As is the case when more than one mind is petitioned, there were differences of opinions amongst the solicited members; and as is also the case, an enigmatic increase by a charitable, anonymous donor to both the foundation’s public account as well as a few private ones promptly oversaw the unanimous setting aside of any and all scruples.
Hence the transformation of the old mansion took its course and was swiftly completed. When brought out for the unveiling of the refurbished structure, the board members of the Historical Society were shocked to find little change in the exterior of the manor except for the clipped lawn and trimmed verge; not at all what they had been expecting. Upon inquiring from their host what had become of his grand plans of “enlightenment,” he simply smiled and held up a small golden device, not dissimilar to an average pocket phone, and tapped an indiscernible icon on its screen.
All at once, the majority of the aged stone walls completely disappeared; leaving behind a house formed of glass and framed within thin crisscrossed beams of stainless steel. The effect was equal to that of a magician drawing a silken handkerchief off an established apparatus to reveal an altogether different object underneath it. However, unlike the magician, the host was more than happy to divulge his secret. The glass which formed the walls was akin to “smart glass,” which had the ability to darken substantially upon the application of a small electrical charge. But he had taken that technology a step further and overseen the creation of these windows which could project from within themselves any image which he chose to program them with.
He pressed another button on his golden remote and the house suddenly disappeared entirely, or seemed to, as the walls were now projecting synchronized images of the forest which grew directly behind the manor. After a few more demonstrations, the host led his guests inside where they discovered the technology was two-fold. Each pane of glass could project an image toward the outside and an entirely different one toward the inside, for the viewing pleasure of the inner occupants. It was a marvel to behold, and soon news of the “magical” Les Maison d’Verre spread, bringing all manner of visitors to the gates of the estate from sightseers to patent agents and even a few scientists. But all were refused entry by the cordial but firm gate officer, who seemed to always be declaring the absence of the master from his manor and his orders not to let it be disturbed.
It was a rare thing indeed, then, when around dusk one peaceful evening, a non-descript dark vehicle pulled up to the manor gates and was immediately admitted with no questions asked. The car drove a mile up the gravelly road to where the mansion rested in its bare form, the clear walls revealing the chic furnishings held within softly lit rooms. When the car stopped, the driver got out and opened the door of his passenger in the back seat and a man arrayed in a peculiar dress of distinguished flowing robes came out.
“Your Eminence,” acknowledged the humble driver as the man stepped forth. No sooner had he started walking toward the front door of the manor than it opened, spilling out streams of languid light from behind a dark silhouette beneath the lintel.
“Welcome, Prophet,” spoke the silhouette. “You honor my home with your presence. Please, come in.”
“Thank you, my son,” the prophet answered. “May blessings be upon this house and its possessor.” He allowed himself to be escorted in and for his outer garment to be graciously removed by the hands of his pupil.
“Are we alone this night?” inquired the prophet.
“Yes,” came the reply. “I sent home the last housekeeper an hour ago. What about your driver?”
“He has his orders and won’t disturb us. I was blessed enough to find him not just a trustworthy employee, but also a faithful Follower.”
“A true blessing, indeed,” agreed the other, leading the way toward the back of the house. As they walked, the glass around them began to change from showing the clear view of the evening-wrapped estate and first pinpricks of stars to a projection of dark wood panel walls—a perfect reflection of the room they were heading into.
“You put no glass in here, Silas?” asked the prophet, looking around at the old, solid wood paneling which now surrounded them. “This is no projection.”
“It’s real, and original,” Silas affirmed. “It has been a witness to this room and its secrets since the day it was laid in and sealed.”
“Then, it must be the bearer of great wisdom. I see why you kept it.” With an appraising eye, the visitor swept the rest of the room. It was a grand study complete with tall oaken shelves of valuable tomes, marble statuettes of both man and beast, and simple, but sturdy furnishings. Around the walls were hung several renaissance paintings depicting peculiar encounters between characters distinctly human and otherworldly. Dominating the floor of the space was an immense desk of dark wood, several panels of which were adorned with ornamental threads of gold filigree. The top of the desk was bare, save for a handsome pair of lamps and an antiquated telephone with a handle of carved ivory.
“This room is hardly used…,” stated the prophet in a knowing way, “yet I feel a lot of energy surrounding it.”
He turned and walked toward a bookshelf in the corner, as if following some direction that had been invisibly uttered. Opening a glass door which protected a row of extremely old books, the prophet examined the faded titles on the spines, touching each one gently with his finger. Silas came to stand by his side like a silent wraith, offering no clues to aid his guest. Finally, the Prophet’s finger stopped on a spine so weathered and indecipherable that it was impossible to read its name.
“Clever,” the prophet mused. He reached toward the top of the book as if to pull it out, but halfway through his angled extraction, there was a distinct click. Both men turned, not in surprise but expectancy, as a painting on the opposite wall swung inward revealing a narrow stone stairway descending into a cold darkness.
“There we are,” said the prophet, “quite a clever ruse, especially using a bible as the trigger—opening the path to the enlightened. Though you didn’t design it yourself, did you?”
Silas shook his head. “No, it was a part of the original mansion—part of the reason I was so eager to acquire it. Previous tenets used it quite regularly and left many appurtenances in the chambers below.”
“But you haven’t used them,” the other stated.
“I am but an apprentice,” responded Silas. “And the work requires a master’s touch.”
“You have well said.” The prophet smiled at his student and made his way toward the secret entrance.
Silas made to follow, but was stopped in his tracks by the harsh, metallic ring of the aged phone on his desk.
Chapter 11
In two quick strides, Silas reached the desk and snapped up the phone’s ivory handle.
“Boss,” came a deep voice from the other end,
“We’ve got him.”
“Where?” demanded Silas.
“London.”
“Does he have anything on him?”
“Hold on, I check.”
Muffled sounds of movements and grunts occupied the line for a few moments, followed by a faint zipping sound and thuds of things falling onto a floor. The voice came back on.
“He has nothing on his person. In his bag there are laptop, identity papers, cash, and some junks.”
“Was he alone when you found him?”
“Da,” confirmed Ivan.
“Alright. Drop the laptop off with one of our curriers. They’ll bring it to my tech team to break into—see if he’s sent out any information. In the meantime, go to the Watershed and break him to find out where he was living and if he’s talked to anyone. Dispose of all the remains when you’re through.”
“Ya, O.K., Boss”
The line clicked and went dead. Silas placed the phone back on the cradle and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. The catch had been too simple, and he doubted very much if this was truly the end of it. Ivan was a fool if he thought his job was almost over.
Across the room, the prophet stood silent and still, reading the change of mood that emanated from the man at the desk. It began with a coolness formed of doubts tinged with worry, then blazed into heated anger and contempt. There was a struggle here between an innate desire to control and the lack of ability to fully do so—a struggle which, the prophet knew, would soon be over.
“Fools,” Silas muttered over the desk. “Fools without a clue.”
“Come, come, Silas,” the prophet soothed. “No one can rule the world without the fools on their side, after all. And besides, foolishness in others is a much more advantageous trait than wisdom. For example…”
He reached into the folds of his flowing robes and retrieved a small, sealed envelope which he held out for Silas to take. Silas strode across the room and received the token, slicing the envelope open with an ornamental knife decorating the end table next to him. There was a singular piece of folded paper inside. As Silas opened it, his brow creased in confusion before immediately dilating in surprise.
The prophet smiled and said, “Your star in the orbital is coming into its peak position, my son. Your destiny, which has been buried, hidden in the sand for thousands of years, is now within our grasp. See here.” He pointed to the slightly blurred image printed on the paper. “The ancient stones have been found and are being unearthed as we speak. It is time for you to stop wasting your energy worrying about fools and concentrate on demonstrating your worthiness. The birth of the great plan is at hand. You must lead it. You must occupy your edge of the great triangle of power!”
Though hearing every word, Silas never took his eyes off the picture. An ancient stone tablet with strange markings nestled in the black velvet backdrop of a reinforced steel climate-controlled briefcase. He looked upon it half in unbelief and half in exultation. He had been preparing for this day, though often doubting it would ever come.
“Where did you get this?” he asked of the prophet.
“You know I’ve had searchers out for years trying to discover the whereabouts of the tablets,” replied the other. “Yet it may or may not surprise you that their discovery was made known to me through the Internet—the very haven of fools! It is from a…what do you call it…a blog of a privately-funded husband and wife archeology team. They found this first one just days ago and will no doubt soon be in possession of all.”
“Then we must retrieve them immediately,” Silas said with a renewed glow in his eyes. “Where are they located?”
“Somewhere in the middle of Iraq it seems. The blog was not clear on the precise location. But I’m sure you have ways of finding it out.”
Silas nodded as he refolded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Leave it to me.”
“Very good, my friend,” said the prophet. “Then we shall have gathered one more piece of the puzzle. We are very close now, and it is time to turn your attention to gaining the key piece to your destiny.”
“I thought these stones were the final pieces we were looking for.”
“They are an important find, and we will certainly need them to move forward. But they are only one side of the coin. For now, we must build the stage on which you will be enthroned in your full power.”
Faint revelation grew in Maximos’ eyes as he realized where his teacher was leading to. “You mean Israel—Jerusalem. You have said before that my destiny is tied to them—that squabbling rabble in the middle of the desert.”
The prophet looked Maximos in the eye. “Their squabble is what will bring you glory. Do you remember what I told you about Israel’s Third Temple?”
Maximos struggled to hide his gut feeling of inner disdain at being made to recite a lesson like a school child. “Israel’s first temple was built under the direction of Solomon. It was a magnificent structure, but destroyed when the Babylonians captured Jerusalem around 580 BCE. The Second Temple was built on the same location. It was originally authorized by the Persian King Cyrus, but took many years before it was actually completed around 515 BCE. It remained standing until 70 CE when it was destroyed by the Romans. The temple site, as well as the city, was then captured in the Muslim conquest of Jerusalem. Hence, now, the temple site is home to the Islamic shrines, the Dome of the Rock, and the al-Aqsa Mosque. The Third Temple does not yet exist. Israel hopes to build it upon the site where the other two stood, but with the Muslims occupying the Temple Mount space, there is nothing they can do.”
“The Third Temple does exist,” the elder stated solemnly. “But only in pieces. You see, the component parts are ready. The golden utensils, ritual vessels, the Menorah, the curtains, the altar, the building material—even the cornerstone for the Third Temple have already been prepared. The temple priests and members of the law-interpreting Sanhedrin have already been chosen, trained, ready to officiate; and their temple purification animal for sacrifice, the red heifer, has been born and approved. All they need is guidance, direction on how to proceed in putting it all together and reinstitute their ancient worship and sacrificing without any interference from the Muslims.”
“And what exactly does that have to do with my future?”
“It is this Third Temple that you must keep in focus if your destiny is to be fulfilled. You must find a way to negotiate with the Arabs, Palestinians, Syrians, and Israelis. Find a way to bring peace to Jerusalem, peace to Israel and the Middle East, and cooperation between Jews and Muslims so the temple can be built.
“My son,” the prophet laid a hand upon Silas’ arm. “You have studied the prophecies with me. You have communed with the spirits as I have. You know that we cannot choose the hows, for the ancient rules of power and destiny were not set by us. We can only choose to accept them if we will do what is necessary to gain the power that is being offered.”
Silas placed his hand upon the elder’s. “And you already know that I accept.”
A proud, confident smile stole across the prophet’s face. “Then, let us wait no longer to descend to the hallowed chambers below and call upon the otherworld ones’ foreknowledge and help in the tasks ahead of us. For the world’s greatest troubles are about to become your greatest opportunities.”
“Truly, Profeta,” Silas replied with a knowing smile as he led the way to the secret stairway, “You are a Prophet of Peace.”
Chapter 12
It was pushing 117 degrees Fahrenheit in the region of Al Hallah, Iraq—normal temperature for this time of the year. Scorching winds laced with sand and dust hurled across the flat desert plains as if blown about from the fiery jaws of some ancient ophidian. It whispered secrets to the elegant palms, whose emerald feathers murmured in response, and teased the desert scrub clinging to their rocky perches.
Somewhere hidden in the shimmering horizon lay the vestiges of an old-world city whose power and wealth were once unequaled by any other in the region.
Magnificent glory of Babylon’s prime cries out from barren walls left behind;
And only the Tigris can witness thus to its marvel and wonder beauteous.
As Kate Caldwell gazed across the flats toward the site of the archaic city, she couldn’t help but recall the verse put forth by her favorite archeological scholar. She knew what he meant. All archeological sites are fascinating, interesting, and captivating, but for her the ancient wonder that was Babylon was more. Mystifying somehow, as if it had been built from more than bricks fashioned from human hands. Even in its deserted state, there lay an undercurrent of regalness and hidden knowledge. Almost as if it were a queen, whose relentless coyness mocked all who beheld her; inviting her onlookers to attempt to discover her secrets, but reveling in knowing that they never would.
Kate had first been ensnared in Babylon’s mesmerizing air when she was just a young archeology student. She had come here through an international summer internship program, and she and other scholars had spent almost three weeks learning, exploring, and imagining the scale of grandeur and beauty which had once upon a time defined this great city. It had been inspiring, and of all the g
lobal dig sites she had been a part of since then, none ever laid a hold on her as Babylon had.
But even as she stared into the distant ripples of heat with her binoculars for just a glimpse of the noble ruin, Kate knew they would not cross paths this time. For it was not the city of Babylon’s mysteries which had called her and her husband, fellow archeologist John Caldwell, out to this desert, but a mystery of another kind.
As any good archeologist will tell you, when it comes to history, there is a fine line between fact and fiction; but sometimes it takes a while for the facts to show up. John and Kate’s recent research had led them to this site in the hopes of both uncovering the proof of a legend and becoming famous for “birthing” it into fact. It had been a risky gamble, however, considering that their excavation plans had been based more on a hunch than anything else. All the manuscripts and translations they had read concerning this paranormal place, which may or may not have existed, never stated the coveted find by name, nor had they pinpointed the place where it could be. But the compilation of several vague clues had been enough to rouse the two into thinking that the finding of these fabled ruins, here in this desolate place fifteen miles outside the city proper of the famous Babylon, was a strong possibility. They had wanted to take the chance despite the odds of finding only failure and ridicule, but dreams can’t fuel dreams. In order to get the finances needed for this dig, they had made it known to one of their sponsors, namely the British Museum, that their objective was to look for artifacts in the “Babylon area” to bulk up the museum’s collection. To most of that statement they had remained true—they were in the general area of the once-empire’s Great Seat, and they would confer any findings to the jurisdiction of the museum. But what they really had in mind to find were not Babylonian artifacts per se, but proof of something much older—the Tower of Babel.
The Snare Page 4
