Destiny

ONE-HUNDRED-SIX

Marcus and Alicia caught a taxi out of Rome Fiumicino Airport and instructed the driver to take them to the Castel Sant’Angelo. “No, problem,” said the driver. “You have luggage?”

“No,” Alicia said. “How far is the Castel Sant’Angelo?”

“Not too far. It is even more beautiful in December because the sky is bluer. You can really see the old castle and the statue of Saint Michael on top of it.”

In the backseat of the car, Marcus closed his eyes and visualized the various mathematical connections and combinations to the numbers left behind by Daniel and Philippe Fournier. He reached for his cell and pulled up the letter Fournier had written to the Pope, and then he re-read the words written by Daniel and sealed in the old vase. ‘Behold and seek the angel whose lance guards the passage to Michael. Know that the day of Michael’s return marks the season of the beast and the slaying by the prince.’

“I’m not sure what this means,” Marcus mumbled, then continued reading…‘one angel who guards the bridge carries the passage of the prince who arises from Daniel.’

Marcus turned towards Alicia. “I believe I know where to look for the missing link!”

“The sign, I think, will be somewhere on or near one of the statues of the angels on the bridge leading to the Castel Sant’Angelo…or maybe on the statue of Saint Michael.”

The taxi driver pulled up in front of the Castel Sant’Angelo. “There it is,” he said. “During the seventh century, the bridge was used to expose the bodies of the executed. They stuck decapitated heads up on the posts. In those days, the leaders of Rome believed the public display of an execution was a good deterrent. Now, it is the bridge of angels; however, I believe some of the sinners of Rome’s earlier times still cross the bridge at night.” He grinned.

“Very funny. Is the bridge pedestrian-only?”

“Yes, this is a destination for tourists from all over the world. Each angel carries an instrument of Christ’s passion. The Pope commissioned the statues in 1598. The master, Bernini, was the head sculptor or designer, who assigned eight of them to other sculptors, many of them his pupils, reserving two of them for himself to do. He designed all ten angels when he was seventy years old, devising them from three points of view so that they could be seen from a frontal view and also a forty-five-degree angle. Historians say it took the old man seventy weeks to sculpt the angel that represents the crown of thorns.”

“Thank you,” Marcus nodded and paid the driver who then drove away.

They stared at the ancient bridge leading across the Tiber River to the massive, round fortress. The design of the bridge incorporated five wide arches. The river, reflecting the blue sky, flowed silently through the arches.

“I’ve never seen a castle quite like that one,” Alicia said. “The taxi driver said it was built to be a mausoleum but it turned out to be everything from that to a torture chamber.”

“I’m not concerned as much with the castle as I am with the bridge and one single statue. Gisele Fournier mentioned that her grandfather spoke of one statue here that, in a way, reminded him of the Weeping Angel in the UNESCO Garden of Peace.”

They walked to the bridge and stepped to the center. Dozens of tourists crossed the bridge, each snapping photos of the statues of angels. Alicia watched them. “This is very impressive. I don’t see the angel with the lance.”

“Maybe it’s closer to the Castel Sant’Angelo. The driver said each angel is representative of Christ’s passion. There’s the angel with the sponge. And over there is the angel with the crown of thorns.”

“Each one has an inscription at the base.”

They walked to the far end of the bridge. The angel closest to the Castel Sant’Angelo held the lance over her head. Her face was turned away from the fortress, looking toward the east. Staring at the tip of the lance, Marcus felt the quiver of the scar in his chest. The inscription at the base of the statue read: Vulnerasti cor meum. Marcus said, “The words are Latin and they mean, thou has ravished my heart.”

“In the taxi, you mentioned the similarities between what Daniel wrote before the birth of Christ and what Philippe Fournier wrote after World War II.”

“The one constant in both is the mention of the angel who guards the passage. That’s the way Daniel put it. Fournier wrote that one angel who guards the bridge carries the passage of the prince who arises from Daniel.”

Alicia looked up at the statue with the lance. “The words guards and passage are the same in what Daniel and Fournier wrote. Passage and guards…well, this is definitely the passage to the castle. The angel with the lance is the last one before you get to the castle. Maybe she’s the guardian angel.” Alicia smiled. “Sorry, it’s been so long since I felt like smiling.”

“I know.” Marcus touched the base of the statue. The wind blew across the Tiber River, and pigeons rose from the old fortress, turning around over the bridge and flying back toward the Vatican. “Philippe Fournier made a connection we didn’t see.”

“What?”

“He specifically mentioned Daniel…Daniel the prophet in his letter to the Pope. He said, ‘Who guards the bridge carries the passage of the prince who arises from Daniel.’ The passage of the prince…” Marcus used his mobile to find the Internet. He keyed in information, looked back to the angel with the lance and then read from his screen. “In the Book of Daniel, chapter twelve verse one, he writes, ‘At that time, Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time, your people — everyone whose name is found written in the book — will be delivered.’”

“What was he saying?”

“Let’s look at the numbers.” Marcus felt the adrenaline pumping, his hand trembling.

Alicia stared up at the statue of Saint Michael. “So the word passage has nothing to do with this bridge or a passage to the fortress where a bronze of Saint Michael stands. It has to do with a passage in the Bible.”

“Yes! Specifically Daniel 12:1, which makes reference to Saint Michael and reuses some of the words Daniel wrote and sealed in the vase. Let’s add chapter twelve and verse one. That gives us the number thirteen. Revelation 13 deals with the end of times as does Daniel 12:1. We can add the number thirteen to what we already have: begin with 1469, the date the secret Order of St. Michael was founded in France. Add the date to 539, the year the third horn was removed and the Pope became a civil leader. That adds up to the year 2008. When we factor in the other number from Daniel and mentioned by Fournier, 1260 days or three-and-a half years, we go from the year 2008 to the year 2011.”

“We’re beyond 2011.”

Marcus stared at the statue, the lance a silhouette. “I’m wondering if the last part of the equation is the addition of the twelfth chapter and first verse in Daniel, added together is the number thirteen, and when that’s in the equation, factoring in all that Daniel and Philippe Fournier corroborated, we have the year 2024…”

Alicia let out a low whistle. “So the year 2024 might be the final days of earth.”

“I don’t know. I’d like to find something to corroborate that.”

“Maybe we’ll find it.”

“Right now we have to upload everything on the flash drive to the website and include the year 2024 unless we can find—”

“Excuse me.”

Marcus and Alicia turned around to see a tourist approaching them. He walked with a slight limp coming from his left leg. The man was less than six feet tall, early sixties, steel blue eyes that captured the sky’s reflection off the river. “Do you mind taking a picture of me for my daughter? She’s back in England. I’m here in Rome for a couple of days on business. Her church youth group told her this was one of their favorite places. They’re very much into angels.” He smiled and held out a small camera.

“Sure,” Alicia said, glancing at Marcus, giving him the camera.

The man backed up and stood next to the statue of the angel with the lance. He smiled. “When you focus the camera you need to focus on this.” The man opened his coat and displayed a pistol strapped to a holster. Then he wrapped his hand around the pistol grip. “Now, Mr. Marcus and Miss Quincy, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk back across the bridge, and we’ll get in my car. From there we’re going to a private room where you will remove the encryption on the revelation310.org website and you will give me the flash drive in your pocket along with that spear point. I bet the spear point looks like the spear the lovely lady above me is carrying. Too bad she isn’t on your side. Now, move.”

Marcus glanced up at the statue of Saint Michael high above the fortress. Then he looked directly at the man. “When did you breach?”

“Pardon me?”

“Breach. You know, crossed the line from working for the U.S. Government to working against it. When did you go from protecting the constitution to working for those hell-bent on destroying it? Hello, Andy Jenkins.”

The man said nothing for a moment. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. You do fit the profile, though. Right age. Slight limp from your left leg. You sold out the people of Israel, America, and much of the world, for that matter. Tell me Jenkins, was it you who personally took down Kennedy’s plane, or did you sit back on the sidelines and call the shots. Or did you and your cronies have a cigar and a scotch after one of your assassins did it?”

“Shut up and start walking.”

Marcus and Alicia turned and started toward the far side of the bridge, Jenkins, hand inside his jacket, following right behind them. When they were in the center of the bridge, Marcus gripped the camera in his right hand. Without hesitation, he turned and threw the camera directly at Jenkins’s head. The impact caught him on the lower jaw, dazing him for a second.

It was enough time for Marcus to grab Alicia by the hand. “Jump!” He tossed her over the railing and followed right behind her. Within two seconds they splashed into the Tiber River.

Jenkins leaned over the railing, firing two shots. The bullets cut through the water right between Marcus and Alicia. “Dive!” Marcus ordered. They dove down, two more bullets slicing through the water.

A police officer, coming from the side of the bridge closest to the Castel Sant’Angelo, drew his pistol and ran toward Jenkins. Jenkins fired, hitting the officer in the shoulder. The impact knocked him to the ground. Jenkins turned and jogged off the bridge, limping, glancing back over his shoulder to see where Marcus and Alicia had surfaced.

A fisherman in a small boat was coming under the bridge just as they popped to the surface. Marcus waved down the fisherman. The man in the boat cut the engine and leaned over, extending a hand to lift Alicia from the river. Marcus followed, flopping into the center of the boat. “Go!” Marcus said. “Go! Bullets!”

“Andiamo rapidamente!” shouted the fisherman. He leaned back and gunned the engine. He had unkept brown hair, dark eyes and a tanned, raw-boned face. He looked at Marcus and Alicia and smiled. Within seconds the boat was moving on plane down the Tiber River, cutting a V across the dark and ancient waters.