Prologue

PROLOGUE:

SEVEN YEARS AGO

Carl Bugenhagen, the archaeologist, was worried.

Not because he was deep down under the ground, burrowing around like a mole in a hole. Bugenhagen liked it down there. It was cool, and dark, and it smelled pleasantly of the past, and it was quiet. Except for now.

Bugenhagen had begun to hear sounds.

Bugenhagen was not easily frightened. He was a powerful man in his late fifties, with the huge neck and shoulders of a classic Greek wrestler. His white hair and beard and his wild eyes gave him the look of an Old Testament prophet, which was appropriate since, at this very moment, Bugenhagen was exploring an excavation, under the surface of Israel. He was there not only because he was one of the world's foremost archaeologists, but also because he was trying to prove the existence of the Devil.

The sounds alarmed Bugenhagen, and he had good reason to be afraid. He suspected he was the next in a series of people the Devil had been forced to kill because they threatened to expose the truth. Moreover, the Devil had excellent reason to kill Bugenhagen, for Bugenhagen, in his pride and in his piety, had attempted to kill Him.

Bugenhagen was not trying to find evidence to prove the existence of the Devil to himself; he had all the proof he needed—in fact, all he could bear. Everything he had suspected for so long had turned out to be absolutely true. Terrifyingly so. No—he needed the proof for his associate, Michael Morgon, so that the truth could live on. Bugenhagen know only too well that one who had tried to kill the Anti-Christ—and failed—could not hope to escape punishment.

***

Bugenhagen had first broached the subject with Morgan the day before, as they sat drinking sweet liqueurs in a charming seaside café and watching the late afternoon shadows stretch out along the cooling tile floor beneath their feet...

At first Morgan didn't believe him. Bugenhagen could understand why. It did take some adjustment. As he sat in that Middle Eastern world of bright colors, the setting sun shooting deep oranges and reds over the dark blue Mediterranean, and the softening light reflecting off the white stone walls of the old Israeli city of Acre, even Bugenhagen considered for the first time the possibility that he might be stark, raving mad.

But then something inside him, some voice that didn't seem to be any voice he recognized, assured him that not only was he sane, he was blessed with a knowledge that was his enormous responsibility to impart.