The Doomsday Prophecy

Chapter Fifty-Eight

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.