The Omen (9 page)

there hung the javelin-like appendage, standing out like a puff of gray smoke.

"Fuck!" muttered Jennings as his eye came upon something else. It was a fat man smoking a cigar. The appendage might indeed be smoke. Racking up his negatives, he singled out the three in question and put them in the enlarger, waiting an agonizing fifteen minutes until they were ready and could be viewed. No. It was not smoke. The color and texture were different, and so was the relative distance to the camera. If it were cigar smoke, the fat man would have had to blow a great quantity of it to create such a cloud. It would have disturbed the people around him, and they were instead completely oblivious of the smoking man, gazing ahead, unperturbed. The ghostlike appendage seemed to be hanging far back in the auditorium, perhaps against the far wall. Jennings slipped the enlargement under his magnifying stand and studied it in great detail. Beneath it he saw the hem of priestly robes. He raised his arms and let out a war cry. It was the little priest again, and he was somehow involved with Thorn.

"Holy shit" cried Jennings. "Hot holy shit!"

And in celebration he returned to the dinner table, ripping off the wings of his silent companion, devouring them to the bones.

"I'm gonna find that sucker!" he laughed. "I'm gonna go hunt him down!"

The following morning he cropped a shot of the priest, one he had taken with the Marine on the Embassy stairs. He took it around to several churches, then finally to the regional offices of the London Parish. But no one recognized the photo, assuring Jennings that if the priest were employed in the area, they would have known him. He was from outside the city somewhere. The job would be harder. On a hunch, Jennings went to Scotland Yard and got access to their mug books, but it turned up nothing, and he knew there was

only one thing left to do. He had first seen the priest coming out of the Embassy; probably someone in there would know.

It was difficult to gain entrance to the Embassy. Security guards checked credentials and appointments, and they wouldn't let Jennings past the front desk.

"I'd like to see the Ambassador," Jennings explained. "He said he'd reimburse me for a camera. ,,

They called upstairs, and to Jennings' surprise they told him to go to a lobby phone where the Ambassador's office would call him. Jennings did as he was instructed, and in a moment was speaking to Thorn's secretary who wanted to know the sum involved and where a check should be mailed.

"I'd like to explain it to him personally," said Jennings. "I'd like to show him what he's getting for his money."

She replied that that would be impossible as the Ambassador was in a meeting, and Jennings decided to go for broke.

- "To tell you the truth, I thought he could help me with a personal problem. Maybe you could help me instead. I'm looking for a priest. He's a relative. He's had some business at the Embassy, and I thought maybe someone here had seen him and could help me."

It was an odd request and the secretary was reluctant to respond.

"He's a very short fella," added Jennings.

"Is he Italian?" she asked.

"I think he spent some time in Italy," replied Jennings, faking it to see what it was worth.

"Would his name be Tassone?" asked the secretary.

"Well, actually, Fm not sure. See, what I'm doing is trying to trace a lost relative. My mother's brother was separated from her as a child and changed his last name. My mother is dying now and she wants to find him. We don't know his last name, we only have a vague description. We know he's small like my mother,

and we know he became a priest, and a friend of mine saw a priest leaving the Embassy a week or so ago, and this friend said the priest looked exactly like my mother."

"There was a priest here," said the secretary. "He said he was from Rome, and I believe his name was Tassone."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"No."

"He had business with the Ambassador?"

"... I believe so."

"Maybe the Ambassador knows where he lives."

"I wouldn't know. I don't think so."

"Would it be possible to ask him?"

"I guess I could."

"When could you do that?"

"Well, not until later."

"My mother's very sick. She's in the hospital now and I'm afraid the time is growing short."

In Thorn's office, the intercom buzzed; a secretary's voice inquired whether he knew how to contact the priest who had been to see him two weeks before. Thorn paused in his work, suddenly going cold.

"Who's asking?"

"A man who says you broke his camera. The priest is a relative of his. Or he thinks he is."

After a momentary pause, Thorn replied. "Would you ask him to come up, please."

Jennings found his way to Thorn's office with no trouble. Modernistic, it was plainly the office of the man in charge. It was at the end of a long hall adorned with portraits of all the American ambassadors to London. As Jennings moved by them, he was interested to find that John Quincy Adams and James Monroe had held the post before becoming President. Maybe it was a good stepping-stone at that. Perhaps old Thorn was destined for greatness.

"Come in," smiled Thorn. "Have a seat."

"Sorry to bust in . .."

"Not at all."

The Ambassador gestured Jennings forward, and he entered, finding a chair. In all of his years of stalking, this was the first time he'd ever made personal contact with his prey. It was easy to talk his way in, but now he was shaken, his heart racing, his knees unsteady. He'd remembered feeling this way the first time he developed a photo. The excitement was so great it was almost sexual in nature.

"I've been wanting to apologize about that camera," said Thorn.

"It was an old one anyway."

"I want to reimburse you."

"No, no . . ."

"I'd like to. I'd like to make it up to you."

Jennings shrugged and nodded his okay.

"Why don't you just tell me what the best kind of camera is, and I'll have someone get it for you."

"Well, that's very generous . . ."

"Just tell me the best there is."

"It's a German make. Pentaflex. Three Hundred."

"Done. Just let my secretary know where we can find you."

Jennings nodded again, and the men eyed each other in silence. Thorn was studying him, sizing him up, taking in everything from the unmatched socks to the threads hanging off the collar of his jacket. Jennings liked this kind of scrutiny. He knew his appearance put people off. In a perverse way, it gave him an edge.

"I've seen you around," said Thorn.

"That's where I try to be."

"You're very dilligent."

"Thank you."

Thorn stepped from behind his desk, moving to a cabinet where he uncorked a bottle of brandy. Jennings watched him pour, accepting a glass.

"Thought you handled that boy very well the other night," said Jennings.

"Did you?"

"I did."

"I'm not sure."

They were killing time, both sensing it, each waiting for the other to get to the point.

"I sided with him," added Thorn. "Pretty soon the press will be calling me a Communist."

"Oh, you know the press."

"Yes."

"Got to make a living."

"Right."

They sipped their brandy, and Thorn moved to the windows, gazing out.

"You're looking for a relative?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's a priest named Tassone?"

"He's a priest, but I'm not sure of his name. My mother's brother. Separated when they were children."

Thorn glanced at Jennings, and Jennings sensed his disappointment.

"So you don't actually know him," said the Ambassador.

"No, sir. I'm trying to find him."

Thorn frowned and sat heavily in his chair.

"If I might inquire . . ." asked Jennings. "Maybe if I knew what his business was with you ..."

"It was business about a hospital. He wanted ... a donation."

"What hospital?"

"Oh, in Rome. I'm not sure."

"Did he leave you his address?"

"No. As a matter of fact I'm a little upset about that. I promised I'd send a check and I don't know where to send it."

Jennings nodded. "Guess we're in the same boat, then."

"I guess we are," responded Thorn.

"He just came and went, is that it?"

"Yes."

"And you never saw him again?"

Thorn's jaw tightened, and Jennings caught it, seeing clearly that the Ambassador was hiding something.

"Never again."

"Thought maybe ... he might have attended one of your speeches."

Their eyes caught and held, Thorn sensing he was being played with.

"What's your name?" asked Thorn.

"Jennings. Haber Jennings."

"Mr. Jennings ..."

"Haber."

"Haber."

Thorn studied the man's face, then averted his eyes, again looking out the window.

"Sir?"

"... I have a great interest in finding this man. The priest who was here. I'm afraid I was abrupt with him and I'd like to make amends."

"Abrupt in what way?"

"I dismissed him rather rudely. I didn't really hear what he had to say."

"I'm sure he's used to it. When you hit people up for donations ..."

"I'd like to find him. It's important to me."

From the look on Thorn's face, it plainly was. Jennings knew he'd stumbled into something, but he didn't know what. All he could do was play it straight

"If I locate him, I'll let you know," he said.

"Would you please?"

"Of course."

Thorn nodded with finality, and Jennings rose, and walking over to Thorn, shook his hand.

"You look very worried, Mr. Ambassador. I hope the world's not about to explode."

"Oh, no," responded Thorn with a smile.

"I'm an admirer of yours. That's why I follow you around."

"Thank you."

Jennings headed for the door, but Thorn stopped him.

"Mr. Jennings?"

"Sir?"

"Let me understand . . . you've never actually seen this priest yourself?"

"No."

"You made that remark about his being at one of my speeches. I thought perhaps . . ."

"No."

"Well. No matter."

There was an uncomfortable pause, then Jennings again moved to the door.

"Any chance I could take some pictures of you? I mean at home? With your family?"

"It's not a good time right now."

"Maybe I'll call in a few weeks."

"Do that."

"You'll hear from me."

He left and Thorn gazed after him. The man clearly knew something that he wasn't divulging. But what could he possibly know about the priest? Was it mere coincidence that a man he'd had random contact with was seeking the priest who followed and haunted him? Thorn tried hard but could make no sense of it. Like so many other recent events in his life, it seemed like mere coincidence but was somehow something more.

For Edgardo Emilio Tassone, life on earth could have been no worse than that in purgatory. It was for that reason that he, as so many others, had joined the coven in Rome. He was Portuguese by birth, the son of a fisherman who died off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland while fishing for cod. His memory of childhood was the smell of fish. It clung to his mother like a cloak of sickness, and in fact she had died of a parasite ingested from eating fish raw when she became too weak to forage for firewood. Orphaned at the age of eight, Tassone was taken to a monastery; there, beaten by monks until he confessed his sins, he was saved. He had embraced Christ by the time he was ten, but by then his back was scarred from the penance it took to make the Holy One finally appear.

With the fear of God literally beaten into him, he devoted his life to the Church, remaining eight years in the seminary, studying the Bible day and night. He read of God's love and God's anger, and at the age of twenty-five ventured forth into the world to save others from the fires of Hell. He became a missionary, going first to Spain, then to Morocco, preaching the word of the Lord. From Morocco he traveled into the southeast corner of Africa, there finding heathens to convert, and he converted them in the way he himself was. He beat them as he was beaten and came to realize that in the heat of religious ecstasy he took sexual pleasure in their pain. Among the young African converts, one came to worship him, and they shared carnal pleasure, defiling the primitive laws of Man and God. The boy's name was Tobu, of the Kikuyu tribe. When he and Tassone were found together, the boy was ceremonially mutilated, his scrotum opened and his testicles removed; the boy was forced to eat them while his warrior brothers looked on. Tassone himself barely escaped, word reaching him in Somalia that the Kikuyu had seized a Franciscan monk and skinned him alive in Tassone's stead. After skinning him, they made him walk until he finally fell dead.

Tassone fled to Djibouti, then Adan, then Djakarta, feeling God's wrath upon him wherever he went. Death stalked him, striking those around him, and he feared that at any moment he would be next. He knew well, from his biblical texts, of the wrath of a God scorned, and he moved fast, seeking protection from what he knew must inevitably come. In Nairobi he met the graceful Father Spilletto and confessed his sins; Spilletto promised to protect him and took him to Rome. It was there, in the coven in Rome, that he was indoctrinated into the dogma of Hell. The Satanists provided a sanctuary where the judgment of God did not exist. They lived for the pursuit of bodily pleasure, and Tassone shared his body with others whose pleasure matched his. They were a community of outcasts who, together, could cast out the rest. The Devil was worshipped by the desecration of God.

The coven was made up mostly of working class people, but a few were professional, highly placed men. On the outside they all led respectable lives; this was their most valuable weapon against those who worshipped God. It was their mission to create fear and turmoil, to turn men against each other until the time of the Unholy One had come; small groups called Task Forces would forage out to create chaos wherever possible. The coven in Rome took credit for much of the turmoil in Ireland, using random sabotage to polarize Catholics and Prostestants and fan the fires of religious war. Two Irish nuns, known within the coven as B'aalock and B'aalam, had orchestrated the bombings in Ireland, the one known as B'aalam having died by her own hand. Her body was found in the rubble of a marketplace explosion, the remains returned to Italy where they were buried in the hallowed ground of Cerveteri, the ancient Etruscan graveyard, known today as Cimitero di Sant'Angelo, on the outskirts of Rome.

For her devotion to the Unholy One, B'aalam was honored by being entombed beneath the Shrine of Techulca, the Etruscan Devil-God, and members of surrounding covens attended the funeral, numbering almost five thousand strong. Tassone was impressed by the ceremony, and thereafter became politically active in the coven, seeking to aggrandize himself and prove to Spilletto he was worthy of trust.

The first demonstration of this trust came in 1968 when, with another priest, Tassone was dispatched by Spilletto to Southeast Asia; there, organizing a small band of mercenaries in Communist-held Cambodia, he crossed into and disrupted the cease-fire in South Vietnam. The North blamed it on the South, the South on the North, and within days of Tassone's entrance, the hard-won peace was shattered. The coven believed it would pave the way for an all-out Communist takeover in Southeast Asia; Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, then Thailand and the Philippines as well. It was hoped that in a few short years the mere mention of the word "God" would be considered heresy throughout the entire southeastern hemisphere.

Within the coven there was much celebration, and Tassone returned to find himself a leader of his cult. The fires of unrest were brewing in Africa and, aware of his knowledge of that country, Spilletto sent Tassone to assist the revolution that eventually brought Idi Amin, the insane African despot, to power. Though Tassone, being white, was not trusted by Amin, he remained there for over a year, successfully lobbying for Amin's political takeover of the Caucus of African Nations.

Largely because of Tassone's accomplishments, the coven in Rome became looked upon by Satanists across the world as the seat of political direction and spiritual power, and money began to flow there, adding to their strength. Rome itself was a hotbed of energy: the seat of Catholicism, the seat of western Communism, the core of Satanism throughout the world. The atmosphere fairly crackled with power.

It was at this time, at the height of Satanic strength and world turmoil, that the biblical symbols fell into place heralding the moment when earth history would suddenly and irrevocably change. For the third time since the formation of the planet, the Evil One would spew forth his progeny, entrusting its nurturing to maturity to his disciples on earth. It had been attempted twice before without success; the watchdogs of Christ discovered the Beast and killed it before it came into power. This time it would not fail. The concept was right; the plan timed to perfection.

It was no surprise that Spilletto chose Tassone as one of the three to carry out the momentous plan. The small, scholarly priest was loyal, dedicated, and followed orders without the slightest hesitation or remorse. For this reason his part would be the most brutal; the murder of the innocent who, by necessity, had to be involved. It was Spilletto who would choose the surrogate family and he who would effect the transfer of the child. Sister Maria Teresa (which was now what the woman B'aalock was called) would tend the impregnation and assist in the birth. Tassone would supervise the grisly aftermath, making sure the evidence would disappear and be buried in hallowed ground.

Tassone entered into the covenant eagerly, for he saw clearly that his life was now given to the ages. He would be remembered and revered; he, once a cast-off orphan, now one of the Chosen Ones, was allowed to enter into an alliance with the devil himself. But in the days preceding the event, something began to happen to Tassone; his strength began to falter. The scars on his back started to pain him, the agony becoming more intense with each passing night as he lay awake in his bed desperately searching for sleep. For five nights he tossed fitfully, fighting disturbing illusions that flew through his mind, and he sought herbal potions that brought slumber, but did nothing to quiet the nightmares that visited him as he slept.

He saw visions of Tobu, the African boy, pleading with him, begging him for help. And he saw the skinless form of a man, eye sockets gaping above peeled ligament and muscle, a mouth without lips crying out for mercy. Tassone saw himself as a boy, waiting on the beach for the return of his father, and then he saw his mother on her deathbed, begging for forgiveness for dying, for deserting him so young and abandoning him to fate. He awoke that night crying out, as though he were his own mother, pleading to be forgiven. And when he lapsed again into slumber, the figure of Christ appeared beside him, assuring him that he would be forgiven. Christ in all his boyish beauty, his slim body still bearing scars, knelt by Tassone and told him he was still welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven. All he had to do was repent.

The nightmares had shaken Tassone, and Spilletto sensed the tension, summoning him to his quarters to find the reason for it. But Tassone was in too deeply now, knowing his life would be in danger if he betrayed any doubt, and he assured Spilletto he was eager still to do what had to be done. It was the pain in his back that was bothering him, he said, and Spilletto offered him a vial of pills to bring relief. From then on, until the act was at hand, Tassone rested in a state of drugged tranquility, and the disquieting visions of Christ ceased to haunt him.

The night of June sixth. The sixth month, the sixth day, the sixth hour. Events occurred that would follow Tassone to the end of his days. In the midst of labor the surrogate mother had begun to wail, Sister Maria Teresa silencing it with ether as its giant progeny tore through the womb. Tassone finished the job for her with the stone given to him by Spilletto. He crushed the animal's head to a pulp, and it prepared him for what had to be done to the human child. But when the newborn human child was brought down to him, he hesitated, for it was a child of uncommon beauty. He gazed at them both, the two infants side by side: the blood-covered one, thick with hair; and the soft, white, beautiful one, its eyes gazing upward in absolute trust. He knew what had to be done, and he did it, but he did not do it well. It had to be redone, and he sobbed as he tore open the crate to hit the Thorn child once again. For an instant he was gripped by the impulse to grab the child up in his arms, to run with it and keep running, to find a place of safety. But he saw the infant was already damaged, irreparably so, and the stone came down hard again. And again. And again. Until the sound had stopped and the body lay still.

In the darkness of that night, no one saw the tears that streamed down Tassone's face; in fact, from that night on, no one in the coven ever saw him again. He fled Rome the following morning and lived in obscurity for the four years that passed. Going to Belgium, he worked among the poor, finding his way to a clinic where he could get access to the drugs he needed not only to quiet the pain in his back but to fight the haunting memories of what he had done. He lived alone and spoke to no one, gradually becoming infirm. And when he finally entered a hospital, a diagnosis was quickly confirmed. The pain in his back was caused by a tumor; malignant and inoperable because of its position on the spine.

Tassone was dying now, and it was this that drove him to seek forgiveness from the Lord. Christ was good. Christ would forgive. He would prove himself worthy of that forgiveness by attempting to undo what he had done.

Summoning what little strength remained, he traveled to Israel, carrying with him eight vials of morphine to deaden the pain that throbbed in his back. He was seeking the man named Bugenhagen, a name linked with Satan almost since the beginning of time. It was a Bugenhagen who, in the year 1092, found the first progeny of Satan and devised the means of putting it to death. It was again a Bugenhagen in 1710 who found the second issue and damaged it to the point where it could summon no earthly power. They were religious zealots, the watchdogs of Christ; their mission, to keep the Unholy One from walking the face of the earth.

It took Tassone seven months to find the last descendant of the Bugenhagens, for he lived in obscurity, ensconced in a fortress beneath the surface of the earth. Here he, like Tassone, waited for death, tortured with the infirmities of age and the knowledge that he had failed. He, like so many others, had known the time was at hand but he was helpless to stop the son of Satan from being born unto the earth.

Tassone spent but six hours with the old man, recounting the story and his part in the birth. Bugenhagen listened with despair as the priest begged him to intervene. For he could not. He was imprisoned here in his fortress and dared not venture to the outside. Someone with direct access to the child would have to be brought to him.

Fearing his time was short. Tassone made his way to London to find Thorn and convince him of what must be done. He prayed that God was watching him and he feared that Satan was watching him as well. But he was not ignorant of the Devil's work and took every precaution to maintain life and breath until he could find Thorn and his story could be told. If he could do this, he knew he would be absolved of his sins and admitted into the Kingdom of Heaven.

Renting a one-room flat in Soho, he made it into a fortress as secure as a church. His armament was the scriptures; he covered every inch of wall space, even the windows, with pages torn from the Bible. It took seventy Bibles to do it all. Crosses hung everywhere, at all angles, and he made sure never to venture out unless his crucifix, impregnated with particles of broken mirror, could reflect the sunlight as it hung about his neck.

But he found that his quarry was hard to reach, and the pain in his back was all-consuming. The one meeting with Thorn, in his office, was a failure. He had frightened the Ambassador and was summarily dismissed. Now he followed him everywhere, his desperation growing; and this day he stood watching the Ambassador from the opposite side of a chain-link fence, as Thorn and a group of dignitaries dedicated a housing project in a poor section of Chelsea.

"I'm proud to dedicate this particular project . . ." shouted Thorn against the wind to the hundred or so people looking on, ". . . as it represents the will of the community itself to improve the quality of life!"

So saying, he dug a shovel into the earth; an accordion band struck up a polka as he and the group of dignitaries were led toward the chain-link fence to shake hands with people who reached through, straining to touch them as they neared. He was a consummate politician, a man who enjoyed adulation, and as he moved by the fence he made an effort to shake each of the greedy hands, even bending close to be kissed by a pair of eager protruding lips. But suddenly he was jarred; a hand reached through with sudden violence and grabbing him hard by the shirt-front, pulled him close to the fence.