Apocalypsis 1.09 Wearily Electors

EPISODE 9
WEARILY ELECTORS

Lübbe Webnovel is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG
Copyright © 2011 by Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG, Cologne, Germany
Written by Mario Giordano, Cologne
Translated by Diana Beate Hellmann, Los Angeles
English version edited by Charlotte Ryland, London
Editors: Friederike Achilles/Jan F. Wielpütz
Artwork: © Dino Franke, Hajo Müller
E-Book-Production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-8387-1463-9
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole, or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Visit us at
www.apocalypsis.de
www.facebook.com/apocalypsis.de

LXIII

May 16, 2011, Castel Sant'Angelo, Rome

U
nlike Franz Laurenz, Antonio Menendez came from a wealthy background. His family was one of the richest and oldest in all of Spain and had financed the Spanish crown’s 15
th
century marauding expeditions to the New World. Poverty was something that Menendez almost despised. Poverty and insignificance. Even though he had devoted himself to a life of strict asceticism, he ate only twice a day, exclusively vegetarian food, and he allowed himself a meager four hours of sleep at night, the Cardinal was proud of his noble parentage. However, in his opinion, his family’s wealth was not a gift that he could fritter away whenever it seemed convenient, but an obligation to prove himself worthy. A visible manifestation of an inherited and deserved entitlement to high offices. The highest offices.

Since being appointed cardinal twenty years ago, he had resided in a magnificent 5,500-square-foot apartment, which befitted his social status. It was located on Via Giulia, one of the most elegant addresses in Rome, right beside the house where Raphael had lived. He employed a housekeeper, two cleaning ladies, a janitor, two bodyguards and a valet. This would certainly never have been possible with the standard cardinal’s salary of less than 3,000 Euros, but Menendez was not willing to adjust his need for a prestigious lifestyle to the salary scale of the Roman Catholic Curia. His inheritance and certain financial transactions secured him a fortune that was in the two digit million range and constantly rising. Yet the apartment radiated the sternness of a Spanish Grand Inquisitor: dark and heavy oak furniture from the 16
th
century under dreary family owned paintings by Goya, Tintoretto, and M.C. Escher. Old stone floors made of gray terrazzo with cracks that looked like badly healed scars. The windows were covered with heavy brocade curtains that swallowed every ray of sunlight before spitting it out as dim dust into the rooms. According to Menendez’s wish, the place was never heated, not even during the winter. A lightless and joyless palace, which basically served just one purpose: to intimidate.

Cardinal Menendez had read Machiavelli, Sun Tzu and von Clausewitz and was convinced that a powerful man was bound to a different moral code, which could in some cases be contradictory to the teachings of the Church. In his opinion, the extent of personal power depended mostly on the degree of intimidation. This was what he had been taught as a child. Just as he had been taught that only those who dared great things could accomplish great things. And that only those who are willing to make sacrifices can demand sacrifices from others.

Since he was fourteen years old, Menendez had known only one goal: to become Pope. An office that would secure him an almost ethereal and unreachable place of honor among his ancestors, who had been merchants, generals and politicians. And he had known for the longest time what he would call himself: Peter II. For he was afraid neither of the prophecy of a mentally insane Irish Bishop nor of the superstitions among members of the Curia. Menendez was willing to do anything to achieve this goal, use any means that were available to him, make any sacrifice that was necessary and demand any sacrifice. Time was of the essence. He was already in his late sixties and could, therefore, not wait for the conclave after this one, because it was likely that by then he would have exceeded the age limit of eighty. So his chances were dwindling rapidly. To this day, Menendez regarded the election of Franz Laurenz, five years previously, as the darkest moment and the greatest defeat of his entire life. Then as now, he had prepared everything with military precision. One by one, he had invited the voting cardinals into his apartment and had put them on the right track with promises and threats. With the help of Opus Dei, he had compiled a personal dossier on each and every cardinal participating in the conclave. Each of these files listed in detail the individual’s vices and inclinations, interests and transgressions, as well the financial status of his diocese. It had all been for nothing. This German peasant had appeared as if out of nowhere. This prole with calloused worker’s hands had delivered a fiery speech about the renewal of the Church and the power of faith, and to everyone’s surprise he had received the necessary two-thirds majority in the third ballot.

Menendez would not allow a second debacle of this kind. This time, he was determined to use his opportunity, and he was determined to do it at any cost.

At almost any cost.

And this was the problem. Menendez was still a man of the Church, a man of God. He was prepared to do a lot of things to achieve his goal, to threaten people and plot, to deceive, cheat and lie, and even to kill if it was necessary. But was he also prepared to betray his Church and his faith?

This was the question Cardinal Menendez was asking himself as he sneaked like a thief through the Passetto di Borgo into the Castel Sant’Angelo to meet a man who, six months earlier, had made him an offer. An hour ago the man, who called himself Crowley, had called him on his private cell phone and demanded that they meet. Menendez had declined to meet him again but the man had made it clear to him that he had no choice. No choice. Something that Menendez despised almost more than poverty or insignificance.

Cardinal Menendez was wearing a simple priest’s cassock as he sneaked past the streams of tourists to the fourth floor of the castle, where the magnificent parlors of the Medici and Borgia Popes were located. Through a locked side corridor, for which he had obtained a special key, he entered a section which was only accessible to art historians and restorators. Menendez was sure, though, that the man he was about to meet had seen to it that they would be undisturbed for the moment.

The Cardinal found himself in a room which was only illuminated by one narrow window. In the dim twilight, precious frescos were visible on the walls and under the ceiling, in part hidden behind scaffolds and plastic sheets. There were numerous holes in the terracotta tiles, and plastic buckets and tools were scattered throughout the room. Dust covered the floor and impregnated the air. Menendez knew that this room had not been one of the magnificent parlors. Despite the frescos, this room close to the external wall of the castle, had a sober feeling. It had probably been a discrete refuge for secret political gatherings.

How appropriate, Menendez thought.

»You are on time, Cardinal. Very good.«

The voice came from the darkness behind one of the scaffolds. A cold and cutting voice. The man spoke Spanish with a strange and drawling accent that Menendez could not place. One of the dirty plastic sheets began to rustle and out of the darkness behind the scaffold stepped a bald-headed man in a white suit. Menendez guessed that he was in his early sixties but he could have been older, much older. Menendez noticed a fresh bruise on the man’s face.

»I am glad that you decided to follow the voice of reason and light, Cardinal.«

»If this is meant as an insinuation that I have already abjured my God and my faith, you are mistaken,« Menendez replied in a firm voice.

»Of course, Cardinal,« Crowley softened his tone. »Everything you do, you do exclusively for the welfare of the Church and for the salvation of your faith. And I don’t want to keep you longer than necessary from your multifarious tasks. There is still so much work ahead of us.« He handed Menendez a closed envelope. »Your instructions.«

Menendez tore the envelope open and flicked through the papers. Then he blanched and turned back to Crowley. »You cannot be serious!«

»Au contraire!« Crowley answered. »I expect you to adhere to every detail of each individual instruction. And just so that we understand each other: I mean absolutely every single instruction.«

»I cannot do that. This would be… shocking. Presumptuous. Blasphemous. Embarrassing. Not to mention Malachy’s Prophecy of the Popes.«

»Cardinal!« Crowley’s voice dropped to a very soft tone, which made it sound unspeakably threatening. »I don’t think that there is anything left that needs to be discussed. As soon as you are elected Pope, when they ask you what you want to call yourself, you will reply: Peter!«

LXIV

May 16, 2011, Centre Hospitalier Universitaire, Montpellier

W
here am I?«

»In the university hospital, Monsieur. In the intensive care unit. Please lie down.«

»Which… city?«

»Montpellier. I am Doctor Leblanc. How do you feel?«

Peter squinted as he lifted his head and looked around the sparse room. Another hospital room! An impulse to flee came over him and made him fully alert. Peter pulled the IV line out of his left arm and wanted to jump out of the bed but the doctor held him back without any effort. He sank back into his pillows, completely exhausted.

»Try to relax,« the doctor said. »Everything is fine. A fishing boat pulled you out of the ocean last night.« He exchanged the needle. »You were very lucky. Another hour in the water and there would have been nothing we could have done for you.« He searched for another site in his vein to reinsert the IV. Peter began to cough. The face of a man flashed through his mind and faded out again. A face dissolving in darkness.

»What is your name, Monsieur?«

»Kelly. Edward Kelly.«

He did not even know why he was lying but he could tell from the look on the doctor’s face that he did not believe him.

»You don’t sound like an American.«

»British.«

Dr. Leblanc took a deep breath. »Do you remember how you ended up in the water?«

Peter shook his head. Dr. Leblanc handed him a golden necklace with a coin sized medallion.

»You had it in your hand when they found you.«

Peter took the medallion without comment and clasped it in his fist. After Dr. Leblanc had left the small room through a wide and solid sliding door, Peter examined the medallion. He detected a tiny hidden mechanism and the cover of the medallion sprung open. Inside was some kind of SIM card, like those used by cell phones.

Hoathahe Saitan!

As Peter took the small chip card into his hand, it became clear to him that he was not safe here. He was sure that Seth and the Light-Bearers were already hunting for him. Not to mention the police, who had issued an international warrant for his arrest. It was time to clear out.

Maria.

He had to find her. Peter sat up and, again, he pulled the IV line out of his arm while applying the old band aid to the injection site. He tried to ignore the slight itching on his leg, which reminded him, once again, of the Ile de Cuivre. Just as he was about to open the sliding door of the small intensive care room, a man entered. He was about 30 years old, had distinctive Japanese features and did not say a word as he pushed Peter back into the room and locked the door. He was wearing a black suit and carrying a small sports bag.

Peter was alarmed. »Who are you?« he asked, firmly clasping the medallion in his left hand. Instinctively, his muscles tensed.

The man spoke English. »I am here to pick you up,« he said in a calm voice and handed Peter a cell phone. »For you.«

For a brief moment, Peter considered simply knocking the man down and fleeing. But an inner voice warned him. The Japanese man looked fit and athletic and Peter was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, so he wouldn’t get very far. Without taking his eyes off the Japanese man, Peter took the cell phone.

»Yes?«

»Peter Adam?« The voice coming from the receiver sounded strangely familiar.

»Who is this?«

»This is Franz Laurenz. Thank the Lord you are alive.«

Peter saw the image of the abdicated Pope with the restless hands rise before his mind’s eye. And at the same time the image of a well on the island of Sicily. Immediately, distrust and panic began to wash over him.

»What do you want?«

»I want to help you. I know that you do not trust me after everything that has happened. But things have changed. I owe you an apology. Please believe me.«

»How did you find me?«

»Don Luigi will explain that to you, later.« Franz Laurenz spoke hastily. »Listen, Peter, you don’t have much time. The police are already on their way to pick you up. And soon, THEY will also be there.«

»You mean the Light-Bearers?«

»Listen, Peter!« The voice of the former Pope was taking on a sharper tone. »Haruki will drive you to the airport. You can trust him. A plane is waiting for you that will take you to Rome.«

»Where is Maria?«

»Sister Maria is safe. She is doing fine.«

»Where the hell is she?«

»You will see her soon. Now, you have to hurry, Peter.«

Peter thought for a moment but kept his eyes glued on the Japanese man who had positioned himself in front of the door.

»Peter, are you still there?« Laurenz’s voice in the phone. Worried. Nervous.

»Not to Rome,« Peter said. »To Cologne.«

»Cologne? Why Cologne?«

»Because I say so. Contact my parents. But without alarming Interpol and the secret service agencies. It is likely that my parents are under surveillance. Can you do that?«

There was a moment’s hesitation at the other end of the line.

»Okay,« Laurenz finally said, »I will pass this on. But hurry. God bless you.«

He hung up. Peter wanted to return the cell phone to the Japanese man but he declined.

»Keep it.« He pointed at the sports bag. »Get dressed. And hurry up.«

Peter found a pair of jeans in the bag, a T-shirt and shoes. Also some cash and a passport. Hastily and without asking any further questions, he put the clothes on and stuffed the money, the passport and the medallion into the jeans pockets.

Haruki peeked down the corridor and waved to Peter. »Let’s roll.«

Dr. Leblanc was nowhere to be seen. There was only a young and exhausted looking female physician who watched them lethargically as they left the ICU.

Once they were out of sight, they began to run. In front of the building, Peter saw a French police car heading for the hospital. It accelerated suddenly.

»Get into the car!« Haruki barked, pointing at a dark SUV that was parked on the side of one of the access routes. The police car was coming right towards them. Peter and Haruki jumped into the car. Haruki hit the gas pedal and drove backwards, slamming into the police car. Peter was tossed around in his seat.

»Shit!«

Haruki did not comment on that. He changed gears and raced across the small lawn in front of the hospital towards the main entrance. Peter looked over his shoulder. The damaged Gendarmerie vehicle was already turning around and beginning its pursuit.

Without slowing the car down, Haruki turned onto the Avenue Charles Flahault, a street with heavy traffic. He drove at high speed, weaving across lanes and cutting off other cars, and the whole time he seemed as calm as a Buddhist monk during his meditation.

Again, Peter looked over his shoulder. The police car was following them with flashing blue lights, but it got stuck in the traffic chaos that Haruki was leaving in his wake. Peter felt relieved and turned around again.

Everything is going to be fine!

And then: the impact.

Out of nowhere. A deafening bang and the entire world burst apart. Agony in metal. A crystal rain, a drizzle of glass. The heavy Mercedes flew out of one of the side streets and rammed the SUV at full speed, flinging Peter against the side of the car. The SUV spun to the side and skidded the width of the street. The airbags inflated and within seconds they filled the interior of the car like the bowels of a slaughtered animal.

Then: silence.

Peter was gasping for air as he looked over to Haruki and saw that the Japanese man’s lip was bleeding.

»Stay in the car!« The Japanese man panted as he tried to restart the engine. The starter motor made a whining sound. Once. Twice. Nothing.

Peter turned a little in his seat and now he could see that the Mercedes had come to a halt in the middle of the intersection. Smoke was billowing from the engine compartment. A man got out of the car. He was holding a machete in his hand and walking towards the SUV.

This cannot be true! This is not true!

The eyes of the man with the machete were resting on Peter as he headed straight towards him. The driver of another car that was also damaged and stood in the middle of the intersection stepped into his way and yelled at him in French. The next thing Peter saw was a flash in the sunlight and the infuriated Frenchman collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Haruki drew his gun and fired at the man with the machete. The man ducked down.

Peter was in shock. »Damn it, who is this?« he yelled.

Haruki did not answer. He did not appear quite as relaxed as before, on the contrary, his face was as pale as a sheet and, once again, he tried to start the car. To no avail.

Haruki shouted, »Montpellier Airport, General Aviation Terminal. Someone is expecting you!« And then he used his entire body weight to force the dented driver’s door open.

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.