End of Days, page 5
‘And now the greatest battle of all.’ He raised his arms dramatically to the heavens. ‘Armageddon! God versus the devil. Moi!’
He swung around with a Machiavellian grin.
‘Megiddo. Study it well, my brother.’ He gestured to a sprawling military complex on the plains under construction. ‘My military headquarters for the battle of the ages are already well advanced. My greatest victory approaches.’
Gabriel stared at his brother, his grey eyes like steel.
De Molay added, ‘Your greatest defeat . . . brother.’
He surveyed the vast expanse of the valley, then moved his hand across the scene.
Suddenly, the skies turned crimson. Gabriel watched as the priest’s form roiled and grew, like a billowing thundercloud, into Lucifer, Prince of the Damned.
Before him was the very scene that had tormented his dreams these past aeons.
The exact details never changed.
The vision had become more frequent these past thirty-nine crimson moons.
Lucifer at Megiddo.
It was always the same, down to the very minute details.
Lucifer stood in his monstrous black war chariot, riding on the shafts of thunderbolts, the huge silver wheels sprung with the sharpest war blades, pulled by his dark-winged stallions, their manes intertwined with platinum, caparisoned as for war.
In the vision, his elder brother’s scarred, misshapen features were always masked behind his battle helmet, but the soulless sapphire eyes were imperious, his bearing still kingly. He held his head high, his long raven hair gleaming and plaited with platinum and lightnings, his fist brandishing the cat-o’-nine-tails.
Gabriel watched as Lucifer surveyed the valley before him. A thick red mist of human blood mingled with the reek of burning human flesh rose unendingly from the valley of slaughter. Millions of massacred soldiers – Chinese, European, American, Arab, Israeli – floated next to drowned horses and half-submerged tanks and other armoured vehicles in a vast quagmire of blood and mud 1,600 furlongs in length; all that was left after the assault of the massive 200-million-man army. Hundreds of thousands of griffon vultures, their wingspans over nine feet wide, blackened the crimson skies, circling the killing fields, where massive swarms of raptors gorged on human flesh. A holocaust. The eerie silence hung heavily over the valley. Nothing stirred. Nothing could be heard but the bloodcurdling screeching of the vultures.
Lucifer waded through the bloody quagmire, which reached up to the bridles of his dark stallions, toward higher ground.
‘One for eternity, brothers!’ Lucifer’s cry echoed, tormenting. His steel-blue eyes glittered.
‘I will annihilate the whole race of men before I am done, Gabriel.’
And as in every vision, Lucifer drove his whip of panther tails, embedded with sharp steel, violently onto the lead stallion’s back, drawing blood. The horse’s eyes flickered red, and he snorted in pain, sending flames and sulphurous smoke billowing from his nostrils.
‘I will take my vengeance!’ Lucifer cried.
Gabriel watched as Lucifer and his Mephistophelian stallions took off on the burning white crest of the black hurricanes and rode the thunderbolts, disappearing into the darkening crimson skies.
‘You see Lucifer at Armageddon.’ Jether’s voice was very soft. ‘The very End of Days.’ Jether placed a strong hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. ‘Steady yourself.’
‘It is the same vision,’ Gabriel whispered. ‘In exact detail. It has haunted my dreamings since his banishment, Jether. But it has intensified these past thirty-nine moons. It fills my dreaming every night.’
Jether walked over to where Lucifer’s tabors and viols lay untouched. ‘Yes, yours as mine. The weight of being a seer, beloved Gabriel. You see the future. It is nigh upon us. The thirty-ninth crimson moon rises this next dawn.’
He looked down at the crumpled missive.
Gabriel sat at Lucifer’s desk.
‘You are remembering.’
‘Yes,’ answered Gabriel, mingled regret and resignation in his voice. ‘Before the shadows fell.’
‘Michael awaits you, Gabriel. This place is infused with Lucifer’s bewitchments. Come.’
Underground Cisterns
Jerusalem
Alex followed the underground watercourse beneath the Armenian Quarter, his secret path since he was a five-year-old adventurer.
He knew exactly where the slow-flowing stream would take him. Directly under the Holy of Holies of the newly erected Third Temple.
He needed solid evidence that Adrian De Vere was truly inert . . . dead. That there would be no resurrection.
He pushed his hair under a black cap, placed contact lenses in both eyes, and swiftly affixed a short goatee and round black glasses. Next, he removed a rumpled navy suit jacket from the rucksack and slung it on.
He took another swig from his hip flask, his hands trembling uncontrollably, and followed the stench of the tepid water.
Geneva Railway Station
Eurostar
‘Ticket for the 15:30,’ the dark-haired girl muttered to herself as she entered the information into the ticket vending machine.
She put her iris to the scanner. The transfer from her Bitcoin account was instantly approved. She snatched her ticket from the machine.
And ran for the last train to London.
Press Corps, Third Temple
Temple Mount, Jerusalem
Alex grinned in triumph.
‘Bullseye.’
He joined the bustling gaggle of reporters, a camera slung over each shoulder.
‘Credentials?’ demanded the black-clad Israeli policeman.
Alex put his falsified press card forward. He was now Dominic Logan, TV reporter for Britain’s Sky News.
Now time for Dylan Weaver’s digital magic – the contact lenses.
‘Step forward.’
Alex lined up his eye with the camera, willing his hands to stop trembling.
There was a hesitation.
‘Again,’ commanded the policeman.
C’mon, Weaver, he willed.
He placed his eye against the camera again.
It illuminated blue.
‘Thought we had you there,’ the officer deadpanned. ‘Get in the press line.
Alex smiled politely and entered the soaring hundred-foot gold doors of the Temple.
He was in.
Outer Hebrides
The priest unlocked the wooden door of the dilapidated stone croft with its turfed roof perched on soaring cliffs over the churning Atlantic waters.
He stared up at the massive weather front coming in from the Atlantic, then ducked inside.
Third Temple
Temple Mount, Jerusalem
Alex could hardly believe his eyes. There were at least a thousand dignitaries lined up against the ropes paying homage to the figure in the casket. World-famous presidents and monarchs were openly weeping.
He was now so close to the coffin that he could see Adrian’s pale, waxy countenance from where he stood.
He could be mistaken for a wax effigy.
Alex picked up his camera and took ten photographs in quick succession.
As he stood over Adrian’s body, Dylan Weaver’s thermal monitor came to life.
Three more seconds, and he would have the readings.
Three . . . two . . .
‘Move it.’
One. A supersonic bleep went off from the thermal detector.
It registered no life readings whatsoever from Adrian De Vere’s body.
He was definitely dead.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Alex strode swiftly toward the Sky press box, then did a swift about-face and walked calmly out through the jostling crowd and into the nearest alleyway, towards what used to be the Arab Quarter.
A young Arab boy of not more than thirteen held out a freshly baked shawarma at him. ‘Me your fixer.’ He grinned broadly.
‘Yes.’ Alex bit hungrily into the lamb and pita bread. ‘Starving. Take me to the old Bedouin. Your grandfather.’
‘I take you.’ The boy saluted.
They disappeared into the bustling streets of vibrantly coloured scarves and tourist prayer shawls.
‘Ahem.’
Alex stopped dead in his tracks.
He would have known that voice anywhere.
‘Guber,’ he murmured.
He looked up at the man with the domed head and badly clipped black hair.
It was unmistakable. Kurt Guber, Adrian De Vere’s loyal Nazi fixer and sycophant.
Guber smiled his thin, cold smile.
‘Identification!’
Guber held out his hand.
Alex’s heart was beating like a drum.
He handed over his press pass.
Guber smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Your papers.’
He pulled Alex’s cap off his head, then grasped his arm in a vice-like grip.
Alex struggled violently as Guber reached for his revolver.
Alex pushed his thumb down into Guber’s solar plexus, Krav Maga style, rammed his good knee into the throat of the man known as ‘the Butcher’, then ran for his life.
Armenian Quarter
Jerusalem
Rebekah was crying silently in the kitchen.
Jason entered, unshaven, his eyes swollen and red from crying.
Rebekah swiftly wiped her eyes with her apron.
‘Show me Julia’s body,’ he demanded. ‘It’s here, isn’t it?’ He grasped Rebekah’s arm so tightly that she gasped. ‘I have to see her body. Where . . . is . . . she?’
David Weiss came out in his dressing gown and slippers.
‘Jason.’ He removed Jason’s hand firmly from Rebekah’s arm.
‘Take me to Julia,’ said Jason, staring at the couple with a wild look in his eyes. ‘I know she’s here.’
David and Rebekah exchanged an intense look.
‘You are correct.’ David sighed. ‘Julia is here.’
‘Well, where is she?’ he demanded.
‘Follow me, Jason,’ Rebekah said.
Jason followed her through the hall until they reached a small room at the very rear of the apartment. She stopped outside it.
‘There is something you need to know, Jason.’ She spoke now in a husky whisper. ‘Julia is alive.’
Jason reeled back in shock,
‘Alive?’
‘But not for long,’ Rebekah whispered. Tears glimmered on her wrinkled cheeks. ‘We’ve done everything possible, Jason, but she is very, very frail,’ Rebekah said softly. ‘She’s fading fast. We are doing everything to keep her with us.’
Jason paled.
‘What are you talking about?’
He stared in horror at Rebekah.
Rebekah unlocked the door to the tiny makeshift sanatorium.
“What do you mean, fading fast? Jason’s voice rose in panic.
‘Her condition deteriorated . . . around midnight. The bullet passed through a portion of her left ventricle. We operated, but she’d lost a lot of blood. We’ve done everything humanly possible.’
Jason pushed past Rebekah, into the room. He stopped in his tracks. There in a hospital bed surrounded by bleeping monitors, drips and tubes, her chest swathed in blood-stained bandages was his beloved Julia. Rebekah removed the oxygen mask from Julia’s face and stood back.
Slowly Jason moved towards the bed, leaned over and gently took Julia’s cold, tiny hand in his, his eyes riveted on her small, pale face.
Tears fell from his eyes onto her fingers. ‘Julia,’ he whispered. The hiss from the oxygen canister into the mask lying on the bed sheet, the relentless bleeping from the monitors were the only sounds in the quiet, dark room.
Sobs wracked his body. Finally he managed to speak.
‘Julia, darling, can you hear me?’
Julia stirred. Slowly her eyes opened.
‘Jason,’ she managed to whisper, tears of joy and tenderness welling in her eyes.
‘Jason . . .’ Julia struggled to get the words out. ‘Jason, I’m not going to pull through.’
‘Of course you are.’
He turned, panic-stricken, to Rebekah and David.
‘Of course she is . . .’
Rebekah looked long into Jason’s eyes, then very gently shook her head.
Jason turned back to Julia in desperation.
‘You have to fight, Jules. You’ve always been such a fighter. Fight now. Fight for me. Fight for Lily.’
‘Lily . . .’ Julia whispered, her eyes closing.
‘Jules. I can’t live without you.’
With supreme effort, she opened her eyes.
‘Jason. You have to help the others.’
‘Julia, you have to fight.’
Julia opened her mouth, struggling to talk.
‘Stay with me, Julia. Stay with me . . .’
David stood at the door.
‘Jason, we have to get you out of here. They’re searching house to house.’
Julia’s head fell back onto the pillow.
Comatose.
‘I’m not leaving her’ he raised his head.
‘Jason . . .’ Rebekah said softly. ‘There are times in life, where you just have to trust. This is one of them.’
She grasped Jason’s hand.
‘Don’t die needlessly because you are too stubborn to listen. . .’
Jason looked deeply into Rebekah’s eyes, then turned to Julia.
‘Darling, I don’t know if you can hear me. I’m leaving now but Rebekah will take care of you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Jason took Julia’s face in his hands and kissed her full on the lips his tears mingling with her own.
‘Fight for us, Jules . . .’
He gently stroked Julia’s head, then turned to Rebekah, his expression determined.
‘OK. I’m ready. Let’s get out of here.’
A small pile of rucksacks was stacked at the door of the apartment.
Alex burst in the front door, breathing heavily.
‘You worried your grandmother sick,’ David admonished Alex. Rebekah Weiss and Lawrence St Cartier stood talking in hushed voices.
Alex watched as his grandfather and grandmother embraced.
‘Ikh hab dir lib, Rebekah.’ David held his wife to him tightly. Long seconds passed before he let her go.
Alex frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your grandmother is staying. With Julia.’ Lawrence picked up his silver cane. ‘She’ll be safe,’ he continued. ‘The Petrosians will look after them.’
Jason stood in the doorway, trembling, his phone clenched in his fist. ‘Lily . . .’ He managed to get the word out.
‘Lily . . . She doesn’t know her mother is dying.’ He slumped into the nearby chair.
‘I couldn’t tell Lily.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Military Plane
Lawrence St Cartier took out a bag of Maltesers and sucked at the chocolate in ecstasy. ‘Ah, British chocolate. So much more delicious than Hershey’s.’ After a moment, he assumed his accustomed tone of civility and said, ‘Alex, my dear, are you ready?’
Alex nodded, intent on his X-pad.
David Weiss, eyes closed, was praying in Hebrew.
Jason sat apart from the others, at the very rear of the plane, unshaven but in a fresh blue shirt, his head in his hands, incessantly moving the links of Julia’s cameo on her silver chain, as if it were a rosary.
‘Where are we heading?’ David asked Lawrence.
‘London.’
Basement Apartment
Earl’s Court
Safe House
London
Dylan Weaver paced up and down, looking out surreptitiously from a corner of the faded patterned curtains. No lights. Use torches, General Assad had instructed.
He unlocked the door to a dank basement apartment.
Weaver, Nick De Vere’s old schoolfriend and genius IT specialist, stood inside the doorway, wearing his signature grubby yellow canvas anorak, his beer belly hanging well over his creased, unwashed jeans.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ he muttered, his mouth filled with battered sausage.
‘It looks like a nuclear waste dump,’ Alex remarked drily, surveying the heaps of Weaver’s unwashed clothes strewn unceremoniously on the threadbare sofa, on the kitchen table, and across the scuffed oak floorboards.
Weaver shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.
‘It’s a safe house. Nice to see you too, bud.’ He grinned, removing a pile of dirty socks from the top of the digital television. He stared at Alex’s bruised neck. ‘You don’t look too pretty yourself.’
‘Long story.’ Alex limped into the flat, followed by Jason and David Weiss.
The sound of screaming sirens drew nearer.
Six police vans came to a halt outside St Luke’s Church on the opposite side of the square.
‘What’s that, Weaver?’ Jason stood at the front door. At least thirty British military police in black, armed with sub-machine-guns, were raiding an apartment directly opposite them.
‘Happens all the time.’ Weaver shrugged.
An entire family was hauled out brutally at gunpoint, and bundled into the back of the police vans.
Police Alsatians barked ferociously.
Alex hauled Jason inside, then slammed and locked the door.
‘What are they looking for?’
‘Dissidents,’ said Weaver. ‘Resisters.’
‘I thought you said we’d be safe in London,’ protested Alex.
‘We are. We have twenty-four hours. After that, we have no protection. Jason’s face is plastered everywhere. He’s the new Lee Harvey Oswald, who killed the people’s President.’ Weaver turned to Jason. ‘Quite the celebrity, Mr De Vere.’
The security alarm sounded as General Assad opened the door and entered, followed by a soldier who dumped three black steel suitcases unceremoniously in the hallway.
Weaver rubbed his hands in glee.
‘Ah, the babies have arrived. Alex, help me set up the computers. They’re the only eyes we have.’
