4. Trip to Venice (8 pgs.) – Champions Renaissance

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ACT II - CHAPTER 4

TRIP TO VENICE

Saturday June 2 and Sunday June 3, 2018

Milan and Venice Italy

He was glad Francisca was alive. The news said Oslo was still searching for Mr. Walker. The main suspect was a missing police officer, Sten Olsen.

Alexandre felt upset with Ricardo and Francisca. They had refused to publish the book. Soon, he realized it was nearly impossible, and if done, likely done poorly. The book was not ready. He would not change his decision to play if France reached the final. His life depended on Boris finding the pendrive.

He recalled Athens’ airport. Learning of Mr. Walker’s kidnapping, he changed his flight. Instead of Barcelona, he flew to London to tell Victoria everything. Armageddon would start with bombs in Moscow. A chain reaction would incinerate the northern hemisphere. If France reached the final, he would play. He begged her to watch from Sydney, at his uncle’s house, with his parents. He remembered what she had said, I’m not going to watch you die from Sydney, I’d rather die with you in Moscow.

Now Alexandre was travelling with the France team to Italy for a friendly match.

Fans sang the national anthem at Milan’s Municipal Stadium, then chanted Forza Azzurri.

250

After the first half, they entered the locker room. Italy led three to zero. Goals came from Tessini, Pelloni, and Canaletto. Alexandre thought he would score three times, but goalkeeper Sopetti’s extraordinary saves blocked him.

“Alexandre, enter through the centre. Dubois, find Alexandre deep. Moreau, Alexandre, wall pass like in training. Come on! We can turn this around!” the coach urged.

They returned determined. Dubois passed low and deep to Alexandre. He ran, reached the ball before the goalkeeper, lifted it over the opponent, and scored. He scored a second with another Dubois pass. Dardillon tied the game with a forty-meter shot into the corner.

The winning goal came from a penalty. Three minutes remained. Alexandre placed the ball, felt the whistle, ran, and shot centre and high. The net inflated. The goalkeeper fell right.

“Goal! Philosopher’s goal! Duval converts again! France achieves the impossible! Long live France! Long live Alexandre Duval!” the journalist shouted.

Though a friendly, journalists worldwide praised the philosopher.

“Duval, Dubois, Moreau, come here,” the coach said. “Remember today. We’ll repeat it to win the World Cup.”

After the game, Alexandre met Victoria. Their flight from Milan to Venice was private. They were closer than ever, wanting a romantic weekend, perhaps their last. From Mestre, they took the train to Venice station. On the barge, city lights bathed the Grand Canal. Stars announced night.

“We’re finally here, darling,” Victoria said, hugging him, resting her head on his shoulder near St. Mark’s Square. The taxi boat passed under a bridge and docked at the Scavini Dunetto hotel.

They booked the Medici Terrace suite for its view of St. George Island. The suite overlooked the Grand Canal. Later, they dressed for dinner. She wore a tight black dress. A gold chain with a blue diamond tetrahedron rested at her chest, adding elegance.

She had tried contacting Francisca after the last call, but received no reply. The kidnapping news remained unclear, and Mr. Walker had not appeared.

251

“You look so handsome,” she said, touching his black tailcoat. “The white shirt, gold cufflinks, and yellow bow tie make you so sexy.”

They dined on a terrace surrounded by four fire torches. Romantic Italian folk music completed the moment. They would wait a month until the World Cup ended to be alone again. If the bombs exploded, these could be their last moments.

“What music have you chosen?”

“An album called Romance in Venice,” Victoria said. “No singers. The mandolin and accordion stand out.”

Alexandre enjoyed the melodies, contrasting the Texan music of the goddesses’ dance in Berlin. Their eyes met. Love was possible because they admired each other and shared values.

The next morning, they had toast and orange juice in bed. They first wore the special Boris T-shirts. Ready, they left the hotel for St. Mark’s Square. Despite his hoodie and sunglasses, some recognized him and asked for selfies.

They walked toward the Doge’s Palace, then the dock for a canal stroll. Two children asked for autographs.

“Can I take a selfie with you?”

“Of course!” he said. They faced the dock.

Suddenly, Alexandre saw someone forcing Victoria into a taxi boat.

He ran and took another. “Follow that boat!” he shouted, pointing.

The taxi sped away. She fought the man driving. Her kidnapper wore glasses and a hat. He pushed her to the floor. About twenty meters away, he fired three shots. One hit the driver’s head; he fell dead.

Alexandre bent, took the helm, and felt pain. A bullet hit his right chest but did not penetrate, stopped by Boris’s shirt. Behind, another boat chased them twenty meters away.

He zigzagged to avoid bullets. Out of shots, he accelerated, aiming to board the other boat. The driver maneuverer, but he cornered him into a narrow channel. He crashed at full speed into gondolas, flew through the air, and fell on an esplanade hosting a book fair. The second boat crashed similarly beside the first.

In the middle of the destruction and panic, Alexandre got off the second and ran to the first. Victoria lay unconscious, her right forearm broken and bleeding. When he reached to lift her, something struck the back of his head.

252

He woke alone, hands tied to a pipe in a dark basement lit by a weak bulb.

How long have I been here? Has Victoria died? he thought.

He had hidden the GPS keychain Boris gave him in his shoe. He pulled it out and pressed the SOS button. While trying to free his wrists, someone entered.

“You murdered Ronald,” Alexandre said when he recognized Lenel, who had a black eye.

“And soon you’ll join him,” Lenel replied.

“Why, Lenel? What do you gain?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a football player. You don’t know what forces move the Earth.”

“What drives you to kill innocent people?”

“If God chose me to fulfil His will, the end justifies the means.”

“God is your excuse to justify crimes. You’re no different from a terrorist sacrificing innocents.”

“When you do politics, people don’t matter. One life more or less means nothing beside a great ideal. We control reality. They think we’re good shepherds. Life is cruel, Alexandre. The standard of life is war, and war is the art of deception. As a footballer you know it. A feint is a deception. We misinform by making people believe there is no war, that we protect them. And is true: we protect them, to eat them and shear their wool. They can’t rebel; we create their cultural premises. They’re cowards who follow the herd instead of thinking. Exceptions like you and Ronald must be removed. I won’t let The Family’s centuries of power be lost to heroes who think.

There is no reality, Alexandre. We create it by controlling perception, through religion, education, propaganda, and the narrative of the news. The day will come when even the mental sheep accept that two plus two equals five. You can’t control minds, but you can break them by forcing contradictions. Divide and rule, that’s the secret. Existence is what we want it to be.”

“When you cease to exist, it will be absolute, and you won’t even go to hell,” Alexandre said.

253

“Reality comes from men with power. You don’t have it, bloody atheist,” Lenel replied.

“Do you think you have power? Can you see all options, or are you a prisoner of your premises?” Alexandre asked.

“I don’t need to see them. I create them.”

“But you can’t contradict natural laws.”

“I don’t contradict them. I use them.”

“You contradict them when you say something can be and not be at once,” Alexandre said.

“You and your logic! If unreal realities are generated in a brain that exists, doesn’t the true create the false? I never believed in logic’s laws.”

“Beware of fallacies and arbitrariness. Existence is existence, and you can’t confuse it with consciousness. Existence exists first, consciousness second. No consciousness can exist without a brain,” Alexandre said.

“Shut up, you damn logician! Don’t harass me! What power does logic have? Power is what governs the mind. We control universities, media, finance, everything. I follow God’s will because He delegates His power to me. Why? Because I follow His will. He chooses me because I am sincere. My God and my people are sincere, unlike The Family’s corrupt old men.”

“You deceive yourself. Was your God conscious before creating the universe? Conscious of what? Was he an entity? Created by whom? Another God? Who created the second? A third? It’s absurd. God is a theory, and you use it for crime.”

“You don’t understand spiritual things. You’re an atheist,” Lenel said.

“Without logic, you’ll never have true self-esteem. Power won’t give it to you. Your mysticism made you a psychopath. Animals have more empathy than you.”

“You lie! I feel empathy for my brothers who love the God I love. That’s why I’ll purge The Family’s corrupt members. It’ll be historic.”

“You’re as insane as they are, and worse for betraying them.”

“The end justifies the means,” Lenel said.

“When will you face the mirror without lying to yourself?”

“Shut up, idiot! I’ll kill you!” Lenel shouted, slapping him.

254

“Just as you killed Peter Bolt?” Alexandre asked.

“I didn’t kill him. I hired a hitman. What do you know about Bolt?” Lenel asked, startled.

“Bolt found out you planned to kill Ronald because he wanted to write a book that would destroy your irrational world,” Alexandre said, improvising.

“That book will never be published. The Family’s leader forbids it,” Lenel said, referring to Genaro, the old man who once called him bambino.

“But aren’t you the leader?” Alexandre asked, realizing Lenel’s confusion.

With Boris’s clues, Alexandre saw his chance. He’d invent something unverifiable, neither provable nor falsifiable.

“Franco set you up,” Alexandre said.

“What trap?” Lenel asked and added, “I trapped him. He forced me to hire a hitman to take a pendrive from Bolt. He told me to give it to him without seeing or copying it. I obeyed in exchange for The Family’s control. But Franco never knew I copied it. That will help me purge The Family.”

“What was on the pendrive?” Alexandre asked.

“Bank accounts, scams, footage of rapes, murders, child sacrifices, and orgies of The Family’s global elite. No wonder they wanted Bolt dead and the pendrive recovered. Entry to The Family requires committing a filmed crime so no one can betray another.”

“I know you all have glass ceilings. But you still don’t realize that Franco set you up?” Alexandre said, pushing his arbitrariness.

“What trap? I was at the crime scene and picked up the pendrive myself, it was on the floor next to Peter Bolt!”

“He planted it,” Alexandre said inventing.

“No. Franco was at the funeral,” Lenel replied.

“Did he never mention the fireworks?” Alexandre asked.

“What fireworks?” Lenel frowned.

“He made you head of The Family to destroy it,” Alexandre said, watching Lenel’s face pale. Arbitrariness was working. He couldn’t prove what he said. It was an invention, as God was a cultural invention, neither provable nor refutable. “It’s not in your best interest to kill me, Lenel. On the contrary, I can help you eliminate your enemies, and Franco,” Alexandre said, seeing Lenel sink into doubt. “You’re the naive sheep who fell into the trap.”

255

“And if you’re telling the truth, how could you help me?” Lenel asked, still stunned.

“Because I know where Franco hid the real pendrive, the one he doesn’t want you to hear,” said Alexandre. Lenel stared at him as if seeing a ghost. The arbitrary fiction was working, so Alexandre pushed further. “Bolt recorded a conversation where Franco laughs at you, saying you’ll be remembered in The Family’s history as the king of assholes.”

Lenel knew how The Family operated. He knew there were loose ends in Bolt’s death, but he couldn’t investigate then. Doing so would’ve ruined his rise to the top of the most powerful secret society on earth. Now he was there. He held all the power, and the pendrive he’d found in Bolt’s apartment contained enough evidence to purge the entire network. Franco never knew he’d copied it. Trap? Impossible. Lenel thought he had every card in hand to fulfil divine will, or did he?

“Police! Come out with your hands up!” shouted a voice from the other side of the door.

After a burst of gunfire, the door was smashed open and a pepper spray bomb rolled inside. Amid the fog, two officers rushed in and dragged Alexandre out. He had a broken rib.

“Oh, darling! You’re alive!” Victoria cried, hugging him with her casted arm at Mestre Central Hospital. Journalists swarmed the place; the story was already global.

“Someone hit me on the head when I saw you, I thought you were dead,” he said, holding her tight.

“I woke up in the taxi boat, my arm broken. I saw two men fighting in the distance, but neither was you. The masked one punched the kidnapper in the eye. The latter kicked him in the face and shot him. When I got off the boat, I ran to hide and heard more shots. The police arrived soon after,” Victoria said.

“The important thing is that we’re alive,” Alexandre told her as reporters tried to get closer.

256

They held each other for a minute that felt like eternity. They had survived, and once again, the gods envied men because they were mortal.

Lenel was never found; he had escaped through a side door leading straight into the canals.

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