The Doomsday Prophecy (29 page)

Callaghan grimaced and slapped his palm on the table. ‘This is ridiculous.’

Murdoch paid him no attention. ‘Let me tell you why I’m worried about this,’ he said. He turned to the mirrored window and Ben saw that he’d been right. Murdoch gestured. ‘Stop filming, stop transcription.’

Then he turned back to Ben and Alex. He frowned. ‘What I’m about to tell you does not leave this room. Three months ago an Israeli MOSSAD agent, a professional assassin known to the CIA as Salomon, vanished suddenly off the radar screen. Presumed dead. No body was found, and nobody has stepped forward to claim responsibility for his killing, if that’s what it is. This
is
highly speculative, but I don’t find it hard to put Salomon’s disappearance together with what you’ve told me here today.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you find his prints on the assassination weapon,’ Ben said. ‘And his wallet full of credit cards lying nearby.’ He smiled. ‘Like the ones they just happened to find in the burned-out wreckage of 9/11, with the terrorists’ IDs on.’

Murdoch’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m going to ignore that comment.’

‘I know all about dirty war,’ Ben said. ‘You don’t get used as a pawn without learning how the game works.’

Callaghan slumped back in his seat, staring hard at
his colleague. ‘You’re not going to take this man seriously, are you, sir? He’s a loose cannon. An anarchist.’

Murdoch slowly turned and glared at him. ‘I take this very seriously indeed,’ he rumbled. ‘And, Callaghan, if you have nothing more constructive to say, I suggest you say nothing at all.’

Callaghan went quiet.

Murdoch leaned across the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then exhaled noisily. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to clear this with my superiors. But when they hear what I have to say, it’s extremely likely that you, Mr Hope, will be on a flight to Israel.’

‘To do what?’

‘To try to stop this catastrophe from happening, if indeed that’s what’s being planned. You’ll be supplied with everything you need once you touch down in Jerusalem. Callaghan will put you together with our people there.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t work for you.’

‘Consider yourself enlisted. Unofficially, of course.’

‘I gave you the information,’ Ben said. ‘I’ve done my part. Now I want to go home. This is your problem.’

Murdoch’s frown-lines deepened. ‘I think that, if you’re right about this, World War Three is going to be everybody’s problem. And apparently we don’t have a lot of time to figure out a solution.’ He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. ‘I can’t send company agents in on this. It’s the kind of situation where an outsider would be more useful to me. Someone who can’t be traced to us.’

‘You mean, if something were to happen to me,’ Ben said. ‘Collateral damage. Easy to bury.’

‘Consider it a favour to us,’ Murdoch said. ‘And of course we’d show our appreciation by forgetting the incident in Georgia. Maybe there’s some delinquent with other murders to his name that we can find to pin the cop killing on. You get my drift?’

‘Sir, can I remind you I’m a witness to the fact that Agent Jones murdered those two officers,’ Alex protested.

‘I think you should keep your mouth shut, Agent Fiorante. There’s also the issue of your involvement in this situation. You admit to having shot a fellow agent. That’s not something we can just skip over lightly.’ Murdoch settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. ‘So, Mr Hope. Either you co-operate with us in this matter, or you’ll be charged with the murder of two police officers and several Government agents. And Agent Fiorante will spend the next decade in a federal prison for her own actions. Your choice.’

‘What makes you think I’m the right man for the job?’

‘Let’s not mess around, Major. The clock is ticking. If it comes down to a sniper-counter-sniper situation, I have evidence that proves to me that you’re just about the best guy in the world for this job.’ Murdoch reached into his pocket and took out a matchbox. Slid the tiny drawer open with his finger. Took out a spent match and tossed it on the table. ‘Ring any bells?’

Ben stared at it. ‘Let’s say I go along with this. I have some conditions.’

Murdoch nodded. ‘I’m a reasonable man. I’m listening.’

‘I want Zoë Bradbury flown home to her family.’

‘Not an option,’ Callaghan cut in. ‘She’s a witness.’

‘She’s also a victim,’ Ben said. ‘A victim of the fact that your agency is corrupted and people within it are abusing its power. So, unless you want that information getting out there, you arrange for her to be flown home under close guard and given top priority police protection in the UK until these people are caught.’

Murdoch thought about it for a moment. ‘OK, agreed. But she will have to come back here to testify, if required.’

‘And I want your personal guarantee that in return for my co-operation, there’ll be no question of any charges levelled at Agent Fiorante.’

Murdoch nodded slowly. ‘Anything else?’

‘I left behind a complicated situation in Greece. There’s a Corfu police captain called Stephanides who’d probably like to talk to me again.’

Murdoch waved his hand. ‘We can take care of that. He never heard of you. Anything else?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Then we have a deal,’ Murdoch said. ‘And you’re on your way to Jerusalem.’

It was after 10 p.m. when Ben and Alex emerged from the conference room. The operations office was still as bustling and hectic as before. Murdoch led them down a hallway and through a set of doors to a computer lab that was so crammed with equipment there was barely room for the half-dozen or so staff manning it.

Callaghan was hunched over a terminal with one of the technicians. He looked up as Murdoch walked up to him. ‘There are over twenty-two thousand males named Slater between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five in the USA,’ he said.

Murdoch leaned on the desk ‘Can you narrow it down? Hair colour, height, build, profession.’

‘It’s going to take a while to factor in those kinds of parameters,’ Callaghan said testily.

‘Don’t take too long. Time is short.’

Then Ben and Alex were left alone in a quiet lobby for a few minutes while Murdoch went off to make some phone calls.

‘Thanks for what you did in there,’ she said. ‘It’s not fair, what they’re doing to you.’

‘Promise me two things,’ Ben said.

She nodded. ‘Name them.’

‘First, you’ll make sure Zoë gets back to her family safely.’

‘Of course I will. And the other promise?’

‘That you’ll look after yourself. Have a good life, all right?’

She smiled uncertainly. ‘This is your way of saying goodbye?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know what’s going to happen.’

‘Can I give you a call sometime?’

‘I’d like that,’ he said. He told her the number of his mobile. She repeated it.

A door swung open and Murdoch reappeared. ‘It’s done,’ he told Ben. ‘Your plane leaves for Israel at midnight.’

‘What happens when I get there?’

Murdoch frowned. ‘You’ll appreciate that we’re busking this to a large degree. I’m hoping I’ll know more by the time you touch down in Jerusalem. Our agents there will be figuring out the likely targets. You’ll be contacted.’ He looked at his watch and winced. He turned to Alex. ‘You’re working under Agent Callaghan now. We’re releasing Miss Bradbury into your care. She knows you, she’ll feel safe with you. She’s a little uptight, and maybe you can help calm her.’

‘No problem,’ Alex said. ‘She can come home with me tonight.’

For the first time that evening Murdoch looked pleased, real warmth in his eyes. ‘Thank you, Alex. There’ll be three agents outside your door, although I have a feeling Miss Bradbury’s no longer under threat.’ He gestured towards the door, looking expectantly at Alex.

She hesitated, glanced at Ben.

‘So this is it,’ he said to her.

‘I guess so,’ she replied. ‘I’ll see you around, then.’

‘Sometime,’ he said.

She touched his hand. Their fingers interlocked for a brief moment, then parted. Murdoch noticed it and looked away.

‘Take care,’ Alex murmured, and then she turned and Ben watched her walk away and disappear through the door.

‘Now let’s see if you and Callaghan can find your man Slater,’ Murdoch said.

Ben spent the next seventy minutes alone with Callaghan in a dark room filled with screens, sifting through the hundreds of ID photographs that the agent and the computer lab tech had narrowed down from the original thousands of files. When they’d gone through the whole lot, Ben sat back in his chair and shook his head.

Callaghan narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Absolutely sure,’ Ben said. ‘I never forget a face.’

‘Then he gave you a false name. Which I knew all along. I can’t figure out why Murdoch can’t see it. It’s
obvious. And it leaves us with a big fat zero. Waste of time.’

Ben said nothing.

Callaghan peeled back his sleeve to check his watch. ‘Let’s move. I need to get you on that flight.’

Shady Oak, Fairfax County, Virginia
11.30 p.m.

The CIA staff vehicle pulled up outside Alex’s little white wood house in the sleepy town a few miles from the Headquarters at Langley. Alex and Zoë climbed out of the back doors, and two agents walked them up the pathway through the tiny garden to the front door. The street was empty and quiet. Alex opened the door and the guards checked all over the house. Everything was fine. They returned to the car. In a few hours another would come to take its place.

Alex showed Zoë inside the open-plan living room. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she said, flipping on sidelights. The house felt a little cold and unlived in, she thought, and went over to the fireplace and turned on the imitation gas fire for instant flames. She checked her answerphone. No messages.
Life with the Company
.

Zoë flopped on a white leather sofa, rubbing her eyes.

‘You look exhausted,’ Alex said. ‘I think we both
could do with a drink. What do you say?’ She walked through to the neat kitchen and took a bottle of red wine from the rack, opened it and poured them each a large glass. Zoë accepted hers gratefully.

‘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.’

‘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.