Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) (5 page)

Alex pulled out a kitchen stool and sat.

‘Within days of JFK’s death, Lyndon Johnson signed a National Security Action memorandum instructing the Pentagon to keep the troops in Vietnam. By 1963, Kennedy had already called for general and complete disarmament in the Cold War. And of course there’s the contested issue where on 4 June 1963 JFK issued Executive Order 11110 instructing the Treasury to issue Treasury silver certificates.

‘Okay.’ he shrugged. ‘The disinformation surrounding this is common knowledge, but it seems evidence exists that a high-level meeting of the elite was called immediately . . . Kennedy had thrown the secret masters in Washington and London into a tailspin. Look at
this
 . . . ’ His fingers flew over his laptop keys.

‘A 1960 USA five-dollar note. Green Seal. Look what it says at the top.’

Lily steered her wheelchair closer.

‘It reads Federal Reserve Note.’

‘Okay. Now study the 1963 five-dollar USA note. Look at the Red Seal. The year Kennedy was assassinated.’

‘It says United States of America Note.’

Julia peered at the screen, perplexed.

‘You sure? It can’t be – it’s always Federal Reserve.’ She studied the laptop screen.

‘There it is, Aunt Jules. Documented in black and white. A real note. The year of Kennedy’s death. United States of America Note.
Now
look at a 1964 note. The year after JFK was assassinated.’

Julia frowned.

‘Federal Reserve Note,’ she murmured.

‘Exactly. Back to the Fed. The facts are – issuance of
all
United States notes ended in January 1971.
Everything
in circulation today is issued by the Fed.
Nothing
by the US government. The powers that be got back control.’

Alex slammed the laptop shut.

‘Federal Reserve aside, JFK signed the Test Ban Treaty with Moscow. He was going to stop the Vietnam War, drastically reduce the CIA’s influence.’

He stood as Polly Mitchell walked into the sitting room, her pale blonde hair straightened and her exquisite face perfectly made up. Alex kissed her full on the lips.

‘He was blowing their power base apart piece by piece.’ He swung around to Julia.

‘Kennedy defied the secret rulers. They made a deliberate example of him. Brutally executed in broad daylight in front of millions. He didn’t have a chance,’ Alex concluded matter-of-factly. ‘The shadow government achieved its objectives. Look at the 2008 bailout. Prime example. The shadow masters pull the strings. The Congress, the Senate . . . all too terrified to get out of line. They learned their lessons well. They
know
the cost of disobedience.’

‘C’mon, Alex. Enough,’ Polly said.

‘I just don’t get it,’ Julia said. ‘What has JFK’s assassination got to do with
anything
?’

‘If the government has lied and covered up the assassination of JFK, Aunt Jules – ’ Alex stared at her darkly. ‘And they
have
. What else have they lied about?’

He looked Julia straight in the eye.

‘And
who really runs the government?
’

‘Dad would go ballistic if he heard you,’ said Lily.

‘Uncle Jas,’ Alex rolled his eyes at Lily. ‘The great American patriot!’

‘Alex!’ Polly glared at him warningly.

‘If I’m not mistaken,’ Julia said drily, ‘it was the great American patriot who got you your place at
The New York Times
. And changed your nappies when you were four months old. You’re going to be the scourge of Manhattan at this rate.’ She looked at him and sighed. ‘You are
so
like your mother, Alex Lane-Fox.’

Alex grinned. ‘Gorgeous – yeah, I get that a lot.’

‘I was rather thinking stubborn.’ Julia stopped in mid-sentence. Frozen.

Lily was staring up at Alex in complete adulation. Lily and Alex had virtually grown up together. Holidays. Family festivities. They were like brother and sister.

Julia took a deep breath. All these years, she had never noticed. Her strong-willed independent daughter was totally besotted with Alex Lane-Fox.

Julia knew with a mother’s instinct that it had nowhere to go. Alex was deeply in love with Polly. Lily was disabled for life.

How had she not seen this? Alex, through no intention of his own, was literally breaking her daughter’s heart.

She was going to have to put some space between them.

The doorbell rang again. This time, eight teenagers stood in the hallway.

Alex pushed Lily’s wheelchair out through the doorway.

‘Bye, Mum,’ Lily said, waving. Julia smiled weakly.

‘Bye, Mrs D.’ Polly stopped. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t call you Mrs D. now.’ She shuffled embarrassed. ‘ . . . now that the divorce is through.’

Alex poked his head back through the door. ‘You should really start dating again, Aunt Jules. My dad’s surgeon friend Callum Vickers says you never return his calls. He thinks you should.’

The door slammed behind them.

Julia walked over to the windows to draw the heavy cream curtains. The skies were already darkening. She hesitated and frowned looking at the strange white apparition in the skies above the English Channel. She wondered if Jason was dating. Strange, the thought of Jason dating. She couldn’t quite imagine it.

She had to admit he was still attractive in a worn kind of way. She missed him tonight.

She walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up a photograph of Jason, the only one in the apartment. She looked closely at the picture, studying his features.

She ran her fingertips gently over his face. Then turned the photo face down and scrolled down her BlackBerry to Callum Vickers’ phone number.

Took a deep breath.

And dialled.

Chapter Seven

Mourir de Façon Horrible

Monastry of Archangels, Egypt

Nick dried off his freshly washed hair and upper torso with a bath towel.

There was a loud knocking on the door of the monastic chamber. Nick opened it. Lawrence St Cartier, now freshly changed into a crisply pressed shirt and cravat, stood clutching a dog-eared British newspaper in his hand. He stared at the red weals and sores all over Nick’s chest, then lowered his eyes.

‘Lawrence, this place is in the Dark Ages,’ Nick said in frustration. ‘There’s no mobile signal. I’ve tried to put a call via landline through to the UK six times and each time I’m told the lines are down.’

‘Oldest monastery in Egypt – still operates on a local exchange. The lines stay down for days at a time.’ Lawrence replied distractedly.

‘Aren’t you going to come in?’ Nick studied Lawrence’s face. The Professor looked shaken. He fidgeted uneasily in the doorway.

‘I’m the bearer of unpleasant news, I’m afraid, Nicholas.’

He laid the newspaper on the table awkwardly.

‘I came as soon as it was slipped under my door – I haven’t had time to review the entire article.’

Nick stared down at the newspaper headline –
Massacre at the Temple Mount
. His eyes locked onto a black-and-white headshot of one of eight murdered archaeologists.

‘Klaus,’ Nick murmured, stunned. He grabbed the paper and scanned through the leading paragraph. ‘Klaus . . . ’

‘Von Hausen.’ St Cartier finished his sentence. ‘Rising star of the British Museum and intimate friend of Nicholas De Vere. Your association was splashed across the
Sun
and
News of the World
, if I recollect.’

‘Look, Lawrence,’ Nick muttered. ‘I don’t expect sympathy.’ He sat down heavily on the bed, his hands trembling. ‘If it makes it easier – Klaus and I were long over.’

‘Don’t waste your sentiment, Nicholas, dear boy.’ St Cartier’s voice was unusually soft. ‘You can’t bring Von Hausen back.’ He grasped Nick’s shoulder gently.

‘I . . . I saw him two days ago,’ Nick said. ‘In London. We met for drinks . . . I hadn’t seen him for months. He’d been seconded to a classified dig in the Middle East.’ He looked up at St Cartier.

‘He was exhilarated,’ he murmured. ‘It was classified “Eyes Only”. He said MI6 and Interpol were swarming over the British Museum. Klaus knew the way they work – it would remain undisclosed to him until his arrival.’

St Cartier took the paper from Nick, put on his glasses and studied the article thoroughly.

‘Hmmm. The papers only report it was an ancient Temple relic,’ St Cartier said. ‘All the marks of a massive mop-up job. Seven archaeologists mown down with sub-machine guns execution style. Special Forces. Trained killers . . . ’

He scanned a smaller paragraph halfway down the page. ‘ . . . and one Vatican priest beheaded.’ his voice trailed off.

Nick studied the professor through narrowed eyes. St Cartier was ashen, his right hand trembling uncontrollably.

‘Beheaded, Nicholas.’ St Cartier said, swiftly regaining his composure. He folded the paper. ‘
Most
barbaric.’

St Cartier’s eyes glittered with an uncharacteristic hardness.

‘Islamic terrorists?’ Nick asked.

‘No.’ St Cartier walked to the far window and gazed out beyond the rows of cypress trees to the vast expanse of sand. ‘Not terrorists, Nicholas. This has the mark of something far more sinister. Someone would like the entire Western world to
think
it was terrorists.’

St Cartier fell silent, engrossed in his own reflections.

Nick stared blankly at his hollow cheeks in the mirror. ‘If not terrorists then who? And what do they want?’

The bell in the tower chimed six o’clock just as the dinner gong sounded.

‘Time runs down, Nicholas. Daniel’s week is almost upon us.’

He looked grimly into Nick’s face.

‘I fear the End of Days has begun.’

FORTY YEARS EARLIER

1981
Almost two thousand years after Golgotha

Chapter Eight

Diabolical Schemings

Lucifer stood, a lone figure, on the Portico of the North Winds under the great silver battlements of the Citadel of Gehenna.

He stared out grimly at the seven comets of Thuban, their flaming hoar-frost tails blazing indigo as they rose over the barren ice-plains of Gehenna. Then he raised his head to the freezing arctic blizzards approaching from the White Dwarf Pinnacles of the North, venting their fury against the monstrous forbidding fortress.

His Winter Palace.

It had been almost two thousand years since Golgotha.

Since his humiliation at the hands of the Nazarene.

He scowled. He could taste his defeat on the scorching black pitch plains inside the monstrous iron gates of hell, as though it were yesterday.

He had vowed by the dark Codices of Diabolos to embrace eternal winter until his allotted time was up according to the Tenets of Eternal Law.

Until the Final Judgement –
The Lake of Fire
. He shuddered.

His slumber had been fitful these past thirteen moons.

Marred by strange and sinister nightmares.

Charsoc the Dark had plied him with myriad sleeping potions of belladonna, mandragora elixir and hellbroths, furnished by the Warlock Kings of the West.

But nothing had eased the menacing spectres that tormented his dreamings.

He pulled his velvet gown tightly around his form and stared bleakly past the ice-capped crags of Vesper.

Since Golgotha, his power in the land of the Race of Men had been greatly curtailed by the Tenets of Eternal Law. His presence on their futile mass of mud and vapour was illegitimate. The Race of Men was plagued with infirmities . . . beleaguered by vanities . . . contemptible. But he had no alternative. He had to use the craven masses.

His time was running down. He sensed it.

Armageddon drew nearer.

And with it a thousand years incarcerated in the bottomless pit before his demise in the Lake of Fire.

His nails dug harshly into his palm.

At Golgotha his fallen armies, ranged against Michael’s warriors and the Nazarene’s sorceries, had been vanquished with ease. It would never happen again.

This time there would be no error. Deep beyond the Vaults of Vagen, his scientists had been building super-weapons and manufacturing vast armies of monstrous hybrids these past thousand years – preparing for Armageddon.

Lucifer raised his face to the skies.

He would conquer the Nazarene. But there was still one more addition to his ambitious scheme.

The ice blizzards tore the hood from his head, exposing the once-exquisite imperial countenance, now scarred almost beyond recognition in the torrid inferno at his banishment from the First Heaven.

He would produce a super-legion of the Fallen.

A two hundred million army.

He smiled malevolently.

To defeat the Nazarene in the Great Battle.

Armageddon.

His contemplations were interrupted by the thunderous pealing of the monstrous bells of Limbo, echoing across the bleak ice plains.

A thousand jaundice-eyed demonic gargoyles soared from the Citadel’s spires into Gehenna’s skies, screaming maniacally, their scaled wings beating like giant bellows, their great horn claws slashing the skies.

Lucifer swung around to the shadowed figure standing at one of the hundreds of hideous stained-glass windows lining the Eastern Wall.

‘Who summons me at this infernal hour?’ he hissed.

Balberith, Lucifer’s chief of angelic courtiers, bowed deeply.

‘Your Excellency,’ he said, trembling, ‘Charsoc the Dark requests an audience with you.’

‘Charsoc the Dark,’ he scowled. ‘Bearing yet another ineffectual
potion
!’

A tall bony form moved from the shadows and stood in the Portico entrance.

Charsoc the Dark, Chief High Priest of the Fallen, bowed deeply. Charsoc’s fall from the First Heaven had been second only to his nefarious Master’s. Formerly one of Yehovah’s eight High Elders of the First Heaven and second only in rank to Jether the Just, Charsoc had sunk effortlessly to become the most depraved of Lucifer’s Necromancer kings. He was Governor of the dreaded Warlock Kings of the West and the Dark Cabal Grand Wizards.

Cold-blooded and scheming, he ruled from the Catacombs of Gehenna, second in rank only to Lucifer.

‘My Lord, Esteemed Excellency, it is no potion that I bring.’

Charsoc smoothed his vermillion taffeta gown. ‘It is tidings. Pleasant tidings.’ Charsoc grasped Lucifer’s sleeve with pale jewelled fingers.

‘What, Master, if your reliance on the Monarchs of the Race of Men were at an end?’ Charsoc moved closer. So close that Lucifer could feel his hot breath on his cheeks, ‘What if you could mobilize your armies under a messiah – your
own
messiah?’

Lucifer grasped Charsoc’s arm so fiercely that Charsoc winced in agony.

‘Explain yourself,’ he hissed.

‘The Dark Cabal Wizards.’ Charsoc exhaled. ‘They ride from the Crypts of Nagor as we speak.’ He hesitated. ‘The Twins seek an audience.’

Lucifer’s eyes searched Charsoc’s face, instantly alert. ‘The Twins.’

He released Charsoc from his fierce grip. Charsoc caressed his arm and bit his lip in pain as Lucifer strode past him under the colossal columns of the Eastern Portico.

Seemingly from mid-air, Charsoc withdrew a black missive sealed with a silver pentagram.

‘From the Twins’ emissaries, Your Excellency.’

Lucifer snatched the missive and scanned it. It blazed fiercely in his palm, then evaporated.

‘Release my vulture shamans from their hell cages as their welcoming parties. Send word to the Grand Wizards of Phaegos and Maelageor that I prepare to grant them audience. Summon the Darkened Councils from under the earth.’

Charsoc bowed deeply.

‘Your word is my command, sire,’ he said, and vanished into thin air.

Lucifer moved to the very edge of the Portico, deep in contemplation.

Slowly, he raised his palm to the skies.

The form of Gabriel became visible, slumbering deeply in his chamber in the First Heaven.

Lucifer stared at his youngest brother.

‘Gabriel . . . ’ he murmured.

Gabriel’s exquisite features were bathed in the glimmering radiance from the Western Wall. Serene. Undisturbed.

‘Dream deeply, Revelator,’ Lucifer uttered.

Gabriel’s breathing became shallow. He tossed restlessly from side to side.

Lucifer smiled a slow evil smile.

‘May the Wizard Riders infect your dreams, brother,’ he whispered. ‘My redemption draweth nigh.’

* * *

Gabriel stared up at the soaring gold-columned palace that towered high above the Western Wall of the First Heaven. His normally serene features were troubled.

His grey eyes clouded.

The Eastern and Northern Wings of the Palace of Archangels were still inhabited by himself and Michael but the Great West Wing, once occupied by the former Prince Regent, Lucifer, lay desolate. The magnificent mother-of-pearl chambers lay deserted. Their towering golden doors engraved with the emblem of the Son of the Morning had been shackled since the dusk of his banishment, to worlds long since departed.

The West Wing had been unchained only once in all the past millennia. The day that Lucifer was summoned to appear at the First Judgement, nearly two thousand years ago. He had dressed in these very quarters before he was delivered to the Great White Plains.

Gabriel ran his fingers through his pale gold tresses, uneasiness etched on his flawless features. He gave a backward glance at Zadkiel who rode a clear ten feet behind him, with Sandaldor by his side. Gabriel nodded.

As one, the small party rode through the Western Gates a full mile above the glistening diamonds that paved the winding roadway. Gabriel hesitated outside Lucifer’s vast orangeries. Once vibrant with the heliotropes and lupins that his eldest brother had so loved, it was as it had been since his banishment.

Desolate. Bleak. Austere.

Nothing flowered and yet at the same time there was no decay. It was a vacuum. As though even the blooming flora of the First Heaven had sensed Lucifer’s treacherous betrayal and declined to grow since his exile.

Gabriel pulled gently on the reins of his mare Ariel. They continued, past the drained Pools of the Seven Wisdoms, drawing to a halt directly in front of the two towering golden doors of Lucifer’s West Wing chambers.

Gabriel dismounted, followed by Zadkiel and Sandaldor. Zadkiel laid a hand gently on his arm.

‘You are sure this is your wish, my Prince?’ he asked.

Gabriel bowed his head, then raised his gaze to meet Zadkiel’s.

‘It is my wish,’ he whispered, his normally serene eyes awash with intense emotion.

Zadkiel studied the Prince intently, then bowed. He gestured to Sandaldor who moved forward. Zadkiel nodded. Together they raised their huge iron axe-hammers high, then swung them forcefully against the monstrous iron manacles, shattering them cleanly in two.

Slowly Zadkiel pushed open the heavy golden doors of Lucifer’s quarters. Gabriel drew a sharp breath. The West Wing lay untouched.

Zadkiel walked after Gabriel into the atrium, staring into Lucifer’s chambers. They stood together a long while in silence.

‘I cannot contend with this, Gabriel.’ Zadkiel bowed his head, his hands trembling. Remembering. ‘It brings back memories of all that damned my soul.’

He raised his tortured gaze to Gabriel. ‘I plead with you, Gabriel.’ Zadkiel’s voice shook with intensity. ‘Release me from this undertaking.’

Gabriel studied Zadkiel intently with compassion. Finally he spoke.

‘I release you, old friend. Return with Sandaldor to my chambers and await me there.’

Zadkiel bowed deeply. ‘May you find, my revered Prince, that which you so earnestly seek.’

He started to walk away.

‘Zadkiel,’ Gabriel called after him. ‘Michael . . . ’ He hesitated. ‘He has no knowledge I am here?’

Zadkiel held his gaze. ‘He has no knowledge.’

Gabriel nodded. ‘I will reveal it when I am ready. And Jether?’

‘I have not revealed it to Jether.’ Zadkiel smiled faintly. ‘But his knowledge will be from a higher source.’

Zadkiel bowed once more, then remounted his steed. He tore at high speed back down the roadway, followed by Sandaldor. Without a glance back.

Gabriel stood in the gateway staring after Zadkiel until he had completely disappeared from view. Then he retraced his steps, pushed open the chamber doors and moved into the atrium. He secured the doors from inside, surveying the vast chamber.

He shook his head in wonder.

It was almost as it had been in aeons past before their world fell.

Lucifer’s collection of pipes and tabarets.

His Sword of State still in its magnificent jewelled sheath.

Gabriel walked under the great frescoed Arc of Archangels and into Lucifer’s inner sanctum, staring up at the magnificent trompe l’oeils – Lucifer’s own handiwork, painted on the vaulted ceilings that soared a hundred feet. Heliotropes, damsons, and amethysts merging into magentas and vermilions covering the ornately decorated surfaces.

His gaze fell onto the carved marble writing desk. The very same desk where his elder brother had penned thousands of beautifully italicized missives in worlds long gone.

He paled.

Leaning next to the desk was an enormous objet d’art, covered with gold cloth. It had not been there two millennia ago, the day of the First Judgement.

The answers to his disturbed dreaming of the night before lay there. He was sure of it.

Lucifer and his infuriating sorcerers’ games!

He strode over to the desk and untied the golden cords. The gold cloth dropped onto the floor, revealing a painting. Nine feet tall. Twelve feet wide.

Gabriel studied it intently.

In the centre of the canvas was an exquisite depiction of Christos, each feature captured in light. It was breathtaking, but for one jagged crimson line that severed the face from one side of the canvas to the other.

He lowered his gaze to the left of the image.

There they were. Just as he had known. The Dark Cabal Wizard Riders – astride their monstrous creations. Their destination the ice world of Gehenna.

Lucifer had painted the scene down to the finest detail. It was exactly what Gabriel had witnessed in his disturbed dreamings.

Directly below Christos was a precise depiction of Lucifer himself standing on the huge, pearl balcony of these very chambers. Exactly as he had in ages past when he watched his brothers race across the sands. His sculpted alabaster features were perfect in their beauty.