by Jeff Gulvin
‘The first of those four kingdoms or empires was Babylon itself, which came to power in 606 BC after it had conquered Egypt. It became a world kingdom when Nebuchadnezzar took over from his father after he died. In 530 BC, the Babylonians were conquered by what was then the Median-Persian Empire. This was the second beast in Daniel’s dream. The third was the ancient Greek Empire, installed by Alexander the Great in 331 BC. See how the prophetic line becomes a reality?’ Again, he swept the congregation with penetrating eyes and they seemed to alight on Harrison. ‘It was also predicted that the third kingdom would be split into four—the four wings on its back? Well, after Alexander, four of his generals divided the empire and it lasted in that way until it was finally conquered by the Romans in 68 BC.’ Salvesen paused to dampen his lips with his tongue. ‘The fourth kingdom was Rome. If you read on in chapter seven, my friends, you’ll see how that fourth kingdom ruled the whole world until the time of the Lord’s return. “Behold, he cometh with the clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him.”’
His voice was low and controlled, but the power in it seemed to reverberate round the whole church. Harrison could feel the hairs lifting on the nape of his neck. He squinted at those around him. Every eye was rooted on Jakob Salvesen. Right now, Harrison thought, you could make them do anything you wanted.
‘But how, I hear you ask, can this be?’ Salvesen went on. ‘The Roman Empire fell apart. It took a long time, but by AD 400, hordes of barbarians sacked the city. That was sixteen hundred years ago, near as makes no difference. And yet—here it is in God’s living word that the Roman Empire, the fourth kingdom as prophesied by Daniel, will be in power just before the Lord’s return.’ He leaned on the pulpit then and looked at them. ‘Well, let me tell you, my friends, that fourth kingdom is alive and well as we speak. It’s already been resurrected and right now it’s taking its final form. And I shall tell you something else—in the last days of this world, America will have no place. She will cease to be the pre-eminent power in world affairs. Like the first Rome, she will have fallen apart from within. She will have suffered from every conceivable degradation and depravity known to man. We see it every day of our lives. We see it in the government. We see it in the one-world religion seekers, the one-world government seekers. We see it in rights for homosexuals, for lesbians, and those who dish out abortion like Hershey bars. We see it in federal laws which strip the common man of what he, by virtue of the God-given constitution, was born to. Brother will turn against brother. Children will rise up against their parents. Drugs, gangs, gang rapes, drive-by shootings. The removal of prayer from school. Did you know there’s an organization in this country working to take Gideon Bibles from hotel rooms?
‘Heed my words, my friends, the United States of America is going the way of Rome. And in its place—a new Rome, the Rome that Charlemagne tried to put back together, the Rome that Napoleon Bonaparte tried to put back together, the Rome that Adolf Hitler tried to put back together. This isn’t my opinion, friends. This isn’t just old Jake Salvesen shooting off at the lip.’ He stabbed the Bible with a forefinger. ‘It’s here. It’s here in black and white. It’s what I’ve been warning against for years.’ He stopped then and looked at them. ‘That is my word to you tonight. That is my word across this country to the good people of America, to my friends in Montana and Kansas, Texas and Missouri and Nebraska; South Dakota and back east there in Delaware. It’s my word to you in Washington D.C., if you hear me, to you on Capitol Hill; and you, sir, in the White House. Yes, sir. This is my word to you. I tell you, our day is all but over and the coming times …’ His voice softened then. ‘Well, the coming times are upon us.’
After the service Harrison got up to leave. He stood for a moment with his hat in his hands and then walked outside. The sun was sinking and he was thirsty.
‘Harrison, isn’t it?’
He stopped, squared his hat on his head and looked back. Jakob Salvesen was standing in the doorway of the church, his white suit gleaming like gold in the evening sunshine.
‘That’s my name.’
Salvesen walked down the path to him, a big man, bearlike, towering over Harrison. They looked at one another, not so different in age, but from completely different worlds.
‘Not seen you in my church before,’ Salvesen said.
‘I listen on the radio sometimes.’
‘Why tonight?’
Harrison scratched his head. ‘Well, that I can’t answer for you, sir.’ He looked Salvesen in the eye.
‘God works in mysterious ways.’
‘So they tell me.’ Harrison took a Marlboro from his shirt pocket and scraped his thumb over a match. The smoke drifted in Salvesen’s face. Jesse had come to the door and Bill Slusher with him. They eyed Harrison suspiciously.
‘So, you’re just waiting for it all to go bang, are ya,’ Harrison said. ‘That why you live up on the hill in that old fort of yours?’
Salvesen’s eyes darkened. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, belly thrust forward, moustache twitching. ‘Just minding my property, Mr Harrison, like any other American.’
‘I guess.’ Harrison had the urge to spit, but he fought it.
‘Will we see you next Sunday?’
‘Well.’ Harrison looked into the sun and scratched the tattoo on his arm. ‘You never know, Mr Salvesen. You just never know.’ He fixed his hat then and walked off down the road. He could feel Salvesen’s eyes on him, Jesse’s and Slusher’s, too. Halfway to the bar he stopped and looked back. Townsfolk were still milling about in front of the church, but Salvesen was looking at him. Harrison took a tin of chew from his jeans pocket and pressed a fingerful under his lip. He sucked and spat and walked into the Silver Dollar.
Police Constables Walker and Jennings were patrolling the A68 just south of Broomhaugh, when the call went out to any car in the area. Disturbance at Healey Hall Farm. Jennings lifted his radio to his lips.
‘Control from five/six, we’re at Broomhaugh now. What’ve you got?’
‘Possible break-in. Can you attend?’
‘On our way.’
They hit the blue light, sped along the moorland road, with the land rising on one side and falling away on the other. ‘Where is it?’ Walker asked.
‘Next right.’
They came to the entrance and turned off. The farmyard was deserted, but the front door of the house stood open. Walker and Jennings got out of the car and looked at one another.
They went up to the door and Walker pushed it back on its hinges. A light wind was blowing from the north and the door creaked as it swung back. The house was in silence, no sound, no movement from anywhere. They looked at one another.
‘Hello?’ Jennings called. ‘Anyone at home?’
Silence. He called again. ‘This is the police. Is anyone here?’
Walker laid a hand on the radiator in the hallway; it was warm. He made a face and wandered into the kitchen. The remains of a meal was still stuck to dishes piled in the sink. He felt the kettle, but it was cold. They went through to the lounge, the dining room and the large study at the back. Nobody. Jennings stood at the bottom of the stairs, a hand on the banister, and called out once more. Again he received no answer. They started up the stairs. Clothes were strewn across the unmade bed in the master bedroom, a stereo system standing on the dressing table. The wardrobe doors were open and clothes hung from the rails. They moved on to the second bedroom and it looked as though it had been inhabited, sheets on the bed, a little rumpled. The wardrobe doors stood wide, but it was empty. The chest of drawers looked as though somebody had cleared it recently, empty drawers only half pushed in.
Downstairs again, they checked the other rooms and came to the closed door to the shower room. Walker swung it back and saw the plastic bin liner in the corner. He bent and checked the contents—a rubber respirator. He narrowed his eyes, looked again and recognized the bundle of green cloth and ru
bber boots. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. He stood up then and sniffed. Nothing. The shower-head still dripped water.
Out in the hall, Jennings had the cellar door open and was shining his torch downstairs. Walker touched him on the shoulder. ‘There’s a chemical warfare suit back there.’
‘What?’
‘An NBC suit.’
‘You sure?’
‘Course I’m sure. I’ve worn the fucking things.’
Jennings looked at him and then started down the steps to the cellar. Rows and rows of wine bottles. He whistled. ‘Christ, Len. There must be a fortune down here.’ They moved between the bottles and then came to the inner passage door.
‘Who owns this place?’ Walker asked him.
‘I don’t know, man. Some big noise in London.’
Walker tried the passage door. It was stiff, but it opened. He noticed the foam lining on the outer skin. Jennings shone his torch. ‘Secret bloody passage.’
They moved on and came to the steps which led up to the trap door. Walker could feel his heart beating. Jennings lifted the door and it sucked air through the foam. They climbed into the first workshop. Benches, tools. They looked at the second door. It opened again with a stiffness and Walker frowned. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Something was very wrong. They saw more benches, only this time they were littered with an array of electrical items.
Walker moved to the bench and saw two PP3 batteries, electrical wiring and liquid-crystal clocks. Two black and grey plastic boxes and, individually wrapped in polythene, four Iraco detonators.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘We’re out of here.’
‘What about the other door?’ Jennings indicated the final one.
Walker looked at the insulation foam round the edge. ‘Don’t open it.’
He led the way back to the house and then out into the yard, where they crossed the concrete to the outside door of the third workshop. Walker could see that it was sealed with mastic. There was no window at the front, so they made their way round the back and came to a small, grimy-glassed aperture. Walker moved up close and cupped his hand against the window. He could see a man lying on the floor in a green NBC suit, one hand clutching what looked like a length of pipe. Beside him was a discarded respirator. His face was pink and bloated, blood covering his lips and tongue. His eyes looked as though they had burst.
‘Oh my God,’ he breathed. ‘What is it?’ Jennings pushed to see. Walker was already on his way back to the car.
‘Whatever you do, don’t try to get in,’ he said.
‘What is it, man? What is it?’ Jennings was following him across the farmyard.
Walker called over his shoulder. ‘You remember that trouble with PIRA?’
‘Aye. Course I do.’
‘This is ten times worse.’
At the car, Walker picked up the radio. ‘Control from five/six.’
‘Go ahead five/six.’
‘Healey Farm. We’ve got some kind of terrorist incident. There’s batteries and detonators and stuff like that in a workshop.’
‘OK. We’ll—’
‘Hang on a minute. It gets worse. We’ve got a fatality and it looks like some kind of chemical.’
The control room called Superintendent Gooding, the senior duty officer, and told him what they had.
‘Right,’ Gooding said. ‘Implement major incident procedure and get the cordons in quickly.’ He put the phone down and dialled Scotland Yard. ‘I want to talk to your Antiterrorist Branch.’
Jack Swann was talking to Julian Moore in the Special Branch ops room. Moore was just back from Brighton, the surveillance on Oxley and Bacon cancelled. The line to the communications room rang. ‘SO13 Reserve. DS Swann.’
‘Swann, this is PSU Gooding, senior duty officer at Ponteland, Northumberland. We’ve got a problem here.’ He told him what they had and Swann felt a chill brush his spine.
‘Right. We’ll be there. You got cordons in?’
‘Of course.’
‘Any explosives?’
‘We’ve found detonators and batteries.’
‘OK. I’ll come back to you.’ Swann put the phone down, then dialled Colson’s office.
‘Northumberland, sir,’ he told him. ‘Chemical incident at Healey Hall Farm.’
Colson glanced at the map on his wall. ‘OK, Jack. Get the CAD and we’ll move.’
Colson hung up, then dialled the Meteorological Office. ‘This is the Antiterrorist Branch, Scotland Yard. Which way is the wind blowing and at what speed?’
‘Right now?’ the voice came back. ‘From the northeast, at about fifteen miles an hour.’
Upstairs, the computer-aided dispatch was pumping through the printer in front of Jack Swann, when the phone rang again.
‘Colson, Jack. The wind speed is fifteen mph, blowing from the north-east.’
‘Right, sir.’ Swann hung up and dialled the Chemical and Biological Research Establishment at Porton Down in Wiltshire.
‘Duty officer, please.’
‘Speaking.’
‘Jack Swann. SO13. We’ve got a chemical incident in Northumberland.’
‘Substance?’
‘Not known.’
‘Wind speed?’
‘Fifteen mph from the north-east.’
‘OK. Without knowing exactly what you’ve got, persistency etc., I can’t confirm a downwind hazard. Initial evacuation, one mile upwind and four miles down, funnelling two to four. But that might change.’
‘I understand.’
‘Can you give me the exact location, please?’
‘It’s Healey Hall Farm. We’ll give you a grid reference in the air.’
When Swann hung up he called Gooding back. ‘Right, sir,’ he said. ‘Everything’s rolling here. Evacuation radius, one mile upwind, four downwind, and two rising to four either side of the farm. That may change when we’ve had a chance to assess. Where’s the nearest army base?’
‘Catterick.’
‘You’ll need them. Perimeter guard. What about 11 EOD?’
‘What?’
‘Bomb-disposal team. If there’s explosives there, you’re going to need an ATO.’
Gooding paused.
‘Bomb man, sir. Ammunitions technical officer.’
‘Of course. We’re on it, Swann.’
‘We’ll see you when we get there, then. Porton Down scientists are on their way. They’re flying direct from Wiltshire. They’ll need a map reference. I’ve told them, you’ll give it to them in the air. Call sign Foxtrot Unicorn two/five/zero. Repeat, Foxtrot Unicorn two/five/zero.’
16
IT WAS FOUR-THIRTY in the afternoon by the time they arrived at the rendezvous point, established on the northern side of the outer cordon, upwind of the farm. Soldiers were everywhere, armed and spread out at intervals around the perimeter line. The scientists had been there for well over an hour and were already down at the farm. Webb rendezvoused with PSU Gooding.
‘Explosives?’ he asked.
Gooding shook his head. ‘We’ve had an EOD officer check. There are explosives there but only a small quantity of Semtex. No improvised explosive device.’
‘OK.’ Webb looked at the soldiers. Already a tent city was appearing above the perimeter line on the flat of the moors.
‘Evacuation?’
‘Done. So far, we’ve not been told to increase it.’
The breeze blew from the north, tugging the grass into knots. It ruffled Webb’s hair and he looked back at Tania.
‘DRA coming or not—d’you know, Tania?’ he asked.
‘Jane’s flying up, I think.’
An army truck was sitting with its engine running, waiting to take those required into the inner cordon and the changing station. Webb showed his ID to the driver and they climbed into the back.
The truck dropped them at the forward control point to the north of the inner cordon and ‘dirty line’. Beyond that point, everyone was dressed in full NBC gear, complete with mask and res
pirator. Three clear-plastic inflatable tents had been erected for the three stages of decontamination, hosepipe showers hanging in lines from hooks attached to the ceiling. No cubicles, just duckboard to walk on. The water would drain from the troughs and run through a single pipe to a pit that was already being dug by twin JCB excavators.
Separate from the decontamination tents, on the other side of the control point, two more were set up for people to change into NBC suits. Webb set down his boxes and looked for the scene commander. He could see a number of people at the farmhouse and he assumed they would be from Porton Down. Their helicopter had been squatting on a flat piece of moorland, just above the rendezvous point. The scene commander was a major from Catterick. He introduced himself as Peter Carter.
‘Antiterrorist Branch?’ he said.
‘Briggs and Webb. Any idea what we’ve got yet?’
Carter shook his head. ‘The scientists are in there now.’
Webb glanced about them. Land-Rovers were patrolling the dirty line south of the farm and well into the downwind hazard. The sky overhead was cloudy, grey and black in patches as the daylight gradually faded. A Lynx helicopter buzzed above their heads. He looked back at Carter. ‘The wind’s lifted.’
‘I know.’
‘Have they said anything about increasing the downwind hazard?’
Carter shook his head.
‘What about the press?’
‘No one’s tried to break the line just yet.’
‘Now, there’s a first.’
‘There’s five hundred soldiers here, Webb. They’ve all got guns.’
They stood outside the first of the plastic tents, both holding their warrant cards. ‘Exhibits officers,’ Webb told the corporal in charge. ‘Antiterrorist Branch.’
‘Right.’ The corporal pointed to some benches set out on the far side of the tent. ‘Change there and put your clothes in a bin. There’s tape on them. Make sure you mark your name.’