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The Harbinger: The Ancient Mystery That Holds the Secret of America's Future
by Jonathan Cahn
Learn More | Meet Jonathan Cahn
An Ancient Mystery
"An ancient mystery that holds the secret of America’s future.”
“What would I think?”
“Yes, what would you think?”
“I’d think it was a plot for a movie. Is that it? Is that what you’re presenting . . . a movie manuscript?”
“A plot for a novel?”
He was silent.
“Then what?” she repeated.
He paused to carefully consider what he was about to say and how to say it. Her reputation among those in media was that of a woman who neither wasted her time nor indulged those who did. She was not known to suffer fools gladly. The discussion could meet an abrupt end at any given moment and there would be no second chance with her. The fact that there had even been a meeting in the first place, that she had even agreed to it, and that he was now sitting in her office, high above the streets of Manhattan, was nothing short of a miracle—and he knew it. He had only one concern—the message. It didn’t even occur to him to remove his black leather overcoat, nor had anyone offered to remove it for him. Leaning forward in his chair, he gave her his answer, slowly, cautiously, carefully deliberating every word.
“An ancient mystery . . . that holds the secret of America’s future . . . and on which its future hangs. And it’s not fiction—it’s real.”
She was quiet. At first, he took the silence as a positive sign, an indication that he was getting through. But then she spoke and quickly dispelled the notion.
“An Indiana Jones movie,” she said. “An ancient mystery hidden for thousands of years under the sands of the Middle East . . . but now revealed . . . and upon it hangs the fate of the entire world!”
Her flippancy provoked him to become all the more resolute. “But it’s not fiction,” he repeated. “It’s real.”
“What would I say?” she asked.
“Yes, what would you say?”
“I’d say you were crazy.”
“Perhaps I am,” he said with a slight smile. “Nevertheless . . . it’s real.”
“If you’re not crazy, then you’re joking . . . or you’re doing this all for dramatic effect . . . part of a presentation. But you can’t be serious.”
“But I am serious.”
She paused for a moment, staring into the eyes of her guest, attempting to ascertain whether he was sincere or not.
“So you are,” she said.
“So I am,” he replied, “and you have no idea how much so.”
It was then that her expression changed. Up to that point it had suggested a trace of amused interest. It now turned to that of total disengagement.
“No, I guess I don’t. Listen, I believe you’re a sincere man, but . . . I’m really . . . I’m really very busy, and I don’t have time for . . . ”
“That’s Goren. The accent’s on the last syllable. But Ana is fine.”
“Ana, you have nothing to lose by listening. Just go on the slight possibility . . . ”
“That you’re not crazy?”
“That too,” he said. “But the slight possibility that what I’m saying could actually be true, even the slight possibility that there could be something in what I’m telling you, even for that slightestof possibilities . . . for just that . . . it would be important enough to warrant your time. You need to hear me out.”
She sat back in her chair and stared at him, making no attempt to hide her skepticism.
“You still think I’m crazy.”
“Fully,” she said.
“For argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. I am crazy. Indulge me, as a public service.”
“I’ll indulge you, Mr. Kaplan, but there’s a limit.”
“Nouriel. You can call me Nouriel.”
At that, she got up from her chair and motioned for him to do likewise. She led him away from her desk to a small round conference table where the two sat down. The table was situated in front of a huge glass window through which one could see a vast panorama of skyscrapers with similar windows, each reflecting the light of the afternoon sun.
“All right, Nouriel. Tell me about your mystery.”
“It’s not my mystery. It’s much bigger than me. You have no idea how big, or what it involves.”
“And what does it involve?”
“Everything. It involves everything, and it explains everything . . . everything that’s happened, that’s happening, and everything that’s going to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Behind September 11 . . . ”
“How could an ancient mystery possibly have anything to do with September 11?”
“An ancient mystery behind everything from 9/11 to the economy . . . to the housing boom . . . to the war in Iraq . . . to the collapse of Wall Street. Everything in precise detail.”
“How? How could an ancient mystery possibly . . . ”
“Affect your life? Your bank account? Your future? But it does. And it holds the key to America’s future . . . to the rise and fall of nations . . . to world history. And it’s not only a mystery, it’s a message, an alarm.”
“An alarm?” she asked. “An alarm of what?”
“When you hear it,” he said, “you’ll understand why.”
“All this from a mystery that goes back . . . how far did you say?”
“I didn’t say.”
“So how far back does it go?”
“Two and a half thousand years.”
“A two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old mystery behind what’s happening in the twenty-first century from politics to the economy to foreign affairs—all that and you’re the only one who knows about it?”
“I’m not the only one.”
“Who else knows about it?” she asked.
“There’s at least one other.”
“Not the government? The government has no idea, even though it’s behind all that?”
“As far as I know, no government, no intelligence agency, no one else.”
“No one but you.”
“And at least one other.”
“And how did you happen to discover it?”
“I didn’t discover it,” he answered. “It was given to me.”
“Given? By whom?”
“And who was this man?”
“It’s hard to say.”
At this she leaned forward and spoke to him in a tone both intense and slightly sarcastic.
“Try me,” she said.
“You won’t understand.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” she replied, with a trace of amusement in her voice.
“No, he never told me.”
“So this earth-shattering mystery is known only by you and this one man who gave it to you but doesn’t have a name.”
“I didn’t say he didn’t have a name. He just never told it to me.”
“And you never asked?”
“I did, but he never told me.”
“No phone number?”
“He never gave me one.”
“No business card?”
“Not even an e-mail?”
“I don’t expect you to believe me yet.”
“Why not?” she replied, making no attempt to hide her skepticism. “It sounds so plausible!”
“But hear me out.”
“So this man with no name gives you this mystery.”
“And why to you?”
“I guess I was the right one.”
“So you were chosen?”
“I guess so,” he replied, his voice trailing off.
“And where did he get the mystery from?”
“I don’t know.”
“A mystery on which the nation’s future is hanging, and no one knows where it came from?”
“From where do prophets get their messages?”
“Prophets!” she said. “So now we’re talking prophets?”
“I guess we are.”
“As in Isaiah . . . Jeremiah?”
“Something like that.”
“The last time I heard about prophets I was in Sunday school, Nouriel. Prophets don’t exist anymore. They’ve been gone for ages.”
“How do you know?”
“So you’re telling me that the man who gave you this revelation is a prophet?”
“Something like that.”
“He told you he was a prophet?”
“No. He never came out and said it.”
“And you believe all this because it came from a prophet?”
“No,” he answered. “It wouldn’t have mattered who said it. It’s not about the messenger; it’s about the message.”
“So why are you telling me all this? Why did you come here? I’m not exactly known for dealing with anything remotely like this.”
“Because the stakes are so high. Because the future is hanging on it. Because it affects millions of people.”
“And you think I have a part in this?”
She leaned back in her chair and stared at him for a moment, intrigued, amused, and still trying to figure him out.
“So, Nouriel, tell me how it all began.”
He reached into his coat pocket, laid his closed hand down on the table, then opened it. In the middle of his palm was a small object of reddish, golden-brown clay, circular and about two inches in diameter.
“It all began with this.”
He handed it to her. She began examining it. The more she looked at it, the more intrigued she became. It was covered with what appeared to be ancient inscriptions.
“It all began with this.”
“And what is it?”
“It’s a seal,” he answered. “It’s the first seal.”
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