Brimstone

Harriman stared at the paper. Is he saying what I think he's saying? It seemed unbelievable, crazy. And yet the quiet eyes that looked back at him with something like resignation did not look in the least bit crazy.

"I searched for years, Mr. Harriman, for proof that I was wrong. I thought perhaps the dates were incorrect, or that the evidence was flawed. But every discovery I made simply gave more credence to the theory." He walked to another cabinet and pulled out a sheet of white cardboard. On it, a large spiral-like that of the shell of a chambered nautilus-had been drawn. At its outermost point, it was labeled in red pencil:3243B.C.-Santorini/Atlantis . One-third of the way along its curve was another red marking:1239B.C.-Sodom/Gomorrah. At other spots along the spiral, smaller tick marks in black listed dozens of other dates and places:

79A.D .-Eruption of Vesuvius destroys Pompeii/Herculaneum

426A.D. -Fall of Rome, sacked and destroyed by barbarians

1348A.D. -Plague strikes Venice, two-thirds of the population die

1666A.D. -The Great Fire of London

And at its very center, where the spiral closed in on itself and ended in a large spot of black, was a third red label:

2004A.D. -???

He balanced the chart on his desk. "As you can see, I've charted many other disasters. They all fall precisely along the natural logarithmic spiral, all perfectly aligned in golden ratios. No matter how I cut the data, the last date in the sequence is always 2004A.D.Always. And what do these natural disasters have in common? They have always struck an important world city, a city notable for its wealth, power, technology-and neglect of the spiritual."

He reached across his desk, picked a red pencil from a pewter cup. "I'd hoped I was wrong, hoped it was a mere coincidence. I waited for the arrival of the year 2004, expecting to be proved wrong. But I no longer think nature believes in coincidence. There is an order to all things, Mr. Harriman. We have a moral niche on this earth, just as we have an ecological niche. When species exhaust their ecological niche, there is a correction, a purification. Sometimes even an extinction . It's the way of nature. But what happens when a species exhausts its moral niche?"

He turned the pencil around, moved it to the center of the diagram, and erased the question marks:

2004A.D .-

"In every instance there were harbingers. Small events, of seemingly limited significance. Many of these events have involved the death of morally dubious persons by the same means as the upcoming disaster. This happened in Pompeii before the eruption of Vesuvius, in London before the Great Fire, in Venice before the plague. So now perhaps you see, Mr. Harriman, why I say that Jeremy Grove and Nigel Cutforth are in themselves meaningless. Oh, to be sure, both men are remarkable for their hatred of religion and morals, their repudiation of decency, their outrageous excess. As such, they are role models for the greed, concupiscence, materialism, cruelty of our times-and particularly of this place, New York. But they are still merely harbingers-the first, I fear, of many."

Von Menck let the chart fall gently to the desk. "Are you a reader of poetry, Mr. Harriman?"

"No. Not since college, anyway."

"Perhaps you remember W. B. Yeats's poem 'The Second Coming'?

" Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world .

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity."

Von Menck leaned closer. "We live in a time of moral nihilism and a blind worship of technology, combined with a rejection of the spiritual dimension of life. Television, movies, computers, video games, the Internet, artificial intelligence. These are the gods of our times. Our leaders are morally bankrupt, shameless hypocrites, feigning piety but devoid of real spirituality. We live in a time in which university scholars belittle spirituality, scorn religion, and bow deeply to the altar of science. We live in a time when so many spurn the church and the synagogue, where radio commentators are shock jocks spewing hatred and vulgarity, where televised entertainment consists of Real Sex and Celebrity Fear Factor. We live in a time of suicide bombing, terrorism run amok, and nuclear blackmail."

The room fell silent, save for the faint beep of the recorder. At last, Von Menck stirred, spoke again.

"The ancients believed nature to be comprised of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Some talked of floods; others of earthquakes or mighty winds; others of the devil. When Atlantis had betrayed its niche in the moral order of nature, it was consumed by water. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah came by fire. The plague that struck Venice came by air. Like the golden ratio, it follows a cyclical pattern. I've charted it here."

He took out another diagram, very complex, covered with lines, charts, and numbers. All the lines seemed to converge on a central pentagram in which was written:

2004A.D .-New York City-Fire

"So you think New York City will burn?"

"Not in any normal way. It will be consumed by a fire within , like Grove and Cutforth."

"You think this can be avoided if people turn back to God?"

Von Menck shook his head. "It's too late for that. And please note, Mr. Harriman, I have not used the word God . What I'm talking about here is not necessarily God but a force of nature: a moral law of the universe as fixed as any physical law. We've created an imbalance that needs to be corrected. The year 2004." He tapped the pile of charts. "It's the big one. It's the one Nostradamus predicted, Edgar Cayce predicted, Revelation predicted."

Harriman nodded. He felt a crawling sensation along his spine. This was powerful stuff. But was it all claptrap? "Dr. Von Menck, you've devoted a great deal of time and research on this."

"It has been my overwhelming obsession. For over fifteen years, I've known the significance of the year 2004. I've been waiting ."

"Are you really convinced, or is this just a theory?"

"I will answer by telling you this: I am leaving New York tomorrow."

"Leaving?"

"For the Galápagos Islands."

"Why the Galápagos?"

"As Darwin could tell you, they are famous for their isolation." Von Menck gestured at the recorder. "This time there will be no documentary. The story is all yours, Mr. Harriman."

"No documentary?" Harriman repeated, stupefied.

"If I'm the least bit right in my suspicions, Mr. Harriman, when this is over, there won't be much of an audience for a documentary-will there?" And, for the first time since Harriman had entered the room, Dr. Von Menck smiled-a small, sad smile utterly devoid of humor.

{ 30 }

D'Agosta gazed at the miserable-looking thing on his plate-long, thin, unidentifiable, swimming in a puddle of sauce. It smelled vaguely like fish. At least, he thought, it would help his diet. It had been ten days since Grove's death, and he'd lost five pounds already, what with the new weight routine and jogging regimens he'd instituted, not to mention the hours he'd put in at the shooting range, which were adding bulk and steadiness to his forearms and shoulders. Another two months, and he'd be back to his old NYPD condition.