The Babylonian Codex

by C. S. Graham

  Tobie said, “He hasn’t exactly had a chance to do ‘all manner of evils.’ ”

  “I guess that depends on your point of view,” said Jax, and continued reading. “ ‘And he shall come declaring himself equal to God. But he shall prove that he is not, though with his words he shall promise to shore up the hills and calm the seas and restore life. And he shall lead men astray and gather lost men who have turned away from word of God.’ ”

  Jax paused to look up, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. But Tobie and Bosch just shook their heads.

  Jax said, “Here’s the part from the mosaic in Medinaceli, ‘And then a Lion shall rise up, God’s right hand, and on his shield shall be written, God’s justice, God’s judgment, God’s glory. And there shall come to pass before the final days a war that will throw the world into chaos and despair. A man who is a matricide shall come from the ends of the earth envisioning all manner of wickedness. And Beliar shall descend in the form of a man, a lawless king, slayer of his mother, who will persecute the fruits of the tree the Twelve Apostles of the Beloved have nurtured. And he will claim to work for the glory of the Beloved and say, I am God, and after me there shall be no others. And the people of all lands shall believe him and venerate him, saying, This is God.’ ”

  Jax frowned. “So who’s this other guy supposed to be? Bill Hamilton? It can’t be Carlyle. Beliar is another name for Satan, right?”

  “Maybe they’re both meant to be Pizarro,” Tobie suggested.

  “Could be,” said Jax, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  “No, she’s right,” said Bosch. “Carlyle and Patterson could take that as more proof that the verses refer to Pizarro. Pizarro’s mother died when he was born. So I guess in a sense you could say he killed his mother.”

  “In a sick, twisted kind of way.”

  “These people are sick and twisted,” said Bosch. He nodded toward the laptop. “Go on.”

  Jax read, “ ‘And on the day of ashes, the Lion shall raise his mighty swords and he shall lead the first attack by the Sons of Light against the Sons of Darkness. And the Sons of Light shall banish darkness from the earth, and they shall go on shining until the age of darkness has come to an end. And the flame of God’s sword shall devour the wicked before the altar of incense, and the fire shall consume their flesh. And the holy ones shall blow the seven trumpets of death with a sharp, clear blast, and the war javelins shall fly.’ ”

  Tobie said, “Okay. I get that this part is about killing. But how? Where? When?”

  Jax said, “Just listen. ‘And the Lion shall say, Do not be afraid, and be strong in your hearts, for God goes with us to do battle against his enemies and the day shall be ours. Like the great reaper of souls you shall cut down and lay waste to the fallen, slaying wickedness without end. Take no prisoners, glorious ones, and despoil their women and slay their children. Fear not the evildoers, for you are God’s chosen ones, and the Lord shall give you dominion over them so that all must bow before you.

  “ ‘And the Lion shall say, Take the earth for the Lord’s glory and your reward shall be gold and silver and all that is precious.’ ”

  Jax looked up.

  Tobie stared at him. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. The next part starts what is now considered Chapter Five: ‘And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book . . .’ ”

  Tobie was practically choking on a welling of frustration. “But . . . this doesn’t tell us anything!”

  Bosch came to sink down on one of the seats opposite the table. “Do you think Leo Carlyle is arrogant enough to identify himself with the lion in those verses?”

  Tobie said, “I thought the lion was supposed to be Jesus?”

  “Usually Jesus is referred to as the Lamb of God. It’s only in Revelation that the ‘Lion of God’ seems to refer to Jesus. In the other parts of the Bible, the Lion of God is John the Baptist. That’s one reason some scholars think big chunks of Revelation were actually written early in the first century about John the Baptist.”

  Jax swung the computer screen around so that it was facing the journalist. “So, does any of it make sense to you?”

  Bosch read through the lost chapter again, then shook his head. “No.”

  Tobie raked her hair away from her face. “Send it to Matt. Maybe he can run it through that super computer program of his and come up with something.”

  “The GIS? I guess it won’t hurt to try.” Jax sent the entire chapter zipping off to Matt, then flipped back to stare at the strange, lost verses again. “It’s all got to be in here. We’re just not seeing it.”

  Bosch went to pull a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and twisted off the top. “We’ve figured out the ‘who’ part: it’s the President. We know the ‘what’: his murder. And we know the ‘why.’ What we don’t know is when, where, or how. Right?”

  “Let me see it,” said Tobie, tilting the screen toward her. The instant she touched it, the computer froze. “Shit.”

  “That’s weird,” said Jax, hitting control/alt/delete. It took him a good five minutes to get the translation back up again.

  Tobie went to sit on the other side of the plane.

  Bosch said, “A. J. Carlyle told me the timing of the assassination was very important because Leo was convinced it’s foretold in the lost chapter. So there must be something—”

  “The day of ashes,” said Tobie suddenly.

  The two guys turned to look at her. “What?”

  “That’s what it says, right? ‘And on the day of ashes the Lion shall raise his mighty swords.’ ”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Today is Mardi Gras. Which means that tomorrow is—”

  “Ash Wednesday,” said Bosch.

  Jax looked at his watch. “Actually, it’s already Wednesday. It’s nearly six A.M. in D.C.” He returned to the computer and opened up a search engine. “So now the question is, where will the President be today? If we’re lucky, he’ll be having a nice, easy day at the White House.”

  Jax tapped at the keyboard for a minute, then said, “We’re not lucky. The guy’s got a ridiculous schedule planned. He’s flying into New Orleans first thing in the morning to give a speech pledging the federal government to the rebuilding and protection of the city. Then he’s flying over to Galveston to do the same thing there. And then it’s back to D.C. to attend a concert at the Kennedy Center.”

  “So how do we know where they plan to hit him?” said Bosch. “It could be New Orleans, Galveston, or D.C.”

  “It’s New Orleans,” said Tobie.

  Jax looked over at her. “And you get that from what?”

  She pushed to her feet. “They’re going off the first verses, where it talks about cities of sin.” She reached for the computer.

  Jax put out a hand, stopping her. “I’ll read it. ‘And He shall send a great rising of the sea as a warning, and many thunders and great lightnings shall cleave the sky. And the waters that flow through the reeds of life like a ruby-eyed serpent shall rise and the sea with it, and then shall all the lakes and the channels spill over. And the walls shall tumble down and the hills part, and the waters of wrath shall sweep over Sodom and Gomorrah, over Babylon and Egypt, killing all before them. And when they recede all shall be left as dust.’ ”

  “See? They’ve decided the reference is to the flooding of the city. Remember how some people were saying the hurricane was God’s vengeance on the city for its wicked ways?”

  Bosch leaned over Jax’s shoulder. “So what’s this part about: ‘and the sun shall be cut in half like the moon, and the moon shall not give her light’?”

  Tobie said, “They’re probably ignoring that part. These people ignore parts of the Bible all the time. If you can overlook ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ and ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ you can skip over some obscure bits about the moon and the sun.”

  Bosch said, “Okay, so they’re planning to kill Pizarro in New Orleans. But how?”
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  Jax flipped through the verses. “It must be in the part about the day of ashes. It says, ‘The Lion shall raise his mighty swords’ followed by a bunch of gobble goop. And then it says, ‘The flame of God’s sword shall devour the wicked before the altar of incense, and the fire shall consume their flesh. And the holy ones shall blow the seven trumpets of death with a clear, sharp blast, and the war javelins shall fly.’ ” Jax looked up from the computer screen, his face unusually solemn.

  Tobie said, “This speech Pizarro is giving about pledging to rebuild New Orleans—where is he giving it?”

  “Before the ‘altar of incense,’ ” said Jax. “In St. Louis Cathedral.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Bosch, reading over Jax’s shoulder. “Senator Cyrus Savoie is going to be there, too.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why’s that significant?”

  “Savoie is the president pro tem of the Senate,” said Jax. “Which means that with Representative Barnett ineligible to become president because of her Canadian birth, once Pizarro and Savoie are dead, the presidency would go to—”

  “Secretary of State Quincy,” whispered Tobie.

  Bosch said, “And Quincy is a dominionist.”

  Chapter 66

  They landed in New Orleans to find the city wrapped in a cold morning mist and Colonel F. Scott McClintock waiting for them out on the wet tarmac. He had his right arm resting in a sling and was leaning against a white Louisiana State Police car.

  “I got in touch with an old Army buddy of mine at the State Police,” said the Colonel, pushing away from the car to help Jax haul a couple of garment bags and a cardboard box out the backseat. “He got us two troopers’ uniforms and the official passes you’ll need to get into the cathedral. But we’d better step on it. The President is scheduled to arrive in the French Quarter in forty-five minutes.”

  While October disappeared with her uniform into the Gulfsteam’s bathroom, Jax quickly stripped off his shirt and yanked the heavy navy uniform off its hanger. “Were you able get some men into the cathedral to scan for explosives?”

  McClintock shook his head. “My friend with the State Police tried to send a couple of troopers he trusts in there first thing this morning with sniffer dogs. The Secret Service guys wouldn’t let them anywhere near the place. Insisted they’d already checked and everything was clear.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Nope. Matt tried to tell them we’ve got credible reports there’s an attempt on the President’s life planned for today. But of course he has nothing to back it up, and they told him the threats against Pizarro’s life have been running at about fifty a day since the election.”

  “In other words, they just blew him off,” said October, coming out of the bathroom and still tucking the hem of her uniform shirt into her trousers.

  “Pretty much, yes. I think we can trust the state troopers who are down there. They’ve all been warned to be extra vigilant. But they’re going to be watching the crowd, not the guys guarding the President. That’ll be our job.”

  Noah Bosch, who’d been sitting stony faced, listening to them, pushed to his feet. “I’m coming, too—right?”

  Jax buckled a duty belt around his waist. “You’re staying here.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been working on this story for months. You can’t expect me to just sit here.”

  Jax studied the journalist’s thin, earnest face. There was no denying the guy had been through hell the last few days. But the fact remained that Jax didn’t really know Bosch, didn’t know how far he could trust him, didn’t know what he could depend on the man to do—or not to do.

  He tossed his Beretta to Bubba. “Make sure he stays put.”

  Bubba caught the gun, his own face falling. “What? I’m not comin’ either?”

  Jax drew one of the state-issue Sig 220s from the box, chambered a round, and set the safety. “If we don’t manage to stop these guys, you’re going to need to fly out of here, fast.” He cast a wry glance at Bosch. “Just think: you’ll have the story of a lifetime, complete with the microwave device, the Babylonian Codex, and our dead bodies to back it up.” He slipped the Sig into the holster on his belt. “Of course, with Pizarro dead and the dominionists in power, you’ll probably need to take it to some Canadian or British newspaper to get it into print.”

  A muscle jumped along the journalist’s lean jaw. “You don’t understand: this isn’t about the story anymore. It quit being about the story a long time ago.”

  “Sorry,” said Jax. He watched October tuck her hair up under her big Smoky-the-Bear hat, and turned to the Colonel. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  At the door, Jax paused to look back at Bubba and say, “If he gives you any trouble, shoot him.”

  After they left, Noah prowled the Gulfstream’s compact interior. It had begun to rain, a soft drip that pattered on the roof of the fuselage and ran down the windows in little streams.

  Finally, after about ten minutes, he came to a decision. Turning to where the big Cajun lounged with his feet propped up and the Beretta in his lap, Noah said, “You ever shoot a man?”

  Bubba sniffed. “Few times. Why you ask?”

  It wasn’t the answer Noah was hoping for, but he reached for his tattered tan jacket anyway. “Because I’m catching a taxi to that cathedral. If you want to stop me, you’re going to have to shoot me.”

  It was 98 percent bluff, of course. But it worked.

  The Cajun stared at him a moment, eyes wide. Then he dropped his boots to the floor with a thump and surged to his feet. “What you talkin’ about? I’m coming with you!”

  Chapter 67

  The fog was thicker near the river, drifting low over the tops of the tightly packed eighteenth-century brick townhouses of the Quarter. Strings of beads in purple, green, and gold dangled from wrought-iron balconies and glistened here and there in the gutters. The city looked like an aging, bedraggled party girl the morning after a wild binge.

  Lights flashing, McClintock turned off Canal to find the Quarter’s narrow streets filled with a surging crowd of locals hoping for a glimpse of the President mixed in with knots of half-drunk tourists left over from Mardi Gras.

  “Somebody needs to tell these guys Mardi Gras is over,” said McClintock, trying to bully his way through the mess. “Ash Wednesday’s the day for repenting of your sins, not adding to them.”

  “Let us out,” said Jax, throwing open the door. “We can make better time on foot.”

  October bailed out the other side, one hand clutching her wide-brimmed trooper hat to keep it from being knocked off.

  “I’ll find someplace to ditch the car and catch up with you,” McClintock yelled after them.

  “Now that we’re here, what are we supposed to do?” said October as they pushed their way past the barricades that had been set up to block all vehicular traffic within a radius of several blocks of the cathedral.

  “We need to think like terrorists,” said Jax. “Crazy American terrorists.” Reaching the corner of Decatur and St. Peter, he ran his gaze over the white, Spanish-style façade of the cathedral. Built facing the river, the centuries-old church looked out over the fenced gardens of Jackson Square. To the north and south of the vast square ran the long brick expanses of the Pontablo Apartments, their nineteenth-century iron lace balconies dripping with ferns and bougainvillea and plumbago. Two matching eighteenth-century municipal buildings known as the Cabildo and the Presbytere flanked the cathedral itself. Squinting through the mist, he could see government snipers positioned on their massive mansard roofs.

  “I don’t think they’ll make their move out here,” said October as they approached the cathedral’s west front. “If they’re following the codex, they’ll believe he needs to die before the altar.”

  “ ‘And the flame of God’s sword shall devour the wicked before the altar of incense,’ ” he quoted softly. “The problem is, swords don’t flame.”
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  There were three arched entrance doors, flanked by corner turrets and crowned by a square central bell tower. Chartres Street, running between the cathedral and the iron fence of the square, had long ago been turned into a pedestrian mall. Now it was crowded with mobile command centers and dark unmarked security vehicles and throngs of sightseers. He said, “Is there another way into the building?”

  “Nothing that’s open to the public, although there’s a door in the alley that runs between the church and the Presbytere. I think it leads to the sacristy.”

  Jax nodded. “That’s the way the Secret Service will bring Pizarro in. They won’t want to maneuver him through the crowds out here.”

  October eyed the mist-swirled entrance to the alley. “They could make a move there. It’s close to the altar.”

  Jax shook his head. “They want Savoie, too, remember?”

  Flashing their passes, they pushed through the last-minute crush at the entrance. The doors opened onto a tiled vestibule scented with incense and damp masonry. Inside, the cathedral was almost stark in its Renaissance simplicity, with a soaring barrel vault. Immediately below the painted ceiling stretched two high rows of clerestory windows, their untinted glass filling the interior with a soft glow. There were no transepts, just a long nave flanked by side aisles with small stained-glass windows. Above the side aisles ran deep galleries supported by rows of marble columns.

  “That’s where we need to be,” said Jax quietly, nodding to the second floor galleries. “You take the south; I’ll take the north.”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” she whispered.

  “Neither do I. But October—”

  She swung around to look back at him questioningly.

  “Be careful.”

  Twin spiral staircases, one for each gallery, rose within the corner turrets. Reaching the top of the worn stone steps, Jax found the north gallery empty except for a scattering of FBI people and, about halfway toward the apse, a TV news crew setting up to broadcast the President’s speech live.