From neighborhood bars to boardrooms, people around the globe watched the stories unfold on televisions and websites. Facebook, Twitter and a dozens of the world’s most trafficked social networks were on fire with tens of millions of people exchanging comments and speculating as to what the information on the website really meant.
Bold headlines in print and digital formats read: 2024 the Real Apocalypse? Are Isaac Newton and Paul Marcus Wrong? Doomsday Countdown?
John drove the car from the main road, through a series of back roads and pulled into the open lot where two helicopters sat with Mount Etna in the background, white smoke billowing from its summit.
Marcus touched the spear in his jacket pocket, and felt a palpitation from the beaded scar across his chest.
ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTEEN
There was one car in the gravel parking lot. It was parked near a small trailer. In English, Italian and Japanese the signs read: See the Summit. Twice Daily Trips to the Summit of Mt. Etna. Marcus and Alicia got out of the car and John said, “Whatever it is you have to toss in our volcano, I hope your aim is dead on.”
Marcus smiled. “Me, too. That gas money I promised you—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Hey, your car’s all shot up, too. I’d like to pay to fix it. Trust me on this…write down a bank account number where I can transfer the money.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please hurry.”
John wrote the number on a slip of paper, folded it and handed the paper to Marcus. “Thanks, brother, but it’s on the house.”
“John, don’t leave here the way you brought us in, okay? We might have been followed. I don’t want you facing whatever or whoever is coming.”
John nodded. “You guys take care of each other.”
Alicia smiled, leaned down and kissed John on his cheek. “Be careful.”
“I will. If you need a ride back…”
“We’ll take the chopper back,” Marcus said. “Now go on and get out of here.”
They ran to the trailer, Alicia holding up the maternity dress so she could run easier. Marcus heard a BBC broadcast on the radio when he opened the office door of the flight service. A man wearing a baseball cap, polo shirt and jeans, stood from behind the desk. He was tall and athletic with a wide smile. “Welcome, folks, looking for a tour?” His accent was British.
“Yes,” Marcus said, glancing out the window.
“I’m Steve Waterton. Where’d you like to go?”
“Can you fly us over Etna?” Alicia asked.
Waterton smiled. “I can fly you fairly close. The old volcano has been in a slight snit as of late. To be honest, it’s like the mountain’s got a big damn bee in its bonnet.”
Marcus looked at the large aerial photographs of Mount Etna on the office wall, the crater wide, white gases trailing toward the camera lens. “Did you take these?”
“Photography is my hobby. Flying is my bloody passion. In this job, I can combine them both. I’ve always been keen to do that. After my time in the Royal Air Force, I came here. Never looked back. It’s been thirteen years now.”
An announcer on the BBC radio broadcast said, “No one has spotted the American, Paul Marcus, since his Nobel speech. His website, however, is an entirely different story. It’s been visible to more than a billion people.”
Alicia shot a glance to Marcus. She said, “Can you fly us over Mount Etna? It will be the highlight of our honeymoon in Sicily.”
Waterton smiled. “I can fly you close, but not over the crater. The sulfuric gases and smoke can play hell with the intakes on the helicopter. The last thing you’d want on earth is to have our bird get its wings clipped over an active volcano, especially this one. Temperatures in Etna’s belly are more than two-thousand degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Can we go now?” Marcus asked.
“You seem pretty anxious. Doesn’t appear that you or she brought a camera for sightseeing, and your wife is wearing a maternity dress. Whatever your reason for wanting to see Etna, that’s your business, I suppose. If you got the price of admission, you can fly.”
“How much?”
“It’ll be two-hundred-twenty-five U.S. dollars each. The trip is a little more than an hour. We’ll fly the north side of the volcano, around the perimeter circle, and then head back.”
Marcus counted the money. The BBC radio broadcast continued. “The pope has commented, as have many religious scholars and heads of state around the world. Theologians seem split on the probability of what Paul Marcus presents on the website about the end of days on earth. Sir Isaac Newton, whom Paul Marcus traces through Newton’s days in the Royal Mint, apparently left little known, yet vast quantities of biblical research. The results are a combination of Newton and Marcus. A formidable team separated by three centuries. Here in London, Prime Minister Singleton says he will be attending the funeral for U.S. Secretary of State Merriam Hanover. It is not certain who shot Secretary Hanover or why, but we are getting bits of information, allegedly, connecting her to the Circle of 13. As of the whereabouts of Paul Marcus and NSA employee, Alicia Quincy, no one seems to know.”
Waterton put the money in a small, steel box filled with checks and a few Euros. “We’ll lock the office on our way out. My partner is on holiday. I have a feeling you’ll be my last customers of the day anyway.” He led them across the lot to the helicopter. At the helicopter doors, he said, “There are three sets of headphones and mouthpiece microphones. We’ll be able to chat, and I’ll point out some of the more remarkable artifacts in and around the volcano. Ladies first…go on and climb in the bird. There’s plenty of room for both of you in the back, that way you can experience Etna together.”
Alicia boarded the helicopter. Waterton walked around and opened the door to the pilot’s side. Marcus stepped up to the pedal on the skids to enter the helicopter. A stir caught his eye. It was a reflection from the dark window of the helicopter capturing something moving behind him.
A man. Running. Fast. Silent.
Before Marcus could turn around, the man said, “Arms up in the air! Now or I’ll shoot you in the back of your head.”
Marcus raised his arms and turned to face Heydar Kazim. He held the Makarov in one hand, aimed directly at Marcus’s chest.