Babylon Rising Read online

  “Ah, great minds do think alike, Talon. You know how we have been considering what our next moves should be in our other goals, such as stirring up general fear and distrust in all of the world’s organizations and institutions. Our focus has been on the urban centers, but we have decided to combine several of our goals for your next action. We’re going to take the terror to a small town. And continue our drive against our dear evangelical brothers and sisters.”

  For the first time in their conversation, Talon sounded more energized than usual. “Let me guess. The small town is Preston, North Carolina. And the evangelical church is Murphy’s.”

  “Very good, Talon. You go right to the head of the class. In fact, you’re ready for the university.”

  THIRTY

  NEBUCHADNEZZAR COULD stand to wait no longer. Daniel seemed to be straining to hear an inner voice.

  Finally he spoke again. “You saw a great image, O King. You dreamed of a statue–”

  “A statue! Yes! I see it!” The king was on his feet, smiling from ear to ear like a blind man who had just had his sight miraculously restored.

  Daniel continued, taking no heed of the king’s excitement.

  “The statue you saw in your dreams, its splendor was excellent in form, awesome. A mighty statue that towered fully ninety cubits above you.

  “The head of the statue was of gold, wondrously bright, like molten fire, the chest and arms of shining silver like the moon when she is full.” He paused as the king stepped forward and gripped his shoulders fiercely. It was as if the statue were standing before them under a great black veil and Daniel was pulling the veil away inch by inch with his words.

  “The belly and thighs of the statue were of bronze, the legs of iron, the feet of clay and iron mixed.” He paused, and the king became still, not daring to move or speak in case the vision was lost.

  Nebuchadnezzar sat back on his cedarwood chair and drank deeply from a cup of wine. The exhilaration that came with remembering his dream was intoxicating but short-lived. Now he was filed with a gnawing hunger to discover what meaning might lie behind such an extraordinary vision.

  He looked up, and Daniel seemed to sense his question before he asked it.

  “The four portions of the statue represent four empires. First gold, then silver, then bronze. Each empire less mighty than the last. Until the final empire of iron, which will be the weakest, for its foundations, the feet of iron and clay mixed together, shall likewise be divided.”

  “Four empires,” the king mused. “And only four?”

  “Yes, there shall be only four world empires until the Latter times. This is how the people will know that only the God of heaven can accurately reveal history before it comes to pass. Then, in the Latter days, ten kingdoms of the world will join together in an attempt to rebuild a world kingdom similar to yours, O King. After that, the end shall come.”

  It was extraordinary. Nebuchadnezzar lived in a world where lies were common currency. Even those closest to him-perhaps especially they-could not be trusted. He had long ago concluded that only a man bound and chained and who sees the red-hot iron in the approaching torturer’s hand could be relied upon to tell the truth.

  Yet, he had no doubt, not the smallest shred, that every word Daniel spoke would come to pass. For the first time in his life he, the ruler of countless nations, felt there was no solid ground beneath his feet.

  Once again, the Hebrew slave anticipated his next thought.

  “And what of Babylon, what of Nebuchadnezzar in all of this?” Daniel looked the king in the eye once more, and his deep, resonant voice seemed to fill the chamber.

  “Here is the dream’s interpretation. You have been chosen by God to be the ruler of all things and all men. The God of heaven has given you a kingdom, power, strength, and glory. Before the coming of the kingdom of God, yours shall be the greatest empire the world will ever know. You, my king, are the head of gold of the dream’s statue. When the fourth kingdom arises, it shall be as strong as iron. That kingdom will break into pieces and crush all other kingdoms.”

  “Break into pieces?” the king shouted.

  “That is the rest of your dream. You watched as a stone was formed without hands. The stone struck the image with great force and shattered the feet made of iron and clay. The image came crashing to the ground. Its iron, clay, bronze, silver, and gold were all crushed together and became like chaff from the threshing floor. Then the wind came up and blew them all away so that no trace could be found. And the stone that struck the image grew to the size of a mountain and enveloped the whole earth.”

  The king arose and began to pace with agitation.

  “My king, the feet which you saw, made partly of clay and partly of iron, they indicate a divided kingdom, both strong and fragile. As you are aware, O King, iron cannot mix with clay. And in the days of this divided kingdom, the God of heaven will set up His own kingdom, which shall never be destroyed. It will not be ruled by ordinary men. It will consume all the other kingdoms and stand forever.”

  Daniel then concluded, “The God of heaven has made these things known to you, O King. The dream and its interpretation are certain.”

  King Nebuchadnezzar then commanded his men to present an offering of gifts and incense to Daniel. He placed his hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

  “From this day forward, you shall be ruler over this entire province and chief administrator over all of the wise men of Babylon. For you, Daniel, serve a God which is greater than any other.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  CHUCK NELSON FISHED in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills. He looked at them sourly. Ten bucks, give or take. Enough for a burger, maybe some chili. He swept a hank of greasy blond hair out of his eyes and squinted at the bills, as if looking harder was going to change anything.

  Nope. The same ten bucks he’d had in his pocket when the cops had pulled him over in the stolen Chevy. Just like he was wearing the same oil-stained jeans with the tears at both knees, the same stained green sweatshirt and muddy sneakers. At least they’d laundered his clothes. Didn’t look like they’d done the same for his money.

  His stomach began to rumble and he tried to remember when he’d last eaten a meal that was fit for a human being rather than a hog. A big bowl of chili would sure go down easy. And he needed a drink right now.

  He’d need every cent, unless they’d passed a free-beer law while he’d been away, that is. It was only a couple miles into town. And hey, maybe somebody would pull over and give him a ride. But he doubted it. He knew he looked like what he was. Trouble. And the oh-so-good folks of Preston always liked to avoid trouble if they possibly could.

  He pulled his old Preston High jacket closer as he felt the first spatters of ram, and started marching down the two-lane country road.

  First get that beer. Then settle a few scores.

  Two hours later Chuck was sitting at a table in Mooney’s Tavern and shaking the last drops out of an empty pitcher. He had a little buzz going now, but his money was all spent and the barman, some new guy probably straight out of bartending school, had refused to run him a tab. He slammed the pitcher down and spat on the floor. How much money had he spent in this lousy dive over the years, drinking their lousy watered-down beer? Math wasn’t his strong suit, but it had to be a lot. And now the barman was eyeing him like Chuck was something nasty he was fixing to scrape off his shoe. He could feel the rage mounting, that tingling feeling at the ends of his fingers as if a fuse had just been lit.

  A screech followed by raucous laughter diverted his attention from the barman, and he swiveled to see a pretty blonde choking on a beer, while another girl thumped her on the back and the two guys sitting across the booth slapped the table, whooping.

  He didn’t need to see the words “Preston University” on their sweatshirts to know they were students. And probably underage too. He’d been getting drunk in this place when they were still wearing braces, and now he was the one the barman was
giving the evil eye to.

  He sauntered over and put his hands on the shoulders of the two guys. “Hey, boys, don’t you have a class to go to? I think your little friend here could use a beer-drinking lesson.” He grinned and gave them a friendly pat.

  The blond girl wiped beer from her mouth with her sleeve and glared at him as the two guys shook off Chuck’s hands and jumped to their feet. They were both an inch or two shorter than he was and looked out of shape. Too much time reading books and not enough working out, he guessed. He could see they didn’t want to look bad in front of their girlfriends, but the worried look in their eyes told him they weren’t going to give him any trouble.

  “Tell you what. You boys buy me a pitcher of beer and I’ll give you a free demonstration. Show you how it’s done. What do you say?” He gave them his best good-time grin and winked at the girls. They were still glaring at him like wildcats. Hey, it ain’t my fault if your boyfriends are such wimps, he thought.

  He was about to press the point when he felt his jacket being yanked from behind. Off balance, he staggered backward and fell heavily against a table. Before he could regain his feet, someone pinned his arms behind him and started shoving him toward the door.

  “Hey, get your hands off me.” He managed to wrench himself out of the armlock and whirled around. The barman stood smirking, arms folded. Next to him was another man Chuck had never seen before, heavier set, unshaven, with faded tattoos on his forearms. Must have come out of the kitchen, he thought. The man stepped forward, getting right in Chuck’s face.

  “Get out. Now. Before we decide to get nasty. We don’t want scum like you in here no more.”

  Chuck reckoned he could take the barman, no problem. But the kitchen guy looked like he meant business. No point getting all busted up for a pitcher of beer, no matter how thirsty he was. He brushed himself off and did not look back.

  A few minutes later, the man known as Talon left an untouched beer on a corner table and walked out of the bar. He scanned the street. No sign of Chuck in either direction. No matter. It wasn’t exactly hard to predict his next move. He sniffed the air, then turned right. Toward the river.

  As he walked through the town, past the little corner drugstore, then the thrift shop with its display of teddy bears in the window, he wondered how long his work would keep him in Preston. Long enough to make a lasting contribution to the place, he felt sure. To make a few changes that would be remembered. He stopped at the Hey Preston! magic shop with its hand-painted sign depicting a rabbit peering over the brim of a top hat, and smiled. Oh, yes. He’d show them a few new tricks before he was done.

  Another ten minutes and the cute little shops and family restaurants began to give way to boarded-up storefronts and vacant lots. Even Preston had its bad part of town, where the street lighting wasn’t so good and the picket fences were missing a few slats and a coat of whitewash. He began to search for a likely spot.

  He found it almost at once. An alley between a Chinese takeout place and a liquor store. A good shortcut if you weren’t afraid of the shadows and anybody who might be lurking there. Somebody who might be badly in need of some cash and didn’t care how they got it, for instance.

  He peered into the gloom. There was a powerful stench of rotting vegetables. No doubt this was where the restaurant dumped its garbage. The scraping and scurrying sounds told him he was not the first to figure that out. He took a few steps into the alley and listened. Just in time. He walked another ten yards through the discarded boxes, then ducked behind a Dumpster and pulled out his cell phone.

  Chuck kept the little man pinned to the wall with one hand while he tried to flip through his wallet with the other. The guy was so terrified, he probably could not have run, let alone fight back. But the lessons you learned in jail stayed with you. Never turn your back. Never let your guard down. And never assume your opponent is down for the count unless he’s actually stopped breathing.

  The other rule was to listen hard. You might not see trouble coming, but maybe you could hear it. And right now Chuck could hear a siren. Hard to tell how far away, but it seemed to be getting louder. Time to finish his business and get on his way.

  Suddenly a flashlight swept across the alley, blinding him for a moment. Behind it stood a cop, nightstick at the ready. “Stop right there,” he shouted. “Step away from the wall with your hands out front, where I can see them.”

  Chuck shoved the wallet into his jacket and let go of the little man, who crumpled against the wall and slumped to the ground. Now what? He didn’t have a weapon and the cop was advancing steadily. He’d be on him in a second.

  If he didn’t think of something quick, he’d soon be back in Cell 486, and this time they’d throw away the key.

  The cop found his target again with the flashlight, and now Chuck couldn’t see a thing. Then suddenly there was a crack, a sharp cry of pain, and the light veered off into the shadows. As his eyes adjusted again to the gloom, he made out a dark shape—a tall man standing over the cop with what looked like a piece of two-by-four in his hand. The cop wasn’t making a sound now.

  The man turned toward Chuck and he saw his face. Bone-white features and blank eyes that made him shiver. He beckoned Chuck forward with a gloved hand.

  “His friends will be here in a minute or two. Time to ship out, Chuck.”

  Chuck froze in place, uncertain what this ghoul had in mind. His brain had shut down.

  The ghoul seemed to sense his fear. He flung the two-by-four into a pile of boxes and held both arms out to the side. “You have nothing to fear from me, Chuck. Quite the opposite.

  In fact, you could say I’m your savior.” He laughed, though Chuck couldn’t see the joke. It was a harsh, animal sound, not really a laugh at all.

  The sirens were loud now. Only a few blocks away.

  “Come on, I have a place where you can get cleaned up. Money. I even have a job for you. Unless you’d rather go back to jail, of course.”

  Chuck’s brain unscrambled itself enough to figure out he didn’t really have any more choices.

  “Okay, mister,” he said. “You’re the boss. I guess you better lead the way.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  STEPHANIE KOVACS FOUND herself gazing out the window for the third time in the last half hour, wondering how she had gotten stuck talking to one of the most boring men in the world while researching a story that to her great surprise was one of the hottest of her career. Since her worldwide exclusive at the home of Farley the Fanatic, the U.N. window washer who still had not turned up, Stephanie’s media star was rising at BNN even faster than before.

  Of course, it did not hurt that Shane Barrington himself seemed to be following this story with keener personal interest than he had exhibited about any prior news story. From the moment Stephanie had gotten the anonymous phone tip to rush to the Farley rental in Queens the night of the U.N. attack, she had wondered about the coincidence of Barrington’s first meeting with her, essentially ordering her to investigate the evangelical Christian movement and this headline-making discovery. Considering she herself had barely picked up a Bible since she was twelve, religious talk was now filling her days.

  The competitive reporter in her was more than a little envious about not getting to follow up some of the links resulting from the U.N. window painting. That seemed like hard news, or, more appropriately, hard lack-of-news, because no further evidence had been uncovered to connect Farley either to a known evangelical group or to any additional physical evidence of a U.N. bombing plot. But her revelations of that night still stuck in people’s memories.

  Now she was following a direct tip from Shane Barrington himself. When he called to congratulate her—first time ever—on her scoop, he let slip that high-level people in Washington had told him that the FBI had questioned none other than Professor Michael Murphy in connection with the U.N. attack. Stephanie had suggested that they were probably talking to Murphy as an expert on the Bible to get clues about the painted message, muc
h like the networks all had talking-head experts for every crisis.

  But Barrington suggested she should go to Preston University and snoop around about Murphy. After all, he was a TV personality, and TV people like nothing better than a whiff of scandal about another TV star, even if he was only the star of some dusty archaeology specials on cable.

  Which was how she found herself listening to Dean Archer Fallworth drone on and on about the university grade-point average and student community service initiatives. She did not want to tip her hand about her interest in Murphy until she had gotten a sense of how he fit into university life, but now it was time to cut to the chase.

  “Dean, how about the evangelical Christians? Are they active on campus?”

  Fallworth’s eyes narrowed. “Evangelicals? Well, yes, we do have some very”—he waved his hand, searching for the right word—“energetic members of that particular religious group at Preston. Only a handful, really, but they tend to make rather a lot of noise.” He flashed a smile he wanted to appear to be conspiratorial. “What exactly is your interest?”

  “Let’s just say there’s a lot of concern among ordinary citizens that these evangelical groups are getting too big, too scary. I want to find out how a fine liberal arts university like Preston is affected. Institutions like yours as the front line in the battle against bigotry. Our viewers would be interested in that.”

  Fallworth’s smile became a Cheshire cat’s grin. “I like to think we do our best. Fighting the good fight against ignorance and intolerance.” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward over the desk. “But it isn’t always easy. They’re very well organized, you know. And some of their leaders are tremendously cunning.”

  Here we go, thought Stephanie. “Anyone in particular?”

  Fallworth pursed his lips. “I don’t want to speak ill of any faculty members, of course….”

  “Unless it’s in the public interest.”