Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

‘Well, here we are,’ Alex said.

Zoë smiled. ‘Here we are.’

‘It’s been a hell of a time, hasn’t it?’

Zoë nodded. ‘I don’t even want to think about it. It feels so strange to be here. I can’t wait to get home.’

‘Your parents will be glad to see you again.’

‘I called them from Langley.’

‘How did it go?’

‘They cried.’

‘There’ll be more of that when you get there,’ Alex said.

‘Probably.’

‘I’m going to make us some dinner. You like pizza?’

‘Anything.’

‘I just remembered you’re vegetarian. It has pepperoni and anchovies. Want me to scrape them off yours?’

‘Leave them on,’ Zoë said. ‘I could eat a pickled donkey.’

Just then the phone rang, and Alex answered on the speakerphone.

‘It’s all arranged,’ Murdoch’s deep voice said on the line. ‘Miss Bradbury is booked on a commercial flight to London from Arlington in the morning. Callaghan will be at your place just after ten to pick her up and escort her to the airport.’

‘Copy that,’ Alex said.

‘Then I want you to take some leave for a while,’ Murdoch said. ‘You’ve been through a lot.’

Alex thanked him, and the call ended.

Zoë was starting to look warm and relaxed on the leather sofa in front of the fire. She peeled off her jumper and tossed it down on the floor. ‘So it looks like you’re on vacation.’

‘I could use it, I tell you.’ Alex went back into the kitchen and fished the pizza out of the freezer. She stuck it in the microwave, and a few minutes later the two of them were sitting at the maple wood breakfast bar, washing down the pizza with more wine.

‘This is such a cosy little place,’ Zoë said through a mouthful.

‘It does the job. It’s practical and functional. I’m barely ever here, so it suits me fine.’

‘You live alone, then?’

‘Just little me.’

‘No boyfriend?’

‘No time.’

Zoë emptied her glass and set it down, a smile playing on her lips. ‘You like Ben, though.’

Alex was just raising the bottle to top up their glasses. She froze. ‘That obvious?’

‘Pretty obvious.’

Alex sighed. Raised her eyebrows. ‘Not much of a secret agent, then.’ She poured the wine.

‘He likes you too.’

Alex didn’t answer.

‘But I don’t think he likes me very much,’ Zoë said, frowning as she took another sip.

‘I don’t know that’s true,’ Alex lied.

‘I don’t blame him. I’ve been a shit to him. In fact, I’ve been a shit to a lot of people.’

‘You were under a lot of stress.’

Zoë shook her head. ‘No excuses. I want you to know that I’m really sorry for what I did, and all the trouble it caused.’

Alex smiled and patted her arm. ‘It’s over now,’ she said. Just the small matter of World War Three about to start , she was thinking. ‘Your part is, anyway.’

‘Will you be seeing Ben again?’

‘I don’t know. I hope so. Maybe.’

‘If you do, will you tell him something from me?’

‘Sure.’

‘Tell him I never meant for his friend to be… for what happened to his friend. I never wanted anyone to be hurt. It was just a stupid hoax. I didn’t think it through.’

‘I’ll tell him, don’t worry.’ Alex smiled warmly.

Zoë gazed into the middle distance for a while. ‘I’m so sorry about Nikos,’ she whispered. ‘He’s dead. And it’s my doing.’ She sniffed. ‘And Skid. His poor legs. He didn’t deserve that.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he did.’

‘I’m going to change,’ Zoë said. ‘Things are going to be different from now on. It’s time I grew up.’

‘Why don’t we open another bottle of that wine?’ said Alex.

Ben Gurion International Airport,

50 km west of Jerusalem

The eighteenth day, 3.50 p.m. Israeli time

The searing white heat of the sun hit Ben as he stepped off the plane. He grabbed a taxi outside the airport and leaned back against the hot plastic seat, wishing he had his whisky flask, trying not to think about why the hell he was here as the battered Mercedes hurtled him towards his destination.

Jerusalem. The city that the Talmud described as having been given by God nine parts of all the beauty of all the world – as well as nine parts of all its pain.

The skyline was white under the cloudless blue sky and the scorching sun. It was in many ways like any other Middle-Eastern or North African city, smoky and noisy and buzzing like an ant’s nest – a sweltering, heaving throng of thousands of cars and buses and locals and tourists all crammed into a few square miles where the modern jostled with the ancient, the high-rise buildings on the outskirts contrasting sharply with the architecture of two thousand years of religious history. Names like Ammunition Hill and Paratroopers Road were a stark reminder of the bloodiness of the city’s past.

Jerusalem had passed through more hands than most historic cities in its time, and all had left their mark, with Christian, Jewish and Muslim architecture vying for domination. Which, Ben thought to himself, perfectly mirrored the tense political role that this place had played for so very long. A role that might now be about to reach a chilling climax, if what Jones had said was true.

By 4.30 p.m. he’d checked in at his hotel, a drab, sleepy joint on the edge of the city, within earshot of the ululating prayers blaring from a nearby mosque. His room was basic and functional, but he wouldn’t have given a damn if it had been crawling with cockroaches.

What the hell was he going to do? He was itching with frustration. It seemed crazy sending him here with so little to go on. The clock was ticking and there was nothing he could do about it.

He showered and changed, spent a few minutes studying the map of the city, then paced his room, impatiently clutching his phone, waiting for the call Murdoch had promised would come. But there was nothing.

Fuck it . He stormed out of the room and made his way down to the hotel bar. The place was empty apart from the wizened old barman. Ben pulled up a stool and lit up the first of the cigarettes he’d bought at the airport. A tall, cool beer made more sense to him in the choking heat than a double Scotch. He leaned on the bar, sipping his drink and watching the smoke curl and drift. His shoulder still ached. Montana seemed a million miles away. So did Alex.

It was two minutes past five when his phone finally went.

‘Hope. Callaghan here. Write this down.’

Ben took a small notebook and pencil out of his pocket. ‘I’m listening.’

Callaghan spelled out an address in Jerusalem. ‘It’s within the Old City, at the southwest end of the Jewish Quarter,’ he said. ‘You have a rendezvous at 18:30 your time.’

‘Who with?’

‘Someone with information. They’ll provide you with everything you need.’

‘One of your people?’

‘Let’s just say it’s an operational house.’

‘Sleeper agent?’

‘Call him an asset.’

‘What does your asset have for me?’

‘It seems you were right,’ Callaghan said. ‘There’s some vital and sensitive intel to pass on. Something big is about to take place. We think it’s the target. Best you hear it from our guy.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Yeah, well, things are moving quickly now. Thanks to your input,’ he added grudgingly.

‘What’s his name?’

‘It’s not important. He’s expecting you.’ Callaghan sounded impatient. ‘I know this is irregular. But you don’t need me to tell you, time is of the essence. So get over there. We’re depending on you.’