The Doomsday Prophecy

by Scott Mariani

  It was over. Ben quietly packed Carl’s Winchester into its case and gave it back to him. The young guy took it in his good hand, still grinning through his pain.

  Back at the cordon, Miss Vale embraced Ben warmly. ‘I thought I was going to faint with tension,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Someone had better drive Carl to the hospital now,’ Ben said. He felt a presence beside him and looked down to see the petite figure of Maggie, gazing at him admiringly. ‘I’ll take him,’ she volunteered. ‘I think Andy already left. He felt bad about what happened.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Thanks. Good to have met you, Maggie.’ He turned to Carl. ‘You take care.’

  ‘Man, I still can’t believe what I just saw,’ Carl said as Maggie took his elbow. As she led the young guy away towards the parking field, she smiled back over her shoulder at Ben.

  Miss Vale was hanging onto his arm, gushing praise. Ben just smiled graciously. Then the ref stepped up. ‘You have to come and collect your award,’ he said to Ben. ‘The press are waiting for you.’

  ‘Later,’ Ben replied. He was searching the crowd. The space where Cleaver had been standing before was empty. ‘Where’s Clayton?’ he asked Miss Vale.

  ‘He had a phone call to make. Some pressing matter he just remembered. He’s gone back to the house.’

  ‘I’ll see you afterwards,’ Ben said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Clayton and I have some business to discuss.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Up close, the Cleaver house was impressively grand, with a neo-classical façade and tall white stone columns. Ben marched up the steps to the front entrance, walked straight in and found himself in a hallway. It could have been as opulent as Augusta Vale’s, but it had the look of a place that had seen better times.

  A woman darted out of a doorway. She looked like staff, maybe a housekeeper or a PA. She saw him and her eyes widened.

  ‘Where’s Cleaver?’ he demanded.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. But the nervous glance up the winding staircase behind her told him what he wanted to know. He shouldered past her and went striding up the stairs, two at a time, ignoring her protests. Finding himself on a long galleried landing he started throwing open every door he came to.

  The fourth door he opened revealed Cleaver at the far end of a room sitting at his desk. Ben slammed the door behind him and walked inside. He glanced around him and saw he was in a study. There wasn’t much furniture in the place, and blank spaces on the walls where paintings had once hung. The room had a sad look about it. Obviously Cleaver had yet to collect his share of the Vale fortune.

  Cleaver stood up, a little shaky. There was a bottle of bourbon and a glass in front of him.

  ‘Time for our little talk,’ Ben said. ‘Had you forgotten?’

  Cleaver sank back down into the leather desk chair. Ben sat on the edge of the desk, two feet away from him.

  The door burst open, and two big guys in suits came rushing in. They saw Ben and tensed, ready for trouble. ‘Everything OK, sir?’

  ‘Send them away,’ Ben said. ‘Or be responsible for what happens to them.’

  Cleaver waved his hand at them. ‘It’s all right. Everything’s under control.’

  The men shot lingering looks at Ben as they filed out and shut the door behind them.

  ‘You’re no theology student,’ Cleaver said.

  ‘I am. But I wasn’t always. We all have our secrets, Clayton. And you’re going to tell me yours.’

  ‘Or?’

  Ben reached into the canvas bag and drew out the .475 Linebaugh. He pointed it at Cleaver’s chest. ‘You just watched me take out the centre of the target at a thousand yards. I’m not going to miss you from here.’

  ‘All right,’ Cleaver said. ‘Let’s talk.’

  ‘Where’s Zoë Bradbury?’

  ‘I really couldn’t answer that.’

  ‘Think hard. You can still talk with no legs.’

  ‘I mean what I said. I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Don’t test me,’ Ben said. ‘Not wise.’

  ‘What is it you think I’ve done?’

  ‘She was blackmailing you. You decided you didn’t want to pay.’

  ‘I did pay,’ Cleaver protested. ‘I paid the money without hesitation. And I’ll pay the rest, when I get it. Just like I said I would. I’m a man of my word.’

  Ben raised the pistol to the level of Cleaver’s head and cocked it. The metallic clunk filled the silence of the room.

  Cleaver’s brow beaded with sweat as he stared down the muzzle of the revolver. ‘She’s in trouble, right? Something’s happened to her?’

  ‘You’re asking me that?’

  ‘I never laid a finger on her,’ Cleaver insisted. Panic was edging into his voice. ‘All I did was get some of my guys to follow her.’

  ‘All the way to Greece. I know the rest.’

  Cleaver frowned. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I’m tired of games.’

  ‘You said Greece. What’s Greece got to do with anything?’

  ‘Greece is where you planted the bomb to kill Charlie Palmer,’ Ben said. ‘Where you had your agents murder Nikos Karapiperis and snatch Zoë. Let me tell you something. Kaplan and Hudson are dead.’

  There was a look of blank incomprehension on Cleaver’s face.

  ‘And I saw what your people did to Skid McClusky’s legs,’ Ben added.

  Cleaver held up his hands. ‘Hold on. You are making one big mistake here. I never heard of any Kaplan and Hudson, or Charlie Palmer or Nikos whatever. I don’t know anything about Skid McClusky’s legs. The only place I sent my guys was round to Augusta’s to spy on that little brat screwing around.’

  Ben hesitated. When you pointed a gun at someone who wasn’t used to it, and you showed you were serious about firing it, what generally came out was the truth. Cleaver had the look of a man who was genuinely frightened and sincerely spilling out his heart to save his life. Yet what he was saying seemed impossible. ‘What are you talking about, Cleaver?’

  ‘Look, can you just take that gun away,’ Cleaver said. ‘I can’t talk with a goddamn gun in my face.’

  Ben uncocked the revolver and lowered it a little.

  Cleaver cleared his throat and took a long sip of his bourbon. He paused to wipe the sweat off his brow.

  ‘Tell me exactly what’s been happening,’ Ben said.

  Cleaver gave a deep sigh. ‘You know about the money I’m getting from Augusta. I don’t know how you know, and I won’t ask.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Augusta has an awful lot of money,’ Cleaver said. ‘She’s a billionaire. Now, she’s a fine Christian lady and she offered me that hundred million out of the kindness of her heart. But she doesn’t just give it away. She can’t. Most of it’s tied up in holdings and trusts and real estate. It isn’t like there’s some bottomless pit of dollar bills that she can dip into whenever she wants.’

  ‘And so, when Zoë Bradbury turned up again, you were scared she might change her mind.’

  ‘Damn right I was scared,’ Cleaver said angrily. ‘That girl is the most cunning and manipulative little bitch I’ve ever had the misfortune to know. One minute I’m about to get all this money, the next here’s this spoiled brat from England dropping hints about funding she needs for this project and that dig and that research trip. And here’s Augusta, with no kids of her own, talking about her like she was the daughter she never had, and how special and wonderful she was, and all that crap. You do the math. I really thought I was going to lose out in a big way.’ Cleaver knocked back another slug of bourbon. ‘Then when I finally met the brat, I could see that all she was after was Augusta’s dough. That big talk was all lies. She just wanted it for booze and good times. She’s nothing but a gold-digger.’

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Ben said.

  Anger flashed in Cleaver’s eye
s. ‘What, you think I should have refused Augusta’s generosity? It’s been years since the book came out. All the money’s gone, and a lot more besides. I’m deep in debt. You have no idea what it costs to run an operation like mine – and well, maybe we did overstretch ourselves a little.’

  ‘It looks like you’ve been selling off the art and furniture,’ Ben said.

  ‘I have. Things have been awful difficult. Augusta was offering me a lifeline. I had to take it. I’d have been crazy not to.’

  ‘Cut the crap and tell me what you did.’

  ‘OK. Whenever she was around Augusta, little Miss Bradbury’d be acting all virtuous. Long skirts, high collar blouses. Just dripping with good ol’ Christian piety, like butter wouldn’t melt. But I knew she was screwing around all over town. I knew what she was getting up to behind Augusta’s back, and right under her roof, with the likes of Skid McClusky. To name just one of her many conquests while she was in Savannah.’

  ‘Your men told you this?’

  Cleaver nodded and mopped more sweat. ‘I had a few guys follow her around. I knew I’d get some dirt on her. And it wasn’t hard to dig up. She was sneaking her fellas into the carriage house. More than one at a time, sometimes.’

  Ben guessed where this was leading. ‘So you got your guys to catch it on video. And you used it to turn Miss Vale against her.’

  ‘Augusta never knew who sent the tape,’ Cleaver said. ‘It was from a well-wisher. She never mentioned it to anyone. But I could tell it soured her. Next time I was there for dinner with her and Zoë, there was this atmosphere. That’s when I knew my plan had worked. The money was mine again for sure.’

  ‘But then Zoë turned on you,’ Ben said.

  ‘She guessed I had something to do with the change in Augusta. A while later, when she’d left the US and I thought I’d never hear her name mentioned ever again, I got a call.’

  ‘I know. Twenty-five grand up front, and ten million later.’

  ‘Then you know everything,’ Cleaver said. ‘I paid, and I’ll pay more. No problem.’

  ‘Just like that? Why?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? I’ve told you the truth. I’m ready to pay her the money. If something’s happened to her, it’s got nothing to do with me. Now, sir, if you don’t mind, I think this conversation is over. I have business to attend to.’ Cleaver started getting to his feet.

  ‘Stop. You’re not going anywhere.’ Ben raised the gun again.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I want the rest. I want to know about the prophecy.’

  Cleaver slumped back down in his chair. ‘So that’s why you were so keen to talk prophecies last night.’

  ‘What was in the box that Skid McClusky delivered to you?’

  ‘Just a fragment of pottery. Nothing more.’

  Ben remembered what Tom Bradbury had told him that day in Summertown about Zoë’s discovery of ancient pottery fragments. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why pay ten million for a piece of pottery?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Cleaver said.

  ‘You’re not leaving here unless you do.’ Ben cocked the gun. ‘And you’d better believe it. So talk.’

  ‘I had it carbon dated,’ Cleaver replied wearily. ‘It was the right age.’

  ‘The right age for what?’

  Cleaver looked up at him abruptly. ‘The right age to have been around when the Book of Revelation was written.’

  Ben stared and blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She let me see one tiny piece,’ Cleaver said. ‘She still has the rest of it.’

  ‘The rest of what?’

  ‘The rest of the evidence. She says that she found a collection of pottery tablets engraved in Ancient Greek, going back to biblical times. She says they prove beyond any doubt that St John wasn’t the author of Revelation.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that’s it. That’s all I know about them. She didn’t give me a lot to go on. But I have to believe she means what she says, and that it’s true. I can’t afford not to.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure of your ground,’ Ben said.

  ‘All right. All right. I’ll level with you. You’ve seen my book. You know what it’s about.’

  ‘That John the Apostle spoke to you.’

  Cleaver nodded and made a face.

  Ben smiled. ‘You’re trying to tell me that John didn’t really speak to you.’

  ‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Cleaver muttered. ‘How the hell could he? He’s been dead for nearly two thousand years.’

  ‘I didn’t really think he had, Cleaver.’

  ‘I only said it to give me an angle,’ Cleaver said desperately. ‘An edge over all of the other End Time preachers out there.’

  ‘You mean the honest ones,’ Ben said. ‘The ones who aren’t just taking everyone for a ride.’

  ‘Whatever. But everything I’ve built is based on that book. All of this.’ Cleaver gestured at the view from the window. ‘Millions of Americans buying into the idea that I have a direct line to St John. That he personally vouched for the truth of all the prophecies that he wrote in the Book of Revelation. And now that little bitch says she’s dug up something that could screw it all up for me. The evidence that theology scholars have been looking for for centuries to end the debate about who the real author of Revelation was.’

  ‘But she’d bury the evidence for ten million dollars.’

  Cleaver made a helpless gesture. ‘That’s what she said. And I had to take it seriously, didn’t I? I mean, if she was just some two-bit student, I could call her bluff. But she isn’t. She’s a respected academic, believe it or not. She writes books. If she tells people about this, they’ll take it seriously. Hell, she could get on TV with it. A hundred of your goddamned scholars waiting in the wings to pounce on it. It would finish me. No more book sales. It would mean the end of my political career.’

  ‘And bye bye to the hundred million dollars.’

  Cleaver nodded sadly. ‘The little inchworm threatened to tell Augusta. Said she’d make me out to be a big con artist.’

  ‘But you are,’ Ben said. ‘You just admitted it.’

  Cleaver gazed out of the window for a few moments, then turned and looked hard at Ben. ‘Sure. I’m a con artist. I’m a hustler. But that’s all I am. I never hurt anyone. I never sent anyone to Greece. I don’t know about bombings or leg-breaking. I met Skid McClusky once, when he brought me the box. That’s it. I gave the man his money and he left.’ Cleaver’s face was turning red. He stood up behind the desk. ‘I’m leaving now. You can shoot me if you want to. But you’d be shooting an innocent man.’

  ‘If I find out you’ve been lying to me,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll come back. And I will kill you. Up close or from a thousand yards away, you won’t see it coming. You know that.’

  But as he watched Cleaver walk out of the room, something was telling him that he’d got this whole thing very, very wrong.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When Senator Bud Richmond had first started out in politics, he’d been just another hapless rich boy aiming vaguely for the top. The son of a Montana logger who’d worked his way up to become a multimillionaire industrialist, Bud had never done a proper day’s work in his life and was more concerned with his golf swing, his lady friends, his fishing trips and his beloved Porsche 959 than with serious business.

  Two years ago, Irving Slater, his chief of staff and personal assistant, had been despairing of Richmond and on the point of handing in his resignation. As he saw it, he was still only thirty-seven and wasting a promising career on an indolent jackass who thought politics was just a game.

  But then something had happened: a pair of unconnected incidents, six months apart, that had turned Bud Richmond’s world around and ended up presenting Irving Slater with the chance of a lifetime.

  One day shortly after his fiftieth birthday, Richmond had been about to board an airliner heading from his home state of Montana to Washing
ton DC when he’d had a premonition. Like a faraway voice in his head, he’d said later, telling him that under no circumstances should he get on that plane. To the great irritation of Irving Slater, he’d refused to board it and waited for the next one. When his intended plane had crashed on takeoff with few survivors, he’d started talking miracles.

  The second miracle had taken place when Richmond was driving his Porsche along the mountain roads near his home. Rounding a bend, he’d suddenly and inexplicably been seized by the urge to stop and look at the beautiful sunset, something he’d never done before. After ten minutes of gazing at the sky, he’d climbed back in the Porsche and raced on. A mile down the road he’d come across the wreck of a coach. A massive landslide had just tumbled down from the mountain and crushed it. Out of thirty-nine passengers, only two survived – and according to their account, the rocks had hit the bus at the exact moment that Richmond calculated he’d have been in that spot if he hadn’t stopped to admire the view.

  In Richmond’s mind there was only one explanation. God had spared his life for some higher purpose. The conversion was instant. Over the eighteen months since the second miracle had occurred, Bud Richmond’s political angle had changed dramatically. And it was actually working for him. He grew up, took himself seriously. And his followers loved him. Born again, suddenly Richmond’s zeal for life and work became unstoppable – and suddenly he was getting support from a whole new section of the community that had never shown him much interest before and one that Slater had never counted on: the massive evangelist movement. More than fifty million of them. Slater quickly saw the angle. Over fifty million votes equated to a heady potential for the White House.

  Irving Slater couldn’t believe it. That the motherfucker had become a devout and driven man seemed far weirder than the miracles that he alleged had happened to him. But the wave was rising fast and the chief of staff was ready to ride it.

  Suddenly Slater was buried deep in the Bible. His boss’s cast-iron belief in the End Time prophecies of the Book of Revelation led him to study that text in extreme detail and read every scrap that had ever been written about Bible prophecy. He’d been stunned by the power of the belief that so many American Christians held: that at any time, the world could be plunged into the Tribulation and Rapture events foretold in the Good Book. It struck him two ways. First, privately, as utter hooey. Secondly, and much more importantly, as the deepest and richest political goldmine that anyone had ever stumbled upon.