Apocalypsis 1.04 Baphomet Read online

  »Don Luigi, I’m not quite sure whether I understand this correctly. Why should the Saudi Royal Family aid an accused murderer and terrorist in fleeing the country?«

  Don Luigi exchanged a brief look with the Arab, and the Ambassador condescended to give Peter a brief explanation.

  »This is of no concern to you. But let’s put it this way: your former Pope, who resigned, had established certain connections with high Islamic dignitaries who enjoy the trust of His Royal Highness, and who have made it perfectly clear to him that this – I would like to stress – onetime action will serve the interests of our country and Islam.«

  »Or to put it in a nutshell,« Don Luigi added, »no further questions, Peter.«

  Peter threw a brief glance at Maria. She appeared calm and fearless. She seemed to have complete trust in Don Luigi’s string pulling abilities.

  Peter took Don Luigi aside.

  »Why are you doing this to me?« he hissed at the Padre.

  »Trust me, Peter.«

  »No, Don Luigi. It smells like a trap. First they take me out of the country and then they take me out, right?«

  »I can understand why you think that way, Peter. But if you look at it in the cold light of day, you don’t have many options. You want to prove your innocence? Benissimo. Then you can either surrender to the police or the secret service agencies and trust that, this time, they won’t throw you into a torture chamber but treat you with velvet gloves and believe you. Or you can trust me. It’s your decision, Peter.«

  Suddenly, Don Luigi’s expression turned harsh.

  »Shit,« Peter cursed and turned away from him.

  The Saudi Ambassador rose stiffly to his feet. »If you are ready, the car is waiting for you outside.«

  XXXIV

  May 13, 2011, Rome

  Pain is a weakness that leaves the body. Hatred is the focus of the light. The divine vapor that fills your body. The light is the cleansing power of the universe. You are hatred and you are walking on the path of the pain. The light breathed life into you; you were born to bring pain. You were chosen to cleanse the world.

  »I failed, Master.«

  »Yes, you did! I am very disappointed in you, Nikolas!«

  Nikolas, who was lying prone on his front with his arms stretched out to the sides, did not dare to look up. Seth stood at the window of the elegant parlor and glanced over the rooftops of the Eternal City. Not too far in the distance, the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica rose up above the Vatican Hill. It was not necessary for Nikolas to look up. He could feel his Master’s rejection. It was a rejection that hurt Nikolas more than the gunshot wound in his shoulder. Nikolas had learned to honor pain as a palpable sign of the light. As a sign that he was on the right path. It was not without pride that Nikolas remembered that he could bear more pain than most other people. Not that he didn’t feel pain, but he regarded it as a friend, as a cleansing power that cleared his thoughts and helped him to bring his feelings to a complete standstill. What remained was nothing but hatred, clear and pure hatred, untainted by rage or the thirst for revenge.

  However, the pain of the rejection went deeper and was worse than any other pain he had felt before. For Nikolas loved the Master. The Master was the visible part of the divine light. The Master was the embodiment of the purity of hatred. The Master was the sun and he, Nikolas, was just a dirty comet who would forever be encircling the sun and vaporizing to ice and dust, happily.

  But he had failed. He had run away when the man had shot at him in the church. Not so much out of fear, more out of a completely unfamiliar feeling which had suddenly grabbed him: a feeling of terrible forlornness. He had simply let go of the nun and bolted out of the church, bleeding. Nikolas, the vessel of hatred, had fallen prey to the worst of all vices – cowardice.

  The only question that remained was why.

  Nikolas waited humbly for the Master to speak to him again. Seth turned away from the window and looked down at Nikolas in blatant disgust.

  »Why, Nikolas? Why?«

  »I … I don’t know, Master.«

  »But I do.«

  Seth sat down in one of the leather armchairs and, with an indignant gesture, he took a small folder from the table. »Sit down.«

  Nikolas obeyed and rose from the floor, relieved.

  »How is your shoulder doing?«

  »It is nothing, Master.«

  »Did you recognize the man?«

  »No, Master.«

  »He is a journalist. His name is Peter Adam. Of course, the Jesuit is behind all this.«

  »I can kill the Jesuit for you, Master.«

  Seth made a dismissive wave with his hand. »I will take care of the Jesuit personally, when the time comes. First, he has to lead me to Laurenz.«

  Seth handed Nikolas the folder. »This is the man you ran away from.«

  Nikolas opened the folder. When he saw the photo of Peter Adam, the composed and indifferent look on his face disappeared in the blink of an eye. »This is the man?«

  »It was my mistake that it had to come to this point. You will correct this mistake and give proof that you are still walking on the path of the light. Peter Adam is in possession of the relic now. He escaped from the clutches of the secret service agencies and, according to my information, he is as we speak, on his way to Avignon. Along with this nun. The Jesuit helped them.«

  »What do they want there?« Nikolas asked. He was still staring at the photo of the man who had shot at him and from whom he had run away.

  »That’s what you are going to find out. … Nikolas?«

  »Do you want me to kill them, Master?«

  »No. Not now. Just get me the relic and everything else they might find in Avignon and bring it to the island.«

  For a brief moment, Nikolas was at a loss.

  »What about the list? There are still nineteen names left.«

  »The relic has priority.«

  Nikolas stared another moment at the photo of Peter Adam and then he closed the folder resolutely. His face was back to its usual emotionless state.

  Only when your hatred is as pure and clear as a mountain stream, only when you are free of all passions, not thirsting for revenge or rage, for sorrow, compassion or love; only then will you walk along the path of the light.

  He had made his decision. For the first time in his life, he would defy his Master’s order. He would kill Peter Adam.

  »Your wish is my command, Master.«

  »Do not disappoint me again, Nikolas.«

  »I will get the relic for you and anything else that the pair might find.«

  »Good, Nikolas. May the light be with you.«

  XXXV

  May 13, 2011, Rome

  From behind the tinted windows of the American limousine, Peter saw that there were police checkpoints everywhere in the Rome streets. However, the Ambassador’s car with the diplomatic license plate passed the roadblocks without being stopped even once. Only when they reached one of the side gates of Ciampino Airport was the car forced to a halt, but no one checked them and only seconds later they were waved through to the airport ramp where a Learjet with a Saudi registration was already waiting for them.

  Don Luigi had given Peter the parchment rolls and had provided him with some cash. Peter was not to use his credit cards under any circumstance. And if they had to get in touch – only if it was absolutely necessary – they were to use internet cafes.

  Peter thought about Don Luigi, who had increasingly begun to creep him out over the last few days. He was kind of scary. The exorcist seemed to have excellent contacts all over the world and he knew things and made things possible which could usually only be accomplished by secret service agencies. Peter wondered what sort of personal agenda Don Luigi was pursuing in this game. On whose side the Padre really was.

  Come on, what are the sides here? And which side are you on? What are you actually looking for in Avignon? For the proof of your innocence? How is an 800 year old prophecy supposed to prove that you didn�
��t kill Loretta? So what are you looking for? Make a list.

  The original of Malachy’s Prophecy of the Pope.

  Any relevant information about the origin and the meaning of the amulet as well as about the alchemical writings from the papal apartment.

  Any relevant information about a possible connection between your visions and the imminent attack on the Vatican.

  Any relevant information about a possible connection with the Templars.

  Any information about a secret that the Catholic Church has been keeping under lock and key for the past thousand or even more years.

  »What a load of crap!« Peter rubbed his face vigorously. He had no idea what he was really looking for. And perhaps it was not the searching that mattered. But the finding.

  The interior of the Learjet was luxurious. Since they had left the monastery, Mohammed Al Naimi had sat opposite Peter and had not addressed a single word to him or Maria. Peter had tried to worm further explanations out of him but to no avail. Nothing could break the tenacious silence; the Ambassador seemed determined not to talk to them. So he enjoyed the closeness of Maria’s body, her warmth and the scent of her skin. As they were sitting next to each other in these aircraft seats, he felt even closer to her than he had felt in the armoire in the Apostolic Palace, packed in with her like sardines in a can.

  How long ago was that? A day? A year?

  But despite the fact that she was physically so close to him, she seemed to be miles away. She looked out of the window, lost in thought.

  »What kind of soap do you use?« he asked her without thinking.

  Damn, stop that! Just let it go.

  She turned her head towards him and gave him a look as if she had not understood his question. Then she offered him a fleeting smile and continued to look out of the small window even though there was not much to see, just the gloriously blue ocean.

  A strange feeling of forlornness overwhelmed Peter, as he began to understand that he was sitting between two strangers whose intentions he didn’t know, making it all pure guesswork on his part. It wasn’t fear. It was forlornness. Loneliness. The feeling of having been in the exact same situation before. The feeling of being among strangers.

  On the run.

  And what followed in the wake of this oppressive loneliness was suspicion that was suddenly aimed at Maria. Why had she come with him? Was it her job to watch him? Was she really a nun or an agent, like Loretta and Alessia Bertoni? His suspicion was like a rat gnawing at his heart, insatiable and evil.

  »When did you join the convent?«

  »Five years ago.«

  »And why?«

  »You wouldn’t understand.«

  »Try me. I mean, let’s be honest here, you are a beautiful, intelligent woman. You don’t seem to me like someone who is already so disappointed with life that she has to turn away from the world.«

  She shifted angrily towards him. Mohammed Al Naimi didn’t show the slightest interest in their conversation.

  »I did not turn away from the world. I turned towards God.«

  »Come on,« said Peter in exasperation, »don’t give me these platitudes. Explain it to me. Have you never been in love? Never had a boyfriend? Did you never want children?«

  »Now you are the one with the platitudes. But okay. Yes, there was a time in my life when I was in love. Yes, there was also a time in my life when I had a boyfriend. And yes, there was a time when I wanted to have children. But something was always missing in this life, something essential. Even though I didn’t know what it was. And then, five years ago, I had some form of breakdown; let’s just call it that. I was in very bad shape. I was in hospital for three weeks but the doctors couldn’t find any physical cause. So I decided to take two weeks out to recover in a convent. When I witnessed the sincere community of the sisters and their relationship with God, I knew all of a sudden what I had been missing the whole time: God. I wanted to be close to God, as close as possible. And I was willing to pay the price.«

  »But there we have it. You say it yourself: you are missing something.«

  »Sacrifice is a virtue of free will. And everything has its price. One has to understand where one belongs. I belong to God. My faith is my life. I am happy.«

  »No, I don’t believe that. You don’t seem happy, not at all.«

  »Is that so?« Once again, there was this mocking expression on her face. »And how do I seem to you?«

  Like an unreachable promise, Maria.

  »Lost. You are still far away from where you belong. I may be mistaken but that’s how I see you.«

  Without a word, she looked at Peter and then she turned away again and refocused on the view of the ocean below them.

  »Do you know what else I believe? You’re making it too easy for yourself. How can anyone sacrifice their life to a religion that still insists – seriously and stubbornly – that there was an immaculate conception and that the flesh of Christ ascended to heaven, even though there are no historical documents to prove that Jesus, the man, ever existed? How can anyone seriously believe in the physical existence of Satan? And how, Maria, how is it possible that anyone can believe that the New Testament – the writings of an enthusiast and demagogue who never met Jesus – is the Word of God?«

  Now she seemed upset.

  »So, what is it that does matter in your opinion? What can we believe in? In the laws of quantum physics, which raise more questions than they answer? Why shouldn’t God be capable of letting a virgin give birth to a child? Why shouldn’t a person be able to rise from the dead in the flesh? Sure, if you are the one who decides what is and isn’t possible, and if you set the limits of what is possible, only you and nobody else, then all these things cannot be true. But isn’t that intellectual arrogance? To say: hey, there is a discrepancy and therefore it’s all nonsense and impossible. But do you actually know so much more than those who believe?«

  »Give me an example.«

  »Angels, for example. Scientists were able to prove that the laws of physics would prohibit a human being from ever flying with these kinds of wings. However, they could not prove that angels do not exist. And you cannot prove that God does not exist. Actually, I can even understand your dilemma. You are confused because of all the things that have happened to you during the last few days. How would someone like you be able to find an explanation for a vision that he had and that a Neapolitan boy repeated, word for word, if that someone does not believe in God? I am sure that this confusion will pass as soon as you accept that God is real and not a brain dysfunction that affects a few billion people. Perhaps you would like to take the time and ask yourself why someone like you specializes in reporting on the Vatican, of all things. You say that I am lost? That I am still far away from where I belong? Okay, I don’t mind. Welcome to the club, Peter.«

  XXXVI

  May 13, 2011, Questura di Roma, Rome

  Urs Bühler received his daily briefings and found the news that was coming in increasingly alarming. In the vicinity of Santiago de Compostela, they had discovered the horribly mutilated body of Cardinal Torres, who had been one of the favorites for the upcoming election of the new pope. In Milan, a priest had been murdered; again, literally chopped to pieces with a machete. Last night, there had been a shootout in the Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. They had found traces of blood but no dead or injured. A laboratory specializing in geochemical analyses reported the disappearance of one of their doctoral students. The disappearance of Gianni Manzoni would not even have been mentioned in Bühler’s briefings, had it not been for two facts. The first was that the Branciforti Institute had worked for the Vatican from time to time, and the second was that this guy Manzoni had met Don Luigi on the day prior to his disappearance. And that was the next thing: Don Luigi had also dropped off the face of the earth, as had Peter Adam. And five days from now the conclave was to begin. He was running out of time.

  Bühler knew very well that he had no investigative authority whatsoever outside the confines
of the Vatican, but up until now the cooperation between the Swiss Guards and the Carabinieri had always been excellent. They kept each other in the loop and both parties profited from this arrangement. But this seemed to be over now, all of a sudden.

  After Peter Adam’s escape during an interrogation by members of international secret service agencies, the Italians were in a state of extreme nervousness. They had started doing things for the mere sake of doing them, even waving goodbye to months of tedious surveillance and busting another Islamist cell every day. Bühler was not surprised, though, that the police and the domestic intelligence service hadn’t found a thing except for some handguns. It was needless to add that they had not uncovered any information about Peter Adam. The entire ordeal had turned into a flop and lost all the characteristics of a well-organized covert operation. It was only a question of time until the details would be dragged through the press. So perhaps it was better not to be in the line of fire.

  Not that Bühler didn’t think that these secret service assholes deserved the embarrassment of Peter Adam’s escape. But it also confirmed his conviction that the man was dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. However, he did not believe that Peter Adam was the mastermind behind the mystery. He had to have accomplices, and one of them was pulling the strings. In Bühler’s opinion, Adam had only murdered the American journalist to prevent his cover from being blown so soon.

  The only thing that was still a complete mystery to him was the sequence of digits that Loretta Hooper had written in her own blood on the carpet of her hotel room. Why had Peter Adam allowed this to happen? Why hadn’t he run away? The man had behaved like a complete moron, behavior usually reserved for Italians. So Urs Bühler had returned to the murder scene, to take another look at the bloody numbers. To his surprise, though, the room had already been tidied up and a company specializing in the cleaning of crime scenes had removed all traces of evidence.

  »What the fuck have you done?« Bühler was beside himself as he yelled at the Commissario in charge, a pale-faced and arrogant Milanese with the composure of a lotus leaf – the Bühlerian rage dropped off him like morning dew.