False Prophet

by Richard Davis

  ‘And this is all happening in Montclair?’

  ‘141 Highland Avenue,’ I said.

  He grunted as if to say he knew where that was.

  ‘And when we get near,’ I added, ‘you need to kill the sirens and drop me a block or so away. Then you need to make yourself scarce. There can’t be any record of an emergency response arriving too soon.’

  ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘If the authorities are spotted turning up early enough to suggest prior knowledge, these people will know you’ve had a hand in it.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  There was a prolonged silence. The officer continued to navigate the roads. At last he said: ‘It was a chemical attack, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Nerve gas,’ I said. ‘And just like the atrocity in Virginia, the damage was unwittingly inflicted by innocent people, in a situation engineered by a terrorist organization.’

  His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, and he ground his teeth. When folk find their city under attack, their response is often more personal than you’d expect. Suddenly the vast population becomes a tight-knit community, standing as one against a common enemy. It happened to New York after 9/11 – and no doubt it’d happen again after.

  ‘Look,’ he said, his voice tight with emotion. ‘I may not be as qualified as you Bureau boys, but you learn a thing or two after fifteen years on the beat. So if there’s anything I can do once we get to Montclair, then I’d be only too happy to lend a hand.’

  I understood what he was saying – that he was willing to put himself on the line to help me out. And I could tell he wasn’t messing around.

  ‘I appreciate the offer,’ I replied seriously. ‘But trust me, what needs to be done in Montclair needs to be done by me alone.’ I paused, then added: ‘Really, the best thing you can do is return to Manhattan and help deal with the aftermath.’

  He stared ahead for a long moment. Finally, he gave a slow nod.

  ‘The name’s Rex, by the way,’ he said, extending his hand. I shook it.

  ‘Saul,’ I replied, despite knowing full well that he knew my name already from my ID. But while I appreciated his gesture of companionship, I didn’t dwell on it long, because we were now fast approaching The Lincoln Tunnel, the other subterranean passage between Manhattan and New Jersey, and I needed to focus on the task at hand.

  *

  1:31 p.m.

  Rex pulled over a block from 141 Highland Avenue. I jumped out the car and by the time I’d accelerated to a run, Rex was spinning away in the opposite direction. As I’d expected, the road was lined with large detached houses – each one set back behind concealing trees – and the overwhelming impression was one of quiet suburban harmony. But I knew better. And as I went, I speculated as to how things stood within the house. I decided, given that it was now sixteen minutes since Samuel had started Spender’s “salvation,” that Samuel had probably left. Yet whether or not Spender was still alive, I had no idea.

  The next thing I knew, I’d reached 141, and was ducking through a gap in the trees to bring the house into view. It was a large, grey affair, looking perfectly innocuous in the afternoon gloom: no flames dancing in the windows; no signs of life at all. There was, however, a pathway to the left of the house, and I made for it immediately, determined to get a look at the house’s rear. A moment later, I was in a large back garden, complete with swimming pool, skirting along the back of the house. But it wasn’t until I reached the plate-glass patio door that I found the action.

  On the other side of the glass there was a grand-looking living room. But more than that, there was also a woman bound in thick rope, gagged, and strewn across a sofa, and a fierce blue fire that had all but engulfed the far-side wall. And though I experienced a flash of relief at the fact that this woman, who I assumed to be Spender, was still very much alive, it was short lived. Because the situation was critical: not only was the fire growing at an incredible rate – latching onto the adjacent walls, colonizing the ceiling – but the sofa was positioned only about four yards away from this tremendous blaze. And even as I was absorbing this, the situation deteriorated further, the sofa suddenly catching light, and burning even faster than the kerosene-soaked walls.

  I needed to act fast.

  Scarcely had I thought this than I removed my jacket – containing my valuables plus the Semtex – and lobbed it on the grass behind me. Then, after trying the door and finding it locked, I seized a clay flowerpot, and hurled it at the glass. There was an enormous crash as both the glass and clay burst into a thousand pieces, followed by a scream of air as the fire heaved in oxygen from the outside. Fed by this newfound fuel supply, the flames surged, showering the room with flecks of scorched paint – flecks which ignited puddles of kerosene dotted about the floor, spreading embers all over.

  Spender, now very much aware of my presence, stared at me panic-eyed.

  I dived through the door bowing below the smoke gathering overhead and started sprinting across the room. Five seconds later, after upturning a coffee table to stifle some intervening flames, I was at Spender’s side, scooping her off what now looked more like a continuous body of fire than a sofa, and swinging her over my shoulder. Then, feeling my skin prickle as the flames passed from her clothes to mine, I turned around, and charged back across the room and back into the garden. And then I did the only thing I could think of to divest us of the flames: I made for the pool, and plunged us into the water.

  Holding Spender’s head above the water’s surface, I tore off her gag, and said:

  ‘Is there anyone else inside?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Do you have a car?’

  ‘In the garage.’

  ‘And the keys?’

  ‘On the windowsill. By the front door.’

  At that, I heaved the two of us out the water, and untied Spender’s restrains. Then, grabbing my jacket, I led Spender back to the front of the house, where I unceremoniously kicked down the front-door and grabbed the car-keys from the windowsill. And once I threw back the garage door to reveal a blue Nissan Murano SUV, I didn’t hang about: I got us both inside the car, and drove away at speed.

  Chapter 26

  Thursday, February 28, 2013, 1:48 p.m. EST. – Riverdale, New Jersey.

  It was an itch – an itch that needed scratching. And besides, he’d be back on the road again within half an hour. He had the time to spare.

  Resh pulled his rental car – the one he’d had waiting for him in Manhattan – into the car-park of a small motel in Riverdale, NJ. Then, after paying in cash at reception, he got inside his room and locked the door at which point, he slowly and carefully began readying himself. He changed into the simple grey clothes he had in his bag. He produced the small ceremonial bowl, and filled it with sand. Then he assumed the position: he sat on the floor, legs crossed, and eyes closed.

  Then, finally, he started softly chanting the word “Taprobana.” The effect it had was immediate: the physical world dissolved and Resh felt himself fall into a deep calm. As he continued, this calm became more and more profound, until eventually, all at once, it spilled over into the ecstatic, the divine. And it was then – in a state of rapture – that he stood, took a grain of sand from the bowl, opened a window, and cast it to the wind.

  Chapter 27

  Thursday, February 28, 2013, 1:51 p.m. EST.

  ‘How you feeling? Any calmer?’

  It’d been ten minutes since we’d left Montclair, and we were on the Garden State Parkway, traveling north. And though we were both still dripping wet, I’d judged that the worst of the shock had passed. It was time to break the silence.

  Spender nodded diffidently.

  ‘I’m feeling… I’m feeling better. And thank you. For all your help.’

  I nodded and smiled. She was trembling all over – the result, no doubt, of both the cold water and the adrenaline come-down. But despite her bedraggled clothes (which by the looks of things had borne the brunt of the flames), sodden blonde hair, and
shell-shocked demeanor, she was clearly a beautiful woman. Her eyes were dazzling blue; her skin was soft and creamy; and she held herself with poise and grace.

  ‘Well, you had a close shave back there,’ I said warmly. ‘So if you’re already feeling better, you’re doing well.’ I paused, then said, ‘Not many people are targeted by The Order of Babylon and live to tell the tale.’

  She looked at me questioningly. ‘So you know about The Order?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m with the FBI.’

  She shook her head. ‘You can’t be. If the FBI knew about The Order, it’d be all over the news.’

  I regarded her carefully. I had decided I was going to tell her a lot of the truth because I reckoned this was the best way to get her to open up about herself. And already this approach was paying off. With this last comment, she’d revealed she knew The Order was responsible for a lot more than setting her house on fire. This knowledge alone, I understood, was enough for Drexler to want her dead.

  ‘I really am with the FBI,’ I said slowly. ‘And I do know about The Order and everything they’ve done these past few days. But here’s the thing: I haven’t told my superiors because I’m being blackmailed. The Order have people I love. They’ll die if I talk.’

  ‘It’s a relief,’ she said after a moment’s reflection, ‘to hear I wasn’t the only one who knew. The guilt’s been terrible, knowing I’d been in possession of information that might’ve saved so many lives. But I was too scared to tell anyone.’

  I nodded sympathetically. I understood the guilt. And she didn’t need to explain why she’d been too scared to tell – I felt sure Drexler had threatened her to keep her silent. Though clearly he’d now decided she was too much of a liability to be allowed to live.

  ‘So how did you know about the fire?’ Spender said. ‘That my life was in danger?’

  I’d been expecting these questions. But though I’d already decided to tell her plenty of the truth, there was one detail I wasn’t yet ready to reveal – that it was my son who’d attempted to kill her; who’d attempted to kill us…

  ‘It’s simple,’ I said. ‘The guy who set your house on fire also tried to kill me just over an hour ago in New York. But he didn’t realize his attempt failed. So I did what seemed the logical thing: I followed him.’

  She absorbed this calmly. I continued:

  ‘But that means as far as The Order is concerned, we’re both dead. So we don’t need to worry about anyone coming after us.’

  She gave a strained smile. ‘That’s a relief.’

  I smiled back reassuringly. On the whole, I was encouraged by how things were going: she seemed to trust me. However, she was very clearly still in shock and I knew that if I wanted to get her talking freely, I needed to get her to relax.

  I had a plan.

  Fishing into my jacket pocket, I withdrew my cigarettes, lit one up, then handed the packet to Spender who gratefully lit up herself. After five minutes of puffing away in silence, just as I’d hoped, Spender had loosened up considerably – her arms were no longer crossed, her face was brighter, and she’d stopped trembling. We flicked our cigarette butts out the window, both lit up a second, then I restarted the conversation:

  ‘My name’s Saul Marshall. It’s good to meet you.’

  She smiled a more relaxed smile. ‘Lilly Spender. Good to meet you, too.’

  ‘So, Lilly, I’ve just had The Order of Babylon try to kill me. Makes sense, really – I’m a nuisance. But it turns out you are, too. You know too much.’

  She nodded meaningfully.

  I was still unsure what her relationship with The Order was. But I had a feeling she knew more than just that The Order were responsible for these recent attacks. I had a feeling she had other information Drexler didn’t want getting out.

  I cut to the chase:

  ‘Tell me, how did a girl like you wind up in a situation like this?’

  ‘That’s a question I’ve asked myself many times.’ She shook her head. ‘What do you know about The Order already? So I know where to start.’

  ‘I know they’re a terrorist organization, headed by a psychopath, and responsible for the string of attacks these past three days. And I know a little bit about their history – a handful of facts, figures, dates – starting with the house in Greenwich Village in early 2010. I’ve also heard a brief outline of their screwy theology.’

  She rocked gently back and forth. At last she said:

  ‘They want me dead because, as you say, I know too much. I’m the only member of the Inner Sanctum to defect from The Order.’

  She was, just as I’d guessed, a lapsed cultist.

  ‘The Inner Sanctum,’ I said. ‘The first fifteen members plus anyone who’s been allowed to see The Zahir’s face. The ones with purple hoods.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And which were you?’

  ‘I was there from the start,’ she said ruefully.

  She finished her smoke and flicked the butt out the window. Then she gave a big sigh. The floodgates were about to open.

  ‘It was Summer 2008, I was eighteen, and I was in New York,’ she said. ‘I was there to audition for a popular ice show because before all this I wanted to be a figure-skater and my parents had organized for me to stay at a hotel in Midtown. But unbeknownst to them I’d made alternative plans to stay with a friend at Columbia University. A friend my parents didn’t know about.’

  She paused a moment. Sighed again.

  ‘I remember the day clearly,’ she continued. ‘It was the height of summer and I was in my friend’s apartment on West 111. Then her boyfriend arrived. He was tall, handsome, and much older. But above all, he was incredibly charismatic. He had a way of talking that made the rest of the world fall away. Well, that was my first meeting with The Zahir – only then he went by the name William Martin.’

  My skin crawled. Drexler had used the same handle I’d used when starting out as a con-artist. I felt violated.

  Spender shot me a piercing look. ‘It’s difficult to admit how I felt about him then, given what I know now.’

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ I replied gently.

  Spender nodded and went on:

  ‘I fell under his spell so quickly, I can hardly believe it looking back. But after just three days of knowing him, he demanded I cut off all ties with my past, insisted I broke all contact with everyone I knew, and give them no indication where I’d gone – and I did. I berate myself to this day that I could’ve been so gullible, but I take solace that I wasn’t the only one. In fact, by November there were fifteen of us – both men and women – living in that small apartment. Sleeping with each other, on top of each other, sharing everything. And The Zahir was our leader. He’d preach to us about the corruption of society; about how one day we’d go to war with the old order and triumph. About how we’d oversee a moral utopia. It sounds ridiculous, but we believed. We thought he was a god; that together we were The Order of Babylon – the ancient arbiters of fate, reborn.

  ‘We dressed the same, spoke a private language, and each had special names. Before long, I felt like I couldn’t function without them.

  ‘It was about this time, November 2008, that The Zahir started preparing us for expansion. He insisted that before we could expand, we needed to create titles and ranks. So it was established that he’d go only by the name “The Zahir,” and that the fifteen of us would collectively be known as “The Inner Sanctum.” He then introduced two tactics that were necessary, he explained, to safeguard us from the old order as we expanded. The first was that nobody from then on would be allowed to know his identity or see his face who wasn’t in The Inner Sanctum. That way, when The Deluge of Euphrates came, our enemies would struggle to find our leader. To police this, aside from forbidding anyone from photographing him, he came up with the idea of the purple hoods. Not only would he wear a purple hood when among anyone not in The Inner Sanctum, but, at the same time, any
one in The Inner Sanctum was entitled to wear one whenever they wished, thereby protecting against attempts to unhood The Zahir.’

  ‘The Deluge of Euphrates,’ I echoed. ‘The final showdown with civilization.’

  She nodded solemnly. ‘Right. And that leads me onto the second tactic he introduced – namely, that we were to conceal publicly that Euphrates was yet to come. Instead, we were to pretend it had already happened. That way, the old order wouldn’t suspect we were a threat. Only when he saw fit, The Zahir told us, would any new member be told the truth.’

  I nodded. She went on:

  ‘And so we moved to Greenwich Village and expanded. Obviously, we knew we’d come up on the authorities’ radar in some capacity; but so long as we kept to these tactics, we knew their scrutiny would be cursory. Yet I suspect they still had a fairly good idea of what we got up to, day to day—’

  I broke in: ‘They knew about you raising money through slave labor and obligating members to surrender property and wealth; about the strict regulations on sexual relations, and the exploitative use of confessionals.’

  Spender nodded at each item.

  ‘The confessionals were a particularly potent tool,’ she said. ‘Of course they’re routine in cultic groups, but The Zahir put his own twist on it. A typical session involved perhaps ten members standing in a circle. Then the person who called the session – either an Inner Sanctum member or The Zahir himself – would pick on individuals to confess. But they wouldn’t confess things they’d done recently: they’d confess sins from their previous life, before The Order. The upshot was that people would re-live their shame time and again… Somehow, this humiliation only redoubled people’s hunger for acceptance.’

  There was a pause for thought. Then I asked:

  ‘What was the turning point?’

  ‘It happened in New York – summer last year. There was a couple, both Order members, with a young child, maybe three years old. The kid threw a tantrum, and kicked The Zahir. He didn’t do any damage, of course, but The Zahir demanded the child apologize. He wouldn’t. So The Zahir ordered the father to spank the child with a wooden board. The father followed orders. Thirty minutes later, the child was unconscious. He was lucky not to die.