by J. F. Penn
Contents
Beginning
Quotes.
DAY 1
Prologue
Oxford
Ezra Institute
The call
Sedlec
Bonsai
DAY 2
Ezra Institute
Explosion
The God Helmet
Jerusalem
Capella dos Ossos
DAY 3
Zoebios
St Martins in the Fields
Laboratory
Director Marietti's office
Capuchin monastery
Sedlec
DAY 4
Blackfriars
Ephesus
Arkady Novotsky
London and New York
British Museum
DAY 5
London and New York
The Louvre, Paris
Searching
Paris catacombs
Sector C
DAY 6
Sector C
Houseboat on the Seine
Firefight
DAY 7
ARKANE database
Staatliche Gallery
Sedlec
Aftermath
Enjoyed Prophecy?
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
About J.F. Penn
Prophecy
By J.F. Penn
Book 2 in the ARKANE thriller series.
Copyright © J.F. Penn (2011). All rights reserved.
http://www.JFPenn.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“Before me was 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.”
Revelation 6:8
Jerusalem. Israel. 5.27am
Blood has seeped into the stones of Jerusalem for millennia. Screams of the dying have echoed across the Kidron Valley as the ancient city has been besieged, broken and destroyed. Each time, the blood of the defeated has watered the earth, seeds of hate to be harvested in the next generation. Demons of war and power have squatted over the city, feeding off the lives that ground themselves to dust for their gods. Here the blood of human sacrifice stained the altars to Baal and fortress walls were built on the crushed bodies of the vanquished. Here the Jews fought to rule their Holy City, being both victor and then victim in their long history. Here the blood of Jesus Christ ran onto the stone streets of the Old City as the mob jeered his passing. Jerusalem has always been a place of blood, and always will be.
Ayal Ben-David stepped out from the maze of Jewish Quarter streets onto the series of ramps leading down to the Western Wall. The golden Dome of the Rock dominated the scene, reflecting the rays of the rising sun. The blue tiles were dusky from this distance but Ayal knew the mosque was covered with Arabic script and brilliant turquoise, aqua and gold tiles. It stood framed by cypress trees, witnesses to a never-ending conflict. Ayal walked across the wide expanse of the open square, grey marble reflecting pink hues of the early morning sky. He raised his hand to another soldier standing guard at the eastern entrance to the square, acknowledging him but not stopping.
Ayal stood taller as he neared the Western Wall itself, straightening his uniform and checking that his rifle hung down correctly behind him. He never tired of this morning routine. This wall was the only remnant of the ancient Temple and Jews had been kept from it for so long. It was the closest they could get to the Temple Mount where God gathered the dust to fashion Adam, where Abraham had bound his son Isaac as a sacrifice. It had been the centre of the Jewish temple, the Holy of Holies, the place where God dwelt with His chosen people. But it was also here that Mohammad ascended to heaven on his Night Journey and so it had become the most contested religious site in the world.
Ayal was close enough now to see the huge blocks of limestone that made up the ancient wall. Each was almost as tall as a man, the wall’s foundations embedded deep in the earth. There were tufts of shikaron or henbane spiking from the grooves between the blocks. Ayal smiled as a swallow swooped to perch and pick an insect from one of the thorny bushes that grew there. Nature found its way into the cracks of life, he thought, like the Jews, surviving despite generations of persecution. Ayal was proud. This was his heritage, his life.
He stood in front of the wall and began to pray, fingertips resting gently against the stone. He could almost feel the power of the place. Hopes and prayers of believers were written on scraps of paper and pushed into the cracks of stone. The tefillah, heartfelt prayers, would reach God faster here, the most holy place, where the real bled into the divine. As he neared the end of the first prayer, Ayal heard shouting above him. The words were muffled but the noise echoed through the square. Immediately, he swung his rifle into position, looking up for potential danger. Rocks had been thrown down many times by Muslims intent on disrupting the prayers of the Jewish faithful, but sometimes the threat was more serious. He could see that the other soldiers in position around the square had heard the noise and were also prepared for action. Moving back away from the wall, Ayal scanned for the source of the noise.
Standing on top of the Western Wall, a skinny man in a thin white robe raised his hands to the dawn sky and called out to God. His head was shaved and his skeletal figure made a grotesque outline against the deepening azure sky. Ayal couldn’t make out the words but clearly the man was a fanatic and the guards from the Temple Mount would get to him soon enough. Ayal turned his head to signal to the others to stand down; there was no real threat. But a soldier was pointing urgently, and Ayal looked back to see the man jump from the top of the wall, sixty feet above him. The man was silent as he fell, white robe billowing behind him in a parody of flight. With a sickening crunch, his body smashed on the flagstones at the base of the wall. Blood exploded from the broken body, staining the robe into a grisly shroud.
Ayal ran to the man, but he could see there was nothing to be done, for he was clearly already dead. He knelt and checked the man’s pulse out of protocol, then called for another soldier to bring screens to put around the body. He would need the Rabbi to come and cleanse the area before the worshippers arrived. Ayal noticed that the man was young, maybe in his thirties. Although half of his face was mangled by the fall, he had sharply defined cheekbones, as though he had been starving. Strangely, his face wasn’t contorted and it seemed he had died at peace. There were no other wounds so he hadn’t been shot. He had just jumped.
Ayal could see that the once white gown was from a hospital and that the man was naked underneath. He moved the gown slightly to cover the man and give him some dignity in death. As he bent down, Ayal noticed a scrap of paper that had been clutched in the man’s hand and now lay crumpled next to the body. Perhaps it would give some clue as to why he jumped. Blood was still oozing from the body and would soak the scrap before long so he picked it up. It showed a roughly drawn horse’s head in thick lines of charcoal, smudged into the page with rough hands. The horse’s eyes were wide, its nostrils flared. Chalk had been rubbed over it to give a consistent white appearance. Beneath the image were inked the words, ‘Before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades followed close behind.’ Ayal recognized it as part of a Christian prophecy from the book of Revelation and for a moment he pondered its significance.
As he stood to direct the other soldiers, a trickle of blood ran down into the cracks of stone beneath his feet, joining the blood that had soaked the earth of the holy city for millennia.
Oxford, England. 6.43am
The verdant green of summer was intensified by the rain that pounded down. It darkened the day, shadowing the earth in cloud. Morgan Sierra ran through the gates of the University Parks by Keble College, her stride lengthening as she headed towards the river Cherwell. In the distance she could hear the rumbling of thunder as it grew closer and lightning forked towards her from the north. This was Morgan’s favorite time to run. When most people hurried inside, she quickly changed into her gear and sprinted towards the storm. She had always been a chaser of violent weather. It thrilled her to move over the earth connected to this power of Nature, yet it was rare to have such tropical storms in England. This was a country of gentle rolling hills and soft rain that pattered onto the leaves of spreading oak trees. English rain was persistent but rarely violent so this was an event to be savored.
The rain made the ground slippery and Morgan was soaked through, t-shirt slick against her skin. She was more a thing of water than of air, her breathing even and pace strong as she raced through the park. She came out at St Catherine’s College, crossed the river and continued towards Magdalen Bridge. Oak trees shaded the path, a canopy of mottled jade, leaves open to the rain. Morgan splashed through puddles, a smile growing wider on her face. Sprinting now, she pushed herself as hard as she could along the towpath until she finally reached the crossing point at Magdalen. Panting, she stopped to catch her breath, skin cooling in the downpour. I needed this, she thought. I need to push myself physically to feel alive. A nagging part of her knew that her attraction to ARKANE lay in this acknowledged truth. She had felt alive during the search for the Pentecost stones and then the Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute had offered her a job. That had been almost a month ago and still she couldn’t decide her response.
Morgan ran on through the Botanical Gardens towards the junction where the Cherwell met the Isis, that part of the Thames that belonged to Oxford. Running helped her think, gave her body something to do while she mentally processed. The storm was a bonus, a way to hide and also to clear the paths of Oxford which heaved with tourists in the summer months. Morgan had thought about resurrecting her clinical psychology practice, but the problems of individual patients no longer seemed as challenging as the mysteries that ARKANE agents were investigating. She was distracted and it showed in her patient numbers. The University was quiet over the summer months, when she was meant to be writing scientific papers and improving her academic standing. But the work seemed insignificant in the face of almost losing her sister and niece. At the thought of little Gemma, Morgan ran harder, her love and fear needing the outlet. She would do it all again to keep them safe.
Then there were the memories of the firefight in her office. ARKANE had done a great job of clearing up the bodies and repairing her furniture, but her Jungian mandala was forever stained with dark blood and her bookcases pockmarked with bullet-holes. Morgan knew that she should be more affected by the deaths, by her own ability to kill. It was self-defense, but she had felt the thrill of battle again. Some people just didn’t get post traumatic stress; she knew that academically as a psychologist. Those types of people made excellent soldiers, accomplished assassins. Perhaps not brilliant academics. She thought of her father then. He too had loved the rain and the storms. Living in Israel, rain had been so precious. Through the back-breaking work of Jewish immigrants, they had made the desert bloom, the kibbutzim a family of life-bringers. Her father would have been so proud of her place at Oxford, but then he had also been desperately proud of her place in the Israeli Defense Force. She smiled. He would have approved of a warrior academic.
Morgan emerged onto the Isis river bank at the end of Christchurch meadow as the storm broke over her head. Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rolled past immediately. Cattle in the meadow huddled together under the trees, heads down. Local swans floated in loving pairs on the river, splattered by huge drops of rain. Ripples overlapped each other, spreading out to slap against the side of canal boats tethered on the banks, their bright shutters closed against the deluge. Morgan ran up the wide pathway towards Christchurch College, the power in the storm transferred to her through the crackling air. She recognized that the energy she felt now, the exhilaration, was what she had felt working with ARKANE and with Jake Timber.
Catching her breath again, Morgan set off at an easier pace towards the imposing college and again considered her options. Going back to the practice in the last few weeks had felt more like an end than a new beginning. Working with ARKANE would give her the chance she needed to develop her skills further and it would give her access to their unique and diverse material. Morgan smiled to herself, and thought, let’s face it, clinical practice just isn’t as exciting as exploring the spiritual mysteries of the world.
She had spent nights dreaming of the underground vault that ARKANE kept hidden under London’s Trafalgar Square. There were mysteries locked away down there, a kaleidoscope of mankind’s spiritual history. She had a chance to be part of that world. She only had to pick up the phone to call Director Marietti. But part of her still stung from the betrayal and the secrets they had kept from her, the fight she had with Jake. Yet he still haunted her dreams as well. Sometimes she woke from a vivid dream of them together, physical violence morphing into passionate sex. She hadn’t heard from him since she had walked away from the ARKANE vault. Perhaps he never thought of her at all.
The storm was retreating now, thunder taking longer between the lightning strikes. Even the rain was easing to a gentler refrain. Now that the frenzy of the storm had passed, the city was washed and shone in the morning sun. Morgan jogged towards Walton Street, her pace slowing. She had always dreamed of working at Oxford. Now she was a respected academic at this great University, with her own private clinical practice. She was close to her family. How could it be any better than this? So why did she feel so conflicted?
Ezra Institute. Jerusalem, Israel. 8.32am
The Ezra Institute was in chaos. Somehow one of the patients had escaped and they were still searching for him. The alarm had gone off before dawn and the bell still rang at intervals, jolting everyone anew. A team had been sent out with the police to try to find him, so the Institute was short-staffed. But something else had triggered a reaction in the patients and Dinah Mizrahi had been called in to sort it out. As Deputy Director of the facility, she was frequently left to deal with emergencies while her boss spent his time dealing with fundraising. At least that’s what he called it, Dinah thought as she hurried down the tiled corridor. There was a problem in the women’s ward. She could hear the wailing all the way to the reception area. At the door to the ward, the security guard asked for her pass.
“Seriously, Mikael. Do we have to go through this every morning?” She fumbled at her waist for the card.
“You know the rules, Dr Mizrahi,” the guard said with a smile, used to the routine. He knew that the complaining medical staff were truly grateful for the protection in this dangerous city. He buzzed her into the main facility.
Only Israel could possibly have a place like Ezra, a specialized institution for those suffering from Jerusalem Syndrome. It manifested as a set of mental phenomena associated with the religious aspects of the Holy City, generally affecting Christians and some Jews. Patients thought they were Mary, the mother of Christ, or John the Baptist, Elijah or other religious figures connected with Jerusalem. They often claimed to be messengers from God. Many recovered when they were removed from the city but some were too entrenched in their psychoses and they were brought here to Ezra. The women’s ward had four Mary, mother of Jesus and three Mary Magdalenes. Today they were united in a chorus of wailing, an intense outpouring of grief.
Entering the ward, Dinah saw Abigail, the ward Sister, struggling to cope with the mass emotion in the usually well behaved ward.
“Do you know what triggered this?” Dinah shouted, struggling to be heard above the din.
“It started suddenly, just after dawn,” Abigail replied. “They
won’t speak. They just wail. They’re inconsolable. I didn’t want to sedate them until you’d seen them like this.”
“Thank you but I think we can sedate them now. The other patients will be fretting with the noise. Have there been any other incidents?”
The nurse looked at the floor.
“I’m so sorry Dr Mizrahi but the Marys have taken all my attention. We’re short staffed at the best of times. I haven’t even had time to check on the others.”
Dinah dismissed the nurse’s concern.
“It’s alright, I’ll go check on them now. I’ll start with Abraham.”
Dinah headed down the long corridor towards the wing where patients were kept in individual rooms. It wasn’t solitary confinement so much as a private mini ward where the patients couldn’t hurt others. They had tried bigger wards but the re-enactment of certain biblical events had caused them to keep the more seriously affected separate. The patient called Abraham had been there almost two months now. He had never given them another name and had no ID on him when he had been admitted. He was clearly well versed in scripture and Dinah couldn’t fault his knowledge. With her combined expertise in psychiatry and theology, she felt Abraham was one of the patients most deeply embedded in his own psychoses. He truly believed that he was Abraham, the prophet of God, servant of the Most High. The only patient who came close to this was Daniel, who had escaped from the facility this morning. He believed himself to be John of Patmos, the writer of Revelation. Dinah decided to visit Abraham first and then check Daniel’s room to see if there were any clues to his disappearance.
The corridor she walked down was bright basic white with no decorations. The Institute team had found that any kind of visual stimulation was interpreted by the patients as a message from God. As she approached Abraham’s door, she could hear a low voice praying in a stream of connected words. At least he wasn’t screaming the place down, Dinah thought. Then she looked through the glass window into the small room, and immediately pressed the alarm call button next to the door.