Babylon rising: the secret on Ararat

by Tim F. LaHaye

  This is not a hard question to answer , she thought as the quiet sounds of the forest seeped into her consciousness. I've been running my life and it's gotten to be a mess .

  Hesitantly, feeling a little awkward even though she knew she was alone, she began to talk aloud.

  "God, I don't really know how to talk to you. I'm not really sure what it means to ask you to come into my life. But tonight, I want you to come into my life. It is a mess. Please forgive me for my sins. Change my life. Please help me to learn to live for you. I believe that you died for me. I believe that you rose from the grave to make a home for me in heaven. I invite you in. Please come."

  Tiffany couldn't say any more. Suddenly she was overcome with tears. The sobs shook her body. She cried until there were no tears left. For a few minutes she just sat there and stared at the magnificent star-studded sky.

  Then a thought came to her. I need to call Mom and Dad .

  She walked out of the forest and back inside the main building to the lobby area where the public phones were located. She was surprised to see it was filled with other young people doing the same thing. All of them, it seemed, had a burning need to talk to their loved ones. After waiting in line for about a half hour, she eventually got hold of her parents. Her tears started all over again as she tried to tell them what had happened and

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  how she was feeling and how she wanted to change her life. By the end of the conversation all three of them were crying.

  But as she walked away from the phone booth, she felt happier than she had ever been in her life.

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  TWENTY

  DEEP WITHIN THE subterranean vault, the Seven had moved to the cavernous dining room. An oversize crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling with the lights dimmed, turning it into a place of shadows whose limits seemed to extend far beyond the walls. A deep recess in one wall housed the fireplace, where giant logs were crackling fiercely. In the surrounding blackness it looked like the mouth of hell.

  The candles on the large round walnut table flickered on the seven faces as they sat across from one another. The main course of wild boar stuffed with quail had been finished, and they were sipping wine from crystal goblets.

  Mendez was the first to break the eerie silence.

  "Do we know any more about what might be discovered on Ararat?"

  The somber voice of Bartholomew responded.

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  "Only that there has been some discovery regarding potassium forty and the possible extension of life. We do know that Murphy is planning an expedition in search of the ark. Talon knows what to do."

  "And what will become of Professor Murphy?" asked the hatchet-nosed man with gray hair.

  "We are allowing Professor Murphy to do some ... spadework for us," Bartholomew replied. "Of course, when he has outlived his usefulness he will be eliminated."

  Everyone again lifted their glasses in a toast.

  Bartholomew surveyed the smiling faces as they seemed to float happily in the semidarkness and said, "Do not become overconfident, my friends. There is still much to be done. Many steps yet to be taken on the road to ultimate control. We must institute a system of universal commerce, for one thing."

  Then the Englishman spoke. Sir William Merton looked like a harmless, slightly portly English cleric. Especially with the white collar around his neck and his black shirt. But, as he continued to speak, his English accent began to disappear. His voice became deeper and echoed strangely in the chamber. Those across the table could see a slight red glow in his eyes in the flickering light.

  "But make no mistake, progress is being made. Great strides toward our goal. The leaders of 138 nations have joined together endorsing the establishment of a World Court. The European Community gets ever nearer to becoming a single nation. The seeds for the transfer of the United Nations to Iraq have been planted. Soon oil

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  money will be filling their coffers. All is moving as planned!"

  Merton's voice became stronger as he warmed to his theme.

  "Christianity is under attack in America and throughout the world. Through our influence it will soon by a byword for intolerance and cruelty. Its death knell has been sounded, I tell you. And our one world religion will be ready to take over!"

  Then a woman in a green dress spoke in a faintly Germanic accent. "I agree, William, we are making progress on all fronts. Through Barrington Communications and our access to cable-TV news channels, our agenda is gaining ground in the media. The evangelicals are in retreat, without a doubt. And our plans to bring all commercial activity under control of a single authority are well advanced. One world government, one world religion. It is all within our grasp." She nodded toward Bartholomew. "Though, of course, we must take nothing for granted. We must continue to work at maximum efficiency toward the goal."

  She paused and contemplated her wine goblet for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then she turned back toward Bartholomew.

  "But I'm sure I am not alone among us in wondering about ... the one who will come to lead us. You must know, John. You must know something! When is he coming? Where is he now?"

  Even though the woman was one of the most powerful bankers in Europe, a woman used to making billion-dollar decisions without turning a hair, she was beginning to sound desperate, almost childlike.

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  Bartholomew took pity on her, knowing that indeed she was not alone in her desire to know.

  He steepled his hands in front of him. "I understand your eagerness, of course. Each one of us yearns for the day when we shall see him face to face and hear his voice. And that day will come. Soon! But until that time, we must possess ourselves in patient readiness." He smiled. "We shall not know the day, nor the hour ... but rest assured, his journey has begun. He is on his way to us, even now!"

  He stood up, raising his goblet, and the others followed suit. They drank a silent toast, each of them contemplating the word he had deliberately left unspoken.

  Antichrist .

  Then they turned as one and hurled their goblets into the fireplace. The echoes of glass shattering and wine hissing in the flames sounded like the end of the world.

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  TWENTY-ONE

  SHARI WAS RIGHT in the middle of placing an Egyptian papyrus scroll into the hyperbaric chamber for rehydration when the phone rang.

  Carefully she laid it down on the worktable in front of the chamber and walked to Murphy's desk. "Hello, this is Professor Murphy's office, may I help you?"

  There was silence on the other end of the line. "Hello, is there anybody there?"

  More silence. But Shari had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was there, listening. As the silence lengthened, almost unbearably, the feeling grew stronger. She found herself rooted to the spot, the phone glued to her ear, unable to speak or to cut the connection.

  Then suddenly she knew, without a trace of doubt, who was on the other end of the phone. Putting the

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  phone down carefully on the desk, she walked into the next room and coughed to get Murphy's attention.

  "Was that the phone? Someone I need to talk to, Shari?"

  She nodded.

  "Who is it?"

  She looked down at her shoes. "Um, he didn't say."

  Murphy gave her a quizzical look, picked up a rag, and wiped his hands as he walked to the phone.

  "This is Michael Murphy."

  There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. "Well, well, Murphy. Dried out yet? Or are you still feeling a little damp?"

  "Methuselah!" Murphy gripped the phone tighter. "I almost died in that cave!"

  "Tsk, tsk. I do wish young people would take more responsibility for their own actions. It was your choice, Murphy. You know the risks. You know the rules." He chuckled. "But maybe I was a little harsh on you this time. In fact, I was more than a little surprised you made it out of that place--and with those two adorable little puppies too. Your soft hear
t is going to be your undoing one of these days, you know."

  "At least that's not something you have to worry about," Murphy growled.

  "Temper, temper, Murphy. Where would you be if it wasn't for me? You certainly wouldn't be in possession of that rather interesting piece of wood, now, would you?"

  Murphy didn't say anything, and Methuselah began to chuckle that low, rasping laugh of his.

  "Don't tell me you've gone and lost it, Murphy.

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  After all the trouble you went to. After all the trouble I went to!"

  "It's no joke, old man. People have been killed. A friend of mine was almost--"

  "I know, I know," Methuselah cut him off. "Most regrettable. Most regrettable. Look, you fool, why do you think I'm calling? It's not to check on your health. I've got better things to do. I heard about the break-in at the museum and it didn't take a genius to put two and two together. Our little piece of driftwood is gone, and all its secrets. Which means you might be in need of a little extra help. A couple of extra clues to help you on your way."

  The idea of being helped on his way by Methuselah was not a very pleasant prospect, Murphy thought. But beggars can't be choosers, and right now Methuselah seemed to have all the cards. "All right, Methuselah. Go ahead. I'm all ears."

  "You could sound a little more enthusiastic, Murphy. Grateful, even. This is a freebie, no risking of life and limb involved."

  "You're all heart," grunted Murphy.

  "By my watch it is almost ten o'clock, Murphy. You should be receiving a FedEx delivery momentarily. If you want to get back on track, just follow the directions. Good luck, Murphy."

  Murphy was determined to make Methuselah tell him what was going on, but the line was dead.

  He looked up and Shari was at his shoulder. Her eyes were wide and she was nervously fingering the crucifix at her throat.

  "What did he want?"

  Murphy looked at his watch. "Hard to say with that

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  old coot. But we should be getting another surprise package any minute."

  Shari had her arms folded. "I really don't think you should--"

  A knock at the door cut her off. Murphy raised his eyebrows and Shari sighed and went to the door, where the FedEx guy was waiting. She handed Murphy the package with a frown and watched nervously as he opened it. A three-by-five card slid out.

  IN A CIRCLE, IS A SQUARE ...

  T HE ANSWERS YOU SEEK WILL BE FOUND THERE .

  7365 E AST W ATER S TREET

  M OREHEAD C ITY

  Murphy handed the note to Shari to read.

  "What does it mean?" she asked.

  "Only one way to find out," he said, grabbing his jacket.

  It was about a 130-mile drive from Raleigh to Newbern and then on to Morehead City. During the two hours, Murphy had time to think about Methuselah's note.

  Why would Methuselah choose a place like Morehead City?

  Murphy racked his memory of the history of North Carolina's Crystal Coast. He remembered that John Motley Morehead was governor in the early 1840s. Morehead wanted to develop the seaport town into a great commercial city. It was ideally situated where

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  Shepherd's Point intersected with the Newport River and Beaufort Inlet. However, the Civil War interrupted and destroyed his plans. Then Murphy remembered that Morehead City had a section known as the Promised Land. It was settled by refugees from the whaling communities on Shackleford Banks.

  The Promised Land! His clue must have something to do with the Old Testament. Well, at least that's a start , Murphy thought to himself.

  At about a quarter to two Murphy found the address. It was an old round warehouse building that looked as if it had been constructed around the time of the Civil War. Set within the redbrick walls were a number of loading docks with large wooden doors. Teams of horses with wagons must have backed up to the loading docks before trucks were invented, Murphy thought as he explored the cavernous space.

  There were no cars or trucks in the deserted loading area. The only light that he could see was a single bulb hanging over a door with wooden steps leading up to it. That lonely light in the midst of darkness was his invitation to enter.

  Murphy got out his flashlight and walked around the circular building. Nothing looked strange or out of place--just old. He stopped before the lighted steps and looked around. He then took a deep breath to let off some tension and started up. With each step a loud creaking echoed through the building. He reached down to the door handle and turned it. It was unlocked.

  As Murphy opened the door he found himself in a large warehouse room. In the center was a boxing ring with a single light hanging above. Folding chairs were

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  set up on each of the four sides. The rest of the room was dark.

  Murphy shined his flashlight around through the empty darkness. No one was there. He caught a glimpse of several doors that looked like they must lead to some type of offices. The doors were closed.

  I guess they must be using this old place for illegal fights , he thought.

  Murphy approached the boxing ring cautiously. In the center of the ring was an envelope. He set his flashlight on the edge of the ring and crawled through the ropes. Inside the envelope was a delicate line drawing of an angel with outspread wings.

  Murphy was pondering its meaning when he heard a cough from somewhere in the darkness.

  "Plenty of time to wrestle with that!" Methuselah's grating laugh reverberated around the room.

  Murphy then heard a noise behind him and turned. Climbing through the ropes was a huge man. As he stood up straight and took a step forward, Murphy felt the vibrations under his feet. The huge man was dressed in a form-fitting striped leotard that showed off his impressive musculature. With his long, waxed mustache and shaved head, he looked like an old-fashioned circus strongman. As if reading Murphy's thoughts, he grinned and flexed his biceps.

  This isn't a boxing ring, this is a wrestling ring! Murphy thought to himself. There's too much give in the platform .

  "You said this was a freebie, old man!" Murphy protested as the giant took another step toward him.

  "There's no such thing, Murphy! You should know that by now," Methuselah cackled. "TV is such a bore

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  these days--we need to make our own entertainment, don't you think?"

  Murphy was about to frame a sarcastic retort, when the giant lunged at him, three hundred fifty pounds of muscle and bone slamming into his chest like a souped-up steamroller. Murphy bounced into the ropes and hung there for a moment, gasping for breath, while the giant turned and paced the ring with his hands above his head, as if acknowledging ghostly applause from the empty seats.

  Murphy desperately tried to think. How could he turn his martial-arts training to account against this behemoth? One body slam or bear hug and he was a dead man. If he let the giant get close to him, it would all be over in seconds--but if he kept out of his reach, how was he ever going to beat him?

  Suddenly he didn't have any more time to figure it out, as the giant let out a roar and all Murphy could see was a mass of rippling stripes hurtling toward him.

  Instinctively, Murphy pivoted on his left heel and sent a roundhouse kick flashing toward the giant's temple. But as he braced himself against the impact, he felt his foot being swatted away by a huge forearm, then a hand grabbed the front of his shirt and suddenly he was spinning through the air like a rag doll.

  As he landed on the canvas with a thud, he could hear Methuselah's demented cheering. "Bravo! Bravo! Come on, Murphy, on your feet. Give me my money's worth! I'm afraid if you continue to lie there, my super-size friend will be obliged to squish you like a bug!"

  Murphy looked up, and the giant was swaying across the ring toward him as if that was exactly what he had

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  in mind. He staggered to his feet, clutching his left shoulder as if it was broken. The beginnings of a plan were forming in his mind.<
br />
  He just had to hope the giant would be content to spin it out for his master's pleasure.

  The giant grinned, like a cat eyeing a bird with a broken wing, and that gave Murphy some badly needed encouragement. If he thinks I'm too badly injured to be a threat, maybe he'll lower his guard long enough--

  Murphy had no time to finish the thought as the giant scooped him up effortlessly and hoisted him above his head. Holding Murphy's body like a barbell, he displayed his prize to the four sides of the ring and Murphy could almost hear the raucous catcalls and jeers of a drunken mob ringing in his ears.

  Then the floor rushed up to meet him as he was slammed mercilessly to the canvas. Violent as it was, the impact barely winded him, since he'd already prepared himself, allowing his body to go as limp as possible. It was a hard technique to put into practice, because instinct made every muscle tense against impact, but it was one Murphy was grateful he had taken the trouble to learn.

  Five years earlier, on an archaeological dig outside Shanghai, Murphy had befriended a young Cantonese archaeology student named Terence Li. Murphy had been happy to share his knowledge of the latest archaeological techniques with the young man, and to show his appreciation Li had taught him his family's style of kung fu--a rare honor for a gweilo , a foreigner.

  On their first day of practice, Murphy had been surprised to see that Li wasn't adopting the pose of a crane

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  or a tiger but was staggering around like a drunk as he invited Murphy to try to land a punch on him. Murphy had been amazed to find how difficult it was--and then was even more amazed when Li sent him crashing to the mat with a well-aimed heel strike to the temple.

  The secret of drunken-man fighting, Li explained with a smile, is that his opponent thinks he has already won before the fight has begun. When the drunken man falls, he is soft, like a rag. He does not hurt himself. When he stands up, he is hard to hit, like a sapling swaying in the wind. And when he strikes, no one expects it.