Thorn rummaged through his desk and found a cigarette, then poured himself a glass of wine. He wandered about the room, forcing his mind to deal with his research, to shut out the uneasiness of what he had seen upstairs. When the Jews returned to Zion, Christ was again to be born. And as Christ would be born, so would the Anti-Christ, both growing separately until their final confrontation. Thorn stood over his books, thumbing through them again.
Behold the day of the Lord, a cruel day, a day of wrath and burning fury which will reduce the earth to solitude ... and I shall make men more rare than fine gold ... more rare than the gold of Ophir.
Then, in the Book of Zechariah:
One will seize the hand of the other and they will lift up their swords against each other. He will call for a sword against them unto all his mountains, and every man's word will turn against his brother.
Thorn sat down again, gripped by the violence of what the prophecies foretold.
Behold the fury with which the Lord will strike all the peoples who have made war against Jerusalem! Their flesh will fall in rottenness while they are standing on their feet. Their eyes will rot in their sockets and their tongues will rot in their mouths.
Thorn knew the tide of the world was turning against Israel; the Arabs, with their oil, were now too powerful for anyone to stand against. If God's wrath were to turn against the nations that made war on Jerusalem, it was destined to turn against them all. It was prophesied that Armageddon, the final battle, would take place in the arena of the Israelites, with Jesus standing on one side, on the Mount of Olives, the Anti-Christ on the other.
Woe to you, Oh Earth and Sea, for the Devil sends the beast with wrath, because he knows the time is short. . . . Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred and sixty-six.
Armageddon. The end of the world. The battle over Israel.
The Lord will appear ... his feet shall stand on that day on the Mount of Olives, which is opposite Jerusalem on the eastern side . . . and the Lord God will come and all his holy ones with him.
Thorn closed his books and turned out his desk lamp. He sat for a long time in silence. He wondered what these books were, and who had written them, and why they had been written at all. And he wondered why he believed them, and yet why he rejected them. To believe them made one's efforts futile. Were they all just pawns for the mightier forces of Good and Evil? Were they puppets being manipulated from above and below? Could there really be a Heaven? Could there really be a Hell? He realized these were the questions of an adolescent and yet he could not help but wonder. He had felt it recently, the sensation of powers beyond his control. Not random powers but purposeful ones; sensations that made him feel weak and impermanent. And more than that; helpless. That, at the bottom line, was what it all meant. He was helpless. They were all helpless. They didn't ask to be born and they didn't ask to die. They were made to. But why, in between, did there have to be such pain? Perhaps humankind was more amusing that way. Perhaps they provided entertainment.
Thorn lay on the couch and slept. And his dreams were filled with fear. He saw himself dressed as a woman, yet knowing he was a man. He was on a crowded street and stopped a policeman, attempting to explain that he was lost and afraid. The policeman refused to listen, instead directing traffic around him until it came so close that he could feel the breeze. The breeze grew in intensity as the traffic moved faster, and Thorn felt as though he were caught in a gale. So strong was the wind that he could not catch his breath, and he gasped, hanging onto the policeman who refused to acknowledge he was there. He cried out for help, but no one could hear him, his cries drowned out by the howling wind. A black car suddenly swerved toward him and he struggled to get out of its way. But the wind pushed him on all^ides, holding him in place. As it bore down, he could see the driver's face. It had no features, yet it emitted a laugh, the flesh ripping open where a mouth should have been, spewing blood, as the car came bearing down.
At the moment of contact, Thorn awakened. He was gasping for breath and bathed in sweat. Slowly the dream left him and he lay immobile. It was early morning, and the house was quiet. He fought the urge to weep.
Scenes on the following pages
are from the 20th Century-Fox film, THE OMEN.
Jeremy Thorn, Ambassador to the Court of St. James (Gregory Peck), his wife Katherine (Lee Remick), and their son Damien (Harvey Stephens).
Damien and his nanny, Chessa (Holly Palance), at his birthday party.
The bizarre death of the nanny, as Katherine, with Damien, watches horrified.
Thorn and Katherine try to smooth out the problems in their marriage.
At the zoo, the animals go into a death frenzy at the sight of Damien.
The tragic "accidental" impalement of the mysterious priest, Father Tassone (Patrick Troughton).
What caused Katherine's fall? Another "accident"?
Thorn, distraught, visits Katherine in the hospital.
In an Italian monastery. Thorn questions the burned, blind Father Spilletto (Martin Benson).
Thorn and Jennings, a photographer (David Warner), break open a grave for clues to the mystery of Damien's birth.
In Jerusalem, Jennings is the victim of another incredible "accident"
Thorn locked in a death struggle with Damien's sinister second nanny, Mrs. Bay lock (Billie Whitelaw).
Would the evil never end?
Chapter Seven
Thorn's speech to the businessmen was at the Mayfair Hotel; by seven o'clock the convention room was filled to capacity. He had told his aides he wanted press coverage, so they had planted an item in the afternoon papers, and now people were being turned away at the door. There were not only the expected attendees, but plenty of reporters as well, even a group of street people who were allowed to stand at the back. The Communist party had taken a keen interest in Thorn, twice sending representatives to heckle and interrupt when he had spoken outdoors, and he hoped they would not be there tonight.
As he strode to the lectern, Thorn noticed, crouched among a small group of photographers, the one whose camera he had broken in front of the Embassy. The photographer smiled at him, holding up a new camera, and Thorn returned the smile, appreciative of the peace-making gesture. Then he waited for the hall to fall silent, and launched into his speech. He spoke of the world economic structure and the importance of the Common Market. In any society, he said, even prehistoric, the marketplace was the common ground, the equalizer of wealth, the melding place of disparate cultures. When one needs to buy, and the other needs to sell, we have the basic components of peace. When one needs to buy and the other refuses to sell, we have taken the first step toward war. He spoke of the community of mankind, the need to recognize that we are brethren, sharing an earth whose resources were meant for all.
"We are caught together," he said, quoting Henry Beston, "in the net of life and time. We are fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth."
It was an inspiring speech, and the audience hung on every word. The discourse turned toward political turmoil and its relationship to economy, Thorn singling out the faces of the Arabs in the audience and speaking directly to them.
"We can well understand the relationship of turmoil to poverty," he said, "but we must also be mindful that civilizations have been toppled by grievances born of too much luxury"
Thorn was in high gear now, and from a position at his feet, Jennings the photographer focused tight on his face and began snapping photos.
"It is a sad and ironic truth," continued Thorn, "dating as far back as King Solomon's time in Egypt, that those born to wealth and position . . ."
"You should know something about that!" shouted a voice from the back. And Thorn paused, squinting into the darkness of the auditorium. The voice did not come again and Thorn continued.
". . . dating as far back as the Pharaohs' time in Egypt, we find that those born to wealth and position . . ."
> "Tell us about it!" called the heckler again, and this time there was an angry stir in the audience; Thorn strained to see. It was a student. He was bearded, in blue jeans, probably from the Communist faction. "What do you know about poverty, Thorn?" he taunted. "You'll never have to work a day in your life!"
The audience hissed their resentment at the heckler, some shouting at him, but Thorn raised his hands for calm.
"The young man has something to say. Let's hear him out."
The youth stepped forward and Thorn waited for him to continue. He would let him rant until he was ranted out.
"If you're so concerned about sharing the wealth, why don't you share some of yours?" shouted the boy. "How many millions do you have? Do you know how many people are starving? Do you know what the change you're carrying in your pocket could do? With what you pay your chauffeur you could feed a family in India for 3 month! The grass on your forty-acre-front lawn could feed half the population of Bangladesh! The money you throw away on parties for your child could found a clinic right here in the south end of London! If you're going to urge people to give away their wealth, let's see an example! Don't stand there in your four-hundred-dollar suit and tell us what poverty is about!"
The assault was impassioned. The boy clearly scored. From the audience came a smattering of light applause and it was Thorn's turn to reply.
"Are you through?" asked Thorn.
"What are you worth. Thorn?" shouted the youth. "As much as Rockefeller?"
"Nowhere near."
"When Rockefeller was appointed Vice-President, the papers listed his income as slightly over three hundred million! You know what the slightly over was? Thirty-three million! Not even worth counting! That was his spare change, while half the population of the world died of starvation! Isn't there something obscene here? Does anyone need as much money as that?"
"I am not Mr. Rockefeller .. ."
"The hell you aren't!"
"Will you let me answer, please?"
"One child! One starving child! Do something for just one starving child! Then we'll believe you! Just reach out with your own hand, not your mouth, with your hand, and extend it to one starving child!"
"Perhaps I've done that," replied Thorn quietly.
"Where is he, then?" demanded the boy. "Who's the child? Who've you saved, Thorn? Who are you trying to save?"
"Certain of us have responsibilities that extend beyond one starving child."
"You can't save the world, Thorn, until you reach out for that first starving child."
The audience was with the heckler now. He was responded to with a firm and sudden applause.
"You have me at a disadvantage," said Thorn evenly. "You stand in the dark and hurl invective . . ."
"Then turn on the lights, I'll hurl it louder!"
The audience laughed and the houselights began to flicker on, the reporters and photographers suddenly rising, turning their attention to the back of the room. Jennings, the photographer, cursed himself for not having a long lens, and he focused on several heads, the angry youth centered among them.
On the stage, Thorn remained calm, but as the lights came up full, his manner suddenly changed. His eyes were not on the boy, but on another figure, hidden in the shadows some distance behind him. It was the figure of a priest, small in stature, a hat clutched tensely in his hand. It was Tassone. Even though Thorn could not see his features, he knew it was he, and it rendered him immobile.
"What's the matter, Thorn?" taunted the youth. "Nothing to say?"
Thorn's energy was suddenly gone, a wave of fear sweeping over him as he stood mute, gazing into the shadows. From a position beneath him, Jennings swung his camera in the direction of Thorn's fearful gaze, snapping off a series of shots.
"Come on, Thorn!" demanded the heckler. "You can see me now, what do you have to say?"
"I think . . ." said Thorn, faltering, ". . . your points are well taken. We should all share our wealth. I'll try to do more."
The boy was taken off guard, and so was the audience. Someone called for the lights to be switched out, and Thorn returned to his lectern. He struggled to find his place and then gazed up again into the darkness. And in a distant shaft of light, he could see the robes of the one who stalked him.
Jennings had returned late that night and put his films into the developer. The Ambassador had, as usual, impressed and intrigued him. He could spot fear as surely as a rat could smell cheese, and it was fear that he had seen through the viewfinder of his camera. It was not nameless fear, for it was evident that Thorn had seen something, or someone, in the darkness of the auditorium. The light had been poor and the camera angle wide, but Jennings had shot in the direction of the Ambassador's gaze and hoped he would find something when the film was developed. As he waited, he became aware that he was hungry and tore open a sack of groceries he'd bought on his way back from the hotel. He'd purchased a small barbecued chicken and a large bottle of root beer, and he set them out before him for a feast. The chicken was whole save for head and feet, and Jennings stuck it on the end of the root beer bottle so it sat upright, staring headlessly at him across the table. It was a mistake, for he could not eat it now, and instead reached over and flapped its little barbecued wings, and squawked a little as though it were talking. Then he opened a can of sardines and ate in silence with his mute dinner companion.
The timer went off and Jennings moved into the darkroom, using tongs to lift his proofsheets from the acid baths. What he saw brought jubilation, and he howled with joy. Turning on a bright light and slipping the sheet under a magnifying stand, he scrutinized the photos, shaking his head with delight. It was the series of shots taken of the back of the hall. Though not a single face or body could be made out in the darkness,
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."