7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  She looked down at Robby, and she smiled back at his smile. He was a trouper and had stayed close to her. She and Robby were on the long couch in the chalet’s great room. They had been there for several hours, and although they had dozed a bit, it seemed it must be approaching midday.

  “Robby, are you all right?’ she asked.

  “Sure, Dr. Cloe. I’m fine,” he responded. “I just wish Bully was here.”

  “Well, Bully should be with us soon. I think my friends will bring him here. Where’s Michael?” The chalet felt otherwise deserted.

  “He’s gone,” replied Robby.

  “Gone? What do you mean? Where could he have gone?”

  “He’s gone back to the bad man,” said Robby. “He left while you were on the phone.”

  “How could he do that? What did he say?” asked Cloe, dread making her skin clammy.

  “He just said he had to go, but he left you a letter,” said Robby, handing her an envelope.

  “Oh my God!” whispered Cloe, flashing back to Tunisia, years before, to the last letter Michael had left her, one of error and apology.

  She carefully opened the message and read the two lines it contained: “Cloe, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I must go back to where I belong now that you and the boy are safe. I’m sorry.”

  She stared at the note from the man she had thought at one time that she might have loved. He had betrayed her at Masada. He had never been what he had pretended to be. Now, another betrayal. She had to face it: Michael was evil to the core. He was incapable of change. Even the boy’s effect on him was only temporary.

  She shook her head violently and turned away from Robby so he would not see the tears. Even so, she was not sure if these were tears of loss or anger or something in between. One thing was certain; Michael had been lost to her at Masada, and his own acts now, once again, condemned him.

  Dabbing her eyes on her sleeve, she faced the boy and said, “Okay, Robby, we need to get ready. Our friends will be here after a while.”

  “We’re going after the bad man, aren’t we, Dr. Cloe?” asked the boy.

  “Yes, Robby,” replied Cloe. “We’re going after the bad man.”

  “You know it’s our job, don’t you?”

  “I know that’s somehow true. How do you know that?” she asked.

  “Bully told me,” he said.

  Cloe thought about this and could not say otherwise.

  “Do you know who the bad man is?” she asked, testing the boy.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know his name?” persisted Cloe.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, can you tell me?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Not safe? It’s just you and me here,” she replied. “Even Michael is gone.”

  The boy looked at her, and his eyes widened.

  “Dr. Cloe, to say that name out loud would be to open a door that couldn’t be closed.”

  CHAPTER

  78

  “Cloe, it is so good to see you,” declared the monsignor, giving her a huge hug.

  “And you too, Albert.”

  No sooner had she greeted the monsignor than J.E. grabbed her in a bear hug. They had assembled in the chalet’s great room with its magnificent view of the mountain range on the border separating Armenia from Turkey. The furnishings were rustic and oversized as befitted a mountain lodge.

  “Mom, you’re safe. Thank God!” said her son.

  “Waraff!” cried Bully, standing on his hind legs.

  Robby ran to him, and Cloe saw he was at least a foot and a half taller than the boy. Robby hugged the huge dog and would have been rolled over by Bully but for his great strength.

  “Good boy, good Bully!” whispered Robby, giving Bully’s ears a world-class scratch. “I missed you so much.”

  Cloe looked around and said, “Where’s everyone else? Where are Zack and the others?”

  “They’re at the airport with the Swiss,” said J.E. “Robby’s mother is still being tended to in Iceland, but she said to tell Robby she’s fine and she loves him.”

  Cloe looked at the boy. His eyes were moist—he was missing his mom.

  “We came to get you, Michael, and the boy,” said the monsignor. “The plane is being refueled. We figured you would want to go as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes,” replied Cloe.

  “But where’s Michael?” asked J.E., looking about. “I still don’t see how he survived the Claymore at Masada.”

  “He’s gone, J.E.,” she replied.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  The monsignor, who stood near the window gazing out across the mountains, turned full around to face them. “I’m guessing he’s gone back to Icar.”

  “That seems to be the case,” said Cloe, showing them the letter. “I don’t get it. He seemed to be free of Icar—the boy had a positive effect on him. We would be dead but for Michael. Why would he go back? He has to know Icar would suspect him and likely kill him. Why did he leave?”

  “Cloe, I don’t know for sure, but the child must have appealed to some small part of him that remained good. But away from Icar and with you safe, he could not resist his fate,” said the monsignor. “The temptation of power and greed is strong.”

  J.E. hugged his mother. They listened to the crackling of the fire, laid by Michael, in the huge fireplace.

  Then Cloe turned and clenched her right hand into a fist and said, “All right, we know the score. Now, let’s go put Icar to sleep for another thousand years.”

  ***

  The airplane was noisy with the engines and the Swiss clinking and clanking weapons as they cleaned them and prepared for battle. People shouted back and forth, and spirits were high. Cloe sat with J.E., the monsignor, the curator, and the others in the middle of the executive jet. Cloe had checked in with Jeanne in New Orleans to see if they had developed any more information, but there was nothing new. She told her of the prophecy, and they speculated on its meaning.

  Zack and Mel were helping them work on a plan. Rey and Zoe talked quietly, and Louie sharpened his blade. Robby dozed a few seats away with Bully curled at his feet. They barely had a platoon of the Swiss, but it was all the monsignor could round up. Still, it’s a game bunch, thought Cloe.

  “Cloe, the translation,” said the monsignor. “You said you thought you knew what it meant?”

  Cloe looked at her friend, Albert, precious Albert, now a virtual member of her family. She looked at J.E., who she knew had studied the Bible while deployed in Iraq. Then there were Zack and Mel and the curator all watching her expectantly. Robby and Bully both stared at her, exuding a kind of knowing confidence. Well, it had all come down to this. Now they had to be right.

  “Here’s what I think I know,” she started. “The first line of the translated section of the coded part of the journal says, ‘Evil must be sealed at the Mount.’”

  “Yes,” said the curator. “I think we can say whatever and wherever the finale will be, it will occur at the so-called mount.”

  “No, Father Curator, it’s more than that,” said Cloe. “‘Evil must be sealed’ has to mean something, and I believe it means evil will be defeated at the mount. Remember, I now believe this is not a formula for the conquest of the beast but a prophecy.”

  “You’re telling us that you think Christ is saying this is what will happen,” observed the curator. “If so, we must believe this will happen. We will be victorious. The end is foreordained.”

  “Yes,” said Cloe. “That seems correct, but it doesn’t feel right. It seems to say evil has no chance.”

  “Here’s the thing,” said the monsignor. “It’s the difference between must and will.”

  “I think I see,” said Zack. “The pro
phecy says evil must be sealed at the mount, which suggests this is where the battle has to take place. It’s a prophecy as to the location of the fight and not as to the outcome.”

  “Good Lord! Of course, you’re right,” said Cloe, turning to Zack. “The end is not preordained, only the venue of the deciding battle. So, what we know is that if the beast is to be defeated, it will be at this mount.”

  “If we are correct in our thinking, we must find this place … this mount,” said the monsignor. “There we will find Icar.”

  “But what about the next line, the one that says ‘Good will serve the Seven’?” asked J.E.

  “The number seven is a very common reference in biblical history and may be thought of as a lucky and perhaps holy number,” said the curator. “The most obvious reference is to the creation of the world with God resting on the seventh day. With its derivatives, such as seventh and sevenfold, it is used almost nine hundred times in the Bible, fifty-four times in the book of Revelation alone.”

  “Quite right. In Revelation, there is a reference to the seven seals. It’s part of the unfolding of the apocalypse,” said the monsignor.

  “Seven seals?” Cloe observed. “It cannot be a coincidence that the words sealed and seven are used in the first section of the translation. Also, our German friends at Uruk mentioned these words. Let’s carefully go over once again what we know.”

  “This is connected,” said the curator, over the noise of the engines.

  “But in the book of Revelation, the seals are opened by the Lamb and presage the final battle, the apocalypse, including the unleashing of the four horsemen,” observed the monsignor. “How does that relate to ‘evil being sealed’ in the translation?”

  J.E., who had been listening intently, said, “It’s all Revelation. When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, it loosed a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine, and plague and by the wild beasts of the earth.”

  There was no sound among the core group except the droning of the jet engines.

  “There can be little doubt that the pale horse and its rider are now among us,” said the curator. “The prophecies foretold in Revelations are playing out now.”

  “But Christ says in the journal that evil can be sealed at the mount and good will follow the seven,” said Cloe. “This must mean that what has been unsealed or opened can be resealed by the seven. This can be stopped.”

  “Yes, in modern terms, good, led by the seven, can defeat evil at the mount, and this will all be sealed or stopped,” said the monsignor. “That’s the key.”

  Cloe turned to Zack and the boy, now wide awake. She looked upon him and the others with new realization.

  “Zack, you and your friends are the seven,” she said finally.

  “Whooof,” cried Bully, as if in confirmation.

  Zack looked as if he were crushed by the weight of responsibility. After a moment though, she saw him stand tall and strong. He was ready.

  Robby smiled that slight, enigmatic smile of his as if somewhere inside he knew something.

  “Let it be,” the child said.

  CHAPTER

  79

  The executive jet was nearing Israeli airspace when Sky came on the intercom and said, “Everyone in their seats and buckle up tight. There are targets on our radar headed toward us that are not answering our radio calls. This may be trouble.”

  Cloe tightened her seat belt, fear creeping into her shoulders and neck. She recalled the flight from Lyon, France, to Tunisia, which was sabotaged by the Kolektor’s people. Now, compared to Icar, the Kolektor seemed like a piker and his brand of evil like amateur hour. J.E. went forward to see if he could help Sky.

  “Albert,” called Cloe, “were you able to contact Captain Jacob and the Israelis for their help?”

  “Yes, I spoke with him,” replied the monsignor. “He’s in a hospital in Jerusalem, recovering. At the airport, we thought it was touch and go there for a while, but on closer examination, the doctors found it not to be as serious. He’s already much better. We will have as much support as he and his people can give us.”

  J.E. had left the cockpit door open so Cloe and the monsignor could see onto the pilot deck and through the windshield. She saw Sky feverously adjusting controls and using the radio. He had put the radio on the speaker so everyone could hear the radio traffic.

  J.E. had belted himself into the copilot’s seat. Cloe glanced down at Robby and saw his eyes, big with wonder. There was no fear in them. What a kid, she thought.

  An unidentified voice came on the intercom. “Vatican jet, this is the leader of the flight ahead of you. You are directed to reduce speed to two hundred knots and fall into formation with us.”

  Sky keyed his mike and said firmly, “Leader, identify yourself and your flight.”

  Cloe wondered briefly how the intruders knew this was a Vatican airplane. The leader had an accent, but it was slight and hard to identify, especially over the scratchy intercom.

  “Vatican jet,” said the leader, “I repeat, reduce your speed and follow us. If you do not comply, you will be shot down.”

  The interceptors had formed up around them: there appeared to be four in total.

  “Who are they? What are they?” Cloe asked.

  “They’re MiG-21s, obviously fully armed,” said the monsignor, studying the aircraft bristling with weapons. “As to who they are, I would have to speculate that they are soldiers of Icar or his allies.”

  “Leader, we are a diplomatic mission under the full protection of the Vatican,” returned Sky. “You are to remove yourself from our proximity and cease from impeding our progress.”

  Cloe smiled at the moxie of her pilot. Sky was a piece of work. What was it Michael had said to describe his former pilot? He could fly anything farther, faster, and better than anyone on earth. She knew it was true.

  At that point, two of the MiGs dropped off and slipped behind them.

  “Hang on!” cried Sky over the intercom. “They’re lining up behind us to aim their missiles.”

  Just then, the jet to their starboard fired a burst of machine-gun bullets. The tracers arched over the front of the Vatican jet and fell behind.

  “Vatican jet, this is your last chance,” said the leader of the bogies. “Drop your speed and fall in with us.”

  “Mayday, mayday!” shouted J.E. over the radio. “This is Victor, Romero, Mike, niner, niner, seven; we are under attack by unknown assailants. We need help immediately! We are a Vatican jet on a diplomatic mission. We need help!”

  Cloe listened as J.E. continued to broadcast the distress signal and Sky coiled into a striking position. Whatever was going to happen was coming at them like a runaway freight train.

  Then Sky, strangely calm, spoke into the intercom in an almost conversational voice, “Tighten those seat belts down as much as you can, scouts. We don’t have guns, but we’re not defenseless.”

  Two seconds later, the Vatican plane barrel-rolled and dropped like a stone. Cloe watched as four missiles shot past where they had been and hunted for a target. One of the MiG-21s ahead of them peeled off, and the last she saw, the missiles followed. Blam! One down, she thought, hearing a thunderous explosion. Her heart felt like it would lodge in her throat at the zero-to-negative gravity drop.

  She turned and stared out the port and saw at least two of the jets following. She had no doubt that the remaining MiG was also hot after them. Three to one was not good, particularly because they had nothing to shoot back with.

  “Fifteen thousand feet!” the monsignor shouted as Sky went to full power in an almost vertical drop.

  “What?” Cloe called out over the noise of the screaming jet’s descent.

  “We’re headed below fifteen thousand feet. The 21s are superb platforms
, but they have their weak spots,” cried the monsignor. “They are basically high-altitude interceptors, and below fifteen thousand feet they lose high-speed maneuverability and weapons systems tracking. Piloting becomes a lot of work, and control can be tough to maintain.”

  Is there nothing this man does not know? Not for the first time, she considered how much of his background was religious and how much was military. Just then, J.E. turned to her and gave her the thumbs-up signal. Obviously, J.E. was aware of the MiG’s vulnerabilities as well.

  “Mayday, mayday!” J.E. yelled into the mike on his headset. “We are a civilian jet on a mission from the Vatican under attack by military jets, MiG-21s. We need immediate help. We are descending below fifteen thousand feet.”

  Sky leveled the plane, virtually squashing everyone with the g-force of the maneuver. The jet was quickly at or near its rated high speed at this altitude. Cloe wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be north of five hundred miles an hour.

  “With this special jet and its modifications, top speed is closer to six hundred miles per hour,” said the monsignor, reading her mind. “But we would need to be higher, in thinner air to achieve that. The MiGs are a lot faster, but at this altitude they lose maneuverability and fire-tracking capability.”

  Whoosh! A missile flew by to starboard.

  “Damn, that was close!” cried Cloe.

  Sky banked the plane hard starboard in the lee of the missile. Cloe saw the MiGs lumber into the turn but not as precisely as the Vatican jet. A small spark of hope kindled in her breast.

  The remaining fighters opened up with thirty-millimeter cannon fire, and Cloe watched as the tracer rounds stitched the air around them.

  Sky pushed the plane back to port, but it was too late as the impact of the large rounds hit the jet below the wing and tore something lose. Immediately the jet began to lose speed.

  “Mayday, mayday!” J.E. shouted into the radio again, but there was not much hope of help now.

  The Vatican jet’s speed continued to bleed off, and now the MiGs had caught up. Cloe could see them dropping off to the rear to administer the coup de grâce.