Book of JUDAS

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Amsterdam

The side street was full of people pushing in opposite directions as the man steered a course through the crowd. He walked out onto the narrow lane that ran alongside the bank of the Singel Canal. Amsterdam, known as the “Venice of the North”, was built on over ninety islands, separated by over 100 kilometres of canals and linked by over 1,000 bridges. It was late spring and much of the hustle and bustle stemmed from the holidaymakers who flocked in from around Europe to admire the sights and sounds of the city.

The man, walking alone, paid little attention to the people or the “picture postcard” scenes that accompanied him on his journey. Striding purposefully along the bank of the canal, he passed the floating flower market on his right and looked up at the building about 100 metres ahead of him on the opposite bank. He was nearing the end of his journey.

Amsterdam was once the trading capital of the world and during the seventeenth century, when land was at a premium, the city grew upwards. In order to maximise the limited amount of space available, tall narrow buildings were erected. They were tightly packed together but each was unique, with a distinctive character of its own.

The man, turning right across the bridge, could not be mistaken for a tourist. Over six feet tall with an athletic physique in black jean-style trousers, a navy T-shirt and an open brown leather jacket, he carried himself like someone who had once served in the forces. Arriving at his destination he pressed the doorbell on his right, which was just above a discoloured brass plaque with the words Khandos Charity Foundation engraved on it. The green front door was at the bottom of a narrow five-storey dwelling sandwiched between other similar buildings overlooking the canal. A few doors further along was a busy café with a beer-branded green awning hanging out over the street with shoppers and tourists alike settling for lunch on the tables below.

Standing patiently, he heard the whirring of a CCTV camera rotating to focus on him. He stared up at the lens. In truth, this was the least sophisticated part of the surveillance system that operated from the Khandos Charity Foundation, registered in Greece. From behind these closed doors, his movements had been monitored since he had landed at Schiphol airport that morning.

He heard a lock opening and the green door sprang open automatically. Pushing the door further ajar, he walked into the narrow hallway and marched past a staircase into a room beyond, which was used as the Foundation’s main offices.

First created by a wealthy Greek shipping tycoon, the Foundation had operated from these premises for decades as a plausible charity. Visitors to the building were strongly discouraged. In the rare case that a genuine “civilian” entered through the green door, the scene was set for the well-rehearsed “charity” office charade in which administrators and “charity officials” busied themselves around the building to create a semblance of normal office life. The illusion worked and the callers always left satisfied with the authenticity of the good works carried out in the name of the Khandos charity every year. To reinforce the impression, the walls were covered with mementos and memorabilia of their outstanding contribution to society alongside dated photographs of the Greek founder shaking hands with various smiling dignitaries, grateful to receive their financial pledge.

The “do-gooding” bogus charity was the very antithesis of the real occupants’ nature and purpose. – the building served as a well-disguised front for the devil worshipping, demonic sect known as the Satanica.

The man wasted no time in pressing a button to reveal a long spiral staircase that ran down into the building’s basement. Over a hundred years ago, in the adjacent streets behind and on either side of the green door, the sect had acquired neighbouring properties. The handful of original workers who had helped construct and merge the large underground vaults into one had all died in mysterious circumstances shortly afterwards. The lengths to which the Satanica was prepared to go to maintain total secrecy were as astounding as they were morbid. Only in extremely rare circumstances were members allowed to live beyond the age of fifty, and even then such deferment could only be bequeathed by the sect’s “High Council”. During the cult ritualism of their induction ceremony, they pledged to sacrifice their lives to the Black Lord, the Devil himself.

The Satanica’s roots could be traced to the time of Christ although the clandestine sect was really galvanised during the era when the disgraced Monsignor Montella was cast out of the Vatican. Although its widespread tentacles pervaded most modern-day societies and cultures, fewer than thirty members of the senior hierarchy were familiar with their headquarters in downtown Amsterdam. Of course this was not the only such sect – he notion and ideology of the Devil had spawned many other cults over the years, all of them transient, typically spurred on by one or more personalities who delighted in the demonic symbolism as a means of hiding their multi-dysfunctional personality disorders. Similarly, they generated followers, mainly from the world’s lowlife, who believed in the supernatural worship of the occult. These cults were never really feared by mainstream family life and indeed were all but accepted as part of life’s human make-up. Society recognised that they all had their day at one time or another – their demise would normally be the result of some misdemeanour or act of public outrage that would warrant brief but frenzied media attention. Eventually, the cult’s appeal would dwindle away as the figurehead’s power burnt out and the next generation of followers moved on. The Satanica was not such a cult.

Steeped in the history of demonic ideology, the Satanica craved secrecy for its membership. Only acts of barbaric sadism that were sanctioned by the High Council were allowed to be identified publicly to the world through the initials “MM”.

This High Council coordinated the religious rites practised by the malevolent and immoral Satanica priests, known as the Zorasti. The Zorasti name had its beginnings in the Avesta, the sacred manuscript of the Mazdean religion, which condoned the evil transgressions of the Zorasti High Priests throughout Assyria and the Biblical lands – and it was translations of these early teachings that first referred to Judas as the dark disciple. The Zorasti religion centred on the internecine war between light and darkness; between good and evil. They worshipped the coming of the Devil with the same kind of religious fanaticism as the Jewish sect, the Essenes, whose infiltrators were credited with writing the Book of Judas.

During the era of the cruel and deranged Monsignor Montella, the sect was given new life. Throughout his times, as Head Priest of the Zorasti, he was given to extreme but relatively short bouts of twisted, sadistic madness that would culminate in some human atrocity. His normal, rational persona was replaced by an evil, snarling beast that would contort with an insane rage. The quiet period during which the madness subsided could last days, or it could last weeks and it was during these sober times that he breathed his form of death into the sect he named Satanica.

As Monsignor Montella set about building the sect, his work mirrored his own experiences and the sect’s organisational structure became based on the Vatican. The Cardinals were replaced by the historical Zorasti who dressed themselves in identical fashion to the Roman Catholic clergy except that their robes and birettas, or skullcaps, were black. His followers knew him to be possessed. What else could explain the c*****e and violence that shook through his body leaving death and mayhem in its wake? It was therefore of little surprise to them when, as Overlord of the Satanica, he gave himself the title “Contra Daimones Sade”, the “Demonic Pope”. Ever since the passing of Monsignor Montella many centuries earlier, the title “Daimones”, the Demon Lord was bestowed upon each new leader of the High Council of the Zorasti.

The man descending the spiral stairs was one of the elite; one of the chosen few to serve the elders of the Zoroastrian Council. He had shown early promise and had been hand-picked to reach the higher echelons of the Satanica during his formative years. His apprenticeship had been long and hard, testing his skills and training to the limit, but he now stood on the threshold of their greatest quest. The dark underground corridor ran for several metres before a sharp corner took him to an arched doorway.

Although this was not the first or second occasion on which he was to address the High Council the spectacle that awaited him beyond the arch still filled him with a sense of awe. In a small antechamber, he donned his black robe before stepping forward.

Barely able to squeeze through the narrowing corridor, he entered the unholy church of the Satanica. Above him was a domed roof and below were row upon row of flickering, white candles illuminating a cavernous hall. The candles offered the only lighting in the dark, musty vestibule as he descended the curved, wide stone steps to the chequered marble floor below. The size and depth of the chamber seemed incomprehensible compared with the square, boxed-in rooms above ground level.

At the opposite end of the chamber was a shrine. It was not like a shrine you would find in a Christian church with an altar table and a depiction of Jesus on a cross but instead it was a huge tablet of stone, twenty to thirty feet high and tapering to a point. It was obviously old, chiselled with worn writing in an ancient alphabet. It was about fifteen feet wide, standing in the centre of a circular marble platform with three steps down to the main atrium floor. The ancient hieroglyphic-style writing pre-dated Christ and told of the wonders of the Black Kingdom that would burst forth when evil triumphed over good. Worshipped as if the words came from Lucifer himself − it was the icon of the Satanica and the inscriptions foretold the future and gave guidance in the worship of the Dark Lord. Until only a week earlier the last prophecy had made no sense to the few Satanica brethren who had been allowed to see the tablet, but now the message rang clear and true.

In the shimmering darkness, five tall, cloaked figures stood equidistantly apart, facing the tablet. Upon their envoy’s entrance they moved silently to the perimeter of the platform facing the main hall. Out of a need for secrecy their long, black robes had become hooded. They stood motionless, as he walked the length of the hall to face them.

“Your work is unfinished,” the voice of the middle figure commanded, his imposing voice resonating around the great stone hall. He was Daimones, the Lord High Priest of the Satanica. His attire was almost identical to that of the Zoroastrian Priests standing to each side except that around his neck was a large gold chain necklace that held an amulet containing a lock of hair that once belonged to Judas, the Devil’s disciple himself.

The man stood with his head bowed before them. He knew that the five elders of the Satanica Council had ordered the deaths of many of his brethren in the past for their failure to carrying out their wishes.

“His house held many records; he had obviously devoted his life to finding out as much about our organisation as possible − before I killed him, he told me that the Trenchard brothers had called to see him. We can assume he told them all he knew.”

“Understood, Conchos,” replied Daimones. He then took a step to his right and whispered privately to the statuesque figure.

The envoy had a name. He was called “Conchos”, which was not a name given to him at birth but one bestowed upon him when he entered the Satanica as a young, pre-selected boy. He was thirty-fours years old now and he had no knowledge of any parents or any close relatives; to him the Satanica were his family. Conchos embodied all that was black and evil about the sect and Daimones and the four Zorasti High Priests were well aware of his special talents. They knew that when Conchos spoke about extracting information from Professor Palanski, that this would have meant remorseless and savage acts of torture. His fondness for mutilating his victims was well known to the High Priests.

Conchos worked alone but with the Satanica network’ full support. Never was his loyalty questioned, and rare were the days when his callous, sadistic skills were not being put to use. The men who had helped to train Conchos had been staggered by his ability to handle pressure. No matter how dangerous the physical task, or how difficult the intellectual puzzle, even when his life depended on it, his heartbeat remained steady, fluctuating between sixty and eighty beats per minute. Such was his devotion to his family, the High Priests of the Satanica, that he had surgically removed any distinguishing features from his body and made himself as plain as possible. Beneath the dark hooded robe was the blank, expressionless face of a killing machine.

Daimones glided back to his position at the foot of the tablet of stone before speaking in a low voice that echoed around the hall, amplified by the domed ceiling above him.

“This is the final test, Conchos – the Book of Judas lays within our grasp. You must follow the Trenchards in their quest to recover the keys of arkheynia. They have the knowledge and the scrolls to unlock the sacred labyrinth of our Lord − follow them and learn the wisdom that will let us enter the dark kingdom. Once you have it and only when you are sure you hold all the secrets… then kill them and anyone else that shares the information.”

Conchos, his arms folded in the wide sleeved robe, bowed his head in deference and acknowledgement to the High Priest.

In the constant strife between good and evil, the Satanica could sense that their time was approaching. The moment that they had waited centuries to arrive was finally coming.

They accepted that the Black Lord had been cast down into the depths by Christ during his time on earth. To the Satanica, it was as if he were being kept locked in a prison and it was the Book of Judas that would provide the key to his release. Their goal was to resurrect the Black Lord so that he could wage the final battle against humanity and the law according to God. Their faith throughout the years that the book would be found had never wavered. The Zorasti knew that the book was not just a text of the Antichrist but an actual manual to the rites that could unleash and conjure up the devil. If they, the Zorasti, performed the macabre ceremony as rendered on the pages of the manuscript the world would see the human form of Lucifer and feel the power of the devil as it descended into the abyss.

“When you have the knowledge bring it to us,” repeated Daimones.

Suspicions had always existed within the higher echelons of the Vatican and the High Council of the Zorasti that their destinies were some how inextricably entwined. Both sides, despite putting secrecy above all else, feared the unwelcome intrusion of the other. During the past week, since learning of Sir Lawrence Trenchard’s death they had marshalled all their resources to begin their last campaign.

The source of the Satanica’s information was revealed with the next breath. Only a member of the Vatican’s inner sanctum could know the following, as the man with whom Daimones had been whispering, offered to speak.

“Beware, Conchos, the Vatican has ordered its senior agent to stop at nothing to recover the Book of Judas. They will use anything at their disposal to make sure that you fail in your task.” His voice was that of an older, cold-hearted man.

“This agent,” the High Priest continued, “is the best in the Vatican’s service − it is likely he will follow the brothers until they’ve gathered all the keys of arkheynia before he makes his move and it will be his duty to shield them from danger until this time.”

“I understand,” replied Conchos. “It will be a pleasure killing him!”

“Go now,” said Daimones and with that Conchos bowed, turned on his heels and marched down the hall to the stone steps that would take him back to the exit.

When he left the hall, the High Priests turned to face each other and Daimones again addressed the hooded figure on his right.

“Is it safe for you to go back into the Vatican? Is anyone suspicious?”

“No one suspects,” replied the robed figure promptly in little more than a whisper.

“The Pope does not have long to live and the foolish, shallow Cardinals are vying for position. They are too preoccupied with improving their popularity and gathering supporters − they all sense that the papal election may come soon!”

“Good, very good,” muttered Daimones. “Having you inside the Vatican gives us a great advantage. All of us here appreciate the years of work you have invested in making ready for this time’s arrival.”

The robed figure bowed his head as Diamones turned his thoughts to the Pope’s poor state of health.

“Yes,” he mused. “It’s amazing how the prophecies have come true!”

He was referring to the old myth that had circulated in the cloisters of the Vatican for many centuries. Circumstances had arisen in recent years that gave the myth added substance. In the papal chambers there was a gallery where the portrait of every deceased Pope was hung on the wall – after each Pope passed away his portrait would then be hung alongside his predecessor. The prophecy said when there was no longer a space to hang the next portrait the final battle between heaven and hell would commence and that the war would rage until one of them emerged victorious. In the gallery there was now only room for one more portrait – and the Pope was dying.

Daimones broke away from his own thoughts to turn back to the High Priest that had infiltrated the innermost circle of the Catholic Church.

“Go back to the Vatican and find out whatever you can − we should not meet again until the Book of Judas is with us.”

He turned to address the three High Priests who had remained silent up to this point and raised his arms.

“Priests of the Zorastri, we know that Conchos has been a loyal servant and has never failed us in the past. Even for him, though, this is no ordinary labour – he must succeed in finding the Book of Judas!”

Daimones turned and looked upwards at the pinnacle of the stone tablet. The glowing flames from the candles flickered across the ancient writing, a language he had learned to decipher. He smiled to himself before turning towards a side doors beyond the tablet of stone and clapping his hands.

“It is time!” he called.

The gathered brethren of Zoroastrian priests were the controllers; the enforcers of Daimones’ revered Satanica. Hearing the sound of his clapping hands, they instinctively knew what would happen next.

Two men dressed in black entered through the side door carrying a young, naked girl who had not even reached her teens. She had black lines painted across her chest and face that formed markings similar to those on the stone tablet.

The girl was heavily drugged and made no effort to struggle as they laid her body across the altar table around which Daimones and the priests assumed their positions and watched as her head lolled from side to side as she desperately tried to focus on the figures encircling her.

One of the henchmen handed Daimones the ritual dagger before quickly bowing and leaving the dark, cavernous hall. For several minutes, the High Priest of the Satanica continued his recitation in a strange language, beseeching the Black Lord to accept their gift.

Just as her eyes began to take in her surroundings it was too late. The knife ripped into her body and she shook violently as her lifeblood began to drain away.