The Doomsday Prophecy (32 page)

The bomber dived through a crumbling stone arch, running flat out, the device in his hand.

Then suddenly he was cartwheeling through the air with a loud grunt of pain and surprise as the moped coming the other way knocked him off his feet.

Ben came skidding out of the archway just in time to see the bomber go sprawling across the narrow street in a tangle of arms and legs. The scooter crashed down on its side and slithered in a shower of sparks. The rider tumbled and rolled. The black detonation device went bouncing across the paving stones.

There was blood on the bomber’s face. His teeth were bared in pain and concentration as he went crawling after the fallen device. Ben watched in horror from ten yards away as his trembling hand reached out for the tiny keypad. Then his fingers were closing around the device, dragging it towards him.

Ben dived at him and punched him hard in the head. He punched him again. The man’s head lolled, spitting blood. Ben grabbed for his fingers, wrestling the thing out of his grasp.

There was a sharp yell from behind. Ben turned. A young cop was standing three yards away, panting hard, pistol wavering, sweat on his face. He motioned with the gun. Ben could see in his eyes that he was scared. Scared, but serious. He screamed a command in Hebrew.

Ben raised his hands, slowly rising to his feet.

The young cop flicked the gun towards the bomber.

But the bomber just smiled. He sat up in the dust and cocked his thumb over the SEND key.

The sequence was complete. One key-stroke and the world was going to change irrevocably.

Ben moved faster than he’d ever moved before. His elbow hit the young cop’s face at the same time that he was already grabbing for the pistol. The shot was completely instinctive. He didn’t aim.

The bullet hit the bomber’s hand in a mist of red, blowing off half his fingers. The shattered detonator dropped to the ground.

The bomber kneeled there, nursing his damaged hand, staring up at Ben open-mouthed. ‘Who
are
you?’ he croaked.

‘Nobody,’ Ben said. Then he shot him in the head.

‘Then it’s over,’ said Murdoch. ‘You honoured your end of the deal.’

Ben was sitting on the edge of his bed in the Jerusalem hotel, feeling for a part of his body that didn’t hurt. ‘And now you’ll honour yours,’ he said. He didn’t want to mention Callaghan and Slater to Murdoch. He had his own plans for them.

‘I always keep my word,’ Murdoch said. ‘We’ll take care of everything. As for you, you’re a free man. You were never here. I never even heard your name.’

The next call to make was to Alex. Ben used the number she’d called him from at Callaghan’s house. He prayed she’d answer. That she was all right.

After a dozen rings, he started at the sound of her voice.

When she heard his, she burst out crying.

‘I’m coming back,’ he told her. ‘Meet me at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock.’

He stood for a long time under a hot shower, washing away the blood and the dirt and the memories of the day. Then he grabbed his things and checked out. He made the airport in forty minutes, and within a couple of hours he was boarding a flight for Washington.

It wasn’t over yet.

Washington DC

The nineteenth day

He was back on US soil at midday. He made his way to the heart of DC and sat on the warm stone steps at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. Sunlight danced on the clear surface of the ornamental lake that stretched out in front of him. Beyond that stood the obelisk of the Washington Memorial, and beyond that, all in a straight line, the Capitol dome and seat of the US Senate.

There was no sign of Alex yet. He took out his phone, thinking about the two calls he had to make. The first was to Augusta Vale.

She sounded happy to hear from him.

‘Sorry I had to disappear like that,’ he said. ‘Something came up.’

‘I still have reporters calling me, wanting to know about the mystery shooter who stole the prize and vanished.’

‘I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Think nothing of it, Benedict. Any time you’re passing through Savannah, you must give me a call.
You will always be a most welcome guest in my home. And if there’s anything I can do for you…’

‘There is one thing. Do you have Reverend Cleaver’s number? I’d like to order a few copies of his book.’

‘Why, I’m sure he would be overjoyed to hear from you again,’ she said.

Ben dialled the number she’d given him. Cleaver sounded nervous when his secretary passed him the phone.

‘How are you, Clayton?’

‘Fine,’ Cleaver replied warily.

‘And a hundred million dollars richer?’

‘The money came through two days ago,’ Cleaver said, sounding puzzled. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Intuition,’ Ben said. ‘And I’m calling you to make a deal.’

Cleaver gulped audibly. ‘A deal? What kind of deal?’

‘Don’t panic, Clayton. I’m not going to take your money. Not all of it, anyway.’

‘That’s very generous of you.’

‘Yes, it is. So here are my terms. They aren’t negotiable. Ready?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘First, you’re going to donate a quarter of that money straight back to the Vale Trust, for the new children’s wing.’

‘Of course, I’d already thought –’ Cleaver blustered. ‘But twenty-five per cent?’

‘That’s the deal,’ Ben said. ‘Here’s the next part. I imagine once you’ve paid off the loan sharks you’re going to want to refurnish your place. Your walls still bare?’

‘Y-y-yes,’ Cleaver stammered. ‘But what –’

‘There’s a talented young modern artist in Oxford, England. Her name’s Lucy Wilde. I want you to check out her website.’

‘What the hell has that to do with me?’

‘You’re about to become a patron of the arts, Clayton. You’re going to buy up every piece of art she has for sale, and you’re going to offer her a handsome commission for more. And I’ll be checking, in case your definition of handsome is too different from mine.’

‘This is nuts,’ Cleaver protested. ‘I don’t even like modern art.’

‘Get a taste for it,’ Ben said. ‘Now here’s part three. A farmer in Montana needs some spare cash to renovate his property. Someone shot the place up a little bit. He also needs a new truck or two. I’ll be sending you his address and a bank account number to wire the money to.’

‘How much spare cash?’ Cleaver asked suspiciously.

‘Nice round figure,’ Ben said. ‘Call it a million dollars.’

There was a wheezing gasp on the other end. ‘You’re killing me, Ben.’

‘I thought about that option. But I prefer this way. Are you ready to hear the next part of the terms?’

‘Go on,’ Cleaver said wearily.

‘Good. There’s a certain Georgia lawyer who needs an operation to fix his legs.’

Cleaver exploded. ‘McClusky? You want me to pay off McClusky?’

‘That’s right,’ Ben said. ‘Some setting-up money
wouldn’t be a bad idea either, to help him open up a new practice and get started again. How about three hundred grand? Wait, let’s make it five hundred.’

Silence on the other end.

‘One more thing I want from you,’ Ben said. He paused. This was the part that mattered most to him. ‘I want a trust fund set up. One million pounds sterling.’

‘For who?’ Cleaver snorted. ‘You?’

‘For a child,’ Ben said. ‘One that isn’t born yet, but who means a lot to me. The money’s to be held in trust until the kid reaches eighteen, and then paid over in full. You’ll be hearing from a solicitor in London, who’ll set it up. You just need to sign on the line.’

He’d given it a lot of thought. He knew there was no way Rhonda would ever forgive him for what had happened, no way he could ever explain things to her. What could he do? Go making excuses, write her a note? But at least he could do this for Charlie’s kid.

‘I hope I’m making myself very clear,’ he said.

‘Oh, I understand,’ Cleaver muttered. ‘But what if I don’t feel like going along with this generous business deal of yours?’

‘I’ll be watching you, Clayton. You’ll find I’m not as forgiving as the loan sharks. I really don’t want to have to shatter Miss Vale’s illusions about you – but if I see you’re not doing what I want, rest assured I’ll be letting her know what a big huckster you are. Not only that, I’ll be on the first flight over there and by the time I’m finished you’ll be hard to tell from roadkill. And I always keep my promises.’

‘Now I suppose you’re going to tell me I have to fork out another ten million to that goddamn Zoë Bradbury,’ Cleaver groaned.

‘No, you can keep that money. I don’t think Zoë Bradbury deserves another cent from you or anyone else.’

There was a long silence on the line as Cleaver mulled over the terms. ‘I don’t have much leeway here, do I?’

‘Not a hair’s breadth.’

Cleaver let out a deep groan of defeat. ‘All right. You win. It’s a deal.’

As Ben was putting the phone away, Alex appeared. She was wearing black trousers and a burgundy leather jacket that brought out the colour of her hair. She couldn’t stop smiling when she saw him. She ran across the steps and hugged him tightly. ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’

They embraced for a moment, then parted.

‘Frank got you out?’ Ben said.

She nodded. ‘Zoë and I have been staying at his place. Lying low like you said. She’s still there.’

‘Good. She shouldn’t leave there until this is finally over. Until Slater and Callaghan are dealt with, it isn’t safe for her. Or for you, when Callaghan realises you’re still alive and a witness to everything.’

‘So what now?’

‘Now I’m going to pay a visit to Senator Bud Richmond.’

‘Not without me,’ Alex said.

Montana
10 a.m.
The twentieth day

The sleek Porsche 959 raced along the mountain road, wide tyres gripping the asphalt as it came speeding around the bend.

It screeched to a halt as the driver caught sight of the broken-down Ford that blocked the road ahead, sitting at an angle with the bonnet up.

Bud Richmond climbed out of the car, smiling at the attractive auburn-haired woman he could see bent down under the bonnet, fiddling with the oil dipstick, looking distressed. ‘Can I help, ma’am?’

‘Yes you can, Senator.’ Ben stepped out from behind the car. He aimed a gun at Richmond’s face. Alex grimly slammed the bonnet shut.

‘What’s this about?’ Richmond demanded.

‘It’s about Irving Slater,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

Forty minutes later, the senator was sitting ashen-faced in the back of the Ford after listening to Ben’s
account of Slater’s plan. Alex had played him back Zoë’s phone recording from the cellar.

‘I can’t believe what I just heard,’ Richmond said in a defeated voice.

‘You were the biggest part of Slater’s plan,’ Ben told him. ‘He’s been using you all along.’

‘Sometimes he acted strangely,’ Richmond said. ‘All those furtive little meetings, out in that cable car. I always wondered.’

‘Now you know.’

Richmond’s fists clenched. ‘I knew he had his ways. I knew he didn’t have a great opinion of me, called me a jackass behind my back. But I never once thought he would stoop to this … this abomination.’ His voice was trembling with anger. ‘Dear Lord, to think I have been allowing murderers into my midst. Agents of Satan.’ He looked up at Ben. ‘I’m just shocked. What can I say? Slater has to be brought to justice.’ Then he turned to Alex. ‘Have you informed your superiors of this yet?’

‘Nobody knows anything about this except us,’ she said.

Richmond bit his lip. ‘Callaghan and Slater must be arrested. Let me make a call.’

Ben shook his head. ‘That isn’t the plan.’

Richmond frowned in confusion. ‘Then what is?’

‘Tell me about the cable car,’ Ben said.

The Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas

Irving Slater had taken a sudden vacation when he’d heard that the Dome of the Rock was still intact. He’d been skulking incognito in his suite at the Bellagio, slugging bourbon and chewing chocolate, spending hours on the phone to his broker to talk about his options.

Worst case, he could be out of the country within a couple of hours. He’d been scouring maps of South America on the Internet. He liked the idea of Brazil. Those beaches in Rio, overflowing with foxy chicks. He could be happy there, and he could liquidate enough assets to be rich for a long time. It was a tempting escape route, if the shit hit the fan.

But as time had passed, his initial panic had subsided a little. Nothing terrible had happened. Nothing on the news. He’d been able to put his thoughts in order. OK, Hope was still alive – the trap had failed. But so what? Hope had nothing solid on him. There was nobody left alive who’d seen him at the Montana
facility. There was no evidence linking him to Callaghan, and Callaghan had covered his own tracks well. Hope might come back from Jerusalem and go to Murdoch with accusations that he’d been set up, but he couldn’t prove shit. The only real witnesses were the two bitches in Callaghan’s basement. And they wouldn’t be doing much talking to anybody. He was pretty much home and dry.

Late the next morning, he’d got a call. It was Richmond. The senator sounded agitated but happy. He said he’d had a communiqué from the White House. He’d been invited to a dinner to discuss religious policy in the Middle East. It was wonderful news. He needed Slater to come home from vacation right now to help him with his speech.

‘Meet me at the ski chalet,’ Richmond said. ‘This evening, eight o’clock.’

Slater glanced at the time, frowning. ‘I can just about make it if I leave now. But why the ski chalet?’

‘We had a tip-off,’ Richmond said. ‘The house is bugged. My office, the whole place. We’re dealing with it, but in the meantime we need to talk somewhere private.’

Slater was stunned by the development. Maybe this was a break. Maybe he could somehow use this to claw his way back to making his plan work after all. As he paced and drank, he fumed about the bugs. Who the fuck could have planted them? But it didn’t matter now.

After a rushed flight and a flustered limo ride, Slater finally made it back to Richmond’s mountain residence.
He was hot, and needed a shower. His ass ached from hours of travel.

The old ski chalet was across the mountain valley from the house, only accessible by cable car. Slater trotted up the steps leading up to the wooden control room that adjoined the house. He stepped inside the docked cable car and aimed the remote from inside at the control panel. He was just about to activate it when he heard a voice.

‘Wait.’

It was Callaghan, stepping gingerly towards the cable car.

Slater stared at him. ‘What the fuck are
you
doing here?’

‘Richmond called a meeting with me. Something about the White House.’

‘Why would Richmond want you?’

‘I don’t know. He said it was important. Where is he?’

‘Across there,’ Slater said, pointing over the valley. ‘In the ski chalet.’

Callaghan paled slightly. ‘Can’t we meet him in the house?’

‘The house is bugged.’

‘Seems strange to me,’ Callaghan said. ‘OK, if that’s how he wants it, let’s get it over with.’

Slater pointed his remote and pressed the button. Nothing. He shook it and pressed again. This time there was a loud clunk from above their heads, and the car began to glide smoothly away from the house, out into space.

Halfway across the abyss, it suddenly stopped without warning.

‘What the …’ Slater tried the remote again.

No response. ‘Battery must be dead,’ he muttered. But the green LED was working fine. His heart picked up a step.

‘If that gizmo isn’t working,’ Callaghan said with a note of panic in his voice, ‘then how are we going to get back?’

That was when the phone rang in Slater’s pocket.

From where Ben was wedged in the crook of a rock three hundred yards away, the cable car was a tiny cube dangling against the sky. He put away the remote that Richmond had given him after switching it with the dummy one that Slater was trying to use.

Slater answered the phone. ‘Senator, is that you?’ His voice was edgy and tense, tinged with worry. ‘Wrong again, Slater,’ Ben said into the Bluetooth headset he was wearing.

Silence on the line. ‘Who is this?’

‘Look to your left,’ Ben said. ‘If your eyes are very keen, you’ll see me. I’m the speck on the mountain.’

‘Hope?’

‘You’re probably wondering how this happened,’ Ben said. ‘Tell the truth, I can’t be bothered explaining it to you. It’s a need-to-know thing. And dead men don’t need to know.’

‘Don’t do this,’ Slater stammered. ‘I have a lot of money. I’ll make you rich.’

‘It wasn’t a bad plan,’ Ben said. ‘You’re a clever guy.
Callaghan too. And that was a smart move of his, erasing you from the CIA database.’ As he talked, he was undoing the straps on the padded rifle case next to him. He slid the weapon out. It was the Remington rifle that Bud Richmond’s father had given him for his twenty-first birthday. It had never been fired. He unzipped the ammunition compartment and took out five of the long, conical.308 cartridges. He pressed them one at a time into the magazine, then worked the bolt. He settled in behind the rifle. Through the scope he could clearly make out the system of pulleys and wires on the cable car roof.

Slater must have heard the metallic noises over the phone. ‘I work for a US senator,’ he protested in a panic. ‘You can’t kill me.’

‘I’ve got a message for you from the jackass,’ Ben said.

‘What? What the –’

‘You’re fired.’

He snapped off the safety and took aim, ignoring the cries of panic from his headset.

He never even felt the trigger give. The butt of the weapon kicked against his shoulder.

Three hundred yards away, the cable parted. The ends thrashed wildly. Pulleys spun. The cable car lurched and fell ten feet, then was jerked to a stop by what was left of the wire.

Inside, Slater and Callaghan were screaming, hammering like lunatics at the windows, scrabbling desperately on the tilted floor.

Ben calmly worked the bolt, found his mark and
fired again. The echo of the gunshot rolled and whooshed around the mountain valley.

The cable car seemed to hang in mid-air for an instant as the cable gave. Then it dropped like a stone. It fell nearly a thousand feet before it hit the first crag. It burst apart. Wreckage tumbled down the mountainside. Somewhere among the hurtling, bouncing debris were the tiny matchstick figures of Slater and Callaghan as they fell screaming down to the rocks a few hundred feet further down.

By the time their bodies had hit the bottom, Ben was already packing up the rifle. He slung the case over his shoulder and started making his way down the mountainside.