Babylon Prophecy

by Sean Salazar

  As soon as she couldn’t see the cab, she made her way back to the bar and settled into a dark corner table. Being virtually alone in that section of the bar, she ordered a shot of Scotch and a local light beer. The combination would kill the pain in her back from bouncing around in the cab for hours. Downing the shot as if it was her last one forever, she powered up the computer. After a few moments, she motioned for the bartender to bring her another shot, and began her search for the black letter.

  After two more shots of Scotch, she eventually found it listed under a correspondence numbered 2240. She had no idea, nor was it obvious, what the numbers meant, but instead focused on the letter. After she was halfway through it, she found herself stumbling over some of the words. She translated the Italian as fast as she could and continually rechecked herself for mistakes. What was intriguing and disturbing was the unmistakable mention several times of the largest bank in Italy.

  In addition, a reference to an absolute obsession the Vatican had with German World War II submarine missions was described in detail. That is something Ed and Alex will have a field day with and they can most likely utilize this information now, thought Betty.

  What she was reading answered many questions that had been lingering for years and now fit in like a perfect puzzle.

  Well, almost, she thought, downing another shot.

  She powered up her PDA and typed in a long Scotch-induced note to Ed. When she finished, she lifted her finger to hit the Send key and suddenly pulled back.

  “What am I doing!” she quietly whispered, knowing that her messages were possibly being intercepted by some Vatican computer nerd priest.

  She reluctantly powered down her PDA and waved over another shot.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Gap Mills, West Virginia

  Al ignored the obvious creaking of the frail ladder. He found it difficult at times getting past the damp roots, but figured if the steps failed, he could grab a handful of them to prevent him from falling.

  Step by careful step he descended into the darkness and noticed the roots were becoming thinner but they all seemed to angle straight down like vines. He paused briefly to look up and only a slight sliver from Vance’s light remained through the web of tree roots. He continued making his way down until he noticed he ran out of steps. He swung his foot around and he not only had run out of steps but he was entering an open space. This was always the most nerve-wracking part of descending shafts where you couldn’t see what was below. He attempted to push himself against the surface behind him to squeeze a glimpse below but couldn’t. He was just going to have to trust that the drop wasn’t too long. He swung his foot around in a circular motion finding only dead space. No roots or anything connected with his foot. That could be either that he had reached the end or was now dangling over a large space, which would mean that he would need a rope. He lowered himself down another two steps and then pushed his back against the shaft as hard as he could again and aimed his light downward. It was hard to see but he could see something solid below him. He estimated it was only a short drop so he continued to lower himself, holding on with his hands, and let go. He landed with a thud. He now found himself stooped over inside a small square space no more than four feet high. Large, reddish bricks formed the sides, floor and ceiling from top to bottom. A few roots made it this far down but not many. Directly in front of him was a small, narrow staircase—also made of brick—that went down a few steps and angled to the left. He aimed his light up into the shaft estimating he had descended only about thirty feet, and yelled, “Touchdown.”

  Vance’s voice echoed back, “Hey, grab a worm pepperoni pizza while you’re at it.”

  That actually sounds good, Al thought, realizing neither one of them had eaten anything recently, except the worms, of course. Remaining stooped over, he then shot his light back to other steps to the left and made his way over to them. He started down, and they continued until they ended at the start of another four-foot-high, narrow brick passageway. He followed it a short distance and could actually see the end, which surprised him, because he wasn’t accustomed to short tunnels. Slowly he walked to the end where there was another short stairway.

  Oddly enough, someone had taken the time to install a wood railing next to the steps. He descended the steps and then knelt down because his back was beginning to ache from being stooped over so long. He aimed the light around the very small room, which also appeared to be the end of the tunnel. The entire room consisted of large, square stones that were rough and grayish. The ground had a thick layer of dust. He shone his light all around. It was completely empty— no protruding tree roots or anything, only gobs of clumpy dust.

  “Well, whatever was here is gone,” he said, and turned around. He went back up the steps and began to walk down the passageway. He stopped halfway. So far, the clues led us here so we’d better be sure we haven’t skipped over something.

  He pulled the large key out of his pocket, realizing that he needed to go back and check one more time. Re-entering the space, he mumbled, “There has to be something here. I have to be missing something.” He began running his hands up and down the walls looking for anything that could be a keyhole or some kind of opening. He completely checked each wall and then examined the ceiling.

  Nothing, not a single hint of a keyhole.

  He slowly paced around the perimeter of the room checking the edges of the ceiling and ground one more time for any hint of a secret room behind the walls. Again, nothing. The ground and ceiling solidly connected to the walls. Okay, he conceded. Maybe this room is in fact a dead end. He leaned against the wall and sat down.

  “So,” he said to himself, “if I don’t at least bring back some beer, Vance is gonna gimme shit.”

  He then placed his light on the ground and aimed it upward. Since the ground was rough and uneven, the flashlight fell over on its side and rolled. As it did, it created large shadows against the back wall, the light illuminating the clumps of dust. As it did, Al noticed a large pile of dust in the center of the room. He sat staring at it wondering where so much of it could have come from. Unless furniture or other items were stored here at one time, there is no reason why it would be here.

  For a brief moment, he just sat there pondering before he got up on his knees. He crawled over and wiped the dust with his hand, expecting it to float away, but it didn’t. In fact, it was solid. He wiped the ground again, and it wasn’t dust at all, but instead was a raised six-pointed star. This had to be it. He wiped it again and blew on it. The star was in the center of a fifteen-inch square tile, so he pulled out his knife and scraped around the edges. He tried to pry it up but the tile was embedded too deeply and he didn’t want to break his knife. He pulled it out. Leaning forward, he blew the remaining dust away from the star. As he did, he noticed a thin hole in the center.

  A keyhole?

  “Ah, shit,” he said, pulling the key out of his pocket. He then lined it up with the hole and carefully inserted it. It fit perfectly. He then slipped his fingers into the metal grip attached to the key and turned it.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, hearing an audible click. Now he knew what the large key grip was for, so he stood up, braced both feet on each side of the square, and pulled.

  The tile was not actually a tile at all but a very heavy square block of stone. Al continued pulling, slowly sliding it out, and his back screamed at him the whole time. What made it hard was that he had to pull straight up or the block would get stuck, hurting him even more. Once up, he hoisted the square block to the side of the hole. His back was already sore from digging and now he was really sore. The block had to weigh over a hundred and fifty pounds. He turned the key, removed it, and sat for a moment to rest his back.

  The block was a good ten inches thick and the hole by the looks of it was maybe two or three more inches in depth. He aimed his light inside and was immediately blinded by a reflection.

  “Holy shit,” he said out loud, turning his head. �
�What in the hell was that?” It was as if he had aimed his light directly at a mirror causing the light to shoot directly back at him. He waited a few seconds for the shock on his pupils to subside and this time he leaned over and aimed his light down. Again, the reflection shot back at him, but not as fierce. He doubted if a mirror was inside but would not discount it. Once his eyes adjusted a second time, he was able to see inside, and from his point of view the ground was about eight feet below him. He would need a rope for sure. He didn’t even bother examining the room any longer, returned to the surface, and retrieved the rope he had brought.

  He went back to the dusty room and figured a way to anchor the rope down by tying it to the heavy square block and railing. He shut off his light and squeezed in, holding onto the edge. He let go and landed in the dark. He pulled out his flashlight, closed his eyes, and turned it on. Slowly he lifted his eyelids allowing time to adjust to the brightness. He then saw what was causing the bright reflection: Untarnished gold covered every inch of the room, including the ground he stood on. Not just that. There appeared to be some type of glass covering attached to the gold, giving it an extra-strong reflection. .Through the glass he could see writing on the wall.

  Directly behind him, in an attached room, was a solid rectangular table. It was roughly twice the size of a pool table and he immediately recognized the three-dimensional map on top. It was strikingly similar to the map table he found in Syria, although this one was clearly larger and in better shape. Beyond the table, against the back wall, the gold had a rectangular-shaped doorway. He stepped around the table, not bothering to examine it, and walked over to the doorway. He aimed the light inside, revealing a second passageway. There was no more gold, just regular brick and mortar and about seven feet high. He turned back around, aiming the light at the table. He could easily make out mountains, valleys, and miniature pyramids and other structures scattered on top. This table had to be important and most likely was what they were sent there to find, but curiosity got the best of him and he turned back around to face the doorway. He needed to at least see what was down there before heading back up. On the other hand, he could simple cut his trip short, document what he needed to, and get out of there. Ah, screw it, he thought, and started down the passageway.

  He followed it for several minutes, carefully stepping over sections of brick wall that had caved in. In general, the passageway was in bad shape and walking through it was difficult. At one point, he figured that it wasn’t worth it and almost turned back, but suddenly he encountered a stairway. He examined the steps briefly and they were in worse shape than the passageway. It was a combination of rotten wood and crumbling bricks—definitely something he didn’t want to attempt. He turned back around and estimated that he had traveled a total of about sixty yards, which would put him directly below the patch of trees, east of the gravesite and Vance. At this point, he had to decide what to do: Investigate or go back and report? He stood there debating with himself again and said, “Okay, I’ll only go up a short distance.” So up he went.

  Vance remained inside the grave with his flashlight off, smoking his cigarette. Al had been gone down the gopher hole for about thirty minutes, which concerned him. At some point, he was going to have to go check but needed to give him time to do what he set out to do, which most of the time was getting into trouble.

  He heard a crunching sound behind him and he tossed his cigarette onto the bones. He put it out with the tip of his shoe and listened. Footsteps, and they weren’t far away. Reaching behind him, he pulled the gun out of his belt and leaned against the side of the dirt hole. Whoever it was, if they didn’t actually look into the grave, they wouldn’t see him unless they were right over it. The steps sounded slow and gave out a prolonged crunching sound as if they were very heavy. Heavy? He immediately flashed back to the university and the knights’ footprints penetrating the ground.

  Being heavily armored had its advantages and disadvantages. For one, it made it difficult to sneak up on somebody. He turned and peered over the edge of the hole, but without the light he couldn’t see anything but black trees. At that moment, a slight misty fog moved in, gently reflecting the moonlight. How romantic, he thought, and just then he saw the bushes moving. It could be a bear or maybe even a moose, but whatever it was it was now moving away from him. The crunching sound began to fade, going east, which was a good thing. He really wasn’t in the mood to whip some knight’s ass, so he turned around, slowly crouched down, and waited.

  Going up the frail brick steps was harder than Al thought. They changed direction twice, and he noticed more and more dirt piling on them and most of the wood simply disintegrated with each step. After climbing a bit more, he had to stop because the steps were now totally covered with dirt—or was dirt. Should he continue up or go back? Large and small roots were wiggling in every direction, poking in from the ceiling and walls indicating that he had to be close to the surface. He decided to push on. With each step, he had to wipe away a place for his foot and continued digging as he climbed. Eventually he found himself squeezing and then pushing through a caved-in section of a brick and hard-packed dirt wall. A rational person would stop and head back but the challenge of discovering where the stairs led prodded him onward. He was determined to continue as far as he could. He realized that if it wasn’t for the roots clumping the dirt and bricks together, this stairway would be buried.

  With every step and breath, Al felt and tasted dirt-filled air but continued upward. Then, he encountered a section of bricks that had caved in from the side, virtually blocking his path. He closed his eyes and squeezed through the tight section. It was so tight that his lips brushed against the roots, practically tasting the worms entangled within them. He had to be extremely careful not to become stuck or to cause a collapse of the remaining bricks. “This is stupid, what the hell am I doing?” he muttered.

  Al ignored his occasional attempts to talk himself out of this dirt-filled journey and continued to push his way through until he felt something solid above. Not just felt something, but saw a sliver of light coming through. He used his other hand and pushed his flashlight through to see what it was. Painted wood boards. There was very little paint remaining but he could tell that it was once reddish-brown. Could it have been the remains of a barn?

  He slid back down a few feet and rested. He had to decide if he was to continue or not. The safe route was to head back, but continuing up would answer what was up there and answer where the light was coming from. He was convinced it was a way out. He decided to try once more and if he reached a complete dead end, he would turn back.

  He spat away what dirt and roots he had on his mouth and squeezed back up where he left off. He maneuvered his torso to push his head through the packed-in dirt, then one arm. With his other hand, he removed the dirt pressing on his chest, relieving the pressure and creating enough space to push through. He was now able to grab one of the wood planks and pull himself up. He pushed his hand behind the wood and dug away the dirt.

  His hand broke through into an open space. He wormed his body upright and left until he squeezed in. He dug to the sides of the wood plank until he had enough space to pull it down on one side. He then reached up and felt the bottom of a flat dirt area. Grabbing a handful of roots suddenly caused a wave of dirt to pile in on him.

  He felt fresh cold air rush in and then saw a stronger flickering light. He briefly hesitated, watching the hole above. The light seemed to flicker as if it was from a candle.

  As he watched it, something didn’t feel right. Yet now that he could see the end, he couldn’t turn back. He pulled his arm down, squeezed it behind him, and dug his pistol out of his belt. He then turned his torso so his back was flat, and pushed his way up and listened. He did not hear a sound, so he closed his eyes and pushed his head through the dirt.

  When he felt the heavy dirt spill off his head, he opened his eyes and looked up. A single light hung from a wood beam and barely illuminated what looked like the inside of
a barn. He was right, it was a barn. No sounds were near, so he pushed his shoulders through the dirt and raised his gun. He felt the wood plank clip the edge of his ribs.

  The light in the barn was dim but he could see that he had climbed right through a pile of grass, dirt, and hay. A small acacia plant stood a few inches in front of him with a wood pedestal holding three lit candles nearby. He swung his head around spilling more dirt off his head. At the far end of the barn were two old stone tombstones. To the left and right were two more.

  He had climbed into a graveyard.

  Suddenly, someone violently grabbed his shoulders from behind, and his gun yanked out of his hand. Al struggled to get free but the grip on his shoulders was too intense. So intense that he could not even turn to see who grabbed him. Then a man stepped out from behind the post, took a few steps, and turned towards him. Al immediately recognized him. It was the bearded Monsignor Koenig, and he was alive.

  They were waiting for him.

  Koenig looked at the person who was restraining Al from behind. “You were right.”

  Al froze with shock as he realized that he had royally screwed up and climbed right into a trap.

  Koenig stepped closer, and Al’s head was as high as Koenig’s lower leg, an extremely vulnerable position. Koenig reached down, his fingers spread out in claw-like fashion. There was no way Al was getting out of this one, so he reached up with his open hand. Koenig reached past his hand, grabbing his wrist with his fingers still spread. Al then grabbed in a wrist-to-wrist grip and Koenig pulled him up. The man behind Al stepped out and assisted, lifting him out from the dirt.

  Al now stood there covered in dirt from head to toe. He was disgusted with himself for allowing this to happen. He glimpsed to the side to see who the other man was. Again he immediately froze as he recognized him. He could not believe it. There, before him, was the big guy he had shot both knees out underground in Colima, Mexico. His last memory was of him on the floor bleeding badly from both legs. Even his last sight of the bearded Monsieur Koenig was him unconscious and lying in a pool of blood. What in the devil is going on?