The Doomsday Prophecy by Scott Mariani
‘Here is wisdom,’ Ben said. ‘“Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six.” Book of Revelation, chapter thirteen, verses sixteen to eighteen.’
Cleaver nodded. ‘You’re an educated man. But do you understand what this is telling us? It’s already happening. The forces of evil are already getting a grip on us. A one-world currency. They’ve already started it. Look at your euro over there. Credit cards. You use a credit card, Benedict?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Smart move. But then there’s the barcodes. The number 666 is already right there, all around us. And even more insidious technologies to get inside our heads are being developed right now, as we sit here talking.’ Cleaver helped himself to more food. ‘Then you have the instability in the Middle East,’ he went on. ‘More signs. The Bible already prophesied that God’s chosen people of Israel would receive their Promised Land. Now, the re-establishment of the nation of Israel in 1948 is a true sign that we are living in the Last Days. We’re witnessing the unfolding of God’s plan. And now we’re ready for the next phase.’
‘Which is what?’
‘That’s one your Bible scholars are missing. You have to dig a little deeper for it. It’ll happen in Israel. Israel is the linchpin of Bible prophecy; it’s the centre where the whole thing will play out. So what’s going to actually happen, and my guess is it will happen before too many more years go by, is that there’ll be a major military strike against the sacred nation of Israel. I’m not talking pot-shots across the West Bank, suicide bombers and petty diplomatic upsets. I’m talking full-blown nuclear conflagration.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘“And thou shalt come up against my people of Israel, as a cloud to cover the land; it shall be in the latter days.”’ Cleaver smiled grimly. ‘The perpetrator of the attack is Gog. The ancient kingdom of Magog, right there in Persia. What nowadays we call Iran. Those are the guys who will launch their missiles at Israel. That’s what’s going to really set things in motion, big time.’
‘You really believe that’s what the Bible is saying?’ Ben asked. ‘That the Muslim nations will declare war on the Jews?’
‘There’s no doubt about it whatsoever,’ Cleaver said. ‘And the results will be profound. The Islamic attack on Israel is what will precipitate the world into the events prophesied by the Book of Revelation.’
‘You would consider the destruction of Israel to be part of God’s plan?’
‘God won’t let Israel be destroyed,’ Cleaver said. ‘They can fire all the missiles they like when the time comes, but they won’t harm a blade of grass. “And it shall come to pass at the same time when Gog shall come against the land of Israel, that my fury shall come up in my face.” See? God will step in and protect Israel, and its enemies will be destroyed.’
Ben smiled and didn’t reply.
‘Now things really start rolling,’ Cleaver said, undeterred. ‘In the aftermath of this terrible war, the world will reach a peace agreement, probably brokered by a European leader. Someone of great charm and charisma, who claims to be a friend of the people.’
‘You’re talking about the Antichrist.’
Cleaver nodded. ‘The Rider on the White Horse. Revelation, chapter six. He who comes to conquer, to wreak destruction and fire upon the earth and enslave us all. The son of Satan himself. And I’m sorry to say it, but I think he might be an Englishman. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Ben said. ‘And I think I know who he is.’
Cleaver gave a chuckle.
Miss Vale frowned. ‘These things aren’t to be taken lightly, boys.’
‘You’re right, Augusta,’ Cleaver said. ‘Because then it gets pretty dark. The powers of the Antichrist will take control of the world. No pretending any more, right? They’ll just step in and take over. Anyone who protests will be slain. That’s the start of the great Tribulation. John tells us all about it in the Book of Revelation. Hail and fire and the destruction of the earth’s vegetation. The sea will turn to blood. Poisonous locusts. Mass torture. Billions of people killed most horribly. The faithful will be hideously persecuted as the Antichrist strives to gain complete dominion. Seven years of the most terrible, terrible suffering. It’ll make the Nazi holocaust look like a walk in the park.’
‘“Then there will be a time of anguish greater than any since nations first came into existence,”’ Ben said.
Cleaver nodded gravely and glanced at Miss Vale, who was gazing down at her plate with a look of distress glazed in her eyes. ‘But not for everyone,’ he said gently. ‘We can console ourselves that at some point during this time of Tribulation, the Bible tells us the faithful will be delivered from pain and torture.’
‘The Rapture,’ Ben said. ‘“For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout with the call of the archangel and the trumpet call of God. Then we will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and remain with him forever.”’
‘Amen,’ Miss Vale whispered.
Cleaver smiled at Ben. ‘I’m glad you’ve taken our Lord Jesus Christ into your heart, Benedict. It would pain me to think of you being left behind. Nobody’s getting out of the Tribulation alive.’
‘Then after the seven years are over, Christ returns to confront his enemy at the battle of Armageddon,’ Ben said.
‘That’s exactly right,’ Cleaver replied. ‘And then begins the golden period for all the Christians who held onto their faith through the dark times. They shall be richly rewarded.’
* * *
After dinner, they retired back to the drawing room, where a decanter of brandy and crystal glasses were set out on a tray. Miss Vale excused herself for a moment, and left the room.
‘This has been a very interesting discussion, Clayton,’ Ben said, settling into an armchair with his glass of brandy. ‘But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.’
Cleaver spread his arms. ‘Fire away, son.’
‘In fact, there’s someone I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Is that a fact? And who might that be?’
‘That might be one Zoë Bradbury.’ Ben watched Cleaver’s face and let the words sink in.
Cleaver tried hard not to let his composure slip too far. ‘Uh-huh?’ He gulped a little.
‘You know who I’m talking about,’ Ben said.
‘I know of her,’ Cleaver said coolly, glancing at his fingernails. ‘She’s a friend of Augusta’s, I believe.’
‘And no friend of yours, apparently.’
Cleaver looked hard at Ben. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘I mean the twenty-five grand she got from you, and the ten million she wanted.’
Cleaver was quiet for a beat. ‘You know about that?’
‘And about Skid McClusky. I thought you might like to fill me in on some details I’m missing.’
‘Just who exactly the hell are you, mister?’
‘Someone looking for answers. Someone who’s going to get them.’
Cleaver toyed with his drink. His face had paled noticeably. ‘I think, uh, Benedict, this strikes me as the kind of topic that we ought to discuss elsewhere. In private.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ Ben said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want Miss Vale hearing too much. That’s a sizeable investment you have there.’
Cleaver said nothing.
‘But don’t think you can get away from me,’ Ben continued. ‘You’re going to talk to me.’
The old lady came back in, followed by a maid carrying a silver tray with a coffee jug and three delicate white porcelain cups on little saucers. She smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she announced as she sat down. ‘I wondered whether our new friend would like to attend the tournament tomorrow.’
Cleaver laughed nervously. ‘Augusta, that wouldn’t be Benedict’s cup of tea. Him being English and all.’
Miss Vale bl
‘I’m just fine, thank you,’ Cleaver said. ‘Maybe I overate a little.’
‘What kind of tournament?’ Ben asked.
Cleaver was fighting hard to stay natural in front of Miss Vale. ‘It’s just a little event I hold out at my place once a year,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘But –’
Miss Vale chuckled. ‘A little event? Clayton’s being modest. All the best rifle shooters from across Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi take part. Twenty bucks a ticket, and we’re expecting over two thousand people.’
‘All strictly for charity, of course,’ Cleaver interjected, trying to smile.
‘Of course,’ Ben said, staring at him.
‘And this year all proceeds will be going to the Vale Trust Charity Hospital. That’s one of the many projects that my charity supports,’ Miss Vale explained, seeing Ben’s quizzical look ‘We help the poor and underprivileged families in Georgia and Alabama who can’t afford health insurance.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Last summer we opened a new wing to provide free treatment for child cancer patients. They do such good work there that I really want to expand it. So for this year’s tournament I’ve organised a special sponsorship initiative that I’m hoping will raise a lot of dollars to allow us to help the needy.’
‘Sounds like wonderful work, Miss Vale,’ Ben said, not taking his eyes off Cleaver.
‘You must come along,’ she replied. ‘It’ll be a great day.’
Cleaver reddened and cleared his throat. ‘But, like I said, Augusta, maybe it’s not something Benedict would –’
‘I’d love to,’ Ben said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The fifteenth day
The good Reverend Cleaver’s place lay ten miles to the west of Savannah. As the morning wore on, away from the Georgia coast the atmosphere was even more humid and stifling. The land was flat and beautiful, with oak woodlands stretching off the highway as far as the eye could see in every direction.
The signs for the shooting tournament led Ben off the main road and two miles down a private track. Other cars were heading the same way, and as he rounded a bend he came into a large field filled with hundreds of vehicles. He found a parking space and climbed out into the baking sun, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Miss Vale had gone off early that morning in her chauffeur-driven limo, positively sparkling with excitement to get started with the organising for her special charity event. She’d been so caught up with phone calls and last-minute details that Ben hadn’t had the chance to ask her more about the sponsorship initiative she’d mentioned. He looked around the parking field and spotted the stately white Lincoln Continental in the far corner.
Cleaver’s land must stretch for miles, he thought. This field alone was at least four acres. The crowds of spectators were wandering into an adjoining field several times larger, where scores of stalls and tents had been set up and at least a couple of thousand people were milling around, eating and drinking, talking and laughing in the sun. Clearly this was a fun family event, judging by the number of women and children present.
It was a big media event too, with TV trucks parked up near the entrance to the main field, cameras and journalists everywhere. The centre of the field was dominated by a large marquee that bore a sign for the Augusta Vale Trust. Nearby, hot food vendors were dishing out paper plates stacked with fried chicken, buttery corn on the cob, burgers and fries. At a National Rifle Association stall, people were handing out leaflets on gun safety. Others were selling guns, ammunition, books and magazines, ear defenders, hunting gear and a wider range of shooting accessories than Ben had ever seen in one place before.
He walked over to the fence and shielded his eyes as he scanned the shooting range itself. It was an impressive setup: a vast cleared space among the trees stretching far away into the distance with targets set up at marked ranges of 100, 500 and 1000 yards. In the distance, a massive ridge of earth had been bulldozed up to create a safe backstop, preventing stray shots from landing somewhere in the next state. A cordoned area had been set aside for spectators to watch the shooting, while the shooters’ firing point was well equipped with mats and rifle rests. Clustered around the main range, smaller events were going on. There was even a kids’ range, where NRA instructors were showing children the basics of shooting and safety with small-calibre junior weapons.
From the competition schedule nailed to a post near the adjudicator’s hut, Ben saw that the smallbore competitions had already been shot that morning. Names of the winners were posted up on a blackboard nearby. The main event of the day, though, and what most of the crowd had come to watch, was the open-class fullbore rifle shoot. Already, a lot of the big-bore rifle shooters were assembling on the firing point, opening up kit boxes, preparing their equipment.
But the shooting competition held no interest for Ben. He was here to catch hold of Clayton Cleaver, take him somewhere private and press some truth out of him.
He’d pretty much planned his strategy. He liked simple plans, and this one was very simple indeed. If Cleaver didn’t confess right away, he was going to beat it out of him about what had happened to Zoë and where she was. If she was dead or alive, either way, Cleaver’s fate was sealed. There was Charlie to pay for. Once he no longer needed him, he was going to take Cleaver to a quiet spot somewhere and blow his brains out. Leave him where he lay. Then home, and try to pick up where he’d left off.
He wondered where Cleaver was. He could see the house in the distance, a large colonial-style mansion with columns and porches, white and glimmering through the trees. His fists clenched with rage and for an instant he felt the urge to walk straight over there and find him.
Then he spotted him. Of course. He should have expected that the man wouldn’t be far from the crowd and the cameras. Cleaver was in the middle of the throng clustered around the Augusta Vale Trust marquee, surrounded by press photographers, shaking as many hands as he could, the big broad smile never leaving his face. Miss Vale was there too, looking elegant and gracious as she attended to all the people around her and delegated tasks to her assistants. As Ben approached, she caught sight of him and waved. He smiled and waved back.
As he came closer, he saw Cleaver’s eyes shoot him a glance. Suddenly the Reverend seemed to have a pressing engagement elsewhere. He melted away into the crowd.
‘Catch you later,’ Ben muttered under his breath.
Miss Vale took his arm as he joined her. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? Look at all the people.’ She beamed up at him. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’ She turned to two of her assistants nearby, a thickset woman with ginger hair standing talking to a petite and very attractive Japanese girl in her early twenties.
‘Harriet, where’s young Carl?’ Miss Vale asked anxiously. ‘It’s quarter to twelve. It starts in fifteen minutes.’
‘I think he just arrived,’ the ginger-haired woman said.
‘He’s cutting it a little fine. I shall have to scold him.’
The Japanese girl caught Ben’s eye and smiled at him.
‘Let’s go meet him,’ Miss Vale said.
They started walking towards the parking field. Harriet and the old lady were deep in conversation. Ben followed behind, and the Japanese girl walked with him.
‘I’m Maggie,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Ben,’ he said. ‘You work for the Vale Trust?’
She nodded. ‘Miss Vale has been telling us all about you,’ she said.
‘Really? So who’s this Carl we’re going to meet?’
‘One of Miss Vale’s protégés,’ Maggie replied. ‘The Trust puts a lot of young kids from underprivileged backgrounds through college. The aim is to support and empower them. Carl Rivers is only nineteen, but he’s already a champion rifle marksman. The Trust has been paying for his training, and we’re hoping that one day he’
‘Impressive,’ Ben said.
‘Miss Vale has organised a special sponsorship event for this year’s match,’ Maggie said. ‘She’s put a hundred thousand dollars of her own money in the pot, and she’s persuaded a whole lot of wealthy folks to back him too. He’s up against pro shooters from five states, but we’re hopeful. If he wins the fullbore rifle class, we’ll have raised about half a million for the hospital. It’s really important.’
‘Miss Vale told me about the children’s wing,’ he said.
Maggie nodded sadly. ‘So sad.’
They reached the parking field. Away from the rest of the cars was a section cordoned off closer to the ranges, for competitors only.
‘That’s him over there,’ Maggie said, pointing.
Ben looked. A young black kid was standing next to a badly beaten-up old Pontiac. He had a friend with him, a gangly, gawky-looking white teenager with jeans ripped at the knees and thick glasses that magnified his eyes so much that they almost filled the lenses. The friend was unloading a long black rifle case from the back of the car.
‘I don’t suppose Carl Rivers is the one with the glasses,’ Ben said.
Maggie laughed. ‘No, that’s Andy; I don’t think he’d be much of a shot.’
Carl was in the middle of an animated discussion with his gawky-looking friend, and hadn’t seen them approaching. He was leaning with his right hand against the side of the car as Andy laid the rifle case down on the grass. Whatever they were joking about, Carl suddenly threw his head back and burst out laughing. Andy was laughing too, his big eyes creased up with mirth behind the glasses. Then he reached up quickly and slammed the car boot lid shut. Right on Carl’s fingers.