Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

‘What about Slater?’

‘Still working on it. Leave it with us. Out of your hands now, OK?’

‘And Zoë?’

‘Deal’s a deal. I’m on my way right now to Fiorante’s place to pick her up and put her on a flight to England.’

‘I’ll be checking to make sure she got there.’

‘You do that, buddy. And, Hope?’

‘What?’

‘Good luck.’ Callaghan ended the call.

Ben put the phone away, and sat for another minute sipping his drink. His zigzag chase across the world looked as though it was entering its final phase. He only hoped that what Callaghan’s contact had to say would be worth it.

He left the hotel, stepped out into the scorching sun and took a taxicab that sped him towards old Jerusalem. Time was ticking rapidly by, but there was nothing he could do other than kill time before his rendezvous with the CIA asset.

He entered the Old City through the Damascus Gate, a frenetic melee of shoppers, tourists, street traders, money changers, beggars and barrow boys. He walked by clustered street stalls selling everything from food, newspapers and cans of Israeli cola chilled on blocks of ice to counterfeit Levis and electrical goods. A squad of Israeli soldiers swaggered through the crowds. Open-neck khaki uniforms. Dark glasses. Galil assault rifles with grenade launchers, cocked and locked. Welcome to Jerusalem.

He was deep in thought as he spent a while walking through the ancient heart of the city. The place was a maze of shady winding streets and sun-bleached squares, every inch of them echoing some chapter of its long and tumultuous history.

Ben wandered on, and found himself following in the footsteps of a million Christian pilgrims as he walked the Via Dolorosa, the Path of Pain, along which Christ had dragged the cross on the way to his Crucifixion. The sacred route led him into the heart of the Christian quarter of the Old City. He stopped and stepped back to gaze up at a towering building, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. He recognised this place from his theology studies.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was one of the most revered sites in Christendom, marking the site of Christ’s burial and resurrection. Its pitted stonework bore the marks of centuries of religious graffiti carved there by pilgrims through the ages who had crossed the world to pray here.

The old church was still attracting visitors today. Crowds of Western tourists were drifting in and out of the arched entrance, an endless procession of brightly coloured T-shirts and shorts and cameras and guidebooks, staring around them in awe at the two-thousand-year-old architecture. The scent of sun block wafted on the air, and the gabble of voices, many of them American, echoed off the high stone walls.

Ben watched them and wondered. Why were they here? Were they just ordinary people who had travelled thousands of miles to visit and photograph some old building? Or might there be, for some of them, a deeper religious motivation? How many of these people might have come here to reflect on and marvel at the apocalyptic events that they believed were going to befall the world in their own lifetime, to pay homage to the spot where it had all started and was all going to end?

Even if they had, that didn’t make them mindless warmongers. Those millions of evangelical believers whose collective support could feather the nests of men like Clayton Cleaver, or provide the incentive for darker political forces to manufacture wars, could have no idea that their religious devotion might be so misused and perverted. They could have no concept of the ways that Bible prophecy could be manipulated as a means to power or to destroy lives.

Or could they? Ben ran over the span of human history in his mind. Was it really such a surprise that a few powerful, cynical men would take advantage of the innocent faith of the many? Wasn’t that what powerful men had been doing since the dawn of civilisation – playing God, the most dangerous game of them all?

He glanced at his watch. It was approaching six-fifteen. Time to move. He took the slip of paper out of his pocket with the address he’d copied down. In a nearby street he found another battered white Mercedes taxi that was vacant. He showed the address to the heavily-bearded driver. The guy nodded, Ben climbed in and the car took off.

In a few minutes he would know what was going to happen.

And all he had to do then was figure out a way to stop it.

Shady Oak, Virginia

10.05 a.m. US time

Alex answered the door to find Callaghan standing there in the breezy sunshine with two agents. They stepped inside the house. ‘She ready?’ Callaghan said.

Zoë was coming downstairs. ‘Here I am.’

‘You got everything?’ Alex asked her.

‘I didn’t bring a lot with me.’ Zoë smiled at Alex. ‘So it’s goodbye, then. I suppose I won’t see you again, will I?’

‘I suppose not. Safe journey home, Zoë. Take care.’

‘Thanks for what you did for me.’ Zoë grasped Alex’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I won’t forget.’

Alex watched her walk across to the black GMC and climb into the back. The agents climbed in with her. Callaghan got into the front passenger seat.

Alex gave Zoë a wave, shut the door and walked back inside the house. ‘That’s that,’ she muttered to herself.

Then something caught her eye. A glimpse of gold on the wooden floor under the coffee table. She walked over to it and picked it up. It was Zoë’s valuable old bracelet. It must have slipped off when she took off her jumper.

‘Shit,’ she breathed. Zoë had been through a lot with that bracelet, must be attached to it. Alex bit her lip for an instant, deciding what to do. She glanced out of the window. The GMC was just moving away out of sight up the long street. Its brake lights flared red, and it took a left turn and disappeared.

On the spur of the moment, Alex decided to follow. The airport was just a few miles away – she could catch up with them there and give Zoë the bracelet.

Her VW Beetle was parked a few yards down from the house. She grabbed the key from the hook near the door and raced outside.

She’d started the engine and pulled away down the street by the time she thought about phoning Callaghan on his mobile. Shit . Her phone was still in the house. Too late to go back for it now. Never mind.

Alex gunned the Beetle down the street between rows of quiet suburban homes, took the left turn and accelerated out of town towards the highway. Traffic thickened. She caught sight of the big black GMC ahead, eight or nine vehicles between them. Keeping an eye on it, she followed the familiar route. She put on a CD of Creedence Clearwater Revival as she held the VW at a steady sixty.

In a few minutes they were approaching the turnoff for the airport. Alex glanced in her mirror, prepared to flick on her indicator and switch lane.

But the GMC wasn’t changing lane.

It kept on going down the highway.

Alex frowned as it sped on ahead. The airport signs flashed by and were left behind. Strange. Hadn’t Murdoch said they were taking Zoë straight to the airport? Then where were they taking her?

She drove on. Time passed. The CCR album came to its last track and ended. She barely noticed. The sky had clouded over now, and rain began to spatter on her windscreen.

Now the GMC was heading off the highway and into open country. Woodland flashed by, and the traffic started thinning out. They were travelling further and further away from Langley and Washington DC, heading God knew where. Something told Alex to hang back, and she touched the brakes to widen the distance between her and Callaghan.

Deeper and deeper into country. Rain hammered against the glass, the wipers beating time. The road became snaky and narrow, and she hung right back so that she could just about keep the GMC in sight but without being spotted.