayed for forgiveness for his upcoming white lie.

  “I believe this is a coin from the time of Julius Caesar. Maybe someone has gotten you to smuggle it. You could be in danger.”

  The Sicilian student stood up and excused himself with a variety of reasons. It looked as though he could not exit fast enough. Padre Gennaro wondered if he was one of those youths he met all too frequently these days who despised religion. Perhaps he feared bits of holiness might somehow rub off on him.

  “Nuncio,” the teacher said, “wait for me at the lab. I will see you shortly.”

  The large young man nodded and then trudged down the street.

  “So what you are saying then, Padre…”

  “Gennaro. Padre Gennaro. And you are called?”

  “Ponterosso. Doctor Ponterosso.”

  “Ah, a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought maybe you were a teacher.”

  “Well, yes, I am a professor of Neurological Sciences at La Sapienza University.”

  Padre Gennaro had correctly guessed the doctor’s profession but a vague uneasiness warned that with Ponterosso, things were not exactly as they seemed.

  “I have a friend with the police,” Padre Gennaro said. “You should talk with him about this medallion.”

  “Yes, of course. Give me your friend’s number.”

  Padre Gennaro had no evidence to suggest Dr. Ponterosso meant him or his friend, Alfonso, harm. Under normal circumstances, he would have happily jotted down the phone number; however, a tightening deep inside his chest developed—a feeling of alarm swelled. He’d learned to listen to these warnings, to trust them as messages from the Lord. He allowed himself to be guided by them even when they suggested the need to fib.

  “Oh, but I do not have it with
me,” Padre Gennaro said. He patted his pockets as if to prove his assertion. “Give me your number. I will have him call you.”

  *****

  Padre Gennaro skipped up the steps of the Basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. He would retrieve his own medallion and wait at the Domus Sessoriana hotel for Drew Faulkner, and his girlfriend, Nadia, to return from their meeting across town with Alfonso. In a short amount of time, they had already been put through more than most potential allies. The violence of the Sogno di Guerra knew no bounds. Great care needed to be taken to screen out the wrong people. Careful observation of new recruits had kept him, Alfonso, and other members of his organization safe for many years.

  So intent on his purpose, Padre Gennaro almost missed the opportunity to open the massive door to the church for two elderly women. Small talk revealed that they had made their first journey to Rome to pray for their deceased countryman, Pope John Paul II, and intended to pray at each of the “Seven Pilgrim Churches” in the Eternal City. They would observe the Stations of the Cross, a dutiful remembrance of the crucifixion. He blessed the two pilgrims and left them to their quest.

  Padre Gennaro hurried the length of the nave and entered the sacristy. Inside the closet containing the priest’s ceremonial garments, he opened a hidden compartment to retrieve his medallion. Carrying it during his daily activities had become too dangerous; he was hunted by the Sogno di Guerra. Out and about in his daily life, he didn’t want them to discover a medallion on him.

  He heard the door of the basilica slam closed.

  More visitors on a February weekday?

  As he closed the secret compartment, Padre Gennaro realized that he would have no time to tarry with the latest visitor. As he was locking the door to the closet, he heard a metallic click click. Before turning around, he knew who pointed the weapon.

  “Make a sound and I will kill them.”

  A silencer on the tip of Ponterosso’s small, silver gun pointed toward the door.

  Padre Gennaro didn’t intend to ignore the whispered threat. He nodded his acquiescence. The pistol’s hammer was already cocked. There was no escape. Barring a miracle, the moment of his death was fast approaching, and he was not about to put the lives of innocents at risk. However, he didn’t intend to comply completely. He focused energy to his right hand, which gripped the dangerous medallion.

  “Give it to me,” Ponterosso demanded. But the medallion emitted a brief glow and disappeared. Padre Gennaro had sent it to the other dimension, the Spatium Quartus.

  “Give you what?” Padre Gennaro whispered with mock innocence.

  “Get it back, or the Mother Theresas out there die.”

  Padre Gennaro’s life had been one of piety and service. That didn’t mean that he had become a pushover.

  “The medallion is gone forever,” he bluffed, looking directly into the eyes of his adversary. “You will not be getting it. Attempts to harm those innocents shall end in your demise.”

  “Fine, play your little games, but you have embarrassed my Master for the last time.”

  Padre Gennaro said nothing.

  “We have searched for you for years. And to find you here, virtually in our own backyard—”

  Ponterosso glanced out the door. “These goddamned women. Maybe, if they quit praying and actually did something with their pathetic lives…”

  Padre Gennaro ignored the hate-filled judgments that also insulted his own life of prayer. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, sounding as though he was talking someone off the ledge of a building. “There is another way.”

  “Save it. I am not some ignorant goon you can convert. I am the leader of the Sogno di Guerra. Besides, it may shock you to know that your religious preaching did nothing to heal Tapusscar. He was the one that turned you over to me.”

  “I understand,” Padre Gennaro said softly, “but I am no threat to you. I have no power, no medallion.”

  In a calm and unthreatening manner, he moved toward his assailant.

  Ponterosso looked flabbergasted and instinctively took a step backward. Then, in a voice ripe with scorn, quoted, “In the last days, perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, high-minded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.”

  “That’s the letter from St. Paul to Timothy.”

  “Do his writings describe a time that sounds familiar to you, Father?”

  “It could be any time and no time at all,” he said, shuffling a step closer. “It is your troubled mind which lets you see just the bad. You are blind to the love that is all around you. You are a beautiful person but because you cannot see it, you are in danger and in need of strength, Dr. Ponterosso—”

  “Don’t patronize me. My real name is not Ponterosso, you fool. It means ‘red bridge,’ for I am to be the crowning symbol in the fulfillment of the dream of the Red Brigades. Even now, my Master, Luzveyn Dred has found and is preparing a little girl, the one who shall make possible the Night of Nights, the merging of the Spatium Quartus with this world. Before you die, I want you to know that just before we of the Sogno di Guerra merge this world with the Spatium Quartus, I am going to come back and burn down this church, your fucking church!”

  “My child,” Padre Gennaro said, “you are full of resentment and anger. But there is still time for you to turn away from the darkness that has you in its clutches. I will pray for you. We can pray together if you like…”

  The whispers of the pious women faded as they made their way to the back of the basilica. The large wooden door slammed shut, sealing Padre Gennaro’s fate.

  “We will do no such thing,” Ponterosso said, tapping the gun against Padre Gennaro’s chest, as if searching for a medallion.

  “I have nothing. I speak the truth. You see?” Padre Gennaro said, shrugging his shoulders. He moved closer and pressed the right side of his chest against the muzzle of the pistol.

  “Yes.” Ponterosso smiled snidely. “Come and see.”

  *

  *

  *

  Drew climbed the concrete steps through the towering stone pillars that supported the edifice of the Basilica of Santa Croce, in Gerusalemme, the church connected to their hotel. The couple had returned to the Domus Sessoriana to retrieve Alexis’s music box, the item that Drew actually had locked in the room’s safe. Nadia had already entered the maze of hallways leading to their room.

  Before they headed to the train station, he wanted to check out the basilica. Apparently one of the Seven Pilgrim Churches of Rome, it was somewhat famous.

  He pulled open the large wooden door that shielded the church from the outside world and entered. Wishing to maintain the quiet atmosphere, he made sure to hold the heavy door, allowing it to close gently, so it wouldn’t slam shut.

  The candlelit interior of the Basilica of Santa Croce was dark, but Drew could see enough to admire the ornate church. Above him, framed in elaborate gold relief, a fresco extended three-quarters the length of the nave. The top part of the image portrayed Christ, seated on a throne. Various other figures and scenes were depicted below. The bottom image, the farthest from where Drew stood, was that of Michael the Archangel, one foot on a dragon, banishing the Devil into hell.

  If Alfonso merely wanted the medallion, why didn’t he take it yesterday?

  On the way back from the embassy, Drew and Nadia had dined at a small trattoria, just a few blocks away. The sweet tomato sauces and sinfully generous helpings of pasta eased some of the tension during their conversation.

  “Let’s turn the medallion over to the local police.” Nadia had said.

  Drew felt that they shouldn’t further involve local authorities. Neither of them completely trusted Alfonso, and they had finally decide
d they would set off for Venice on the next available train.

  Now, standing in the deliciously serene church, Nadia’s question again echoed in Drew’s head.

  If he wanted the medallion, why didn’t he just take it yesterday?

  Imposing Corinthian-style pillars lined each side of the wide, main aisle, which led to a gorgeous apse and massive marble altar. Drew marveled at the craftsmanship.

  Two frail ladies walked at a snail’s pace through the basilica. At each painting of Jesus, they made the sign-of-the-cross, and whispered in a language he didn’t understand.

  Drew moved off to the right side of the building where an adjacent room displayed religious artifacts and relics. He admired an intricate, golden cross inside a glass case. The symbol of Christianity was supported by two angels over a small box symbolizing the Ark of the Covenant. From out in the basilica, the reverent murmurs of the old women moved toward the exit.

  A moment later, the massive oak door slammed shut, its heavy echo invading the ancient building. Silence returned for only a second.

  There was a muffled pop proceeded by a clinking of metal on the marble floor as if someone had stuck a large needle into a small balloon and then dropped them both.

  A moan and the distinct thud of a body hitting the floor signaled that the first sounds were not so innocent.

  Drew froze.

  At the sound of footfalls, he dropped and lay motionless. The click-clack of hard-heeled shoes on marble tile, bounced off the walls as someone walked down the main aisle. Again, the door to the outside world opened and then crashed closed. Squealing car tires faded into the hum of Italian traffic.

  Through the eerie stillness, Drew heard a groan, and cries, “Aiutami. Aiutami—”

  Drew rose and sprinted toward the voice coming from the sacristy. He entered to find a dark-haired priest lying on the floor—the same priest from his dream!

  It all came back at once: the priest, the cop, Vesuvius, the medallion.

  “Vieni qua,” the priest said. A pool of blood formed beneath him.

  “Oh, my God,” Drew muttered. He scanned the room for a phone, but seeing none, motioned to the priest that he would go and call for help.