False Prophet

by Richard Davis

  But when we got to the top of the stairs, I spotted something I could work with. Straight ahead was a second living room, and inside were six cultists, all in grey, clustered around a sofa by the far side wall: some sitting, some standing; four men, two women. For a second I thought my guide might simply continue past this room without entering and I found myself desperately thinking up excuses to go in. But a moment later, I saw this wouldn’t be necessary, because my guide walked directly into the room. I followed him in, and discovered two further cultists, a man and woman, sitting at a small table I hadn’t been able to see from the corridor.

  Clearly, I’d been right about who I was going to find within this house: together these were the nine cultists I’d predicted, the ones who’d been drilled to pretend to believe I was Ayin. But while I was relieved that it looked like I was going to have a chance to interact with these cultists and buy some time, I knew that if I failed to capitalize on this opportunity I was in serious trouble. So far, I’d only been inside the house for about two minutes and this didn’t nearly cover the time it would take for Abigail’s handover to complete.

  I could feel the adrenaline coursing.

  My guide cleared his throat and addressed the room:

  ‘Brothers and sisters. Please join me in welcoming Ayin of The Inner Sanctum – one of our heavenly fathers who’s granted us the privilege of his company.’

  Everyone in the room turned in my direction. Then, all at once, they rallied themselves – those who were sitting getting to their feet – and came over to form a loose crowd around me, smiling maniacally, and saying in clumsy unison: ‘Greetings, my father.’ But though they were taking the time to greet me, I knew that very soon they were going to try and get me moving again in the direction of the trap upstairs.

  But barely had I thought this when a plan crystallized in my mind. If I could instigate a confessional, then I could get the cultists talking, while its closed-off form would stop the conversation straying into areas I didn’t know about. And I remembered that Lilly had said that anyone in The Inner Sanctum could initiate one.

  It seemed like my best bet.

  Returning my attention to the cultists, I moved my gaze over them slowly. Then, after along pause, I said with quiet authority:

  ‘My children, what a pleasure it is to see you; what a joy to be welcomed into this precious oasis of morality. It warms my heart to know that, hidden away within this broken city, your humble devotion goes on.’

  I paused, and my words were met with smiles. Then, just as I’d expected, my guide placed a hand on my back and said quickly to the room:

  ‘But now you must excuse our father, for he wishes to hold council with Resh and—’

  I cut him off by raising a silencing hand.

  ‘Really, there’s no rush, my son. I can meet with Resh in a short moment – it will do no harm. But for now, I am enjoying meeting with my children… In fact, I would rather like to engage with them more fully, which is why I propose we hold a confessional right this moment, before I head up to meet with Resh. This would please me greatly.’

  I said this in the tone of an order and it was immediately apparent that the cultists had been warned I might try to expand on my role, because they didn’t exhibit any surprise. Instead, they unhesitatingly obeyed, and quickly shifted around me so that a moment later we were all standing in a circle. Then they looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I exclaimed. ‘Now, how about you my daughter–’ I nodded at one of the three young women in the circle ‘–would you care to start us off?’

  She gave a tight nod, paused, then said:

  ‘When I was thirteen, I encountered a man a number of times at my local bowling alley who took a kind interest in me. But instead of responding with modesty, I led him on – a fact I was unable to admit at the time – and so, when one day he took sex from me by force, I had myself to blame. I now understand that my body should only be used at the behest of The Zahir; and that only through The Order can I find redemption for my degraded behavior.’

  She reeled this off like it’d been rehearsed, and I recalled what Lilly had told me: that Order confessionals involved members divulging transgressions from their pre-cult days, often repeating the same confession time and again. But while this confession was disturbing, what I was more worried about was that it was killing time. And though I’d been concerned about how I should respond to a confession, I discovered in the next instant I didn’t need to.

  ‘You were a whore,’ exclaimed one of the young men sanctimoniously. ‘You were degraded and wayward.’

  ‘It is because you have willed yourself to change that we accept you,’ said another.

  Silence fell and I gave a nod of satisfaction. But just as I was about to pick someone to go next, my guide piped up.

  ‘My father,’ he said, his voice still deferential. ‘I hate to interrupt, but I think Resh should very much like to see you right away…’

  Clearly, it was the guide’s job to keep me moving in the direction of the trap. However, I simply couldn’t afford to let him cut me short quite yet.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I said casually, waving a dismissive arm. Then I quickly nodded towards one of the men who hadn’t yet spoken and said: ‘My son, will you go next?’

  Just as the woman before him had done, he nodded, then started speaking:

  ‘One day, during my early teenage years, I was fighting my younger brother – my flesh-manacle – on a jungle gym, when part of the structure broke, and my brother sustained a fall that paralyzed him. Though I was told by those around me it was an accident, and I believed them for a time, the truth was plain: I was degenerate. And I understand now that violence is a holy thing which must only be used in advancing the will of The Zahir and that what I did was blasphemy. Only through The Order can I find redemption.’

  ‘You were irresponsibly violent,’ another of the women responded immediately. ‘You besmirched and squandered a holy thing.’

  ‘It is because you have willed yourself to change that we accept you,’ repeated the guy who’d said this last time.

  I was just about to nod at a third cultist and get another confession going when my guide did what I’d both expected and feared: he butted in again. And this time, though his tone remained deferential, it took on a hardness that demanded a proper response.

  ‘My father, I really must suggest we bring this to a close,’ he said. ‘I believe Resh would be very upset to discover that you delayed so long to meet him.’

  I looked at him hard, then said softly:

  ‘And what if I would be very upset to bring this to a close?’

  My guide narrowed his eyes, and I read a hint of suspicion creeping into his expression. I was sailing close to the wind. It’d been plausible that staying a little longer to engage, and even exerting Ayin’s authority in a small way, had been part of an effort to convince them I was Ayin. But such reticence to progress upstairs must’ve seemed odd from a man whose main objective they believed to be retrieving his son from the fourth floor.

  I was running a big risk. But I had no choice. I had to buy as much time as possible.

  My guide’s suspicions, however, weren’t yet advanced enough for him to drop his act. Instead, he gave me another chance.

  ‘I don’t ask you to bring this to a close for my sake,’ he said slowly. ‘I ask you out of respect for a fellow member of The Sanctum – that is all, my father.’

  I studied him, thinking desperately how I could prolong this. But it was quite clear: if I persisted any longer with the confessional, I’d betray I knew this was a trap. I now had no choice but to head upstairs.

  I laid a relaxed hand on my guide’s shoulder and emitted a deep chuckle.

  ‘Of course, you’re quite right, I must see Resh,’ I said, patting him twice on the shoulder. ‘You must forgive me: it seems I allowed myself to get carried away in the society of my children. But you’re quite right, my son.’

&nb
sp; Just like that, my guide’s suspicions evaporated.

  ‘That’s quite alright, my father,’ he said amiably.

  Then once again he put his hand on my back, and this time, after I’d given the rest of the cultists a slow nod of farewell, I let him lead me out the room. As I did so, I thought to myself: it’s been over six minutes since I entered the house, Abigail’s handover must be on the verge of completion. So, with this in mind, I proceeded to follow my guide at as leisurely a pace as I could get away with, hoping to ensure I’d receive the call in the time it’d take to reach the fourth floor. But though it took me ten seconds to walk the second floor corridor, ten to climb the stairs, and another ten to walk the third floor corridor, in all that time there was still no call. And then, before I knew it, I was mounting the stairs to the fourth floor…

  When we hit the landing, straight ahead was the door to the room I knew contained the connecting door to Number Ten. My guide stopped in front of it – with his back to it – then pointed down the corridor to the room at the front of the house whose door was shut.

  ‘That’s Resh’s room,’ he said. ‘Just knock and enter straight away. I’ll leave the two of you to meet in private.’

  Then he gave me a maniacal grin.

  I nodded, stepped past him, and started down the corridor. And as I did so, I made a decision: I couldn’t afford to wait any longer for the call. I was now ten strides away from danger, meaning I had to make my escape. And while I knew that doing so would tell the cultists that Lilly had tipped me off, I just had to hope that by the time word got back to their men at The Eliot, it’d be too late for them to do anything about it.

  I decided that when I got halfway along the corridor – five strides – I would turn, take out my guide with the SIG, then make my escape through Number Ten…

  So I carried on walking. Two steps… Three…

  But just as I took my fourth step, I was taken by surprise.

  Phut.

  It was the unmistakable sound of a silenced automatic weapon firing. Working on instincts alone, I turned and drew my SIG. But the weapon wasn’t necessary. My guide was already dead. The silenced Berretta by his body, together with the blood pooling from his head, told me he’d just put a bullet in his own brain.

  I was confused – disorientated. Clearly, this was the big reveal; the moment in which they’d intended to let me know that Samuel wasn’t really here, but rather this was a trap. But I didn’t understand why they’d revealed this to me before I’d entered the room. What was compelling me to enter? What was stopping me from attempting to escape right now?

  But hardly had I thought this when I discovered the answer.

  ‘Help,’ came a shrill cry from beyond the door. It belonged to a young boy, no older than ten, and there was no question the fear in his voice was genuine. ‘Please help, he’s going to kill me.’

  I hesitated. My plan had been to get out as soon as possible. But I couldn’t just leave a child to die, could I? But what if there was nothing I could do? But what if…

  ‘Please.’

  There was no time to analyze further. I had to make a call.

  I darted to the door, threw it open, and stepped inside.

  Opposite me was a man in his mid-twenties, dressed in grey, with a round face, wispy blond hair, and manic eyes. He was down on one knee, holding a Beretta to the head of a young child, while clutching him tight with his other arm. The child, whose coarse brown hair was soaked with sweat, and whose face was white with terror, was wincing as the guy ground the muzzle into his temple. But that wasn’t all there was to see. On the floor, in the center of the room, were two bodies, a man and woman, who, judging by the state of them, had only very recently been killed. And to the left, in front of a window with its curtains drawn, was a monitor on a desk, displaying a live stream of the back of the house from the viewpoint of a camera mounted on the property’s rear wall.

  I understood immediately what the monitor was for. This cultist had used it to tell the team at The Eliot when I’d arrived. However, it took me a second longer to realize who these victims were. But all of a sudden I recognized the dead man as Franco Rinaldi, the antiques specialist who, in the summer of ’93, had figured out that the documents I’d been selling were phonies after he’d picked up on minutiae that experts in their dozens had missed. He was the man who’d turned me into a fugitive. I hadn’t seen him in almost twenty years, but I was certain it was him. And once I realized this, I was sure that the woman next to him was his wife; that the child in the cultist’s grip was his son.

  I drew a bead on the cultist’s head and said:

  ‘Release the kid.’

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he replied. His words were soft, chilling; spoken with an unnerving staccato. ‘First: if you take another step, I will shoot. Second: remove the hood and rip it up.’

  I bore my eyes into him, thinking hard. But there was no escaping it: he was in the position to call the shots. For starters, I couldn’t get closer to him – I’d learned by now that The Order were serious about their threats. And second, given that his finger was resting on the trigger, I couldn’t shoot him in the head, either. A head-shot would induce post-death muscular spasms which would cause him to pull the trigger anyway.

  ‘Apologies, I wasn’t clear,’ the cultist said. ‘Rip up the hood now, or I will shoot.’

  There was a mania in his eyes that said he wasn’t kidding. And there was a panic in the child’s eyes, begging me to comply.

  I took off the hood and tore it along the seams.

  ‘More,’ the man said.

  Savagely, I ripped the material apart, then scattered the pieces behind me.

  ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Release the kid.’

  The man shook his head…

  I didn’t understand – why had they engineered this standoff? In what way did this constitute a trap? Were they hoping I’d eventually lose my patience and either try to make a head-shot or try and get closer, so that when the child died, his blood would be on my hands? Or was this situation an end in itself? A kind of bizarre psychological torture in the form of a never-ending standoff?

  And why the family of Franco Rinaldi?

  The seconds crawled by. The kid was trembling all over, too terrified to speak. The man stared at me from eyes set deep within his face.

  Still, there was no call from Lilly.

  At last I said again: ‘Release the kid.’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said, nothing in my voice. ‘If it’s me you want, then give up the kid. Take me instead.’

  Yet again, the man shook his head. But this time, his face broke into a demented grin. It made my skin crawl.

  ‘Release the kid,’ I boomed.

  Not even a head-shake – just more of that unhinged grin…

  And that’s when I heard it, just as the echo of my voice was fading – the silence. It was a Friday afternoon in Boston, and we were right by a main road in a room situated at the front of the house. I should’ve been able to hear pedestrians working the sidewalks, vehicles pounding by. But there was only silence. And when a Friday afternoon sounds like a Sunday, something is seriously wrong.

  But suddenly my attention was drawn back to the cultist, because he’d started talking, at a volume barely above a whisper:

  ‘The False Prophet will die at the hands of his own kind,’ he said. And then, not a second later, two things happened in quick succession. First, an almighty blast shook the house, and I recognized the sound of it instantly: it was an explosive charge blowing down a door, a sound I associated with SWAT team maneuvers. Then, second, there was a phut of an automatic weapon firing, and the kid’s head burst all over the room.

  The cultist tried to turn the gun on himself. I shot him before he could.

  Chapter 35

  Suddenly, everything clicked in my mind, and I understood the situation perfectly. Drexler had tipped off the authorities – presumably telling them that ther
e was an Order safe-house at this address – in the hope that a SWAT team would be sent into the building and would end up taking me out. Essentially, he wanted to engineer a situation in which American national security eliminated its own agent.

  But there was another dimension to Drexler’s trap. He’d made it look like I was personally behind The Order’s latest atrocity – by killing the Rinaldi family in a setting that made it seem plausible that I’d used the cult to settle an old score. And by making me destroy the hood, he’d ensured that, if I did escape, I’d almost certainly be identified in the process.

  In short, Drexler wanted me to die at the hands of American national security. Failing that, he wanted me framed for a crime I didn’t commit.

  Yet immediately after this moment of clarity struck, my survival instincts kicked in. I’d no doubt a SWAT team had just entered via the front entrance: I’d heard SWAT explosive charges a thousand times, and the sound had clearly emanated from the front of the house. But more telling was the fact that Drexler was unlikely to have made the tip-off more than about ten minutes ago, for fear of first responders arriving before I’d entered the house.

  Firstly, this told me who I was up against – since there was only one SWAT team that could’ve gotten here that fast and were senior enough to enter with that little planning-time: the FBI SWAT at the Boston Field Office. They would’ve been able to get here quickly because in the weeks following a domestic terrorist attack, every Field Office is obligated to ensure it has between five to seven SWAT operatives ready for immediate deployment. And they would’ve been allowed to enter with so little planning because they’re exceptionally qualified. Aside from the HRT boys, Field Office SWAT operatives are the most highly trained in domestic law enforcement.