The Doomsday Prophecy

Chapter Sixty-Six

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.