Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (45 page)
Read Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) Online
Authors: Wendy Alec
They were alone in the room.
Then Jotapa looked towards the king’s bedstead.
Aretas lay dead, the most incredible smile on his countenance. And the three pieces of the Hebrew’s cross were clutched in his right hand.
* * *
2021
London
Jotapa, princess of Jordan, slowly folded her namesake’s final missive and replaced it back in the bundle of ancient papers. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand and rose, fingering the small silver cross at her neck.
Her dark hair fell loose past her shoulders, onto her long silk negligee. She walked over to the large double windows and flung open the curtains, her bare feet sinking into the penthouse suite’s plush carpet. The black London taxis were still travelling over Westminster Bridge. She stared out past the London Eye, over the Thames River towards Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, gazing up at the strange white apparition above the London skyline.
* * *
2021
Alexandria, Egypt
Nick stood bare-chested in his jeans on the balcony of the grand old Cecil Hotel, on Saad Zaghlou Square, gazing out at the uninterrupted view of the eastern bay and the yacht harbour. He inhaled deeply, smelling the salty sea air from the Mediterranean.
Tonight he indulged in the rare sentimentality that, as an Englishman in Egypt, he relished the fact that both Somerset Maugham and Noel Coward had lingered there on a balcony before him and that even the British Secret Service had once maintained a suite in the old Cecil Hotel for its operations. As good a reason as any to stay there. Plus the added interest of the hotel’s Moorish architecture, a constant memorial to the former seat of Alexandria’s lavish extravagance.
Nick smiled idly at the incessant hooting and vociferous haggling that drifted up from Alexandria’s legendary cafés and patisseries, even though it was nearly one in the morning. He had flown in from Rome to Cairo on the late flight, then driven straight down the major highway that linked Cairo and Alexandria, arriving in the old city just an hour earlier. Tomorrow at dawn he would visit what he considered the only real antiquities site in the area tomorrow – Kom el-Dikka, where a small Roman theatre had been excavated – before driving out to the desert monastery, where Professor Lawrence St Cartier would be waiting for him.
Nick raised his eyes for what must have been the sixth time that evening towards the full moon that glowed high in the Egyptian night sky, at the strange white apparition – then turned and walked inside to the disappointingly nondescript hotel room. He sighed, studying the predictable wallpaper and the mass produced coverlet on the bed. Then lay back heavily on the hard mattress, closing his eyes. His body was failing rapidly now; he could feel it. He stared down at the ribs now partially visible through his chest. He had lost another eight pounds this past fortnight. His faded jeans hung loose on his hips, held up only by an expensive soft leather belt buckled at its tightest notch.
He knew the exact day and hour when it had happened. It was a Sunday night in Amsterdam. They were rich, young, and bored. Celebrity fodder. Seven of them had used the same needle that night – four guys, three girls – their whole lives in front of them. The heroin had been a kick – the virus lived on long after the adrenaline faded. It was the deadliest strain of AIDS yet – pernicious, invasive.
The sixth had died last Monday. It was all over the British papers. She had been a model. From Manchester. The world at her feet. Her parents were devastated.
Nick felt for the remote and switched it on. He changed the channel on Nilesat from some obscure homegrown Egyptian drama, punching the remote until he found Al Jazeera.
There on a replay, beaming from Damascus, was his brother Adrian De Vere. Thank God for Adrian. Nick knew he could never have made it this far without him. He studied his elder brother. Adrian must have taken Julia’s advice and hired a top stylist. He was tanned, lean, his dark hair gleaming, looking every bit the sophisticated Hollywood star – except that he was newly appointed president of the European Union and the youngest initiator of a Middle East peace accord in history.
Nick yawned, exhausted, then fell into restless dreams of monks and antiquities, of his brothers, Jason and Adrian De Vere, the remote still clutched in his hand ... and of the Jordanian princess.
* * *
2021
Washington DC
Jason De Vere watched from the roof of the Chamber of Commerce building as Marine One took off from the White House lawn for Camp David. The president and the Chinese foreign minister had left the gala party half an hour ago, followed by the last of the Capitol Hill senators and the group from the Chinese embassy. Only the usual Washington stragglers and media wannabes still hung around, warded away from Jason by his well-paid, extremely efficient minders.
He put down his whisky glass heavily on the makeshift banquet table and walked across the roof, past the media tents belonging to VOX Communications, his personal media empire. The Chinese and foreign film crews had all derigged; only the BBC and SKY were still rolling up their cables.
Jason smiled. A rare act. Elated. Two years ago, VOX had been ready. Already owning majority shares in broadcast platforms throughout the USA, Europe, Asia and the Middle East, he had bought out Direct TV, followed three months later by FOX News and its British equivalent, SKY, finally clinching the acquisition of 21st Century Fox. And yesterday VOX had signed one of the biggest global broadcast buyouts of all time, with Beijing – the greatest risk Jason De Vere had ever taken, all things considered. He now appeared to be unstoppable. Not bad for the ripe old age of forty-four.
He looked out at the White House, where he could see the familiar outline of snipers on the roof. His mobile rang.
‘Yes,’ he answered tersely. ‘No, we won’t budge. It’s as high as we go. My position is unchanged.’
He ran down his messages. No personal calls. In fact, he hadn’t received a single personal call since his divorce from Julia had been finalised thirteen months ago ... except from his mother ... and Adrian.
Julia
. Jason froze.
He had been shocked. More than shocked. Stunned at the intense rush of emotions on seeing Julia last week in Damascus. Their meeting had deeply unnerved him. Bewildered him. He still loved her; that much he now knew. But he didn’t dare run the risk of having to deal again with such highly charged emotions. He would never see Julia in person again – never, he vowed inwardly, unless it was a matter of life and death.
He replaced the phone in the case at his hip and stared out one last time at the view of the White House, which was feeding live to M Street uplinking to VOX satellites worldwide. Then once again at the strange white image still hung high above the Washington skyline. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped greying hair. Julia would hate it. That thought gave him a childish rush of pleasure.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. It was Adrian’s birthday tomorow. His fortieth.
He made a note to phone France in the morning.
* * *
2021
Le Mont-St-Michel
Normandy, France
A tall man, impeccably dressed in a Savile Row suit, stood staring out of the enormous cherrywood balcony doors of the European summer palace library. In his hands he held a parchment with strange Aramaic letterings. He stared past the hundreds of military police patrolling the perimeters of the double chain-link fence, past the circling gunships overhead, his gaze transfixed on the waxen apparition, visible against the full moon, in the darkening skies above the Atlantic.
A Jesuit priest, dressed in the flowing garb of his order of the ‘Black Robes’, walked towards him, his antique silver-knobbed cane tapping evenly on the polished mahogany floors. He stopped a few paces behind the man.
‘The White Rider.’
The man nodded. His raven hair was fashionably long, falling just below his collar, gleaming blue-black in the moonlight.
‘Our sign is in the heavens.’
He turned slightly, the outline of his chiselled features suddenly visible in the moonlight. His profile was arresting ... strangely beautiful.
‘We have waited over two thousand years for our revenge.’
The man stared out at the monumental view across the bay. Moving into the stream of moonlight, he gazed in the general direction of the apparition. His hands trembled with contained rage as he lit a black taper, held it to the parchment, and watched it burn.
‘And now we avenge our dishonour,’ Lucifer murmured. ‘Our humiliation at the hands of the Nazarene.’
Lucifer smoothed his Jesuit robes, caressed the carved silver serpent on the top of his cane and gave a slow, malicious smile. ‘...We avenge Golgotha.’
Chronicles of Brothers
– Book Three –
Son of Perdition
The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage of this Army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves only the choice of brave resistance or the most abject submission.
We have, therefore resolved to conquer or die.
(GW1, General Order to the Continental Army, 2 July, 1776)
World Trade Club
107th Floor
World Trade Centre North
Manhattan, New York
Chapter One
They Cast No Shadows
It was 10th of September, a day like any other, the Jesuit priest reflected. At precisely 8.46 am tomorrow the entire world would change.
This fact he also pondered as he gazed out of the vast expanse of glass at the breathtaking panorama of the Manhattan skyline from the private club room that soared a full quarter of a mile in the air above New York.
He stared silently across the spectacular vista of the Manhattan harbour, his eyes fixed on the incessant passage of sleek 757 and 747 airliners arriving and departing from La Guardia, JFK and Newark Airports.
Finally the priest drew his gaze away from the skyline and turned.
His face, although strangely scarred, was imperial. His features striking. The wide brow and straight patrician nose framed imperious sapphire eyes that held a haunting, mesmerising beauty. His thick raven hair was silvering at the edges.
On an average day he wore it fastidiously pulled back from his high cheekbones into his customary braid bound by a simple black band.
On an average day, he wore the flowing Black Robes of his Jesuit Order.
But
today
was not an average day and this dusk the Jesuit priest’s gleaming raven tresses fell loose to his shoulders, skimming the exquisitely tailored bespoke Domenico Vacca suit, its high armholes and barely a thread of excess fabric accentuating the deliberately honed body beneath.
The priest caressed the carved silver serpent on the top of his cane. He slowly surveyed the men seated before him.
The Council of Thirteen, the highest orders of the Committee of 300, the Black Nobility of Venice. The Supreme Mother Council of the 33rd degree masons of the Scottish Rite.
He scanned the faces of the Chairmen of the Club of Rome, the Federal Reserve, the Bilderberger Group, the International Monetary Fund, the Bohemian Grove, the Lucius Trust, his gaze finally resting on the Frater Superior and Grand Tribunal of the Ordo Templi Orienti.
The Grand Masters of the Illuminati.
The secret illuminatus who controlled the American government.
Who controlled every government of the Eastern and Western world.
A slight smile flickered across his lips.
Who were in turn controlled by him.
Lorcan De Molay.
Chronicles of Brothers – Book 3: Son of Perdition
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Table of Contents
From ‘The Fall of Lucifer’
The Chronicles of Brothers – Book 1
Prince of Perdition
Aretas of Petra
Brothers