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.

It bothered Bugenhagen that while Morgan remained understandably skeptical, Morgan's attractive girl friend had no trouble believing him. That she was even with them had bothered Bugenhagen to begin with, but Morgan was an incorrigible romantic and rarely without a woman, no matter what the occasion. So even though Bugenhagen had expressly insisted upon a private meeting, he was not at all surprised to find a woman with Morgan—just annoyed.

Her name was Joan Hart, and she was very striking, with auburn hair and flashing eyes. Bugenhagen didn't know what to make of women like her. When he was younger, young enough to have been swayed by her looks, though certainly not by the way she talked, women like Joan Hart didn't even exist.

She was a free-lance photo-journalist, a fact she not only announced at every opportunity, underscoring it by a firm handshake and a professional smile, but which she further accented by the manner in which she dressed. Her outfit, which had obviously been custom-made by a London tailor, at a no doubt exorbitant price, was apparently designed to recall Ernest Hemingway on safari. She wore absurdly oversized jewelry and was never without several Nikons slung around her neck. She smoked and talked incessantly.

But for all her paraphernalia, Joan Hart was not in Acre entirely because of an assignment. She was there because of Michael Morgan, who was, at the moment, the most important man in her life, though it was true that her work claimed all of the interest and attention that Michael Morgan did not.

Joan Hart, who had just arrived by plane from her home base in London, had already seen the newspaper headline that Bugenhagen was now showing Morgan:

U.S. AMBASSADOR AND WIFE BURIED.

Morgan had already seen it too, although he hadn't been very interested in it at the time, nor for that matter was he interested in it now.

'Yes,' he said in that detached manner that only upper-class Englishmen can muster when they are trying to be polite, 'very curious.'

Bugenhagen, undaunted, showed him the other newspaper, the American one, with the headline:

PRESIDENT AND WIFE COMFORT AMBASSADOR'S BEREAVED SON.

Bugenhagen pointed with his stubby finger at the photograph of a six-year-old boy with a black armband on his sleeve, a boy with a face as beautiful and radiant as the faces of the cherubim the Renaissance painters used to put in the corners of their church ceilings, up high where no one could see.

'Don't you recognize him?' asked Bugenhagen.

Morgan looked at the picture again, studying it more closely this time. 'No,' he said finally.

The frustration of being the only one left who knew, the only one left who understood, was starting to take its toll on Bugenhagen. He spoke more sharply than he intended. 'Haven't you seen Yigael's Wall yet?' he asked.

‘They only uncovered it last week, Carl,' Morgan started to say, but Bugenhagen interrupted. The need to explain it once and for all, no matter how wild and illogical it sounded, was all that Bugenhagen could think of. There was so little time. He stabbed at the photograph again, and said very slowly and very distinctly: ‘The face of Yigael's Satan is the same! There is no doubt! This boy, this "Damien Thorn," is the Anti-Christ!'

Morgan raised an eyebrow in bemused protest. 'Carl-' he began, but Bugenhagen interrupted him again.

'You must believe me!'

Morgan stopped smiling. The intensity in Bugenhagen's face suddenly frightened him. This was no doddering old fool; this was his mentor, the man who had taught him everything he knew. 'Carl,' he began again, more softly this time, not quite knowing what he was going to say next. 'I'm an archaeologist, not a religious fanatic.'

Bugenhagen persisted. 'Whereof ye have heard that he should come...' But then he couldn't remember the rest. He was so tired. He hadn't slept in days. He'd been afraid to. And now his memory was starting to fail him.

Morgan glanced at Joan, but saw instantly that he would get no help from her. She was absolutely mesmerized by Bugenhagen's performance. He shook his head and turned back to Bugenhagen. 'What are the facts, Carl?'

Bugenhagen lifted his head. 'A week ago,' he said, 'his father tried to kill him. On the altar of All Saints Church in London. He tried to drive some daggers through the boy's heart.'

Joan shuddered with morbid excitement. Morgan reached for his drink as he glanced through the newspaper clippings again. There's one minor detail these papers seem to have omitted,' he said.

Bugenhagen took a deep breath, then said, 'I gave him the daggers myself. My friend Father James was there at All Saints and witnessed the whole thing. He made a special call to tell me what happened. He recognized the ancient daggers and persuaded the American Embassy to retrieve them from the police for return to me.'

In the long silence that followed, Morgan just stared at him, his drink forgotten halfway to his mouth. Joan's gaze was riveted on him. Bugenhagen knew he had their attention now, and he went on, speaking forcefully and rapidly, trying to get it all in while the shock of his statement still had them trapped.

The Ambassador's name was Robert Thorn,' he said. 'When his wife lost a baby in a hospital in Rome, he took a newborn child at the urging of a man who was posing as a priest, but who was, in fact, an Apostle of the Beast. Thorn gave the child to his wife before she knew her own had died, leading her to believe it was her own. They loved the child and brought it up in London—not knowing it was born of a jackal!' Bugenhagen paused to swallow before going on. 'Soon it began to destroy all those who awakened to its true nature, and Thorn came to me for help. I listened to his story and knew instantly that he spoke the truth, for I had long been receiving signs that I would one day be the one who would have to act. I gave Thorn the seven ancient daggers that are the necessary weapons to drive through the Devil's heart. By then, Thorn's wife was dead, as were two other poor souls who had learned the truth.' Bugenhagen bowed his head. 'Before Thorn could pierce the foul heart of his Devil-son, the police killed him, thinking he was mad from grief following the death of his wife!' Bugenhagen then paused to point to the photograph again. This was the one thing he wanted Morgan to comprehend and to act upon: ‘The child still lives!'

After a very long time, Morgan asked, 'Where is he now?'

'In America,' answered Bugenhagen, 'living with his uncle, his father's brother. Where, as it is written, "His power shall be mighty; and he shall destroy wonderfully, and shall prosper, and practice, and destroy the mighty and the holy."’

Joan Hart, ever the journalist, was beside herself. 'Oh, Michael,' she said, 'let's go to America!'

'Shut up!' Michael told her. This was no mere newspaper scoop. If anything that Bugenhagen had just said was true, this was nothing to take lightly.

Bugenhagen reached down at his feet and picked up a wonderfully intricate old leather pouch fitted out with several pockets and many straps and buckles. It clanked as he placed it on the table.

'You must take this to the boy's new parents,' he said. 'Inside are the daggers, as well as a letter explaining everything.'

Morgan thought about what Bugenhagen wanted him to do. It was one thing to hear the story from someone who was convinced of the facts and to be moved by the power of his delivery; it was quite another thing to spread the story yourself.

'I'm sorry, Carl,' he said, shaking his head. You can't expect me to just...'

‘They have to be warned!' Bugenhagen cried. The people at the next table turned their heads in irritation. Bugenhagen lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. 'I'm too old, too ill,' he said. 'I can't go myself. And since I'm the only person who knows the truth, I must…' Bugenhagen evidently found the thought so frightening that he was unable to say it aloud.

'Must what?' Morgan prompted him.

Bugenhagen stared into his drink. ‘... Stay where I'll be safe,' he said.

Morgan shook his head sadly. 'My dear friend,' he sighed. Bugenhagen knew what Morgan was going to say even before he said it. He recognized the condescending tone in his voice. 'I have a reputation,' Morgan went on, but Bugenhagen overrode him vehemently: 'That's why it has to be you! They'll listen to you!'

Morgan was becoming unnerved. There was something unsettling about Bugenhagen's fervor, but what he was asking Morgan to do was simply impossible. 'C'mon, Carl,' he said, 'they'd have me committed.'

Bugenhagen stood up. With the light from the setting sun behind him outlining his prophet's beard, he looked fierce, mad, and holy. 'Come to Yigael's Wall,' he said. It was a command, unlike any command Morgan had ever heard before. There was no resisting it.

'Now?' he asked quietly, already knowing what the answer would be.

'Now,' said Bugenhagen, and he turned and walked outside to his jeep.

Joan felt excluded. 'May I come too?' she asked, putting on her most winning smile.

Morgan shook his head. 'Why don't you wait for me back at the hotel? This won't take long.' He leaned forward and gave her a long, lingering kiss. Then he got up to leave.

'All right,' she said with an exaggerated sigh of impatience. But I'm telling you now—I won't wait forever.'

He laughed and blew her another kiss, then disappeared around the corner.

And that was the last time Joan Hart ever saw Michael Morgan, although it took her a long time to accept it, and an even longer time to understand why.

***

The ancient walled castle of Belvoir stood at the head of the Cebulan Valley, not far from the city of Acre. It had been there since the twelfth century, when the Crusaders, whose name derived from the cross of Christ, came down from Europe to wrest the Holy Land from the Moslems. They built the castle in His name. And it was in the ruins of the castle that Bugenhagen found the proof he needed—that an Anti-Christ was living among us. Now.

***

Long-haired sheep were grazing among the decaying walls and arches when the distant rumble of a jeep caused them to raise their heads and twitch their ears in the direction of the disturbing sound. Dawn was breaking; the sun rose livid red above the valley, sending long multi-colored shadows streaking across the landscape. When the jeep suddenly emerged over the top of the nearest hill, and began to barrel down in their direction, the sheep stumbled and scattered, their bells clanging discordantly, as if summoning supplicants to a travesty of prayer.

The jeep pulled up close to the ruined castle wall, and Bugenhagen and Morgan got out. It was cold in the early morning air, but only Morgan seemed to notice or to care. Bugenhagen was intent on digging up an extra miner's helmet out of the pile of equipment in the back of the jeep. Where they were going, both of them would need helmets. It was too dark to rely on the light of only one lamp, and too dangerous to attempt without some protection for the head.

What both men failed to notice was a large black raven, which perched on the highest part of the wall and watched them with blank, malevolent eyes.

Bugenhagen and Morgan walked across the vast, dark banquet hall of the castle, past the six fifty-foot pillars that ran the length of the chamber. Sleeping bats hung from the eaves. The old man clutched the leather pouch to his chest, as though he were fearful to be separated from it. Both men switched on their headlamps and began the descent down the time-worn steps into the subterranean recesses of the archaeological dig.

Others had been there not long before. Boards had been laid where the most recent excavations had been dug, to facilitate crossing the mud and the ditches. Modern equipment and ancient discoveries lined the walls, lying incongruously side by side, both covered by the same impersonal plastic.

And then Morgan saw something that nearly made him jump out of his skin—a carving at once so obscene and so seductively beautiful that it made him gasp. It was a statue of a woman sitting upon a scarlet Beast. The Beast had seven hideous heads and ten awful horns and was covered with words carved in languages no one had spoken for thousands of years.

Morgan may have been a skeptic, but he was not a fool. He knew exactly what he was looking at. 'The Whore of Babylon,' he said aloud. The terrible name echoed off the walls.

He looked up only to see Bugenhagen disappear through an opening in the wall. Bugenhagen hadn't heard him. Morgan shuddered involuntarily and went after him. He had no intention of being stranded alone in the dark with the dreadful statue of the Whore of Babylon. He followed Bugenhagen into the next chamber.

And there it was. Yigael's Wall. Bugenhagen's headlamp flashed over the work of an artist who had been driven to madness—and genius—when confronted night after night by the terrible and ever-changing face of Satan.

In the largest picture, Satan was in his awesome maturity, having already been cast down into Chaos. He was shown clinging to the side of a precipice, his muscular arms and legs straining from the terrible effort, his enormous batlike wings spread wide to protect him. His face was chipped away and not clearly defined.

There was a second portrait, full-face with forked-tongued serpents writhing out of the scalp instead of hair. This face, too, seemed oddly undefined and vague.

But there was yet another portrait, a smaller one—Satan as a child. In this picture, the face was as clear as could be. It was a face as beautiful as that of a Renaissance cherub. It was also the face of the boy in the newspaper photograph. It was the face of Damien Thorn.

‘This will convince you,' Bugenhagen said, but Morgan was already convinced.

As he moved toward the wall, fascinated, pulled by the power of the portrait, a sound like the crack of a bullwhip suddenly shot down the tunnel, followed by a deep and terrifying rumble. Morgan stumbled back toward Bugenhagen. The two men stood absolutely still and waited. An eternity of seconds ticked by.

And then the tunnel roof in front of them suddenly gave way and began crashing down in an avalanche of stone and dirt. The dust rose in thick, swirling clouds, and Morgan started to choke. Bugenhagen remained calm. When Morgan's racking coughing had subsided, he turned to Bugenhagen and asked, 'Is there another way out?'

Bugenhagen shook his head, and it was then that Bugenhagen began to feel terror. He understood why this was happening, and in the same instant he knew there was nothing they could do about it.

There was another earsplitting crack, and another rumble, and the roof behind them caved in. The space in the tunnel was now no more than five feet wide. It had become their tomb.

In the deathly silence that followed, Morgan looked at Bugenhagen in horror. The old man's eyes were already closed in resignation. He was preparing to die.

And then there came a new sound: quiet, sinister, as persistent as doom. At first, Morgan didn't recognize it, but then he saw a steady stream of sand trickling down from one tiny hole in the ceiling. And then there were two holes. Then four. Then twelve. Soon it was raining sand. The sand sifted into their eyes and their mouths; it piled up over the tops of their boots.

Morgan finally realized that he was about to die. He looked down; and there at his feet lay the Whore of Babylon. The falling sand had already begun to cover the statue. Although he knew it was pointless, Morgan began to claw wildly at the rubble. His knuckles and fingertips started to bleed, and he began to cry.

'The Anti-Christ is with us!' shouted Bugenhagen, through the rasping of the pouring sand. 'Give yourself to God!'

Outside, as if in blasphemous answer, the walls and the pillars of the castle lurched and began to crumble. Down below, the rumbling was amplified into a terrifying roar. Morgan began to moan as he continued to claw away at the wall of stone that stood between him and his only chance for survival. But the sand was already up to his waist, and rising fast.

Bugenhagen's eyes were still closed. He was praying: ‘"... and he had power to give life unto the image of the Beast; that the image of the Beast should both speak and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the Beast should be killed."’ Bugenhagen paused, then added, 'Bless us, Christ Jesus, and forgive us...’

The sand was at the level of their chins now. Morgan was whimpering like a frightened animal. Bugenhagen kept praying:

‘"... the forces of evil may seem to overwhelm us and be triumphant, but goodness will prevail. For it is written in the Book of Revelation: ‘... and then shall that wicked one be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of His mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of His coming...’”’

The sand rose over their mouths, and over their noses, and over their eyes, and when it moved up over their foreheads, their headlamps were extinguished in a single terrible moment, leaving the black void, the absence of everything, that is death.

A final, thunderous lurch sent the rest of the ruined castle down to the ground in a roaring cascade of flying rubble and stone.

Two things remained. The wall by the mad painter Yigael—the single solid piece of evidence left—had somehow miraculously survived intact. And lying next to it, in the rubble far below the surface of the earth, was Bugenhagen's leather pouch. It was as if some other force, equally as powerful as that depicted on the wall, were at work, leaving evidence of its presence.

On the surface of the earth, out of the mushrooming cloud of dust and debris, the raven soared mightily, like a blackened phoenix rising from the ashes. It circled the ruins below with a hideous, triumphant shriek, then flew off into the rising sun, and disappeared into the early morning mist.

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

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