Jether studied the two glaringly empty seats opposite his own. He raised his eyebrows. A tall form strode toward the council table, his huge feet crushing the ethereal foxgloves and lilies beneath his hasty steps.
He stopped directly in front of Jether, catching his breath with long, loud gasps, then bowed hastily three times and emitted two loud sighs. He grasped Jether’s hand tightly in his own huge hand and shook it a shade too vigorously.
“My sincere apologies, my revered compatriot Jether the Just. Deepest apologies. I came as soon as I was summoned.”
Jether studied Xacheriel long-sufferingly, firmly removing his hand from Xacheriel’s intense grasp. There was a long silence, broken only by Xacheriel’s continual gasping. Jether gestured to the chauffeur’s cap still resting on Xacheriel’s head.
Xacheriel frowned.
“Your crown, Xacheriel,” Jether whispered.
Xacheriel frowned. He felt the top of his head, then snatched off Maxim’s chauffeur’s cap, hastily picked up his crown, and placed it on top of his unruly mop of wiry silver hair.
Jether’s gaze fell to a garish, overlarge carpetbag that Xacheriel clutched tightly in his right hand.
“Humph,” Jether coughed, looking pointedly at the carpetbag.
Xacheriel frowned, large furrows creasing his forehead.
“Lost . . . er . . . property.” Xacheriel turned beet red. “Forgive me, revered Jether. I had a most distasteful struggle with a delinquent former comrade of this very table.”
Jether heaved a deep sigh. “And you took his carpetbag?”
Xacheriel nodded sheepishly. “As collateral.”
“Collateral for what exactly, Xacheriel?”
Xacheriel stared down sheepishly at his galoshes. “All right, he deserved it. I kidnapped his carpetbag. See how he does without his usual lashings of mandragora aftershave!”
He dumped the carpetbag on the table.
“And his blood pressure cuff!” Xacheriel said darkly.
Jether shook his head soberly at Xacheriel, who fell instantly silent.
The gentle Lamaliel giggled into his handkerchief, then hastily grew somber. Jether caught his eye and shook his head.
“Pray take your seat, esteemed Xacheriel. This is no time for levity. We await Maheel’s return from Earth. I have requested that he address you, the elders of the High Council, firsthand.”
Xacheriel sat down heavily opposite Jether.
“Until Maheel arrives, I will present the facts as we know them. As you all are aware, there has been a gathering of the Dread Councils of hell on Lucifer’s present habitation, the planet Mars in the Second Heaven. The gathering is only the second of its kind in the history of the Fallen. The first occurred after their crushing defeat at Golgotha.”
He sipped at an indigo elixir from his goblet.
“Thanks to Chief Prince Gabriel’s elite squad of revelator eagles, we are aware of all that was discussed.”
He nodded to Methuselah, who rose.
“Honored members of the High Council,” Methuselah spoke in his deep, unhurried tones, “there was one subject and only one on the agenda at the gathering of Lucifer’s Dread Councils.”
He studied the elders’ faces.
“War,” he sighed.
“Lucifer’s main objective, as always, is to occupy and rule from Yehovah’s throne. However, the Fallen intend now to conduct a twofold vendetta against the Race of Men. Their latest scheme is to exterminate as many followers of the Nazarene as possible before the advent of the Great Catching Away. By disease or execution, they intend to inflict the greatest suffering possible. But there is a second part to their plan.”
“To mutate the Race of Men’s genetic code,” Xacheriel muttered darkly.
Methuselah continued. “As Lucifer did in the days of Noah.”
Lamaliel frowned. “The fallen Watchers had intercourse with the daughters of men and are now bound in sulphur, miles underground, for thousands of years.”
Xacheriel scratched his beard. He and Jether exchanged a look.
“They will not be as foolhardy this time,” Jether interjected.
Xacheriel nodded. “Jether and I are convinced that they intend to use the great strides in the Race of Men’s biotech and genetic engineering to advance their cause.”
“As you all are aware,” Jether continued, “Maheel’s mission, like Xacheriel’s and my own, is to reside on the planet Earth as an angelic emissary to the Race of Men. Maheel’s nom de guerre on Earth is Father d’Angelis, chief astronomer of the Vatican Observatory.”
Jether rose and bowed to a silver-haired elder who materialized at the end of the council table.
“Esteemed Maheel,” Jether said, “welcome. Pray, divulge to the Council your findings.”
Maheel walked to the empty seat to Jether’s left, placed his crown on his silver locks, and remained standing. He surveyed the table.
“Revered compatriots . . . ” He sighed deeply, then turned to Jether, visibly shaken.
“Pray continue, revered Maheel.”
Maheel took a deep breath. “What I have to disclose to the Council is disquieting, to say the least. I have received very disturbing news from my covert intelligence sources, the Vatican Intelligence Services for Extra- and Intraterrestrial Affairs. Until now, as the Council is aware, my task on Earth has been to track down and destroy all remaining Nephilim bodies that still exist under the planet Earth’s surface.”
He coughed. Xacheriel held out a large handkerchief, and Maheel took it and wiped his brow.
“The only remaining Nephilim bodies were buried two miles beneath Antarctica. I personally oversaw the extermination team, led by Dr. Gabriele Alessandro, one of our top scientists and members of the Illuminus. Until today, as the Council is aware, Dr. Alessandro, under my direct authority, has systematically tracked, exhumed, and destroyed over seven hundred Nephilim in Iraq, Syria, China, and Israel.”
He inhaled deeply again and surveyed the grave faces around the table.
“There has been a massacre—a massacre of the entire team of Operation Iceman, including Gabriele Alessandro and his security forces.”
“Kurt Guber,” uttered Xacheriel, his eyes hard.
“Yes. Kurt Guber and his mercenaries. The end result is that over a hundred frozen Nephilim bodies have just been airlifted from below the Southern Polar entrance by Guber and his military.”
Jether tapped the table, his face unreadable. “Pray continue, Maheel.”
“The Nephilim are now housed in the secret bioterror operations base below Mont St. Michel. For what precise macabre purpose, we do not yet have watertight evidence.”
“It is our worst nightmare.”
“More explicitly,” Maheel continued, “the Nephilim are confined in the bioterror containment levels that are connected by a set of deep underground tunnels and railcars to the underground base at the Franco-Swiss border.”
“CERN,” Xacheriel interjected. “They have discovered the angelic Portals. Earth’s scientists call them stargates, wormholes.”
Maheel nodded. “You are correct, esteemed Xacheriel. Billions in black-ops funding are being funneled into stargate and Looking Glass research by an invisible cabal of elites. Their ultimate plan is to open our angelic Portals. They are Lucifer’s pawns. They have little understanding of the extreme danger they attract.
“Of course, we suspect that Lucifer will try to isolate the Nephilim gene—to what malevolent end, we are not yet certain.”
Maheel sat down heavily.
Jether stared down at the table, then slowly rose to his feet. “Our worst fears have transpired. Lucifer now has Nephilim DNA. It would seem, his intention is to commit genetic Armageddon against the Race of Men.”
“But how?” Methuselah asked.
Jether surveyed the ancient kings in silence.
“That, my revered compatriots, is exactly what we intend to find out. This gathering is adjourned.”
Chapter Sixteen
1954
Flying-Craft Landing Strip, Muroc Airfield, California
President Eisenhower sat facing the tall Nordic-looking entities while his aide stood in the shadows. He looked around the craft.
“Any moment now, and I’ll wake up,” he muttered.
“You are very much awake, President, I can assure you,” Darsoc said, staring at the president out of his pale, hooded eyes.
“The human race faces the most perilous time of its existence. America has many enemies—enemies who would take your knowledge and use it to destroy you. Our extraterrestrial scientists are prepared to work with your scientists in understanding and adapting our technologies into devices that can benefit and assist the United States and mankind.” He paused. “We would grant you an exchange.”
“What do you mean, an exchange?” Eisenhower asked.
“The secrets of our technological advancement. Secrets that would enable America to lead the world: fiber optics, lasers, gene-splicing therapy, cloning, stealth technology, particle-beam devices, gravity-controlled flight . . . ”
Eisenhower stared at Darsoc, his eyes alight with exhilaration. “In exchange for what?”
“The freedom to study your race. To conduct harmless medical observations . . . ”
Darsoc stopped in mid sentence as the aroma of frankincense permeated the craft. Eisenhower noted that the extraterrestrial was trembling.
Darsoc bowed deeply. Eisenhower raised his head. In the doorway of the craft stood a tall stranger in black. The stranger’s gloved hand rested on the carved serpent top of a silver cane. His features were hidden beneath a hat.
“You are a pragmatic man, Mr. President,” the stranger said, “I’m sure you understand that we have to be assured our demands will be met.”
Eisenhower frowned. “What demands?”
Lorcan De Molay studied him dispassionately. “Our demands,” he said.
Darsoc pushed a document on a strange yellowed parchment across the table. Lines of strange symbols instantly lit up. Eisenhower removed his glasses from his inner pocket and put them on, and instantly the symbols transformed into neatly typed italic English. The president read the parchment thoroughly, then set it down.
Slowly he removed his glasses and looked straight into De Molay’s eyes, his expression stony.
“I don’t know exactly who you are or whom you really represent,” he said. “But I can assure you and your leaders . . . ” He took a deep breath. “That I will never agree to your demands.”
“You must be mistaken, Mr. President.” Lorcan De Molay looked at the president calmly. “Let me reiterate them for you.
“Our Council of Thirty-three are to have lifetime governing positions on the boards of the Federal Reserve, the International Monetary Fund, the International Monetary and Financial Committee, and the Council on Foreign Relations.
“You will also create two separate groups within ninety days of this meeting—groups that will be under our total control. The first is called the Bilderburg Group, in which we will have majority representation for the duration of Earth’s existence. You will also create a second, smaller committee, whose members shall be approved by me directly. You shall sign a Secret Executive Order, Number fifty- four-twelve, enabling this committee to take appropriate action without congressional oversight.
“These groups will be your government in perpetuity. Congress and the White House will be merely a token while our shadow government runs the nation and, eventually, the world.”
“This is blackmail!” Eisenhower fumed. “I would be agreeing to let your organization literally run the great- est country on Earth, the United States, as a shadow government.”
“Precisely, Mr. President.” The black-clad figure’s voice was low and cultured.
Eisenhower placed his glasses back in his inner pocket.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you’ve wasted my time.” He studied De Molay grimly. “I’m the president of the United States!”
“Of course you are, Mr. President.”
De Molay nodded to Darsoc, who passed a telegram to Eisenhower.
“From The Associated Press. A report that is being aired worldwide as we speak.” Lorcan De Molay yawned as the president retrieved his glasses and read.
“President Eisenhower died tonight of a heart attack in Palm Springs.”
Eisenhower slapped the telegram down onto the table. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
The blood drained from Eisenhower’s face as he started to gulp for air. His hand went to his chest, and his face contorted in agony.
“You will also agree to our medical research and experimentation on the human race.” De Molay watched as Eisenhower turned blue around the lips.
I’m a soldier,” he gasped. “I will never betray my country.”
“This is your considered answer?” De Molay stood to his feet.
“As you will.” He turned to Darsoc.
“Prepare to finalize our discussions with Premier Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev of the U.S.S.R.”
“Khrushchev?” Eisenhower gasped.
De Molay looked dispassionately down at the gasping president. “We will finalize our treaty with Russia. Then, regrettably, their next action will be the downfall of the United States of America.”
“You don’t have the power,” Eisenhower gasped.
Lorcan De Molay raised his left hand. Eisenhower collapsed headfirst onto the table. The young blond, blue-eyed aide exchanged a look with De Molay.
“You will discover, Mr. President, either to America’s benefit or to her detriment, that I never overstate the situation.”
“You son of a bitch,” Eisenhower rasped.
“I can give you life or death. Live or die; either way, I win.”
“Eisenhower looked up at De Molay from the table. “You will provide assurances that no human subjects will be harmed,” he rasped. “We require all personal details to be shared with a new secret branch of government, which I will create.”
De Molay nodded. “Names of those we use for tests—call them abductees—will be provided. You will have times and places. Names will be provided. All memory will be erased from their minds.
“In exchange, your administration will be granted technology that will allow the USA to retain technological supremacy over the Soviet Union.”
“There is to be no treaty with China or Russia,” Eisenhower croaked
De Molay spoke with his back toward Eisenhower. “If our conditions are met.”
Eisenhower could not speak, but he nodded.
De Molay placed his hand on Eisenhower’s chest. Immediately, his breathing eased. Slowly he sat up and composed himself.
De Molay nodded to Darsoc, who placed Eisenhower’s forefinger and thumb in the signature box. His fingerprints lit up on the page.
“Retract the Associated Press report.”
“Oh, my God . . . what have I done?” Eisenhower muttered.
“The right thing for America, Mr. President,” Lorcan De Molay murmured. “The right course for the American people.”
Darsoc walked toward Eisenhower, holding a black box, and nodded. “A symbol of our pact.”
He placed it in the aide’s outstretched hands.
Eisenhower walked down the steps toward the generals, haggard, hands shaking, his face like stone. Defeated.
The door of the spacecraft closed. The strange craft rose and hovered momentarily while its landing gear retracted. Then the hum increased, and the craft shot eastward and vanished beyond the horizon.
President Eisenhower stood on the tarmac, his face ashen, his hands still trembling. He turned to the cardinal, who was praying under his breath.
“May God forgive me, Father.” His voice was hardly audible. “I have sinned.” Eisenhower looked at the cardinal’s cross, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
“I have sold out America. I have cut a deal with the devil himself.”
/> Chapter Seventeen
Cheyne Walk, New Chelsea, London
December 2025
“Hey, Lily.” Alex leaned down and kissed Lily’s cheek.
He took a step back. “You look different somehow.
Lily smiled.
“All grown up.” Alex smiled over at Polly, who clasped Lily’s hand.
“She’s in love.” Polly grinned. “Or should I say, he’s in love. Adam Fincher, Xavier Chessler’s grandson. Works in London. A young investment banker. He’s very handsome. And rich.”
“He keeps calling,” Lily said, shaking her head.
“Good. That is good, isn’t it?”
Lily frowned. “He’s not really my type. One of Dad’s flunkies.”
Alex studied Lily. She had changed this past year. Definitely. She was now 18. She had always been slightly built, but her strong features had softened. Her glossy dark hair framed the heart-shaped face. Lily had grown quite beautiful. Not breathtaking like Polly, who was a supermodel lookalike, but she had a real, ethereal beauty.
Alex bent down and took her hand. “Look, Lils,” he said. “I’ve known you since you were born. I was there when you had the accident at the grand old age of seven.”
Lily looked at him in silence.
“And, look, I don’t want to overstep the mark, but if this guy Adam wants to take you out, go. Go have fun. God knows you deserve it.”
Lily snatched her hand away from Alex as though she’d been burned. She stared at him frostily.
“Why, Alex?” she snapped. “Because you think it just might be the only chance I get? Because I’m in a wheelchair? The poor little rich girl!”
Alex glared at Lily. “I knew it would get to this. The last few months, every time I open my mouth you bite my head off.”
He looked at Polly. “It never used to be like this.”
Tears stung Lily’s eyes. “I don’t want your pity, Alex,” she snapped.
Troubled, Polly looked down at Lily. “He doesn’t pity you, Lily, he’s never once pitied you. He cares about you.” She hesitated. “Deeply.”
Alex walked out.