Babylon Rising

by Tim F. LaHaye

  "Terrorists . I can't believe I'm even saying the word. Not in this place."

  "Rawley, terrorists can be anywhere these days. From just a quick look down here, you got yourself a flea market of stuff that can go boom. With a few different kinds of ways to blow people up, it doesn't look like a terrorist bombed this place. Or maybe I should say that some of the neighbors you're swearing by were playing the terrorist home game and blew up the basement by mistake. Happens often enough, especially when you have rank amateurs messing with this stuff."

  Agent Welsh picked up a charred flyer from the floor and read out loud. "'Will you be left behind?!?!'"

  "For what it's worth, the reverend of the church says he never saw that flyer before, nor any of these others." Baines pointed to some bundles of now-drenched flyers and brochures on the floor.

  "Yeah? I was beginning to think I was the only man in America not on the subscription list for this religious hooey. But it looks like the reverend needed to check down in his basement a little more frequently. Were the dead and wounded all locals?"

  "As far as I know. Except for the kid, Paul Wallach. He was from the university, but I don't know where he comes from."

  "Chief, does a small-town college like this get a lot of

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  weirdos, freaks, and troublemakers hanging around campus? I mean, you don't know this kid Wallach, I bet. What's to say he's not some out-of-towner down here to shake things up?"

  "Well, all I know about him is he's a friend of Nelson, a coed who works for Michael Murphy. She's a great kid, and I couldn't imagine her getting caught up with anything fringe."

  "Fringe. That's a quaint term. She a good member of this good church?"

  "Yeah. Welsh, you can't be serious that somebody like Nelson or any of these people could actually have been making bombs down here."

  "Chief, until we can trace every step of every bit of this stuff and solve this bombing, the only person who's not a suspect is me--and that's only because this is the first church I've set foot in since I was fifteen."

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  FORTY-ONE

  TALON PREFERRED BEING close in, looking at his victims face-to-face. It was neater, riskier, and always more memorable to look at their fear just before he slashed them. Of course, he also derived extreme pleasure from the deadly precision of the falcons he had trained for so many years.

  Explosions were so messy, even with these new thin, ultra-high-powered bombs.

  But tonight's was effective. He admired the scene from the shadows of the parking lot. There was enough explosive force in that backpack to bring down half the building, and it had been packed into a plastic sheet that looked like a laminated pocket protector. There were also other explosive materials packed in the bags he and Chuck had planted around the basement, but it would not take the FBI long to determine that those were just window dressing.

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  It did satisfy him to be perpetrating an act of major mayhem, with a real body count, as opposed to all his work up in New York.

  Too bad the oaf Chuck could not have lived to see the results of their setup. Once he had killed Chuck in the basement, he had packed the C-10 explosive sheet into the backpack, since he hadn't wanted Chuck walking around with it, then put the wired backpack back on Chuck and left him in the basement. Talon had checked to make sure that Chuck had left Paul Wallach far from the explosion so that he would survive.

  Chaos and fear, those would be the legacies of tonight. Terror coming to a small town, not a big city, and to a church, no less. Making it look like the accidental explosion of a basement bomb factory run by evangelical Christian extremists would not hold up for long under the scrutiny of the FBI. Just like the vapor-thin trail he had left behind with his New York stunt to make it look like extremists were plotting to blow up the U.N.

  There would be days of hysterical news reports following the connections of the church members, of Murphy, and of once they found enough of her brother to make an identification, and her connection to her transfer-student friend, Wallach, who would be cast as an out-of-town troublemaker. And that mystery man who had been seen with Chuck. By the time the FBI saw that the bomb factory "evidence" was just window dressing, the media would have moved. In its wake would be a time of noise and confusion, and people would recall mainly a bunch of crazy evangelicals to be afraid of. Not a bad night's work.

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  Then it hit Talon. Hard. Chuck, that miserable loser, had managed to screw up things even after he was dead! His stupid jacket that he got stuck in, so Talon had to cut him out of it. It had fallen to the floor, and with all he had had to do by himself to finish off the ground-zero site in the church basement, he had forgotten to grab it. And in the pocket were the car keys, which also had Talon's prints, plus he had seen Chuck stuff the last shopping list in his jacket pocket. The chances of the jacket surviving the blast, and of the FBI tracing him from what was left in the pockets, were minute.

  But that was enough to make Talon uneasy. He would have to go back, which shouldn't be too hard with all the rescue teams going in and out.

  Talon slipped into the church through what had once been the basement door.

  As he did so, Laura Murphy circled the side of the building on her way to the Dodge, in which she always had a trunk full of drinks, a first-aid kit, blankets, and other supplies in case she and Murphy decided on a whim to go off exploring. She got a good look at the figure entering the basement, and he did not look like one of the rescue workers, and he certainly was not a church member. Nor did he look like anyone she knew from Preston, but she was positive that she did recognize him as a face that had been hanging around.

  The creep who had been hanging around with Shari's brother.

  Laura forgot about going for the supplies and decided to

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  follow Chuck's companion and see why he would be going into the bomb site.

  Could it be? She was horrified at the thought that struck her. Could this stranger and poor, angry, lost Chuck have been involved in this bombing?

  She walked down the basement steps, wincing as her wounded knees felt the impact. There was a sound in the darkness ahead, and she limped toward it. The pain in her legs was going to stick with her for a while, it seemed.

  But she instantly forgot that pain, because an intense, far greater pain rippled through her as a pair of incredibly strong hands grabbed her arm and throat in the darkness.

  "Hello, Mrs. Murphy. It must be bingo night at church, because I've just got the big prize." The voice was hoarse. "I can't do anything to that husband of yours while he's still useful to us. But nobody said anything about needing you. And without you, maybe your husband will have more time to work a little quicker."

  Laura did not know what this madman was talking about, but she could not speak, so powerful was the pressure of his hand on her throat. It began crushing her windpipe.

  Talon kept pressing, deciding not to use his razor again. The result would be the same.

  Laura Murphy looked into the face of Talon, refusing to give him the satisfaction of averting her eyes even though she was shocked by what pure evil could look like.

  She started to pray in her silence and she showed him no fear.

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  FORTY-TWO

  CHIEF RAWLEY USHERED them into the interview room and indicated three chairs on one side of the steel table bolted to the bare floor.

  "I'm sorry we couldn't use my office. I don't think I could have fit you all in comfortably. Not with all this..." He indicated the two large carboard boxes in the center of the table without looking at them. On the other side of the table, Baines stood up and offered his hand with a neutral expression.

  "Reverend Wagoner. Professor Murphy." He shook hands solemnly with each of them before sitting down again, and his gaze returned to the boxes.

  Rawley seated them like an attentive maître d'. "How's the arm, Bob? You know, folks are saying it's a miracle you're alive."


  Wagoner winced as he eased into the chair and adjusted the

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  cast on his arm. "I can't feel a whole lot, to be honest, Ed. And that goes for my head too." He tapped the bandage around his forehead. "Alma says it just goes to show that the Lord knew what He was doing when He made it out of solid maple."

  "And how about you, Murphy?"

  "Oh, I'm fine, Ed. Just a few cuts and bruises. I guess I've got some maple in me too."

  With a tight smile Rawley went and stood awkwardly to one side of Welsh. He seemed reluctant to occupy the empty chair next to him, as if he wanted to distance himself from what was about to happen.

  "We were the lucky ones," said Wagoner. "Four dear friends died, plus one body has yet to be identified in the basement. That poor Wallach boy in a coma..." His voice trailed off. "But we're going to start rebuilding just as soon as we can. And then we'll be back in that lovely church, praising the Lord again."

  "Don't go do any rebuilding yet, Reverend," Welsh said coldly. "Right now your church is still a crime scene."

  "A crime scene? I don't understand."

  "That explosion wasn't an accident. That old boiler in the basement is one of the few things that wasn't damaged in the blast."

  "Then, what did cause it?"

  Welsh looked at him steadily. "I was kind of hoping you could tell me that."

  Murphy was on his feet, leaning over the table. "Just what are you suggesting? Bob was nearly killed in there."

  Welsh didn't blink. He waited until Murphy sat down again, then lifted the flap of one of the boxes.

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  "The explosion was caused by a bomb. Plastic explosive. And we found detonators and other equipment for making more bombs. The basement of your church was being used as a bomb factory, Reverend. Your parishioners were making bombs."

  He let that sink in, watching as Wagoner went pale.

  "That's absurd," Murphy said. "Why would members of this church be making bombs?"

  Welsh scratched his chin as if he were asking himself that question for the first time. "How about to blow up the U.N.?"

  "The U.N.? What are you talking about?"

  "This kid, Paul Wallach, they pulled out of the basement, he wasn't from around here, was he? I know he's a student, supposedly, but my information is that he only recently started attending, is that correct?"

  "What are you suggesting? That Paul Wallach was somehow responsible for this explosion? That's crazy. He's just a kid."

  Welsh smiled sourly. "In my experience, kids do the funniest things. Especially when they come under the influence of fanatics." He said the last word as if he were spitting out something unpleasant.

  Murphy jumped up. "Fanatics? What are you, the Joe McCarthy of G-men, Welsh? Conspiracies everywhere. Fanatics like who?"

  "Like the sort of people who believe the U.N. is evil. Evangelical Christians, for instance."

  "We don't believe the U.N. is evil," Wagoner interjected. "We believe it does some good work. Peacekeeping in certain third world countries where there is chaos, humanitarian aid,

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  health programs, and so on. But we are suspicious about their efforts to promote globalism by uniting all religions regardless of their beliefs, and by uniting the world's governments under a single entity. In particular, I'm very concerned about turning the sovereignty of the United States government over to a world court."

  "Are you saying you oppose striving for world peace through global unity?"

  "Every single attempt to secure a one-world religion or a one-world government in the past has resulted in a totalitarian regime, inevitably causing the deaths of countless numbers of innocent citizens. We must learn from history. Man is incapable of bringing peace to this planet on his own. This world will never enjoy world peace until Christ Himself comes to set up His kingdom. His kingdom will last for a thousand years, and the Bible is very clear regarding this prophecy."

  "Then maybe some of your people thought a few bombs might hurry it along."

  Wagoner was stunned. "Our people? Evangelical Christians don't set off bombs, Agent Welsh."

  Welsh jabbed a finger at him. "How about the people who bomb family-planning clinics? Who kill doctors who perform abortions? They're Christians, aren't they?"

  "Not in my book," Wagoner said fiercely. "Yes, it's a terrible thing to take the lives of the unborn, but more murder is definitely not the answer. The Christian community universally opposes killing, even to save the unborn from being killed."

  Agent Baines had been quiet while Agent Welsh had carried on with his arguments, but he could contain himself

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  no longer. "Sir, I know I'm out of line, but I have to speak up. I certainly don't pretend to know the facts of this bombing, and there is certainly circumstantial evidence that makes it look pretty bad that something crazy was going on in that basement. Except I know these people. Not these people specifically, I don't mean that, I mean I know churchgoing folks in a community like this, because that's who I am. I know their hearts, and they could never be terrorists, bombers, or murderers for any cause, no matter how righteous.

  "Look, something terrible has happened here in Preston. People have died, more are in the hospital. And everyone wants to know why. We want to know why. Professor Murphy risked his life to save someone. Is that the action of a wanton murderer? Reverend Wagoner was lucky not to be killed himself. These are not the people we should be hunting down. I know that's gut talking, not forensics, sir, but sometimes we have to listen to bigger evidence than what our eyes tell us, don't we?"

  Welsh just gave a sour, angry stare to Baines, and never got a chance to answer him, because Laura Murphy stumbled through the doorway looking wild-eyed and in pain.

  She stared straight ahead for a moment, as if trying to think of the right word, then Murphy watched in horror as her eyes rolled back in her head and her whole body went limp like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut. She put a hand out to steady herself, and the chair crashed to the floor as Murphy caught her in his arms.

  "Get an ambulance," he screamed at Baines. "Now!"

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  FORTY-THREE

  FOR THE SECOND time in a matter of weeks, Stephanie Kovacs thought, the gods of media good fortune were smiling down on her. She had decided to spend the evening in the hotel poring over more of her research before snooping around Preston the next day to get more background about Professor Michael Murphy.

  She heard the church bomb ignite from her hotel room and was already beeping her cameraman when the BNN national bureau chief called her. Within an hour of the blast she had gone live with her first report. Even as more reporters swarmed over the site, she stayed ahead of the pack with a combination of her own drive and some additional tips being fed her by the New York and Atlanta bureaus. Now, the day after, she was ready for her next exclusive.

  "Stephanie Kovacs, BNN, live from the horrific bombing

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  of the Preston Community Church in Preston, North Carolina. Even while the search for victims and assessment of the damage continues desperately, there are ugly realities beginning to come to light at the scene.

  "Most shocking of all is the report that we are talking not about a terrorist attack upon the innocent churchgoers, but rather a far greater nightmare for the citizens of our country. There is now evidence that, contrary to earlier reports that suggested the church was the target of a terrorist bomb, the truth could be something even more deadly and cowardly.

  "Sources have revealed to BNN that the cause of the explosion was in fact a bomb factory in the basement--a bomb factory that went tragically, horribly wrong for four members of this tightly knit congregation. And these same sources have further suggested that evidence found in the debris here at Preston points to a connection with another recent terrorist attack."

  She paused dramatically, as if she needed to compose herself before making her biggest revelation. "Though authorities are making no pub
lic statements yet, we are told that there are indications that members of this church terror group were connected to Farley the Fanatic, yes, the suspect who is still at large and wanted for questioning for his role in the recent attack on a United Nations building in New York.

  We're told that there were disturbingly similar materials found at the two investigative scenes, the basement of the Preston Community Church, just a few feet from where I'm standing right now, and the house of Farley the Fanatic, where, you may recall, I was standing reporting to you just a few days

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  ago. I am told these materials include religious publications and pamphlets of the evangelical variety and evidence that the bombing of the U.N. was a very chilling possibility. And still could be, perhaps by surviving members of the terror cell whose plot went so horribly wrong here tonight in this church."

  Reluctantly, she broke eye contact with her viewers for a moment and turned to a tall, balding man in a black polo shirt and brown sport jacket.

  "I have with me Dr. Archer Fallworth, dean of the School of Arts and Science at Preston University, many of whose students and faculty worship at this church." She smiled sincerely, regretfully. "Thank you so much for taking a few minutes to be with us at this tragic time, Dean Fallworth."

  Fallworth looked as if he just managed to stop himself from saying My pleasure . He nodded, pursing his lips.

  "Dean, I think we're all in a state of shock about these revelations. I mean, members of a church congregation making bombs? And possibly connected to those plotting to commit terrorist attacks in our major cities? Can you throw any kind of light on what's been going on? Can you make any sense of this for us?"

  Dean Fallworth looked up with a serious expression. "I'm not sure I can explain what appears to have happened here in Preston, Stephanie. I don't know if anyone can. When fanatics maim and kill innocent people, I think we all... I..." He shook his head, apparently overcome with emotion.