End of Days Read online

  ‘Francois, what is their endgame?’

  Father d’Angelis said, ‘“For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast them down to Tartarus and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved unto judgment.” Second letter of Peter, chapter two, verse four. Nikola, they intend to release the two hundred.’

  ‘The two hundred?’

  Father d’Angelis nodded. ‘The holy Scriptures reveal that these fallen angels – sons of God – of Genesis 6 are confined in Tartarus. CERN is erected above the temple of the Greek god Apollyon.’

  ‘Abbadon.’

  ‘The same. The Brotherhood’s intention is to release the reprobate Watchers from where they lie shackled in darkness. The world of the occult knows exactly the hour that the imprisoned ones will be released, as the energy released by CERN causes the prison gates of the devils to open.’

  Father d’Angelis’s voice caught. ‘Nikola, their diabolical intention is in no doubt. Abaddon and the fallen angelic entities imprisoned in Tartarus.’

  He turned to stare out at the calm waters of the volcanic crater lake that shimmered in the falling Italian dusk.

  ‘They intend to release the supercriminals of the universe.’ His veined hands trembled. ‘They are opening the Abyss.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jerusalem

  December 2026

  Jason De Vere lay on his side, the steel handcuffs chafing his wrists, gasping for breath under the suffocating material of the burlap. His heart was hammering in his chest like a proverbial drum.

  Tears, mucus and congealed blood ran down his cheeks.

  The blood.

  Oh god, he screamed noiselessly. Adrian’s blood.

  He had just murdered his own brother.

  Assassinated Adrian De Vere, the President of most of the Western World.

  One shot through his neck. The second, straight through the temple.

  Shivers ran down his spine. The unrelenting thudding of his heart accelerated to fever pitch.

  Blood. He could still taste Adrian’s blood on his parched swollen lips.

  He retched violently under the burlap. Gasping desperately for breath, choking. Breathing in his own vomit.

  Unrelenting image after image bombarded his brain. Adrian’s blood spurting from his carotid artery onto his face . . . onto his hands . . . staining his shirt.

  He could feel the sweat running down his spine.

  Voices. There were voices shouting in Hebrew. In German. Doors slamming. The sound of van doors opening above him.

  He was being dragged unceremoniously out of the van and onto his feet. Someone shoved him forward. He stumbled to his knees. The black burlap was pulled roughly from his head.

  He was staring straight into the squat black barrel of a sig Sauer P22 semi-automatic pistol.

  Oh god. This was it.

  They were going to shoot him. In cold blood. He steeled himself. He was beyond caring. Julia was dead.

  Suddenly he realised his face was wet with tears.

  Julia. He had never got to tell her how desperately he still loved her.

  Images of her long blonde hair, her London rock-chick charm, her feisty passion for life, intersected with vivid memories of them arguing passionately . . . his storming out . . . the brutal divorce. Whisky had become his saviour, his mind-numbing narcotic.

  But Lily.

  What would happen to Lily?

  His adored, intrepid, raven-haired, green-eyed daughter.

  Lily. He had to stay alive for Lily.

  He raised his head by degrees as his entire body shuddered violently.

  Looming over him was a tall, bony man with a grey complexion, humourless eyes and badly dyed jet-black cropped hair. He wore his trademark thin round spectacles and poorly fitting black suit. Kurt Guber. ‘The Butcher’. Director of EU Special Service Operations. Adrian’s ruthless Nazi sidekick and exotic-weapons specialist.

  ‘My, my. If it isn’t Jason De Vere. Cold-blooded murderer. Puts Lee Harvey Oswald – how do you English phrase it? – in the shade.’

  His expressionless pale eyes bored into Jason’s dispassionately.

  Guber made a slow circle around him, caressing the semi-automatic pistol in his black leather gloved hands.

  ‘Guber,’ Jason uttered.

  Guber kicked him viciously in the stomach with his iron-tipped boots.

  Jason collapsed onto the snow-covered ground, screaming in agony, his knees drawn up to his chest. Saliva ran down his chin.

  ‘I could shoot you now in cold blood,’ Guber stated in his guttural, clipped German accent. He took a swig of brandy from his ever-present hip flask. ‘But that would spoil all the surprises I have in store for you. No, Herr De Vere. This is just . . . a little taster; an aperitif.

  ‘They are preparing your cell as we converse. I am assured it is the worst prison this miserable tract of dust has to offer. Black site.’ He punched Jason savagely in the face with his gloved fist. ‘Undisclosed location.’ He twisted Jason’s arm back till he groaned in agony.

  ‘My intelligence assures me its guards are handpicked; the most barbaric torturers on the planet.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘One can’t put a price on the marvels of efficient waterboarding.’

  Jason’s breathing was hard and fast.

  ‘You bastard, Guber.’

  ‘Ich kann ein Bastard sein.’ Guber stared at Jason with humourless eyes. ‘But you, Jason De Vere, are the walking dead.’

  Guber walked back towards his sleek black electric Mercedes Model X and clicked the remote. The door opened.

  Guber settled himself casually into the cream leather driver’s seat. The door shut automatically.

  The tinted window rolled down.

  ‘Travis!’ Guber addressed a tall lean man with cropped brown hair. ‘Escort the prisoner to hell.’

  Guber accelerated away at speed, disappearing down the narrow Mount of Olives Road towards Jerusalem.

  Neil Travis, ex-SAS man, head of Adrian De Vere’s security services, cupped his hand over his earpiece.

  ‘Copy that,’ he nodded.

  ‘Code Red. Jerusalem Precinct 7!’ he shouted to the Special Forces unit guarding the van.

  ‘Code Red! Yallah! Resisters!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll deal with De Vere.’

  Six militia in black saluted Travis, sprinted towards a second van, revved the engine and roared off in the direction of the Old City.

  Travis looked around, every muscle in his body taut. Wired. He laid his sub-machine-gun on the front seat of the van, then holstered his revolver.

  He reached out his hand to Jason.

  Jason stared up at him, dazed, his mind swimming.

  ‘Get up, Jason De Vere,’ Travis said urgently. ‘Time’s not on our side.’

  Jason stared in confusion at Travis. He staggered clumsily to his feet. He glanced back towards the sub-machine-gun.

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand.’

  Travis turned to a tall figure standing in the shadows outside a massive iron gate.

  ‘He’s all yours,’ he said to the figure. ‘Part of my debt repaid.’

  Feeling as though he was part of a voyeuristic audience at a surreal movie premiere, Jason watched the two men embrace.

  He rubbed his eyes. He must be hallucinating. The second man was Liam Mercer, Jason’s personal bodyguard and former Navy Seal.

  There was no mistaking it. Six foot two, lean and muscular, cropped blond hair, close-fitting black suit.

  Incredulous, Jason looked from Mercer to Travis. They could almost be brothers.

  ‘Mer– Mercer?’ Jason stammered. Travis placed his hand on Jason’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re in safe hands now, Mr De Vere, sir.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’ll be time to explain later. You have an appointment.’

  Mercer pushed open the gate and led Jason, who was leaning on him heavily, through the tourists’ Gethsemane to a s
econd smaller garden.

  Jason collapsed in agony onto the ground underneath an ancient, gnarled olive tree, barely conscious.

  Mercer pulled out a small hypodermic pack, removed a small syringe, inserted it into a phial, drew the plunger and jabbed it into Jason’s thigh.

  ‘Painkiller,’ he said. ‘It’ll take the edge off, sir, until Lane-Fox picks you up.’

  Leaving Jason, Mercer swiftly retraced his steps back to the gate, slamming it shut behind him, to rejoin Travis.

  ‘We have three hours before Guber discovers the package has not been delivered to the black site,’ Travis said tersely.

  Mercer nodded.

  Both Mercer’s and Travis’s bodies started to transform until they stood facing each other – towering, lean, imperial angelic forms with vast wings outstretched.

  Mercer, now Michael, stood nine foot tall. He removed his silver battle helmet. Travis, now the equally tall Astaroth, did the same, shaking his long brown hair free from its bands.

  ‘Astaroth, once my close and trusted companion, commander of my armies, return with me,’ Michael pleaded. ‘Lucifer’s fury against you will be unrestrained.’

  ‘Of this I am well aware.’

  ‘He will send you to the Abyss.’

  Astaroth shook his head. ‘No. He will force me to battle against you in the coming war. He will take great delight in seeing me forced to fight my former comrades, and my revered compatriot and commander.’

  ‘It will not go well with you, Astaroth,’ Michael urged.

  ‘I told you, Michael. I made my choice. There is no way back for me. I have paid some of my debt. But I can never repay enough.’

  Astaroth stood before Michael, his once-noble features fierce. ‘The next time we meet’ – Astaroth bowed in deference to Michael – ‘it shall be in battle.’

  ‘Astaroth!’

  Astaroth vanished before his eyes.

  Gates of Gethsemane

  Jerusalem

  Dawn

  The battered green 1971 Morris Minor came to a halt outside the old gates of the ancient garden, just as the sun started to rise over the walls of Jerusalem. Alex Lane-Fox, twenty-five-year-old investigative journalist, got out of the car and limped through the half-opened gates.

  A few yards away, under one of the ancient olive trees, he caught sight of Jason. Alex walked over to where Jason lay facedown in the dirt and half-melted snow. He knelt beside him.

  ‘Uncle Jas!’ He shook Jason’s shoulder. ‘Uncle Jas! Thank god you’re okay. We got a cryptic message you were here. They’re looking for you. It’s a manhunt. Guber caught me, but I escaped. Everything’s still in chaos. There are military search parties all over the city hunting for you. You have to come with me.’

  Jason curled in on himself.

  Alex turned Jason’s face and, with a light touch, brushed the dirt from his cheeks. Jason pried open his groggy eyelids.

  ‘Julia . . . Julia, is that you?’ His arms flailed in panic.

  Alarmed, Alex got him upright. ‘No, Uncle Jas. It’s Alex. Alex Lane-Fox.’

  ‘Julia . . . Where is she? I need to see Julia.’

  Alex grasped Jason by the shoulders. ‘Uncle Jas, We have to leave. They’re looking for you.’

  ‘Who?’ Jason mumbled. ‘Who is looking for me?’

  As fast as he could, wincing from the pain in his right leg, Alex led the disorientated Jason out through the garden gates and into the back seat of the ancient Morris Minor.

  Then he put the car into gear and drove like a bat out of hell toward the old city.

  Abbey

  Outer Hebrides

  11.15 a.m.

  Alone priest in his black cassock, a rucksack slung over his back, moved swiftly through the strangely deserted corridors of the red-granite medieval abbey, his footsteps echoing on the polished stone floor.

  He frowned.

  There were no signs of the normal hustle and bustle of the usual thriving abbey community.

  It was Friday. The priest popped his head around the kitchen where Brother Diarmait should without doubt be castigating two novices as he meticulously prepared the customary Friday dinner menu. It had never deviated in two decades – the favourite dish of their beloved abbot, Father Columba: steak and kidney pie, mounds of fresh steamed kale and Brother Diarmait’s herbed mashed potato, a recipe he guarded as zealously as Colonel Sanders had protected his eleven secret herbs and spices.

  The kitchen was deserted.

  The priest walked swiftly to the laundry, always a place of frenetic activity. A mountain of linen lay abandoned next to the sink. The washing machine and tumble drier were silent. He peered out of the small window overlooking the farmyard and workshops. Deserted. He made a beeline for the library where Brother Aidan would be quietly archiving theological and classical texts, and his beloved books of antiquities. The room was empty, the computer still running.

  He softly closed the library door, then walked in the direction of the chapel where the monks held their matins at 11 o’clock precisely, every morning of their lives. It was empty.

  Where was everyone? In fact, where was anyone?

  A strange spine-tingling foreboding crept through every fibre of the priest’s being.

  There was no sign of life anywhere.

  He retraced his steps to the atrium, noting that the hands on the antique grandfather clock there were stopped at 3.07 then climbed the wide mahogany stairs two at a time to the living quarters on the second floor, a strange mixture of dread and euphoria in his heart.

  He pushed opened the first dormitory door and caught his breath, surveying the room. Each bed had been slept in, the sheets and blankets and pillows awry. The first rule of Father Columba was never broken: precisely made beds with hospital corners.

  Father Columba was generous by nature and progressive. Next to each bed, an iPhone was still plugged in. The priest checked the time on the first iPhone: 3.07 a.m. He swiftly checked each device in the dormitory. Every iPhone clock had stopped at precisely the same time.

  He slammed the door and moved immediately to the second dormitory. And the third.

  Empty. The clocks had all stopped at exactly the same time.

  He knew exactly where he must head next.

  He climbed the narrow creaking wooden stairs to the Abbot’s attic bedroom and pushed open the old teak door.

  Father Columba’s bed was in apple-pie order. His night habit lay discarded on the floor next to the bed. The hands of the Abbot’s deep-blue antique alarm clock were stopped at 3.07 a.m.

  There it lay – the familiar, well-worn, black leather-bound Holy Bible, still open at the place where Father Columba had stopped in the reading he had conducted for vespers from two to four in the morning every night of his life.

  The priest picked it up and held it to his lips in remembrance of the softly spoken, gentle Abbot; his mentor for over thirty-five years.

  A small brown envelope fell out of the bible.

  In the Abbot’s elegant italic hand, his own name was scrawled on it.

  He placed the bible back on the side table, pushed the envelope into the rucksack, retraced his steps back down the stairs into the atrium, turned right at the end of the corridor and stopped outside a small wooden door.

  He removed a cluster of iron keys from the belt of his cassock and, with trembling hands, tried them one by one.

  Finally, the door to Father Columba’s private study and library opened.

  Pushing past the Abbot’s mahogany desk, he took a smaller set of keys from a deep pocket in his robes and moved straight towards a rusted filing cabinet that lay underneath the unending rows of musty books.

  He tried the first, second, then third key in frustration, then fished one more key from a rosary around his neck.

  He inserted it in the lock, turned it. The cabinet door sprang open.

  The priest knelt and sifted through the sixty meticulously ordered files, finally stopping on one. He took it out and opened i
t, shaking the contents out onto the floor.

  Birth certificates; death certificates; postmortem results; X-rays; black-and-white photographs; three passports.

  He scrambled for his iPhone and methodically photographed the X-rays, then eight documents. He stuffed the passports and the remaining documents and photographs into the rucksack, rushed out of the room . . . then hesitated.

  Turning a quick right into a large kitchen, he opened the 1940s Hotpoint refrigerator and stared at the rotting food.

  He slammed the fridge door in disgust, then left by the kitchen door.

  The priest sprinted through the deserted kitchen gardens, hiked up his cassock, vaulted over the crumbling stone wall of the monastery, and ran out into the isolated windswept wilds. He kept running through a broad expanse of peat bog and didn’t slow down until he had disappeared into the sprawling, heather-clad mountains.

  Boardroom

  One World Bank

  Forty-Fourth Floor

  Manhattan, New York City

  Lorcan De Molay sat at the head of the enormous boardroom table. Charles Xavier Chessler sat to his right, Kurt Guber to his left.

  De Molay’s face, although strangely scarred, was imperious. The wide brow and straight patrician nose framed sapphire eyes that held a haunting, mesmerizing beauty. His raven hair was pulled back fastidiously from his high cheekbones, into a single braid.

  Drawing heavily on his cigar, he surveyed the twelve men around the table.

  ‘The clone Adrian De Vere lies in state as we speak,’ he said. ‘In precisely three days, the second resurrection in the history of the Western world shall occur. This time, however, unlike his unfortunate predecessor’s, in an inconsequential tomb, witnessed by a lone ex-prostitute . . .’ He gave a condescending smile and let the silence hang in the room. Finally, he continued. ‘Unlike that of his unfortunate predecessor, the resurrection of Adrian De Vere will be witnessed by six billion global viewers in real time. The Nazarene’s pathetic resurrection pales by comparison. Seventy-two hours later, he will be crowned King Alexander VIII, named for his great-great-grandfather of Julius De Vere’s ancestral line. We will introduce Darsoc and the Grey Magus as ascended gods.’ With heavy emphasis, he stubbed out his cigar in the marble ashtray, then rose and circled the room. ‘And announce that we, as ascended gods, were the creators of the race of men. Then our coup d’état: we break our covenant with Israel – the Concordat of Solomon is annulled. Jerusalem is finally ours.’