Babylon rising: the secret on Ararat

by Tim F. LaHaye

  The sense of descending was almost imperceptible. Then the doors hissed open and Barrington stepped into a large, shadowy room. The only light was a beam from the ceiling, which illuminated a familiar shape--an ornately carved wooden chair with gargoyles on the arms. Twenty feet in front of the chair was a long table with a blood-red cloth covering it and hanging down to the floor.

  Behind the table were seven chairs, occupied by six people--or, rather, six silhouettes. The center chair was empty.

  "Welcome, Señor Barrington. It has been some time since we have seen you. Come and sit in the chair of honor," said a silky Hispanic voice.

  As Barrington moved forward toward the chair in the center of the room, he heard a shuffling in the shadows to his right. As he glanced in that direction, he could see a figure emerging from the darkness and walking toward the center chair behind the table. Barrington and the darkened figure sat down at the same time.

  Barrington gripped the arms of the chair and waited for the man seated at the center to speak. As the silence stretched, fear turned to frustration. After everything he'd done for the Seven--every lie, every criminal act, every betrayal--couldn't they treat him with some respect?

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  Only one thing gave him hope: If they were still hiding their faces from him, then maybe they weren't planning to kill him.

  Then again, maybe they were just messing with his mind. That seemed to be their specialty.

  At last the icy voice Barrington had been expecting broke the silence. "You're a busy man, Mr. Barrington. And so are we--"

  There was a feminine cough from his right.

  "I beg your pardon. We are busy men and women. If you think we would have wasted your time and ours bringing you here merely to ... eliminate you, then you still underestimate the importance of the great task we are all pledged to accomplish. No, since we injected five billion dollars into your company, you have performed well enough. We are still a long way from our goal, but our control of Barrington Communications is a crucial weapon in our armory."

  A chuckle came from the speaker's left. "How else would we be able to fight the good fight?"

  The voice resumed, now with a trace of annoyance. "Indeed. But now we need you to perform another task for us. One that will give full rein to your worst character traits--or should I say skills."

  Barrington started to protest, but the voice cut him off. "You know who Michael Murphy is?"

  "Of course," Barrington said. "The archaeologist. I seem to remember you wanted him dead at one point. Until you thought he'd be more useful alive. So, has he outlived his usefulness? You want him discreetly taken out? And you want me to do it?" He said it as if it

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  would be a routine task. Just another item on his busy to-do list.

  "Not at all, Mr. Barrington," responded the voice, in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a particularly dim-witted third-grader. "We don't keep you around for that sort of thing. Although I suppose you could say we want you to make Professor Murphy an offer he can't refuse."

  Barrington was intrigued. "And what would that be?"

  "Why, we want you to offer Murphy a job. A job with Barrington Communications."

  Barrington was confused. "He's an archaeologist, not a TV reporter. What can I offer him?"

  "Money, of course," came the reply. "Archaeological digs are an expensive business, and Murphy's thinking is so far outside the mainstream, he has a hard time attracting funds. If he felt he was on the trail of something huge--something irresistible--he might take money even from you, if it meant the difference between success and failure. With your silver tongue, I'm sure you'll be able to persuade him of the benefits of being Barrington Communications' archaeological correspondent."

  Barrington stroked his chin. "Yeah, I think I could do that. I might need--"

  "You'll get the necessary funds," snapped the voice. "Another billion dollars deposited in a special account should be enough to turn the whole of the Middle East into one huge archaeological dig, if that's what Murphy wants."

  Barrington whistled. "It sure beats thirty pieces of silver. But what's in it for you? Why do you want Murphy on the payroll?"

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  A female voice with some sort of European accent cut in. "Yours is not to reason why, Barrington."

  She let him complete the rest of the quotation for himself.

  Yours is but to do and die .

  "Quite so," agreed the icy voice. "But there's no harm in showing our friend here a little of the big picture. You see, Mr. Barrington, Michael Murphy has a knack for finding archaeological objects that are of ... interest to us. It might make life a little easier if we were all on the same team. Even if Murphy doesn't know it."

  There was an appreciative ripple of laughter around the table.

  "Keep your friends close, eh?" Barrington said, and this time it was their turn to complete the quotation.

  "And your enemies closer . Exactly," agreed the voice. "Now, get back to your plane and start planning exactly how you're going to corrupt Michael Murphy's soul."

  Barrington rose to go, feeling the tension draining out of him.

  "One more thing," barked the voice, freezing him in mid-stride. "In case you were worrying about that disgruntled employee--or should I say ex-employee--who might have some interesting things to tell the authorities."

  "You mean Foreman?" How the heck did they know about him? "He wouldn't dare. He knows my reputation better than to try anything."

  "Just to be on the safe side, we took care of him," said the voice, and just then Barrington noticed another figure, seated in a shadowy corner of the room.

  Of course. Talon. So Foreman wouldn't have to brush

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  up on his downhill skills after all. Barrington felt a chill go through his entire body, and he quickened his step to the elevator doors. He was sure he could feel those predator's eyes on his back all the way.

  As soon as the steel doors had closed behind him, soft lighting illuminated the faces of the six men and one woman seated around the table. As one, they turned to the man in the corner, whose features were still obscured by shadow yet seemed to emanate a controlled ferocity.

  "Welcome, Talon. I trust Mr. Foreman presented no problems?"

  Talon sneered. "Swatting a bug would present more ... problems." He turned to the man occupying the central chair. "So we're now trying the diplomatic approach with Murphy." He spat out the last word as if getting rid of something distasteful. "You're sure you don't want something more direct? Since I seem to be swatting bugs, I could easily squash this one for you too."

  "Easy, Talon," the leader of the Seven soothed. "I know you and Murphy have unfinished business. And the time to conclude that business may not be far off. You recall our informer inside the Parchments of Freedom Foundation provided some intriguing information about a newly discovered and very valuable artifact? I'm beginning to think it may be more valuable than even they know. It could be vital to the unveiling of Babylon's dark power. And now, today, we hear from our agents in the CIA that there is something very secret going on in Turkey. I wonder if these two things are connected? What do you think, Talon?"

  Talon knew he was being manipulated, skillfully

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  deflected from his natural murderous impulses. But the Seven paid well, and he knew they would want him to bloody his hands again before too long.

  "I guess I'd better see if I can find out," he said, rising to go. He walked to the elevator with the fluid stride of a beast of prey, then turned and grinned. "Who knows, perhaps my friend Murphy is involved. Perhaps we are fated to meet again. And this time, I think, only one of us will walk away."

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  SIX

  "IT MUST BE SOMETHING pretty important for an FBI agent to come and talk to me in person," Murphy said warily. "Something you didn't want to talk about on the phone. Let me guess--you've uncovered a plot to overthrow the government, and you think it's all being planned fr
om our little church."

  Baines frowned. "Look, Professor Murphy. I'm willing to admit the bureau made some mistakes during the investigation of the bombing." He saw Murphy raise his eyebrows. "Okay, some big mistakes."

  "And you've come to apologize on behalf of the FBI? After all this time? How nice," Murphy said.

  Baines stopped and put his hands on his hips. They were walking on the path at the edge of the campus, where the woods began to climb up a gentle hill, and the tension between them seemed out of place in such a tranquil setting. Murphy faced him and crossed his arms.

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  "Professor Murphy, if there was anything I could do to make up for the pain the bureau caused you and your wife, I would. And if you want an apology from me, you got it."

  "But that's not why you wanted to see me," Murphy said.

  "No. There's something else I need to talk to you about. Not bureau business at all. Look," he said, indicating the place under his jacket where a shoulder holster would normally be. "I'm not even wearing a gun."

  "So this is personal?"

  "That's right." Baines looked down at the ground. He was tall, a couple inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a rangy physique, but at that moment he looked weighed down with cares. Murphy decided to take pity on him.

  "Okay, Agent Baines. Bob Wagoner told me you had some family problems you wanted to discuss. I'm sorry if I gave you a hard time. I'm not proud of it, but I still feel a lot of bitterness about what happened. Not that it was your fault. I'm taking it out on the wrong guy."

  "That's okay," Baines replied, visibly relaxing. "If I was in your shoes, I'd still be churned up about a lot of things."

  "So why did you want to see me?" Murphy asked.

  "That's kind of the point," Baines explained. "The way you dealt with all that stuff. The false accusations, when the FBI thought members of the congregation had been involved in blowing up the church, and then ... what happened to your wife. However much pain was thrown at you, you seemed to have an inner stability. Something was keeping you going, stopping you from

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  giving in to total despair like a lot of people would have in that situation."

  "Faith," said Murphy simply. "When everything in your life goes wrong, that's all you've got. But it's all you need."

  "Right," said Baines, nodding. "Like I say, I was impressed. So when things started to go wrong in my life, you were the person I thought of."

  Murphy's initial antagonism had completely evaporated now. Baines seemed sincere and was clearly willing to bare his soul. That kind of humility from a federal agent was rare enough to deserve his full attention.

  "Come on," said Murphy. "Let's keep walking, since it's such a beautiful morning. And you can tell me what the problem is. If I can help you, I will."

  "Thanks," said Baines. "You don't know how much I appreciate it. I've been going crazy these past months, and I just didn't know where to turn."

  They walked on in silence for a couple minutes while Baines gathered his thoughts.

  "My wife and daughter have been going to Preston Community Church for a while," he began. "It was my wife's idea. She thought it would be good for Tiffany, and since nothing else seems to get through to her, I thought, why not give it a try?"

  "So Tiffany's the problem?"

  Baines nodded wearily. "I'll say. The last straw was when she got arrested with some of her friends. They were riding in a car, drinking beer and tossing the empty cans at people on the sidewalk. For someone like me, who spends his time trying to catch criminals, trying to keep the streets safe for people like Tiffany and

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  her friends, it's tough to deal with. And like I say, that was just the last on a long list of stuff--all sorts of misbehavior."

  Murphy looked thoughtful. "So when did all this start? When did you first think there was a problem?"

  "It sounds kind of trivial," Baines said. "But it started with her room. She wouldn't clean up, it was always such a mess. And if my wife, Jennifer, took her to task about it, Tiffany would curse her out. Overnight she seemed to become a different person--loud, excitable, argumentative, always changing her mind, never following through with anything, and angry all the time--almost like she was possessed, like that girl in The Exorcist."

  Murphy laughed and patted Baines on the shoulder. "I'm not a priest, I'm afraid, so I can't help you with casting out demons. But I very much doubt things have reached that stage. It sounds like you've just got a somewhat strong-willed daughter on your hands."

  "Then how come I can't get through to her? Why does everything we do just make things worse?"

  "Let me ask you a question," Murphy said. "Does your daughter do anything right?"

  He could tell the question knocked Baines back a little.

  "Well, yeah, sure. I mean, she's creative, she does well in art at school. And she gets good grades in English. When she can be bothered to finish her assignments," he added.

  "And what about you?" Murphy asked. "Are you the creative type?"

  Baines looked a little confused. This was supposed to be about Tiffany, not him. "No way. Why do you think I

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  ended up an FBI agent? I like to deal with facts, logic. Everything in its right place. Details. Structure. Artistic people seem so messy and undisciplined to me. And they let their emotions take over. I like to stay calm, be in control of myself."

  Murphy laughed. "Well, Hank, I think you just told me why you and Tiffany aren't getting along. You're just two totally different personality types, is all. She's spontaneous and creative, lets her emotions run free. You're logical and controlled. And I imagine you're a perfectionist too. Only the best is good enough. You two are bound to rub each other the wrong way."

  Baines rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So what should I do? Is there some self-help book that's going to tell me how to act around my daughter?"

  Murphy smiled. "There's only one book that's guaranteed to help--whatever the problem. And that's the Bible."

  "The Bible has stuff about parenting?"

  "Sure. In the Book of Colossians, Chapter Three, it says, Fathers, don't aggravate your children. If you do they will become discouraged and quit trying . Do you think Tiffany has quit trying?"

  "Yeah, maybe."

  "And was your father a perfectionist? Was he critical of you, nagging all the time?"

  "As a matter of fact he was," Baines admitted.

  "Well, you were able to respond to your father's perfectionism by becoming a perfectionist yourself, by beating him at his own game, I'm guessing. For Tiffany--because she's got a different personality--it's not so easy. Maybe she gets discouraged because your

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  standards are so high. When was the last time you encouraged her, told her she was doing great, that you liked her art or whatever?"

  Baines looked crestfallen. "I don't remember. Not for a while." He turned to Murphy. "You've given me a lot to think about, Professor Murphy."

  "Please, call me Michael. And don't hesitate to give me a call if you want to discuss anything we talked about. Look, my assistant, Shari Nelson, she's great at reaching out to teenagers with problems. She's had her share and she's wise beyond her years. Pastor Bob suggested she might introduce herself to Tiffany and your wife next time they attend church."

  "That would be great." Baines nodded.

  "And meanwhile, why not pick up the Bible and see what else you can find in it that's relevant to your life? It's never too late to start reading the Good Book. Start with the Book of Colossians."

  Baines shook Murphy's hand, his spirits lifted. "I will," he said. "Thank you. Look, I won't take up any more of your valuable time. You've got classes to teach, artifacts to dig up, no doubt."

  "Actually, I do," Murphy said. "But I'm always happy to help out if I can. You've got my number."

  He watched Baines walk toward the parking lot, feeling his own spirits lift. Nothing like focusing on someone else's problems to get
your own in perspective, he thought.

  He didn't hear the soft clicking of a camera from behind the trees. He had no idea a pair of dark, feral eyes were watching him.

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  SEVEN

  IT WAS TEN MINUTES TO NINE and the Memorial Lecture Hall was beginning to fill up. Which for a Monday morning was a somewhat unusual occurrence. Preston University students tended to play hard on weekends and sleep late the next day. Hence the first lecture of the week was known among the teaching faculty as the graveyard shift. Depressing if you wanted an audience that was going to eagerly soak up your words of wisdom. A relief if you were a little tired yourself and were glad the class wasn't too alert.

  But this lecture was being given by Michael Murphy, and somehow the word had gotten out over the weekend that he wasn't going to be speaking on the designated topic: How to map out an archaeological site.

  He was going to be talking about Noah's Ark.

  As the rows continued to fill up, some of the students

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  laughed and joked together. But most were earnestly discussing the likely content of Murphy's lecture.

  Wasn't Noah's Ark just a story from the Bible? Did it really exist?

  One thing was sure: Whatever Professor Murphy had to say about it would likely change the way they thought about it.

  Shari Nelson had arrived early to set up the PowerPoint projector for her boss. But she was as anxious as the rest to hear what he was going to say.

  Paul Wallach was in the front row, wearing his typical pressed slacks and sports shirt. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, as if he had just been to the barber, and he was wearing one shiny loafer. His left foot was still in a walking cast, the explosion at the Preston Community Church having severely damaged his leg and foot. Finishing up with the projector, Shari left the stage and came to sit next to him.