The Doomsday Prophecy (30 page)

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.

Now she was seriously perplexed. What was going on here? She wished she could call Murdoch at Langley. Stupid,
stupid
, to have left her phone behind.

The Beetle’s dashboard clock was approaching 11 a.m. and the fuel gauge needle was beginning to dip worryingly into the red when the GMC finally pulled off the road. Trailing sixty yards behind, Alex saw the brake lights come on as it lurched onto an overgrown forest track, splashing through puddles. She followed cautiously.

The GMC bumped and bounced down the track until it came to a pair of tall iron gates half-hidden behind ferns. The rain was lashing down now.

Alex killed the Beetle’s engine and coasted the final few yards, gently halting the car behind the cover of some bushes. She climbed out into the downpour and hid in the side of the lane, watching as one of the agents got out, walked up to the gates and undid a padlock. Chains rattled loose. The agent creaked the gate open and the car drove through.

Seconds later she heard screams.

Zoë’s voice.

No phone, no weapon. Alex had never felt so naked. She crept through the bushes a few feet, careful not to snap any twigs. Her hair and clothes were quickly soaked from the rain, sticking to her skin. She peered through the foliage. Beyond the gate was a large, sprawling house. It looked like some kind of hunting lodge, expensive, secluded. The gardens were overgrown, as though the place were used only occasionally.

Callaghan’s men were dragging Zoë out of the GMC and towards the house. Callaghan led the way. He opened the door, and the men hauled Zoë inside, kicking and screaming. Then the door closed.

Alex’s heart was thudding hard and fast. She checked her watch. It was 11.09 a.m. She tried to figure out where they were.

Alex crept through the open gate and moved quickly across the overgrown garden, moving carefully through the trees and shrubs to avoid being seen from the house’s many leaded windows.

She crept right up to the house. Her heart was in her throat. She listened. There was nothing.

And then there was the click of a pistol hammer being cocked, and the hard metal of it to the back of her head.

‘Careless,’ said a man’s voice she’d never heard before. ‘You were following them. But I was following you.’

She risked a glance behind her. The man with the gun was slightly built, expensively dressed with a long black raincoat over his suit. His hair was gingery red. There was a twinkle of humour in his eyes. Rain pounded off the canopy of his umbrella.

‘You’re Slater,’ she said.

‘And you must be Agent Fiorante. I’ve heard all about you.’

The realisation was dizzying.
Callaghan and Slater
. The whole time, they’d been in it together.

He twitched the gun barrel. ‘Move. Keep your hands raised. Lower them and you’re dead.’

Alex walked. He prodded her inside the house. It was sombre inside. Dark wood panelling glistened dully in the darkness. A stone fireplace was filled with old ashes and blackened logs. The heads of animal trophies stared down from the walls, eyes glazed, spiky antlers and curled horns casting weird shadows. She shivered, dripping water across the flagstones.

Footsteps echoed up the hallway and a door crashed open. Callaghan strode in. His face was twisted in fury. Three more men filled the doorway behind him, pistols drawn.

‘Surprise visitor,’ Slater said.

Callaghan stared at her. ‘That was smart of you, Fiorante. But there’s a fine line between smart and dumb, and you just crossed it.’ He motioned to the other men. ‘Frisk her.’

They searched her roughly, but carefully. ‘She’s clean.’

Alex brushed wet hair from her face and glared defiantly at Callaghan. ‘What have you done with Zoë?’

Callaghan smiled. ‘You want to go meet her? Be my guest.’

Alex was dragged down a twisty, shady corridor by the agents as Callaghan and Slater led the way. There was a heavy iron-studded door in an alcove at the bottom of the passage, down some steps. Callaghan took a long iron key out of his pocket and unlocked it. He jerked the door open and the agents shoved Alex inside. She tumbled down a flight of stone steps and landed hard on a concrete cellar floor. She tasted blood on her lips as she staggered to her feet.

Slater casually descended the steps towards her, that twinkle in his eye. He stopped halfway down and leaned on the iron stair rail. ‘What a shame,’ he said, eyeing her up and down. ‘She’s so nice.’

Alex heard sobbing behind her. She turned. Zoë was slumped against the wall in the shadows. Her face was wet with tears and there was a cut over her eye. Alex went over to her and held her. ‘You bastards,’ she hissed at them.

Callaghan walked down the steps and stood next to Slater. ‘I guess this is where we part ways, ladies.’ He reached into his coat and drew out a Glock 9mm.
He pointed it at Zoë, then swivelled it to aim at Alex. Alex refused to flinch. No way would she show him fear.

Zoë whimpered, clutching her hand.

‘Fuck you,’ Alex said.

‘I really like this woman,’ Slater said. ‘She’s feisty. Shame I can’t get to know her better.’

‘She’s a pest. And pests get eradicated.’ Callaghan squinted down the sights, getting ready to fire.

‘Wait,’ Slater said.

Callaghan lowered the gun impatiently. ‘What?’

‘Don’t shoot them.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t shoot them. I have a better idea.’ Slater grinned. ‘How often do you come out here?’

‘Not as often as I’d like,’ Callaghan said. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Say, once every four, five months?’

‘In a quiet year.’

‘This a quiet year?’

‘This is a crazy year.’

‘Well, how about we just shut these two up down here and come back in six months or so to see how they’re getting on?’

Callaghan made a face. ‘There’s going to be a hell of a stink down here.’

Slater shook his head. ‘I never told you about my dog, did I? I had this retriever, when I was a kid. It was OK for a while, but then I got tired of the damn thing, so I shut it up in a basement to see what would happen. Took a pretty long time to die, actually. But I
can tell you that the stink dies off after a while, once the rats have eaten most of the meat away. Maggots take their share, then the body fluids all dry up. You’re left with kind of a dried-out husk.’

‘You’re a sick bastard,’ Alex said.

‘I like it,’ Callaghan said. ‘What do you think, ladies? Give you some time to get to know one another better. You might even try digging your way out. Only the foundations go down awfully deep and we’re built on solid bedrock here.’

‘It’ll give you something to do while you’re dying,’ Slater said with a grin. He checked his watch. ‘We’d better move. The senator’s plane is waiting for me.’

Alex scowled at him. ‘Senator?’

Slater’s grin widened. ‘Who did you think was bankrolling this thing, the Salvation Army?’

Alex blinked in disbelief. ‘A US senator is behind this?’

‘Oh, it’s not like he even knows about it,’ Slater said. ‘Bud Richmond’s just a rich boy evangelist jackass who barely knows what day of the week it is. I sign the cheques, not him. He might be the one being set up to lead the faithful, but this is my operation.’

‘What the fuck are you people doing?’ Alex yelled up at them.

Slater shrugged. ‘I hate the idea of a beautiful woman like you dying in ignorance. We’re just about to open the curtain on the biggest show on earth, though unfortunately you won’t be around to witness it. We aim big, and we’re starting big. Something that’ll make the Corfu bombing look like a firecracker.’

Then he told her what it was, clearly enjoying the look on her face as she listened in horror.

‘You’re mad,’ she breathed. ‘You’re completely insane.’

‘Just moving things along, Agent Fiorante,’ Callaghan said. ‘Don’t think of it as our agenda. This is God’s plan. If it leads to war, then that’s the way God wants it to be.’

‘Though personally, you can keep the God bit,’ Slater added. ‘Callaghan is the religious nut here.’

The CIA agent threw him a hard look.

‘You can’t get away with it,’ Alex protested. ‘They’re expecting Zoë to turn up in England. When she doesn’t, alarm bells will be ringing.’

Callaghan smiled and shook his head. ‘Wrong again. They’re not expecting her any more.’

‘They made me call my parents from the car,’ Zoë sniffed. ‘Made me tell them I’d met someone and wouldn’t be back for a while.’

‘And they’re pretty used to that, aren’t they?’ Callaghan added.

‘Then Murdoch will notice I’m missing,’ Alex said. ‘Either way, this will come back on you.’

‘Listen, honey,’ Slater cut in. ‘By the time anybody cottons on to anything, the world will be a very different place. They’ll have more to worry about than you two.’

‘You can kill us,’ Alex said evenly. ‘But Ben Hope will be coming for you.’

Slater and Callaghan exchanged amused glances. ‘Nice sense of timing, Agent Fiorante,’ said Callaghan. ‘Because right now it’s coming up to 11.25 a.m. That’s

6.25 p.m. Israeli time. Your boyfriend is walking into
a trap, right as we speak. In five minutes, he’ll be dead.’

Slater chuckled. ‘Have a nice time, girls.’

The two men turned and headed back up the cellar steps. Then the heavy door slammed shut and Alex and Zoë were left in darkness.

The Jewish Quarter, Jerusalem
6.29 p.m. Israeli time

Ben found the crumbling old apartment building at the end of a narrow, cobbled alleyway. The street was quiet. A woman in traditional headgear saw him coming and retreated hurriedly through a doorway. He looked at his watch. Dead on time.

He checked the notebook again as he stepped into the cool shade of the apartment building. His footsteps echoed off the stone floor and the craggy walls as he climbed the stairs, glancing at the numbers on the doors.

It was a very ordinary abode. A sleeper working for an agency like the CIA needed to blend in totally with their environment, indistinguishable in their lifestyle from any normal member of the community. Sometimes their spouses were completely in the dark about their double life. They were usually people from an unassuming background, who would never attract the attentions of the police or other authorities. Their role
was to gather low-grade intelligence, sometimes to act as messengers or assist more senior agents on missions in their area.

Ben came to the apartment number he’d been given and knocked on the door. He listened. There was no sound from inside. He checked his watch. He was right on time for the rendezvous. He knocked again.

The door opened. The man in the doorway was lean and hawklike, with cropped black hair and a thick beard, casually dressed in jeans and a white shirt. His eyes were dark and intense. ‘Mr Hope?’

Ben nodded.

‘Come this way,’ the man said, motioning him inside.

Ben followed him into a living room. The place was small and sparsely furnished, the walls bare and white. They’d clearly been expecting him. On a table was a slim card file, the bottom edge of some papers visible. Next to the file was a Heckler & Koch 9mm pistol, action locked open, and a loaded magazine. On a nearby couch was a disassembled sniper rifle with silencer and scope. ‘
If this comes to a sniper-
counter-
sniper situation
,’ Murdoch had said.

‘Callaghan told me you had something for me,’ Ben said.

‘That is correct,’ the man answered with a mysterious smile. ‘Something important. But first, you will take coffee?’

‘I don’t have time for coffee.’

The man smiled again. ‘You are right. You do not.’

The movement was sudden and violent. Ben felt the wind of the attacker rushing up behind him before he
could react. Something flashed in front of his face. He instinctively raised his hands to defend himself. The garrotte bit harshly into his fingers. Ben desperately tried to wrench it away, but the attacker was powerful, dragging him backwards off his feet. The wire sliced through his flesh. He kicked and struggled.

The bearded man was smiling. He slowly reached for the gun on the table.

Ben was fighting for his life. The man with the garrotte twisted and sawed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a door open. Another man walked in, holding a long, curved knife.

The trap was sprung. Callaghan had lured him to his death.

Then he’d die fighting. He threw himself down to the floor. The strangler went down with him, tightening the wire even more. Ben could feel himself choking. He lashed out with his foot, kicking out in a wide arc over his body. It connected with the guy’s face. Suddenly the garrotte was loosening.

The knife guy was moving in closer.

Ben rolled across the floor and threw a sideways kick at the knifeman’s knee. Hit the joint sideways with brutal force and felt the crunch. The guy screamed and dropped the blade to the floor.

Then Ben was on his feet. He grabbed the strangler’s hair and drove a knee hard into his face. Whirling round, he delivered a web-hand strike to the knifeman’s throat that crushed his windpipe. Then he spun back round to the strangler, putting all his weight into a backwards elbow blow to the face that impacted hard
and smashed his teeth down his throat. The guy crashed to the floor, rolling on his back. Ben stamped down on his neck. Blood spurted out of his mouth.

The bearded man was fumbling with the gun, slamming in the magazine and chambering the first round. He raised the pistol and fired. The report was deafening in the small room. Ben felt the shockwave of the bullet. Plaster stung his cheek as the shot ploughed into the wall six inches from his head. Ben tore a picture frame from the wall and hurled it. It spun sideways across the room and caught the man’s wrist. Glass splintered. The man cried out and dropped the gun. Ben threw himself at him, punching and gouging. The man was quick. A grab of the wrist, a twist of the body and Ben was flying through the air. He landed on a glass-topped coffee table and crashed right through it. Then the man was on top of him, a knee hard in his chest and raining blows down on him. Ben lashed out with his foot and caught him in the solar plexus, sending him flying back. But the man recovered his feet in a backward roll and was closing in again.

The fight was fast and furious. Strike, block, strike, block, a blur of fists. Ben drove a hard punch into his throat. The man staggered back a pace, but he had an iron grip on Ben’s arm and used it to send him spinning into a corner bookcase. Ben crashed hard into it and it collapsed on top of him. Books and broken glass and bits of shattered shelving everywhere. Ben grabbed a hardback volume and sprang to his feet.

The man was running at him again, unstoppable. Ben rammed the book edge-on into his face. Blood
sprayed from burst lips. He followed the blow up with an elbow strike, felt the solid impact. The man screamed, his face covered in blood now. He went down. Ben was straight on him. He grabbed a fistful of hair and dashed his head against the floor. And again. And again.

Suddenly Ben could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. The distraction made him hesitate for quarter of a second too long. The man twisted up and fought back like an animal, scratching and pummelling wildly. They rolled across the floor, locked together. Then the man’s scrabbling hand was on the fallen gun. The muzzle swayed up, its small black eye staring right into Ben’s. He desperately grappled for it, fingers clawing at the cool steel. The muzzle twisted away. It was a contest of pure strength now, whoever could gain control of the weapon.

Then the gunshot blasted through the wrecked room.