The Prophecy

15

Police Nationale, Belgium’s Police Federale, and all the other countries where he conducted business. These sources were expensive, but the information he obtained from them was invaluable. Dubois realized that without their warnings he would have been killed or arrested a long time ago.

But Dubois’s obsession didn’t stop there.

Although he was a highly educated intellectual — the type of man who typically viewed prophets and oracles as scam artists — Dubois fervently believed that some people were blessed with the ability to see the future. This belief stemmed from the fact that he temporarily had the power himself. From the time he was eight until he was

At first his ability frightened him. He was afraid something was wrong, that he was some kind of a freak. But his mother, who had been born in Avignon, France, not far from the birthplace of Nostradamus, explained his talent was a gift that many people would love to have. She insisted his knowledge of the future was a powerful tool that he could use to improve his life, and in certain situations, maybe even save it. Then she took him to the library and showed him all the books and articles written about the most famous prophets of all time. Dubois was intrigued by the work of several prophets, but his fascination with Nostradamus bordered on obsession. Partially because he had come from the same region as Dubois’s mother, but mainly due to the power that the prophet’s name still possessed several centuries after his death.

From that moment on, Dubois was hooked. He read everything he could get his hands on, devouring every last word while trying to determine who had the gift and who was full of shit. Ironically, his interest in clairvoyance grew even

Some of the stories he read as a teenager were downright spooky.

One of Dubois’s favourites involved an American author named Morgan Robertson. Born in Oswego, New York, in 1861, Robertson believed he was possessed by a spirit that helped him write. Before he could produce a single sentence, Robertson had to lie completely still for several minutes in a semi-conscious state. Eventually, the entity would dictate stories to him, using vivid images. Then Robertson would translate these visions into words.

Competing with the popular stories of Jules Verne, whose science fiction was filled with an optimistic view of technology and travel, Robertson preferred depressing tales of maritime disasters. This included a novella, published in 1898, entitled The Wreck of the Titan. Like his other stories, Robertson received the plot from his magical entity, although he told many of his closest friends that this particular vision felt stronger than any other.

Titan hit an iceberg just before midnight. A long gash, torn below the waterline, allowed flooding to occur in too many of the compartments for the Titan to stay afloat. A short while later, the ‘unsinkable’ ship disappeared into the depths of the cold ocean, and most of its passengers drowned or died of hypothermia due to a severe shortage of lifeboats.

The story made very few waves in the literary scene until the night of 14 April 1912. While travelling between England and New York on its maiden voyage, the Titanic, the largest passenger steamship in the world, hit an iceberg at 11.40 p.m. and sank in the North Atlantic, killing over 1,500 passengers. Although a few of the details were different, there were enough similarities between Robertson’s story and the actual events Titanic disaster to capture the world’s attention. Within weeks, The Wreck of the Titan and some of his other tales were serialized in newspapers across America. It brought him a level of fame he never had a chance to enjoy because alcoholism and depression ended his life.

Three decades later, another one of his stories proved to be prophetic.

In ‘Beyond the Spectrum’, a short story he published in 1914, Robertson described a future war between the United States and Japan that resembled the actual events of Pearl Harbor in 1941. Instead of declaring war on its rival, Japan launched a sneak attack on American ships heading to Hawaii. The hero of the story managed to stop the advancing forces by using an ultraviolet searchlight that blinded the Japanese crews. The devastating effects of the searchlight — intense heat, skin blisters, blindness — resembled the injuries caused by the atomic bombs dropped on Japan in 1945, weapons that ultimately ended their war.

Once again, the similarities between fact and fiction weren’t perfect, but they were close enough for Dubois to pay attention.

16

USA Today, it is the second most beautiful place in America, only behind Red Rock Country in Sedona, Arizona. From his office window, Jones could see the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers flowing together to form the Ohio. The confluence of the three rivers defined the Golden Triangle, the name given to the business district, where dozens of skyscrapers glowed in the night-time sky. More than fifteen bridges, lined with a dazzling assortment of holiday lights, twinkled above the waterways, turning the colour of the icy rivers from white to red to green.

On a clear night, PNC Park and Heinz Field, two of the most scenic ballparks in the country, were visible across the rivers on the North Shore. A revitalized section of the city, it featured the Carnegie Science Center, complete with a World War Two submarine (USS Requin) docked along the water’s edge, and the newly opened Rivers

A beep from his antique desk snapped him out of his daydream.

Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, he turned from the window and walked towards his computer. A message on his screen informed him that his search was complete, and no matching entries had been found. Grumbling to himself, Jones sat down in his leather executive chair and clicked his mouse. He had been fishing for clues ever since he had left Ashley’s car. Meanwhile, Payne had returned to the Cathedral to apologize to his guests and explain what had happened.

Three hours later, Payne finally made it to Mount Washington.

‘Knock, knock,’ he said as he walked into Jones’s office.

Jones barely glanced up from his computer. ‘It’s about time.’

Still wearing his tuxedo, Payne collapsed in the chair across from Jones. ‘Sorry about that. Lots of people to see, lots of asses to kiss.’

‘How’d it go?’

‘Much better than I’d expected. The cops barged in, looking for potential witnesses, and

‘Did you say hundreds?’

‘Hey, the cops exaggerated, not me.’

Jones rolled his eyes. ‘Let me guess, my name didn’t come up once.’

‘Not true,’ Payne assured him. ‘I told everyone you helped.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep! Working as a janitor at Heinz Chapel.’

‘You’re such an asshole.’

‘By the way, I have a message from Sam. He wanted me to tell you, six o’clock sharp. Whatever the hell that means.’

He growled softly. ‘I already burned his jumpsuit. I’ll send him the ashes tomorrow.’

‘Speaking of clothes, what’d you find in Ashley’s bag?’

Jones pointed to the far side of the room where the contents were spread out on a glass table. Payne walked over and examined them. Unfortunately, nothing stood out. There was a change of clothes, an overnight kit filled with toiletries, and an unzipped leather portfolio.

‘Not much to work with, huh?’