The Doomsday Prophecy

by Scott Mariani

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I just remembered you’re vegetarian. It has pepperoni and anchovies. Want me to scrape them off yours?’

  ‘Leave them on,’ Zoë said. ‘I could eat a pickled donkey.’

  Just then the phone rang, and Alex answered on the speakerphone.

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ Murdoch’s deep voice said on the line. ‘Miss Bradbury is booked on a commercial flight to London from Arlington in the morning. Callaghan will be at your place just after ten to pick her up and escort her to the airport.’

  ‘Copy that,’ Alex said.

  ‘Then I want you to take some leave for a while,’ Murdoch said. ‘You’ve been through a lot.’

  Alex thanked him, and the call ended.

  Zoë was starting to look warm and relaxed on the leather sofa in front of the fire. She peeled off her jumper and tossed it down on the floor. ‘So it looks like you’re on vacation.’

  ‘I could use it, I tell you.’ Alex went back into the kitchen and fished the pizza out of the freezer. She stuck it in the microwave, and a few minutes later the two of them were sitting at the maple wood breakfast bar, washing down the pizza with more wine.

  ‘This is such a cosy little place,’ Zoë said through a mouthful.

  ‘It does the job. It’s practical and functional. I’m barely ever here, so it suits me fine.’

  ‘You live alone, then?’

  ‘Just little me.’

  ‘No boyfriend?’

  ‘No time.’

  Zoë emptied her glass and set it down, a smile playing on her lips. ‘You like Ben, though.’

  Alex was just raising the bottle to top up their glasses. She froze. ‘That obvious?’

  ‘Pretty obvious.’

  Alex sighed. Raised her eyebrows. ‘Not much of a secret agent, then.’ She poured the wine.

  ‘He likes you too.’

  Alex didn’t answer.

  ‘But I don’t think he likes me very much,’ Zoë said, frowning as she took another sip.

  ‘I don’t know that’s true,’ Alex lied.

  ‘I don’t blame him. I’ve been a shit to him. In fact, I’ve been a shit to a lot of people.’

  ‘You were under a lot of stress.’

  Zoë shook her head. ‘No excuses. I want you to know that I’m really sorry for what I did, and all the trouble it caused.’

  Alex smiled and patted her arm. ‘It’s over now,’ she said. Just the small matter of World War Three about to start, she was thinking. ‘Your part is, anyway.’

  ‘Will you be seeing Ben again?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope so. Maybe.’

  ‘If you do, will you tell him something from me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Tell him I never meant for his friend to be… for what happened to his friend. I never wanted anyone to be hurt. It was just a stupid hoax. I didn’t think it through.’

  ‘I’ll tell him, don’t worry.’ Alex smiled warmly.

  Zoë gazed into the middle distance for a while. ‘I’m so sorry about Nikos,’ she whispered. ‘He’s dead. And it’s my doing.’ She sniffed. ‘And Skid. His poor legs. He didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he did.’

  ‘I’m going to change,’ Zoë said. ‘Things are going to be different from now on. It’s time I grew up.’

  ‘Why don’t we open another bottle of that wine?’ said Alex.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Ben Gurion International Airport,

  50 km west of Jerusalem

  The eighteenth day, 3.50 p.m. Israeli time

  The searing white heat of the sun hit Ben as he stepped off the plane. He grabbed a taxi outside the airport and leaned back against the hot plastic seat, wishing he had his whisky flask, trying not to think about why the hell he was here as the battered Mercedes hurtled him towards his destination.

  Jerusalem. The city that the Talmud described as having been given by God nine parts of all the beauty of all the world – as well as nine parts of all its pain.

  The skyline was white under the cloudless blue sky and the scorching sun. It was in many ways like any other Middle-Eastern or North African city, smoky and noisy and buzzing like an ant’s nest – a sweltering, heaving throng of thousands of cars and buses and locals and tourists all crammed into a few square miles where the modern jostled with the ancient, the high-rise buildings on the outskirts contrasting sharply with the architecture of two thousand years of religious history. Names like Ammunition Hill and Paratroopers Road were a stark reminder of the bloodiness of the city’s past.

  Jerusalem had passed through more hands than most historic cities in its time, and all had left their mark, with Christian, Jewish and Muslim architecture vying for domination. Which, Ben thought to himself, perfectly mirrored the tense political role that this place had played for so very long. A role that might now be about to reach a chilling climax, if what Jones had said was true.

  By 4.30 p.m. he’d checked in at his hotel, a drab, sleepy joint on the edge of the city, within earshot of the ululating prayers blaring from a nearby mosque. His room was basic and functional, but he wouldn’t have given a damn if it had been crawling with cockroaches.

  What the hell was he going to do? He was itching with frustration. It seemed crazy sending him here with so little to go on. The clock was ticking and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He showered and changed, spent a few minutes studying the map of the city, then paced his room, impatiently clutching his phone, waiting for the call Murdoch had promised would come. But there was nothing.

  Fuck it. He stormed out of the room and made his way down to the hotel bar. The place was empty apart from the wizened old barman. Ben pulled up a stool and lit up the first of the cigarettes he’d bought at the airport. A tall, cool beer made more sense to him in the choking heat than a double Scotch. He leaned on the bar, sipping his drink and watching the smoke curl and drift. His shoulder still ached. Montana seemed a million miles away. So did Alex.

  It was two minutes past five when his phone finally went.

  ‘Hope. Callaghan here. Write this down.’

  Ben took a small notebook and pencil out of his pocket. ‘I’m listening.’

  Callaghan spelled out an address in Jerusalem. ‘It’s within the Old City, at the southwest end of the Jewish Quarter,’ he said. ‘You have a rendezvous at 18:30 your time.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Someone with information. They’ll provide you with everything you need.’

  ‘One of your people?’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s an operational house.’

  ‘Sleeper agent?’

  ‘Call him an asset.’

  ‘What does your asset have for me?’

  ‘It seems you were right,’ Callaghan said. ‘There’s some vital and sensitive intel to pass on. Something big is about to take place. We think it’s the target. Best you hear it from our guy.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Yeah, well, things are moving quickly now. Thanks to your input,’ he added grudgingly.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘It’s not important. He’s expecting you.’ Callaghan sounded impatient. ‘I know this is irregular. But you don’t need me to tell you, time is of the essence. So get over there. We’re depending on you.’

  ‘What about Slater?’

  ‘Still working on it. Leave it with us. Out of your hands now, OK?’

  ‘And Zoë?’

  ‘Deal’s a deal. I’m on my way right now to Fiorante’s place to pick her up and put her on a flight to England.’

  ‘I’ll be checking to make sure she got there.’

  ‘You do that, buddy. And, Hope?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good luck.’ Callaghan ended the call.

  Ben put the phone away, and sat for another minute sipping his drink. His zigzag chase across the world looked as though it was entering its final phase. He only hoped that what Callagh
an’s contact had to say would be worth it.

  He left the hotel, stepped out into the scorching sun and took a taxicab that sped him towards old Jerusalem. Time was ticking rapidly by, but there was nothing he could do other than kill time before his rendezvous with the CIA asset.

  He entered the Old City through the Damascus Gate, a frenetic melee of shoppers, tourists, street traders, money changers, beggars and barrow boys. He walked by clustered street stalls selling everything from food, newspapers and cans of Israeli cola chilled on blocks of ice to counterfeit Levis and electrical goods. A squad of Israeli soldiers swaggered through the crowds. Open-neck khaki uniforms. Dark glasses. Galil assault rifles with grenade launchers, cocked and locked. Welcome to Jerusalem.

  He was deep in thought as he spent a while walking through the ancient heart of the city. The place was a maze of shady winding streets and sun-bleached squares, every inch of them echoing some chapter of its long and tumultuous history.

  Ben wandered on, and found himself following in the footsteps of a million Christian pilgrims as he walked the Via Dolorosa, the Path of Pain, along which Christ had dragged the cross on the way to his Crucifixion. The sacred route led him into the heart of the Christian quarter of the Old City. He stopped and stepped back to gaze up at a towering building, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. He recognised this place from his theology studies.

  The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was one of the most revered sites in Christendom, marking the site of Christ’s burial and resurrection. Its pitted stonework bore the marks of centuries of religious graffiti carved there by pilgrims through the ages who had crossed the world to pray here.

  The old church was still attracting visitors today. Crowds of Western tourists were drifting in and out of the arched entrance, an endless procession of brightly coloured T-shirts and shorts and cameras and guidebooks, staring around them in awe at the two-thousand-year-old architecture. The scent of sun block wafted on the air, and the gabble of voices, many of them American, echoed off the high stone walls.

  Ben watched them and wondered. Why were they here? Were they just ordinary people who had travelled thousands of miles to visit and photograph some old building? Or might there be, for some of them, a deeper religious motivation? How many of these people might have come here to reflect on and marvel at the apocalyptic events that they believed were going to befall the world in their own lifetime, to pay homage to the spot where it had all started and was all going to end?

  Even if they had, that didn’t make them mindless warmongers. Those millions of evangelical believers whose collective support could feather the nests of men like Clayton Cleaver, or provide the incentive for darker political forces to manufacture wars, could have no idea that their religious devotion might be so misused and perverted. They could have no concept of the ways that Bible prophecy could be manipulated as a means to power or to destroy lives.

  Or could they? Ben ran over the span of human history in his mind. Was it really such a surprise that a few powerful, cynical men would take advantage of the innocent faith of the many? Wasn’t that what powerful men had been doing since the dawn of civilisation – playing God, the most dangerous game of them all?

  He glanced at his watch. It was approaching six-fifteen. Time to move. He took the slip of paper out of his pocket with the address he’d copied down. In a nearby street he found another battered white Mercedes taxi that was vacant. He showed the address to the heavily-bearded driver. The guy nodded, Ben climbed in and the car took off.

  In a few minutes he would know what was going to happen.

  And all he had to do then was figure out a way to stop it.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Shady Oak, Virginia

  10.05 a.m. US time

  Alex answered the door to find Callaghan standing there in the breezy sunshine with two agents. They stepped inside the house. ‘She ready?’ Callaghan said.

  Zoë was coming downstairs. ‘Here I am.’

  ‘You got everything?’ Alex asked her.

  ‘I didn’t bring a lot with me.’ Zoë smiled at Alex. ‘So it’s goodbye, then. I suppose I won’t see you again, will I?’

  ‘I suppose not. Safe journey home, Zoë. Take care.’

  ‘Thanks for what you did for me.’ Zoë grasped Alex’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I won’t forget.’

  Alex watched her walk across to the black GMC and climb into the back. The agents climbed in with her. Callaghan got into the front passenger seat.

  Alex gave Zoë a wave, shut the door and walked back inside the house. ‘That’s that,’ she muttered to herself.

  Then something caught her eye. A glimpse of gold on the wooden floor under the coffee table. She walked over to it and picked it up. It was Zoë’s valuable old bracelet. It must have slipped off when she took off her jumper.

  ‘Shit,’ she breathed. Zoë had been through a lot with that bracelet, must be attached to it. Alex bit her lip for an instant, deciding what to do. She glanced out of the window. The GMC was just moving away out of sight up the long street. Its brake lights flared red, and it took a left turn and disappeared.

  On the spur of the moment, Alex decided to follow. The airport was just a few miles away – she could catch up with them there and give Zoë the bracelet.

  Her VW Beetle was parked a few yards down from the house. She grabbed the key from the hook near the door and raced outside.

  She’d started the engine and pulled away down the street by the time she thought about phoning Callaghan on his mobile. Shit. Her phone was still in the house. Too late to go back for it now. Never mind.

  Alex gunned the Beetle down the street between rows of quiet suburban homes, took the left turn and accelerated out of town towards the highway. Traffic thickened. She caught sight of the big black GMC ahead, eight or nine vehicles between them. Keeping an eye on it, she followed the familiar route. She put on a CD of Creedence Clearwater Revival as she held the VW at a steady sixty.

  In a few minutes they were approaching the turnoff for the airport. Alex glanced in her mirror, prepared to flick on her indicator and switch lane.

  But the GMC wasn’t changing lane.

  It kept on going down the highway.

  Alex frowned as it sped on ahead. The airport signs flashed by and were left behind. Strange. Hadn’t Murdoch said they were taking Zoë straight to the airport? Then where were they taking her?

  She drove on. Time passed. The CCR album came to its last track and ended. She barely noticed. The sky had clouded over now, and rain began to spatter on her windscreen.

  Now the GMC was heading off the highway and into open country. Woodland flashed by, and the traffic started thinning out. They were travelling further and further away from Langley and Washington DC, heading God knew where. Something told Alex to hang back, and she touched the brakes to widen the distance between her and Callaghan.

  Deeper and deeper into country. Rain hammered against the glass, the wipers beating time. The road became snaky and narrow, and she hung right back so that she could just about keep the GMC in sight but without being spotted.

  Now she was seriously perplexed. What was going on here? She wished she could call Murdoch at Langley. Stupid, stupid, to have left her phone behind.

  The Beetle’s dashboard clock was approaching 11 a.m. and the fuel gauge needle was beginning to dip worryingly into the red when the GMC finally pulled off the road. Trailing sixty yards behind, Alex saw the brake lights come on as it lurched onto an overgrown forest track, splashing through puddles. She followed cautiously.

  The GMC bumped and bounced down the track until it came to a pair of tall iron gates half-hidden behind ferns. The rain was lashing down now.

  Alex killed the Beetle’s engine and coasted the final few yards, gently halting the car behind the cover of some bushes. She climbed out into the downpour and hid in the side of the lane, watching as one of the agents got out, walked up to the gates and undid a padlock. Chains rattled l
oose. The agent creaked the gate open and the car drove through.

  Seconds later she heard screams.

  Zoë’s voice.

  No phone, no weapon. Alex had never felt so naked. She crept through the bushes a few feet, careful not to snap any twigs. Her hair and clothes were quickly soaked from the rain, sticking to her skin. She peered through the foliage. Beyond the gate was a large, sprawling house. It looked like some kind of hunting lodge, expensive, secluded. The gardens were overgrown, as though the place were used only occasionally.

  Callaghan’s men were dragging Zoë out of the GMC and towards the house. Callaghan led the way. He opened the door, and the men hauled Zoë inside, kicking and screaming. Then the door closed.

  Alex’s heart was thudding hard and fast. She checked her watch. It was 11.09 a.m. She tried to figure out where they were.

  Alex crept through the open gate and moved quickly across the overgrown garden, moving carefully through the trees and shrubs to avoid being seen from the house’s many leaded windows.

  She crept right up to the house. Her heart was in her throat. She listened. There was nothing.

  And then there was the click of a pistol hammer being cocked, and the hard metal of it to the back of her head.

  ‘Careless,’ said a man’s voice she’d never heard before. ‘You were following them. But I was following you.’

  She risked a glance behind her. The man with the gun was slightly built, expensively dressed with a long black raincoat over his suit. His hair was gingery red. There was a twinkle of humour in his eyes. Rain pounded off the canopy of his umbrella.

  ‘You’re Slater,’ she said.

  ‘And you must be Agent Fiorante. I’ve heard all about you.’

  The realisation was dizzying. Callaghan and Slater. The whole time, they’d been in it together.

  He twitched the gun barrel. ‘Move. Keep your hands raised. Lower them and you’re dead.’

  Alex walked. He prodded her inside the house. It was sombre inside. Dark wood panelling glistened dully in the darkness. A stone fireplace was filled with old ashes and blackened logs. The heads of animal trophies stared down from the walls, eyes glazed, spiky antlers and curled horns casting weird shadows. She shivered, dripping water across the flagstones.