Mark of Evil (43 page)

Bishop Kora tried to respond, but his voice was drowned out by the screams from the crowd. People were pointing to the large fountain in the plaza with the plaque at its base that commemorated “the great covenant of peace” reached between the Global Alliance and Israel. Something bizarre was happening. The crystal-clear waters that cascaded down the statue of the Greek goddess Aphrodite in the fountain had now turned to a thick, red flow staining the white marble statue and streaming down the sides of the fountain and onto the stones of the plaza.

Then Elijah cried out with a loud voice, “This is only the beginning of the wonders of the Lord. So that you may truly know that the Lord is God.”

Along the banks of the Jordan River, a disgusting current of blood had replaced its muddy waters. Bathers floating in the Dead Sea started running back to the shore when they realized that they were surrounded by a lake of blood. Faucets in the homes of Israel were choked with the thick red fluid and wells pumped it. Irrigation systems for the lush agricultural fields north of Jerusalem sprayed
crimson rather than water. And the waves on the Sea of Galilee lapped red, to the horror of the commercial fishermen and the hotel owners in Tiberias.

Soon the decaying, sickly stench of blood would begin to fill the air in Israel, from Elat at the southern border with Egypt all the way up to Golan Heights in the north. And after that the flies would begin to flock by the billions to the coagulating pools of blood.

On the following day, on the other side of town, in the affluent Rehavia district of Jerusalem, Sol Bensky sat in his prime minister’s mansion. He had been brooding all day over the ghastly news that his nation was drenched in scarlet. He had heard it first from the deputy assistant to the chief scientist in the Ministry of Health, who told him about it but then exclaimed that “it couldn’t be blood—that would be an event of Old Testament proportions. No, it must be some substance having the same appearance and some of the same chemical properties.” That was immediately followed by a call from the minister of environmental protection, who was having a meltdown over the disastrous impact the bizarre phenomenon would have on Israel’s ecology.

It then became very personal for the prime minister. He and his wife, Esther, were unable to bathe or drink water or make their morning tea or coffee, as all of the water in Israel had mysteriously disappeared and been replaced by a repulsive flow of coagulating blood.

Later that day Bensky was given a security briefing in his home about the entire incident on the plaza with the Two Witnesses and how it seemed to have precipitated the grotesque turn of events. That evening when Bensky and Esther were in bed together and the lights were out, he turned to her with anguish. “I wonder,” he said in a
pained voice, “whether it is too late for God to hear my pleas. To hear my regret and failures, and my repentance, and yes, my sins also. Is it too late?” And then he asked, “Is there still hope for Israel?”

Esther was silent for a long time. And then she said quietly, “God answers those who seek Him with an open, honest heart. Doesn’t He?”

NEW BABYLON, IRAQ

As the citizens of Israel labored with fits of restless sleep, the lights remained on in the news division of the Global Alliance Information Network in New Babylon. Alexander Colliquin had tasked the staff there to create a cover story—anything—that would explain the miraculous event in Israel as a mere environmental accident.

At dawn a press statement was released by the Alliance. It explained that a catastrophic oil spill within Israel had tainted its water supply and that the reddish-black color of the oil “was being used by Jesus Remnant rebels to subvert public opinion to their cause, spreading lies that Israel’s water had been supernaturally turned into blood.” The news release suggested that “Jesus Remnant rebels orchestrated the oil spill, and a criminal investigation has been launched by the Global Alliance International Security Department to bring the responsible parties to justice.”

FIFTY-NINE

IN THE SKY OVER UTAH

The small CIA transport plane was now over Utah. The navigator had his classified e-pad in his lap and was checking the latest national security risk assessment dispatch from the Central Intelligence Agency. The Red Memo that had just been issued from the agency’s Incident Management Center contained a similar enigma—breaking news about an America that was on the verge of disappearing from the map, soon to reappear as a territory belonging to Region One of the Global Alliance of Nations. It also contained a message for the two pilots, advising them to treat Ethan as a person authorized to receive classified information regarding the data center takeover by the Global Alliance and explaining what the CIA knew thus far about Ethan’s plan.

The navigator turned to face Ethan, who was sitting behind him. “Mr. March, I just received an interesting update from Langley. We have a bead on your mission, Mr. March, and I say,
hooah
, sir. But here’s the sticky part. The Incident Management eggheads at Langley are telling us that the minute POTUS took the oath he authorized a takeover of the U.S. by the Global Alliance. Alliance forces are already moving into place in Bluffdale. They are ringing the outer perimeter of that facility with a fleet of five hundred well-armed, high-caliber shooting droid-bots that will patrol on foot—or whatever you call those things they walk on. So the outside turf at Bluffdale will belong to those robo-cops. Any unauthorized person entering the grounds will be shot on sight.”

Ethan was nonplussed. “Sounds pretty extreme.”

“Yeah. Extreme to the extreme.” Then he studied Ethan. “You don’t look worried.”

“Not about that,” Ethan said with an attempt at a smile. “It’s the rest of the mission I’m concerned about.
My mission
. If everything doesn’t work perfectly—and perfectly on time—there’s going to be an unparalleled disaster.”

The CIA agent nodded and grinned. “Mr. March, welcome to the club.”

NEW BABYLON, IRAQ

In his own suite of offices, Ho Zhu, Alexander Colliquin’s deputy, had just finished up a private phone call with Beijing, and specifically with the associate to the general secretary of the central committee of China. Those phone calls had become routine for months, though he had never discussed it with Colliquin, or anyone else in the Global Alliance leadership, for that matter. And he intended to keep it that way.

The call was ending when his contact in Beijing closed by quoting an old Chinese proverb: “ ‘Water can both float a ship as well as sink it.’ ” Then he added, “The difference, Mr. Ho, comes in the size of the waves. You would be well advised to prevent Mr. Colliquin from making waves. His ambitions must be delayed.”

An hour later Ho Zhu was summoned to the master control studio of the Alliance Communications Center building. Alexander Colliquin was already there, sitting in the large swivel chair belonging to the chief of communications, which was positioned in front of a recording-and-transmission consol. Colliquin had shooed all of the digital engineering staff out of the room. Now it was just the two of them.

“Ho,” Colliquin said, “this is the final hour. Now that the Americans are coming around, we will be in complete command of their computer center in Utah, the new hub of our worldwide digital matrix. Shortly we will launch our first worldwide holographic transmission. My digital image will reach every human being on this planet. The little setback in the experiment with Ethan March has been rectified. We’re operational.”

Colliquin rocked a little in the chair. There was an air of satisfaction on his face. “We also must launch an attack on England. And without mercy. Their rebellion must be punished. Once we incinerate Great Britain, Canada will surely do an about-face. Mr. Ho, you will release a statement that England attempted to sabotage global peace through their act of treason, thus leaving us with no other alternative but to launch our military assault. That will also serve as a warning to any other nation members that might be thinking about leaving.”

“I am wondering,” Ho replied, “whether we shouldn’t carefully consider our next move. Buy a little more time. For instance, Mr. Chancellor, rather than an expensive, time-consuming invasion, we could seek to remove the English prime minister, as we did with the head of state in the United States. That proved effective and—”

“Excuse me,” Colliquin snapped, interrupting him. “But this is not
a
dialog
. I talk and you listen. I give the orders and you follow them. Is that confusing?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“Good. Now do as you’re told.”

As Ho turned to leave, something came to mind and he turned back to mention it to Colliquin before he left. “One other matter, Chancellor. Jo Li is here in New Babylon. He turned Ethan March over to us as promised and then traveled all the way from Hong Kong to speak with you. As you recall, he has benefited from the
temporary
loophole in the Alliance law that we gave him, the one that has allowed him to operate his underground economy if, in exchange, he gives us unlimited access to his confidential list of customers and clients and as long as he cooperates with us whenever we want to snatch someone on his list. Like Ethan March, for instance. But now he is driving a harder bargain, asking for his exemption—set to expire in two months—to be made permanent.”

Colliquin opened his eyes wide. “Oh?” After only a few seconds of consideration, he delivered his verdict. “I need to keep Jo Li on a short leash. Tell him I said no. And if he doesn’t like it, then I have an alternative. I can grant him that permanent loophole—posthumously—after I have him crucified in the desert outside New Babylon with the other traitors.”

Colliquin’s face exhibited a new, even more brutal kind of resolve, one that even Ho Zhu did not recognize. He bowed and fast-stepped out of the room.

ENGLISH CHANNEL OFF THE COAST OF NORMANDY

The CB90 high-speed assault boat manned by the Royal Marines hit seventy knots as it raced toward the Isle of Guernsey, a protectorate of
England. Night was falling as British prime minister Derek Harrington was transported to his new command post in the Guernsey Government House as a precaution against an impending Alliance attack against London. Intelligence gathered by MI6 dictated that travel by sea would be the safest route, even if slower.