The Flaming Sword

by Breck England

  “You must understand,” Kane answered him calmly. “I have lost a son also. Two sons, in fact.” He glanced at Ari. “What you call the Day of Requital cannot come until this Temple Mount is restored to God. The one you call the Prophet Isa—the One I call Jesus the Messiah—they are the same. Only he has the right to reign. Only he can restore the true Temple. But it is our task to prepare the way. For more than forty years, I have worked and planned for this day, and your brother was trying to stop me.”

  “It isn’t true,” Amal shouted. “You are not the hand of God. In your dead white robes, with your white hair and your flaming eyes, you are the dajjal, the devil himself!”

  “Peace,” the old man held up his hand. “Study him carefully, Amal. ‘Surely those who guard against evil, when the Shaitan visits them, they become mindful. Behold! They see!’ You may learn more about your task in a night from watching this man than you will learn in all the years to come.”

  Kane smiled, almost sadly. “For him, there are no years to come, Hafiz. Only hours.”

  “If it is the will of Allah,” Hafiz waved a dismissing hand. “I understand now. More than forty years ago, I stood guard over this place. My uncle, the Eagle, had alerted me that an attack on the Dome was imminent. We captured three bombers who tried to mine the Dome; a fourth escaped. He was young, a strong runner, a climber. That fourth man was you.”

  “I had only a partial view of things then,” Kane replied. “I was in the Marines. A soldier in the Holy Land. Lebanon, Palestine. I saw unspeakable things—women, children ripped up by bombs. Hatred, death everywhere. My old teacher, Maryse’s father, had given me such a romantic idea of the place. The reality was quite different.”

  Hafiz regarded Kane meditatively. “All these years I’ve wondered—intensely at first, only idly since—what became of the fourth man. And you were one of us all along.” He called out to Mortimer. “Cherub of the West, how did you know the Lion was a traitor?”

  Mortimer’s chuckle echoed through the Dome. “When Shor was killed, I began wearing armor for fear someone was trying to eliminate us. Someone who knew of us. Thanks to the efficient work of our friend Monsieur Grammont here”—the tall Frenchman bowed imperceptibly—“that would be very, very few people. Then I asked Maryse to investigate the background of Peter Chandos, the papal secretary, wondering about his connection with our little band. When she reported that a page of the Great Book was missing—from the section dealing with the Chandos family—I knew who our antagonist was. It could only be David Kane, the successor of the Chandos, trying to erase that link.”

  Hafiz coughed. “And so it was. I too wondered. I sent my son Nasir to Haifa directly I heard of Shor’s death, to gather what intelligence he could. I should have shared my concerns with you, Jean-Baptiste, but I was unsure of you.”

  “And I of you, old friend,” Mortimer called back in a weary voice. “I’m sorry. If the Cherubim cannot trust one another…well, apparently we cannot.” He looked up coolly at Kane, who had listened until now without emotion.

  “Father,” Amal cried. “What can we do? We’ve got to stop him.”

  Hafiz hushed his son. “We have done all that can be done. It is in God’s hands now.” He turned to Kane. “You fell in with a cult…the Lifta group…”

  “Yes, I was reading everything in those days and came across a tract by a man named Shlomo Barda. On my leave days, I joined him. He had a vision that all the religions would come together at this Temple Mount. That the Muslims had desecrated the spot by building the Dome here. That if the Muslim shrine were destroyed, Jesus would return. He proved it from the Bible, that only Christ Himself could put an end to this misery.

  “You all stood in the way. I’d met Sir John Chandos, made friends with him; he saw me as the son he’d never had. He was old and babbled the whole thing. The Ox, the Lion, and so forth. I even learned your names, collected your photos, and gave them to Barda.”

  Kane grew excited and walked to the center of the Rock. “But Barda didn’t realize there is a proper time. That was not the time. He was captured along with the others—of course, they were all sent to the asylum. But I remained free. I searched, I studied, I prayed. I even took steps to become one of you. Gradually, things came clearer to me. Who I really was. What I was to do. The timetable…”

  “October 11, 2027,” Mortimer intoned from his hiding place by the north portal. “Of course, you had much to do to prepare for this crucial day. You discovered that you were the high priest of Israel, the true pontiff, the only one who could fulfill the prophecies.”

  “What prophecies?” Ari asked.

  “ ‘Who may abide the day of his coming?’ ” It was the fading voice of Hafiz al-Ayoub. “ ‘For he is like a refiner’s fire. He shall purify the sons of Levi, he shall purge them as silver and gold, and they shall offer unto the Lord offerings in righteousness.’ Scrawled on the walls of the old shrine in Lifta.”

  Kane smiled at the old man. “Before the day of his coming, a true son of Levi—a high priest of Israel—must offer up a righteous offering. A true offering. A temple offering! That is the key.”

  “The high priest of Israel,” Maryse said slowly as if to herself. “Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. The blood offering in the Holy of Holies. You offered up your own son in the Sancta Sanctorum at Rome. Peter Chandos was your son! And you sent his twin brother to perform the sacrifice, to scatter his blood on the altar.”

  Kane looked tired. He glanced up at the windows, as if searching for the light of dawn, but it was still dark outside.

  Mortimer continued, “You insinuated yourself into the confidence of Sir John Chandos, the Lion, the Cherub of the West. He needed a successor. He prized you, married his daughter to you, never suspected you until it was too late, so you killed him.”

  Maryse was still thinking aloud. “And there were twins. You left one of them—Peter—with his mother and took the other…”

  “Elias,” Kane sighed, glancing again at Ari. “His name was Elias.”

  “ ‘The one shall be taken, the other left.’ ” Maryse recalled the Bible verse Rafqa had quoted to her.

  “It was ordained. She needed punishment anyway…” Kane trailed off.

  “Punishment for what?” Maryse cried. “What could she have done to you that you would cause her this kind of pain? Abandoning her, stealing one son and turning him into the killer of the other?”

  “Never ask me,” Kane spat at her. Then calmly, “It was a useful sin in any case.”

  Maryse drew back, horrified, whispering. “So you raised Elias with one purpose in mind—to prepare for this Day of Atonement. You trained him to do your exact bidding. To climb walls, to steal, to use a weapon commando-style, to kill without mercy. To force his mother to drink the blood of atonement. To murder his own brother and coldly sprinkle his life’s blood on the holy altar.”

  “To make the blood offering, yes.”

  Maryse shook her head. “But you’re not a priest. You’re not a son of Levi, you’re not even a Jew.”

  All was clear to Ari now. “He is a Jew. He’s one of the cohanim, the descendants of the house of Levi with rights to the priesthood. Emmanuel Shor verified it for him, and he sent Elias to force Shor to give up the Chandos DNA samples so there would be no trace of them.”

  “My father was a Jew,” Kane explained in a matter-of-fact tone. “Leonard Kane was his name. He was an American, an athlete, turned my mother’s head when he played a tennis championship in Britain. Then my mother’s oh-so-English parents found out; that was the end of the marriage; it was annulled. In their eyes, I was not only illegitimate, but Jewish as well.”

  “Yes,” Mortimer assumed his pedantic voice. “Cohen, Kahane, Kane—all variations of the same name. A kohen was a priest of Israel; and as I understand, their bloodlines have stayed relatively pure for two thousand years.”

  “I am the
kohen gadol,” Kane murmured. “The last true high priest of Israel. My bloodline is the pure one from Aaron, the brother of Moses. I felt it. I always felt it, and Emmanuel Shor verified it for me. It was like a death sentence on myself.”

  “But why kill Emmanuel Shor?” Ari asked.

  “Shor, Tempelman, Catriel Levine, Nasir al-Ayoub, Rachel Halevy—they all had to die for the same reason,” Mortimer explained. “To protect the great plan of our friend here. Each one knew too much, or danced a bit too close to the flame. Therefore, the necessity of murdering me—although I foiled him there—and the other Cherubim, the very men tasked with guarding the Dome. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the plan.”

  “Correct,” Kane said. “Nothing must prevent the sacrifices of this Day of Atonement. Nothing and no one.”

  “Thus the white linen, the ritual robes of the priesthood,” Mortimer added. In the lamplight Kane looked majestic, his single garment moon-white and flowing in folds from his powerful body. “And the magnificent chalice. And the singular image known as the Acheropita. His purpose? To replay the sacrifice of the temple, to offer up the sacrificial blood before the Real Presence. And on the very site the high priests used in the time of Solomon.”

  Suddenly, Maryse nearly leaped at Kane. Her body shook in the bonds, she writhed toward him. “The Chalice! The Ardagh Chalice. Your son stole it. Your son killed Father. The shot was not for me, it was for him! You killed my father! He loved you, did everything he could for you. And you had him killed.” She choked out tears.

  Kane was almost tender. He seemed relieved to let it all out. “I loved him, too. I tried to explain to him what I had found out, what my destiny was. He was the only one I thought I could speak to and share what I knew. But he was shocked…he withdrew from me. I was afraid he would tell you. No, Maryse, it was no accident. You had to be here, tonight, to play the role of the Magdalene, the witness. It was all ordained long ago. As I said, nothing, no one must prevent it.”

  “So…whose blood will fill the chalice now?” Maryse asked, no longer struggling, staring up at him with swollen eyes. “For your last sacrifice?”

  Hesitating, he raised his hand toward Ari.

  “No,” Maryse said firmly.

  Mortimer barked with rage. “It’s poetic! Abraham will at last finish the task, here on the Rock of Ages. A son of Abraham, bound once more on this very place, his throat slit and his blood poured out on the rock. The last sacrifice of the last priest to call down the final fire from Heaven.”

  “It was to have been Elias.” Kane gazed at Ari. “Elias was to take the scapegoat to the cliffs and end it there. Then he would return.”

  “But it has been ordained otherwise,” Mortimer announced in a disgusted voice. “Elias Chandos played the scapegoat and Ari Davan is to be the last great sacrifice.”

  “You mean you would have cut the throat of your own son?” Maryse sobbed at Kane’s feet.

  “He knew it was to be. He was prepared for it. He was given me for that purpose.”

  “You’re insane,” Maryse whispered, and bent her head prayerfully to her knees.

  Kane gazed up around the clerestory of windows. They were still dark.

  Ari challenged him. “As I said to your henchman earlier tonight, I am not going like a lamb to the slaughter. And I didn’t. He did.”

  “But you will, Mr. Davan,” Kane replied, holding up the GeM in one hand and the nine-millimeter in the other.

  “What is that thing?” Mortimer asked, then turned to Grammont. “Is it the GeM you told me of, the one that turns into gold?”

  Kane held it up in his fingers—it was identical to the one Ari had, rectangular, faceted like a black diamond. “On my command, it will become anything—any element you can name, as well as elements you can only dream of. And some of them are blinding explosives, believe me.”

  “Hm. You do have a Jesus complex, don’t you,” Mortimer sniffed. “Turns water into wine, does it?”

  The hoarse voice of Hafiz came from across the room. “No. His machine makes gold, but not bread or wine. Not even water.”

  Ari grinned at Kane. “You won’t shoot me. Again, as I said to your son, the ritual requires a healthy, living victim. Unblemished.”

  Kane pointed the pistol at Maryse’s knee and answered Ari with pain in his voice. “You will be whole and healthy. Others may not be.”

  A loud, startling buzz emanated from the GeM in Kane’s hand; he glared at it.

  “This is Shin Bet ringing,” Kane growled. “If any of you make any sound at all, I will let this nine-millimeter do some work on her leg. I have no reason not to. She rejects me.” Keeping an eye on Ari, he turned and spoke low into the instrument. Ari could not hear what he was saying, but by the tone of his voice, he was reassuring Kristall that all was well.

  When he rang off, everyone remained quiet. There was no more to be said. The heat grew more intense. With Grammont’s help, Mortimer arranged his shackles so they could both sit by the pillar they were chained to. Grammont, however, chose to stand. Maryse crouched on the rock in a posture of hopeless prayer. Al-Ayoub, taking little choking breaths, sank to the floor and laid his head down in the lap of his son, who began to cry covertly over him.

  Ari bent like a tiger over the wooden screen, never taking his eyes off Kane. His nerves electrified by pain, he waited, alert, desperately watching the madman watching him. He weighed every reckless remedy he could think of. Fly at him? There would be no time; the bomb would go off in his hand. Trick him? Try to talk him out of it? Ari smiled grimly despite himself; he remembered something Miner had told him just tonight about the father of Elias Chandos.

  Make him angry? How?

  Talk about Maryse!

  “So, Kane. Mr. President of Interpol, sworn to uphold the law of nations.” Ari started fencing with him. “You planned this thing beautifully. Of course, you’re very sure of yourself and your theories. But how many murders to bring it off? Starting with Sir John Chandos…ten? A dozen? And one of them Maryse’s father. It was a sniper job, I understand?”

  Maryse looked up with hard eyes at Kane, who turned away.

  Ari went on. “She always spoke of you as ‘David’…her protector, her mentor. A second father. She didn’t realize you were a lying religious nutter with no honor and no respect for human life. Even the lives of your friends.”

  “Your baiting me will make no difference,” Kane replied, sweating, his voice taut.

  “It’s true, Lion,” Mortimer broke in with his sing-song voice, waving the golden ring on his hand. “You have no honor. Your oath—donec venire cuius est iudicium—you have betrayed it. Your word is worthless. What do you say, Grammont?” He looked up at the secretary, who stood taut and silent against the pillar. “You see? Grammont agrees with me.”

  “I have honored the oath,” Kane spat. “Better than you. With me in charge, every asset of Interpol has been dedicated to protecting the Dome ‘until he comes whose right it is to reign.’ But now he is about to come, and I am here to welcome him.”

  Ari tried to keep him on track. “Maryse didn’t know about the manipulations, the deceits. She respected you, admired you—maybe even loved you a little once. The way a young girl feels about the big man in her life. But you were using her all the time…years and years of cold, careful manipulation.”

  Kane snarled audibly at Ari. He had ignited something in the man, now gushing sweat in the intolerable heat.

  Ari smiled. “After you killed her father, she withdrew from you. But you didn’t worry; when it came time for her to play her part, you would entice her back to you. Imagine the nights you lay awake thinking about Maryse, dreaming about Maryse, about drawing her in with such care she would never suspect you were laying such elaborate traps for her.”

  “Traps?” Maryse asked, looking sadly at Ari.

  “Most recently, an eyela
sh. A blood spatter. A gold ring. Just enough trace to trick us along. But this scheme started long, long ago.” Ari kept his eyes on Kane. “You trained her, you brought her up in your business. You sent her to Mortimer; you convinced him to teach her and eventually bring her into the Order.”

  “Then the theft of the icon from the Holy of Holies. She could never resist it. Too curious, too interesting a mystery. You knew she would follow it anywhere. The reports from Lebanon that you engineered. You knew she would find it—and so she has. And when she found it, she would also find you. She would discover what you are.”

  “And what am I?” Kane retorted. “She sees me as I am: the great high priest. The fulfillment of prophecy!”

  “No,” Ari laughed at him. “A leering swine. A sadistic murderer. Just another potty terrorist gone round the bend on religion. And she—above all—knows that now.”

  Kane turned to Maryse. “A terrorist? I, who’ve been fighting terror all my life? You fought beside me. Is that what you think of me in your heart?”

  Her voice was quiet, bitter. “My heart doesn’t matter. You’ve taken a father from your own grandchild. You’ve ripped a beloved husband from a woman you could have loved as a daughter. You turned one son into a cruel, thoughtless killing machine who had no qualms about murdering his own brother. And you abandoned and destroyed the wife who loved you.”

  Struggling to her feet, soaked in sweat, Maryse raised her face to Kane’s. “She was right. Rafqa Chandos Kane was right. You are not a priest, not a servant of God. Just the contrary. You are Phosphoros. You are Lucifer. You are a devil,” she spat at him.

  All at once, Ari knew what to do.

  He gripped the GeM of Elias Chandos hard in his hand, feeling for the red-circuit button, hoping for the right degree of temperature.

  Kane stood quiet for a moment, staring down at the Rock. Then, with a gasp of rage, he clutched Maryse by the throat. She thrashed about for breath; her shackled hands swept up reflexively and knocked him backward.

  “Maryse, get away from him!” Ari shouted.