Apocalypsis 1.09 Wearily Electors Read Online Free PDF

filthy, emaciated, and abused, a shadow of the man he had met in Misrian a long time ago.
    Peter sat up, suddenly electrified. In his mind’s eye he saw Kelly sitting in his yurt, bragging to Ellen and telling her crude details about the treasure of the Templars. Kelly had mentioned a name.
    »Helena Blavatsky,« he said aloud and tried to form the name with the letters in ›WEARILY ELECTORS‹. Wrong. But there was another name that Kelly had mentioned.
    Come on! Try harder! Remember.
    Peter stared at the letter sequence. Then he saw the name and wrote it into the last free space on the piece of paper and circled it.
    ALEISTER CROWLEY
    » The Aleister Crowley?« Maria asked.
    Peter nodded. »English occultist of the early 20 th century,« he started his little lecture. »Lodge founder, kabbalist, drug-addicted trickster and pornographer. As far as I know, this man’s legacy consisted of debts, disgust, criminal complaints and a scandalous and outrageous legend that arose around his person, which was later gratefully adopted by the New Age movement. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes any sense!« Peter scrunched up the piece of paper. »Shit!«
    Maria gave him a compassionate glance and then she gently stroked his hair. An intimate and tender gesture that surprised Peter.
    »The encounter with Nikolas must have been awful for you.«
    Peter nodded silently.
    »And he took the medallion from you. So we have to start from scratch.«
    Peter looked at her. »Yes, Nikolas has the medallion. But I… I have this…«
    He pulled something out of the pocket of his jeans and put it into the palm of Maria’s hand. It was the small white SIM card.

LXVII

ONE YEAR EARLIER …
    JulY 7, 2010, Trastevere, Rome
    D o you want to be pope, Cardinal?«
    »How did you get this number?«
    The man, who had introduced himself as Aleister Crowley, answered in flawless Spanish. »That is irrelevant,« he said. »We have to meet. In one hour. At the ›Tre Cani‹ in Trastevere. You know the restaurant.«
    »I don’t have to do anything,« Cardinal Menendez grumbled into his private cell phone, whose number was known to only four people in the Vatican. »I will…«
    »In one hour, Cardinal. Unless you want to blow your last chance of ever becoming pope.«
    The connection was cut. Menendez was furious. He put his cell phone away and tried to refocus on his speech for the upcoming Eucharistic Congress in Cologne. But he couldn’t. Because Menendez had a keen sense for the voice of power. For the subtle nuances in attitude and speech patterns that, without fail, distinguished people as either part of the obedient masses or as representatives of the small elite of leaders to which he belonged himself, at least in his personal opinion. The voice on the phone was used to giving orders that were obeyed without question. The tone of voice had something to it that was threatening and intimidating, too much to ignore, even for a man like Menendez. The more so as this voice had made him an outrageous offer.
    One hour later, the Cardinal arrived in the small and elegant trattoria on the other side of the River Tiber. The Tre Cani was a favorite meeting point for Curial employees and Roman politicians as it offered not only fish specialties but also privacy. The owner welcomed Menendez with a submissive bow and led him through the full restaurant to a table at the far side of the room, where a man was expecting him. He was bald and about sixty years old. He was wearing a white suit and looked like a former soldier.
    »Cardinal,« the man greeted him without getting up, as he pointed at the free chair. He ordered a bottle of Menendez’s favorite Ribeira del Duero and then he looked into the Cardinal’s face.
    »Are you Crowley?«
    »You may call me that. But it won’t help you if you plan to dig into my background after our conversation.«
    »What do you want?«
    The man who called himself Crowley took a sip of water.
    »No, Cardinal! What do you