Babylon rising: the secret on Ararat

by Tim F. LaHaye

  And then a word rose unbidden to his lips and he found himself whispering, "Talon."

  The knocking at his window startled him out of his reverie.

  "Hello, Michael. Admiring the new building?"

  The tanned face of Bob Wagoner was smiling down at him. With his thinning white hair and his slacks and polo shirt, he looked as if he belonged more on the golf course than in the pulpit. And, in fact, Wagoner was often heard to say that you could learn as much about the frailty of human nature and the need to put your trust in a higher power while standing on the first tee with a driver in your hand as you could listening to preachers in church. He'd often tried to persuade Murphy to take up the game, but Murphy doubted he had the spiritual strength to survive a round without bending that driver round a tree. God designed golf for saints like you , he joked to Wagoner.

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  Murphy rolled down the window. "Good to see you, Bob. Thanks for agreeing to meet up. Are you hungry?" Wagoner grinned. "Is the Pope a Catholic?"

  Murphy hardly touched his chicken sandwich, but Wagoner finished up his cheeseburger and chili fries and wiped his napkin across his mouth before getting down to business. He waited until Roseanne, the gray-haired waitress who'd been at the Adam's Apple Diner as long as anyone could remember, refilled their coffee mugs and went back to reading her magazine by the empty counter, then fixed a concerned gaze on his friend.

  "So, Michael. What's on your mind? You look a little beat up, to be honest. What's been going on?"

  Murphy touched a finger to a laceration on his forehead. "Oh, that's nothing, Bob. A few bumps and bruises are par for the course when you're digging for artifacts. You know that."

  Wagoner looked thoughtful. "I guess I'll take your word for it, Michael. So something else is troubling you. Would it help to talk about it?"

  Murphy had so wanted to unburden himself. To pour all his feelings out to his friend. But now that the moment had come, he felt tongue-tied, uncertain how to begin.

  Wagoner let him take his time. He knew the secret of good counseling was not to be afraid of silence. But as the silence stretched out, he thought Murphy would appreciate some gentle prompting.

  "Is it Laura?"

  Murphy nodded, then let out a deep sigh. "We've

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  talked about all this before, Bob. And you gave me the best advice anyone could give. To give thanks for the wonderful life Laura and I had, to think about that instead of all the things we never got to do, all the years we wouldn't be spending together. And to remember all the good she did, which lives on every day in this community. And I do, Bob, I thank God every day for bringing Laura into my life and bringing me so much happiness. But the truth is, at the same time I just can't believe He let her be taken away. The pain and emptiness just doesn't get any less, whatever I do."

  Wagoner waited until Murphy was finished, then he reached out and grasped his hand firmly. "I don't have any easy answers for you, Michael. You know that. But you know God will never leave or forsake us. It may not seem to be getting any easier now, but He will help you through this, Michael. And you've got lots of friends praying for you too. Every night Alma and I pray for you and for Shari and the others who were injured in the explosion or who lost loved ones."

  "I know you do, Bob," Murphy said, tears welling up. "And I appreciate it." He wiped a hand across his face and attempted a smile. "Just don't slack off, y'hear?"

  "That's a promise," said Wagoner, laughing.

  Murphy hesitated. "There is one other thing. Talon."

  Wagoner's face darkened. "The man who killed Laura. And all those others."

  "I'm not sure you could rightly call him a man," said Murphy through gritted teeth. "And calling him an animal would be an insult to rats and cockroaches. I'll be honest, Bob. I feel nothing but hatred for that evil--"

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  He stopped himself from blaspheming. "Hatred and a burning desire for revenge."

  "I'll be honest too, Michael," Wagoner said. "If it had been my wife he killed, I'd feel the same. It's only natural. But I will say this. Don't let the hatred overpower and control you. If we focus on those we hate, we're in danger of becoming like them. Easy to say, I know. But it's the truth. The devil wants us to sink down to his level. We just can't let that happen. You've got to leave the Almighty to deal with the likes of Talon. I sincerely hope that's the last you ever see of him."

  "I hear what you're saying, Bob. But I'm not sure I can guarantee our paths aren't going to cross again."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's just a hunch. Maybe nothing. But I'm planning an expedition to search for an important biblical artifact, and I think somebody wanted to give me a warning. A little bit of a heads-up, if you know what I mean."

  Wagoner knew exactly what he meant. Talon. The church bombing. Laura's death. It was all tied up with the quest for the Golden Head of Nebuchadnezzar, which Murphy had discovered near the ancient site of Babylon. And some very powerful--and evil--people had been determined to get their hands on it.

  "All I can say is be careful, then," Wagoner replied. "You've never told me all the details of how you found the head, but I know it was a white-knuckle ride."

  "Maybe one day I'll write a book about it," chuckled Murphy. "But right now I think I'm onto something just as big."

  Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "Then I'll say no more--except may God be with you.

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  And you might want to take a look at this some time. It's a quote from a famous preacher. I use it as a reminder. The next time you have a down moment, it might help."

  Murphy slipped the card in his pocket without looking at it.

  Wagoner looked over to the counter and waved to Roseanne. She nodded and reached for a pot of coffee. "Say, do you remember that FBI agent Hank Baines?" he asked.

  "Sure. Wasn't he the one who worked with Burton Welsh, the guy in charge of the church-bombing investigation?"

  Wagoner nodded. "That's the fella."

  "What about him?"

  "His family has been attending church for the past month and a half. They come every Sunday. They seem quite interested."

  "That's great. What about Baines, does he come?"

  "No, just his wife and daughter. I think their daughter has been in trouble with the law. I asked Shari Nelson if she might spend some time with her. What do you think?"

  "That's a great idea. Shari's got her own problems with Paul at the moment. But focusing on someone else would probably be good for her. It must be hard to be a law-enforcement officer and have your own child in trouble at the same time. If I remember right, Baines was sort of soft-spoken. He seemed genuinely concerned for people. Unlike his boss. What an arrogant--We bucked heads on several occasions."

  "Welsh is no longer working with the FBI."

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  "What did they do? Fire him?" asked Murphy with a smile.

  "No, I don't think so. But I was told he's now working for the CIA."

  "Good! Maybe I won't have to deal with him anymore!"

  "Let's hope you have no reason to," said Wagoner. "Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. Back to Hank Baines. He gave me his business card two weeks ago. He asked me to give it to you."

  "Me?"

  "Yes. He was quite impressed with how you conducted yourself during the investigation. He was even more impressed with how you handled things with Laura. If you remember, he came to the funeral. He said he'd like to talk with you if you could spare him some time."

  "What about?"

  "I don't know. He didn't say. Here's his card. Why don't you give him a call?"

  Wagoner glanced at his watch.

  "Michael, I need to get going. Could you drop me back at the church? I have a three o'clock appointment."

  "Sure. Thanks again for your time, and your advice. I really appreciate it."

  Wagoner took Murphy's hand in a strong grip. "Remember what Paul the Apostle wrote in Romans: We rejoice in the hope of the
glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts."

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  * * *

  Murphy dropped Wagoner at the church, waited for him to disappear inside, then got out of the car and walked around to the little cemetery. He tried to think about the good times he and Laura had had together. The thought of being near her overcame him. Soon he was looking down at a plaque in the ground.

  LAURA MURPHY--SHE LOVED HER LORD

  Murphy sat on the grass and began to weep. He wept until no more tears would come. He was not aware of time.

  It was the sound of a bird singing in a nearby willow tree that caught his attention. He listened.

  Think of the good times .

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card that Pastor Bob had given him at the restaurant.

  If finding God's way in the suddenness of storms makes our faith grow broad--then trusting God's wisdom in the "dailyness" of living makes it grow deep. And strong. Whatever may be your circumstances--however long it may have lasted--wherever you may be today, I bring you this reminder: The stronger the winds, the deeper the roots, and the longer the winds ... the more beautiful the tree.

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  FIVE

  IT WAS 1:50 A.M. when Shane Barrington climbed the steps from the tarmac to his private Gulfstream IV. He was greeted at the door by the copilot.

  Carl Foreman touched his hand to his cap, uncertain whether to say anything. In the four years he had worked for Barrington, he'd learned to read his moods pretty well. Barrington demanded obedience, but he was irritated by obsequiousness. During those four years, Carl had seen as many people fired for overt sycophancy as for inefficiency or incompetence, and he put his own relatively long career as a Barrington employee down to knowing just what was required in any given situation. Right now, Barrington's default expression, an unpleasantly cynical scowl, had been replaced by a look that, on any normal person, Carl would have interpreted as fear. But Barrington was a man who didn't

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  fear anything. Which is why Carl was momentarily wrong-footed.

  And why he made the first--and last--mistake of his career as an employee of Barrington Communications.

  "Are you okay, Mr. Barrington, sir? You look kinda--"

  Barrington whirled on him, teeth bared like an animal's. "What did you say?" he snarled, and for a second Carl thought Barrington was actually going to grab him by the throat.

  "I just ... I'm sorry, sir. It was nothing ..." he stammered.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong, Foreman," Barrington continued, more measured now, the initial impulse toward physical violence transmuted into a tone of icy cruelty, "but I don't believe I pay you to look after my health. Don't I pay you to fly a plane?" He smiled. "Or should I say I used to pay you to fly a plane. When we get to Switzerland, you're fired. But don't worry, they're always looking for ski instructors out there. I'm sure you'll make out just fine."

  Carl stood like a statue as Barrington pushed past him to the interior of the plane. Four years up in smoke because of one stupid remark. Because for a moment he'd forgotten that Barrington was one of the world's most ruthless business operators and Carl had instinctively reached out to him like a normal human being.

  As he made his way back to the cockpit, he wondered how he was going to tell Renee. They'd have to change their plans about moving to that big house in the hills, and maybe that would mean she'd change her plans

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  about the two of them. The twenty-grand diamond engagement ring was definitely out of the question now.

  For a moment he fantasized about deliberately crashing the plane into the Alps. That would show Barrington who was really in control. But he knew he didn't have the guts to do it. No, he thought with a wry chuckle, the only way the plane was going down was if the believers in Christ got snatched up to heaven in mid-flight, like in that book Renee kept telling him to read, and the bad guys like Barrington were left to fend for themselves. Assuming, of course, that he and the other pilot got picked for the angels' team. And that the devil didn't decide to help his own and take over the controls himself.

  Stretching out his muscular frame in a padded leather seat designed to fit his body perfectly, and to allow him to relax on even the longest flights, similar thoughts went through Barrington's mind. How foolish to deliberately humiliate a key member of the flight crew before they were even in the air. The man's fate meant nothing to him, but it was never a good idea to have the pilot of your own plane plotting revenge against you, as he no doubt was at this very moment.

  Although he had merely been exercising his ultimate power over the people he commanded, Barrington knew that it had actually been a moment of weakness on his part. He had lashed out at one of his employees because he was scared.

  No, terrified .

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  Terrified of the people he was flying to Switzerland to see.

  The Seven.

  Because although they had helped to make him the world's richest and most powerful businessman, they could just as easily destroy him.

  And he doubted they had summoned him to that grim castle of theirs in the mountains because they were pleased with him.

  He spent the rest of the flight going over in his mind every detail of what he had been doing for the Seven, trying to find the weak points, the signs of failure, anything that might be interpreted as disobedience or lack of application. He refused all offers of food or drink--keeping a chef he had snatched from a four-star Parisian restaurant standing idle in the plane's luxurious kitchen--until he had exhausted every possibility, but by the time the wheels touched down with a bump at Zurich Airport, he was no nearer to knowing the truth.

  He would have to wait until he was sitting facing them and they told him how he had messed up. And then they would tell him what they were going to do with him.

  He laughed. A sharp, nervous sound like a dog barking. Carl Foreman would get to fly the plane back after all. Barrington was the one who was going to be fired. And when the Seven fired you, they fired you good.

  They'd probably have that murderous psychopath Talon on hand to do the deed.

  Barrington shuddered as he heard the door being opened. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, shot his cuffs, and tried to muster as much dignity as he could.

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  The limo would be waiting, he knew. With that creepy driver behind the wheel, no doubt. The roller coaster had started. There was no way he could get off until the ride was finished.

  It was just a question of whether he had enough self-control to stop himself from screaming.

  Driving out of the city, Barrington tried to focus on what he could see out the smoked windows. They crossed the Limmat River and passed the stately Gross-munster Cathedral, built by Charlemagne in the 700s. The Holy Roman Emperor. That was power, Barrington mused. In the Dark Ages, the Empire had been the nearest thing to a world government.

  And if the Seven had their way, such a thing would be seen again. Only this time they would truly control every corner of the entire globe.

  He thought of engaging the driver in conversation, just to see if he could pick up any hint of what was on the Seven's mind. Then just in time he remembered what was so odd about this particular chauffeur.

  He had no tongue.

  And Barrington was sure he'd be happy to remind him of the fact by opening his mouth in that awful, empty grin that had so shocked him during their first ride to the castle together.

  Soon they were on twisting mountain roads rising higher and higher. The clouds on the mountains were low, and flurries of snow were beginning to stick to the tarmac. In such a landscape it was possible to believe you had left the real world altogether and were now entering

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  some strange, fantastical realm of witches and demons.

 
"I guess we're not in Kansas anymore, eh, Toto?" Barrington muttered.

  The driver started to turn his head toward the backseat, and Barrington quickly reassured him. "It's okay. I know you don't speak. I was just talking to myself."

  Barrington had his eyes closed when the crunch of the Mercedes's tires on gravel told him they were pulling up in front of the castle. He was glad he hadn't watched it loom out of the mist as they approached. The sight of those gothic spires rising like wraiths in a cemetery might have been enough to weaken his resolve.

  Remember he told himself as he stepped out of the car and under the chauffeur's waiting umbrella, get to the end of the ride without showing fear. Then they haven't completely beaten you .

  He looked at his watch. Right on time. Something about being in Switzerland encouraged punctuality, he thought. He glanced at his wordless companion as the chauffeur ushered him toward the giant wrought-iron door of the castle.

  And something about working for the Seven, no doubt.

  He had forgotten just how large the entry hall was. He was alone except for several suits of ancient armor standing like sightless and lifeless guards of the unknown in the flickering light of a dozen torches set into the walls.

  I guess they assume I know the drill , Barrington thought.

  As if he could forget.

  Across the darkly lit hall, Barrington saw the large

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  steel door, a sharp reminder of the twenty-first century amid all the medieval gloom. He took a breath and walked toward it. As he approached, there was a low hissing and it slid open. He entered, and the door hissed closed again. He looked at the two buttons in front of him. He pushed the down arrow, wondering if he would live to push the other one.