Babylon Rising

by Tim LaHaye

  The look she gave him was icier still. Not funny. Not funny at all.

  Murphy tried a different tack. “Honey, the point is, Methusaleh may be crazier than a bucket of snakes, but he always plays by the rules—”

  “His rules,” Laura interrupted. “The rules of a crazy mystery man who has nothing better to do with his money than to lure you into risking your life. And you’ve fallen for it each time!”

  “Yes, because his rules say,” Murphy continued, unfazed, “that if I win his game, I get the prize. Look, we’ve talked this over before, Laura. I know this sounds insane, but it’s true. I’m just not a half-measure kind of man. I love my work full tilt, I try to love God full tilt, and above all else, I love you full tilt. It’s a package deal, sweetheart, even on nights like this, when you feel the prize package you’re stuck with is the booby prize.”

  Laura frowned in defeat. She’d said her piece. She knew Murphy could no more resist the lure of Methusaleh’s artifacts than decide not to breathe. And though she was not about to tell him, Murphy’s fearless passion for bringing the truth of the Bible to light was a big part of why she loved him.

  She dragged it out for ten more seconds and gave in, reaching around to hug him. “Michael Impossible Murphy,” she whispered, calling him by the middle name she had given him several years earlier, “you know too well that the most impossible thing about you is still the fact that I can’t stay angry with you for longer than it will take you to get into trouble the next time.”

  He nodded toward the table. They both looked down at the red tube as it lay innocently, like an un exploded bomb, between them. “Okay, then, Murphy.” She smiled her sweetest smile, and he wondered what was coming as he saw her smile turn into a worried frown. “This bleeding is worse than I thought. That lion got deeper into your shoulder than it looked. I am driving you over to the hospital to get you stitches. No argument.”

  Though he had rejected her earlier insistence on getting him to the emergency room, now Murphy did not even offer the meekest resistance.

  Laura softened again. “Hey,” she said, wrapping her hands around Murphy’s good shoulder, “since you went to all the trouble of getting this thing, tomorrow, after your lecture, how’s about I come to your lab and help you look at what’s in there?”

  FIVE

  “SO, YOU PUT your life on the line every day?”

  “That’s right, my friend. One slip, and splat!”

  The bartender, who stood just close enough to his only customers to hear their conversation, shook his head and kept flipping through the newspaper. Here on a slow Tuesday afternoon in this dingy neighborhood bar in Astoria, in the shadow of a not-too-distant Manhattan, he felt a million miles away from the excitement of the big city.

  He had been listening to these two guys rattle on for twenty minutes and with only one beer between them. That was for Farley, the big hero, one of his regulars.

  The other man was a stranger. He would have to be, to be talking to Farley this long. Every other regular knew that Farley was a bore who would talk on and on about how risky his job was. The guy was a window washer, not a combat marine! The bartender eyed the stranger again. He would have thought the man must be deaf to listen to Farley drone on, but the stranger was lapping it up. And he wasn’t even drinking anything stronger than water.

  When the stranger had asked for a water—not even sparkling water—the bartender had started to give him his standard rebuke about this being a bar, not a public drinking fountain, but there was something about the stranger’s manner that stopped him. Not because he looked threatening. Farley was a drab-looking, doughy kind of figure, and if anything, this stranger was even plainer-looking—gray-haired, clunky glasses, a thick, pockmarked nose, a pronounced slouch to his stance. However, while Farley was a threat only to bore you to death, there was something about this meek stranger that made the bartender not want to challenge him.

  “Hey,” he heard the stranger ask, “you want to go get a burger?” Then, showing that he was a quick study, since everyone knew Farley was the cheapest man in all of Astoria, the stranger added, “I’m buying.”

  As the bartender watched the two men shuffle out of the bar, he knew better than to check to see if Farley had left him a tip, but raised an eyebrow when he saw a five-dollar bill sitting next to the stranger’s empty water glass. Man, the bartender thought, I hope I see him again soon.

  He had no way of knowing he would never see either man again.

  Outside the bar, the stranger said, “Why don’t we take my car? It’s just around the corner.”

  Farley nodded and followed him. “Say, friend, tell me your name again.”

  “I didn’t tell it to you the first time.” He stopped in front of a dark green Jeep, and Farley paused, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Hey, that’s right. So, what is your name?” The stranger gave him no notice, darting his head from left to right to survey the deserted street. Then Farley saw the stranger make some quick movements around his head. “Huh?” Farley looked even more puzzled.

  Only then did the stranger turn to look at Farley. But the face that Farley saw before him now was an entirely different one. Gone were the gray wig, the glasses, and the nose. “You’ll never need to know it.”

  Almost too quickly to see, the stranger swept his right hand in front of Farley’s throat. A thin line of blood appeared there before Farley could cry out. Now, as he tried to make a sound, nothing came out.

  “You’ll never need to know anything again.” He reached over to grab Farley and threw his limp body into the car. “Now that I know the only things you knew that were worth knowing.”

  The stranger got behind the wheel. He wiped some blood off his right index finger on the shirt of the dead man beside him. Farley would not mind, he thought. He took out his cell phone and looked at the index finger in the greenish light from the phone panel as he dialed. The finger looked like a normal index finger until you looked more closely and saw that it was an artificial digit, carefully sculpted and tinted to look real.

  Except for the very tip, where the nail should be, which was honed to a deadly edge.

  His call was answered with a single word. “Status.”

  The stranger replied in a cold, deadpan, accentless voice, quite a change from the hearty tone he had used with Farley. “I am ready to proceed at your order.” He straightened in anticipation.

  “Go,” he was told. “And, Talon, do not fail—and do not fall.”

  The man known as Talon clicked shut his phone, taking a split second to make sure all of the blood had come off the digit that gave him the name he went by. He pushed Farley down below the car window sightline and headed for the spot where he would dump the body. A place where it would never be found.

  He allowed himself a grim smile. Failure or falling were not options for him any more than breathing would ever again be an option for Mr. Farley.

  SIX

  THE KING AND the captive of Judah looked each other in the eye, and the king was intrigued to find that the slave held his gaze. True, there were no guards at his side to intimidate the man with their swords and murderous looks. But wasn’t his royal presence alone, the majesty and power of Nebuchadnezzar, whose name made kings and princes quake, enough to terrorize a humble Jewish slave?

  And yet the man seemed calmness itself as he waited patiently for the king to speak. It was strange indeed. These people had a reputation for cleverness. Yet this man seemed not to understand that his own life would be forfeited if he could not give the king an answer. An answer the wisest men in the kingdom had so far not been able to provide.

  The king took in the simple woolen robe, the relaxed posture-neither arrogant nor submissive-and the blank, patient gaze, and wondered if this could really be the man to reveal his dream. If he failed like all the others, then one thing was certain: Daniel would be only the first of many to feel his anger. The gutters of Babylon would be awash with blood before his wrath was spent.


  The king shifted in his carved cedarwood chair and broke the silence. “Well, Daniel.” His pronunciation of the slave’s Hebrew name was mocking, as if he had alluded to some shameful secret. “No doubt I do not need to explain why you are here.”

  “I am here because you commanded it, my king.”

  Nebuchadnezzar scrutinized him for signs of impudence. His tone was as maddeningly neutral as his expression in the flickering torch-light.

  “Indeed, Daniel. And I’m sure in your wisdom you understand why I commanded it. And what it is I would have you do.”

  Daniel bowed his head slightly. “You have been troubled by a dream, my king. An awesome dream that stirred your spirit, and yet when you awoke, not a fragment, not a shred of it, remained. Only an empty echo, like the sound of a word in a strange tongue.”

  Nebuchadnezzar found himself gripping the amulet of Anu he wore around his neck. By the gods, how did this man know his inner thoughts so well?

  “Yes, yes, all of Babylonia knows of this. But can you tell me the dream, Daniel? Can you restore it to me?” He realized with alarm that his voice was breaking, his habitual tone of command replaced by the fretful whine of a child.

  Daniel closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. The moment lengthened and Nebuchadnezzar felt his nerves stretch to their breaking point. At last Daniel opened his eyes, now bright with a new intensity, and spoke.

  “The secrets which you have demanded cannot be declared to the king by soothsayers, magicians, astrologers, or sorcerers. Only the God of heaven can reveal such secrets.” Daniel silenced his voice as he concentrated deeply.

  “Yes, yes, do not stop now, Nebuchadnezzar shouted.

  Daniel would not be rushed. Finally, he looked calmly at the king and spoke slowly and loudly so there would be no mistaking his message.

  “The God of heaven, in this dream, has revealed to you, King Nebuchadnezzar, things which are to come in the Latter days.”

  SEVEN

  AS HE WALKED purposefully toward Memorial Lecture Hall B, Michael Murphy looked like an unlikely academic. Sure, he had the slightly ruffled look of someone who cared more about ideas than outward appearances—the tie slightly askew over a creased denim shirt, an old canvas jacket worn at the elbows, and a pair of sneakers that clearly had some serious mileage on them.

  But if you looked a little harder, you could tell from his measured, economical stride, the calloused hands, and faint scars that neatly highlighted his handsome features that this was no ivory-tower dweller. This was a man who was happier outdoors than in—and happiest of all when he was dealing with tough physical challenges.

  For just a moment, Murphy found himself wishing that he would be suddenly called away to complete such a physical challenge. Any physical challenge would do. Usually not a man plagued by lack of confidence, all during his brisk stroll through the Preston University campus in the late August heat, he had been getting ready for an embarrassingly low turnout.

  Biblical Archaeology and Prophecy had been a late addition to the curriculum. Murphy’s regular lectures drew an enthusiastic audience, but it was a small one. There just weren’t that many students in a university like Preston who wanted to devote themselves to the study of the past—let alone the Biblical past. Then, at the end of last semester, some of the wealthy alumni had put pressure on the university president to have more Bible-based courses for the general student body.

  Bless them, Murphy thought, although it could turn out to be a mixed blessing indeed. The two most troubling negatives were that he would have a lot of explaining to do to the donors if nobody showed up to take the course, and that Dean Fallworth of the Arts and Science faculty absolutely hated having another Biblical archaeology course.

  Murphy tried not to be a vain man despite his growing notoriety for his discovery of Biblical artifacts. So far, he had starred in three cable television specials about his work, which had attracted some corporate funding for the department and some revenue-enhancing exhibits at the university museum.

  All of that attention brought on the jealousy and anger of Dean Fallworth. There had been several veiled comments by the dean that struck Murphy as being antireligion, but Dean Fallworth was both direct and vocal when voicing his opinion that what Murphy studied and taught was neither worthy science nor credible history.

  This from a man, Murphy had pointed out to Laura last week, whose most recent published scholarly paper had been “Button Materials of the Eighteenth-Century Georgia Plantations.”

  The positives of getting to teach the new Biblical Archaeology and Prophecy course were that Murphy loved teaching and these additional funds would allow him to wing it with a new course that he had described in his posted syllabus as “Studying the Past, Proving the Bible, and Reading the Signs of the Prophets.”

  Here for the first time was an opportunity for any student, no matter what their major, to take one of his classes. His plan was to liven things up by incorporating some of the background video that had not made it onto his television specials, and he figured he would also include viewings of some of his most recent finds.

  Still, he had been leery about checking the enrollment before this first class. He had hoped for the best, but a nagging voice said, as it sometimes did when he allowed the real world to crowd in on his frequent thoughts about his studies of the ancients, It’s the twenty-first century, does anybody care about Hittites in a hip-hop world?

  “Well, I do,” Murphy said out loud, not meaning to. “I’m going to have a great lecture even if it’s just me and my slides who show up.”

  As the excited buzzing from within became audible, he took a breath and strode into the lecture hall. To his amazement, every seat was filled, several students had taken up position against the walls, and some were even squatting on the floor below the lectern.

  Murphy clapped his hands and the chattering came to an abrupt halt. “Okay, people, let’s get started. We’re dealing with thousands of years of history here, and we’ve got only forty minutes, so there’s no time to waste.” He scanned the rows of faces and wondered what they were hoping for. What were they expecting? And would he be able to deliver it? Spotting Shari Nelson’s bright eyes and eager smile in the first row brought a half-smile to his own lips. At least he had one friend in the audience. If they started to throw things, maybe Shari could calm them down.

  “It’s great to see so many of you here, so let me just check that you know what you’re letting yourselves in for. This class is called Biblical Archaeology and Prophecy, and according to the prospectus it’s the study of the Old and New Testaments with an emphasis on archaeological evidence that supports the historical accuracy and prophetic nature of the Bible. Anybody who just got lost on their way to the seminar The Matrix: Movie or Blueprint for Our Future, now’s your chance to sneak back out.”

  A few snickers, but no one got up to go. Okay, they were still with him.

  “So, what does Biblical archaeology mean? Well, let me ask you some questions: Did Noah really build an ark and fill it with two of everything?

  “Did Moses really part the Red Sea with a wave of his staff?

  “Did a man named Jesus really live and breathe and walk around the Holy Land two thousand years ago, teaching and healing and performing miracles?

  “How can we truly know any of this for sure?”

  A slender hand went up at the back of the hall. It belonged to a blond girl with long, straight hair and big, round glasses he had seen once or twice in the university chapel.

  “Because the Bible tells us,” she said in a quiet but confident voice.

  “And because Hollywood tells us,” another voice interrupted. It belonged to a chunky, dark-haired student with his arms folded across his Preston sweatshirt and a smug smile on his face. “If Charlton Heston believes it, it’s got to be true, right?” That got a few laughs, even a little ripple of applause.

  Murphy smiled and waited for the students to calm down.

 
“You know, when I was your age I was a skeptic too. Maybe I still am. Christians are supposed to take the truth of the Bible on faith. But sometimes faith needs a helping hand. And that’s where Biblical archaeology comes in.”

  He pointed to the still-smirking young man in the row just behind Shari. “What would I need to do to prove to you that Noah’s Ark existed? What would convince you?”

  The student looked thoughtful for a moment. “I guess I’d have to see solid proof, you know?”

  Murphy seemed to chew that over. “Solid proof. Sounds about right. Well, let’s see, when it comes to scientific research, you have to be willing to go wherever the evidence takes you. In just the last one hundred fifty years, there have been more than thirty thousand different archaeological digs that have unearthed evidence supporting the Old Testament portion of the Bible alone.

  “For centuries, skeptics scoffed at the idea of there being a Hittite nation, as recorded in the Bible, until archaeological evidence unearthed irrefutable proof of the Hittites’ existence. Likewise, the mere mention of the city of Nineveh used to bring laughter and ridicule to the lips of nonbelievers until the entire city was discovered near the Tigris River by the great archaeologist A. H. Layard.

  “And yet, to date, not one piece of evidence has been unearthed that disputes the Bible’s authenticity.”

  “Whoa! That’s impressive!” someone called out from the back. The student looking for solid proof still was not satisfied. “I’d still want to see, like, Noah’s rudder if you want to sell me on the Ark being real.”

  Murphy smiled. “Well, no one has yet found the rudder of the Ark. But here’s something you might find interesting.”

  Murphy clicked his first slide onto the large screen behind the lectern. It showed a box covered by a sheet. The next slide revealed a pale stone box with an overlapping lid beneath the sheet. About twenty-four inches long, fifteen inches wide, and ten inches deep, it still bore the marks of the primitive tools that had been used to carve it out of a solid block of limestone.