by Tim LaHaye
Ethan couldn’t scream or weep or speak or even find the words to pray. All he could do now was endure and believe that somehow he could overcome as he tumbled headlong, deeper and deeper, down into his inner hell.
FORTY
Alexander Colliquin was alone. He had cloistered himself inside the chapel located in the chancellor’s palace. The business before him was no longer just the geopolitics of the Alliance or the bringing together of all nations—although that was on the verge of being accomplished now that the United States would soon be forced to join the fold.
Nor was this about the unification of the world’s economies, though that had been accomplished as well.
This moment of Colliquin’s inside the chapel wasn’t really about religion either—not exactly. Although as planned, the soft, pliable metal of the world’s religions had been effectively soldered together by Bishop Dibold Kora under Colliquin’s supervision. Kora’s arrogant boasting had to be endured so that the task could be completed. And now that too was done.
No, this moment was about Alexander Colliquin. It belonged to him.
He glanced at the stained glass wall at the end of the chapel. He had personally commissioned it from one of the great neopagan artists of Brazil. It portrayed the blooming Tree of Knowledge from the garden of Eden, where wrapped around the trunk of the tree was a red-eyed serpent consuming its own tail. Whenever he was asked by a reporter why he had commissioned that particular imagery on the stained glass, Colliquin would grin and remark, “I always felt that the real hero of that story was the Tree of Knowledge. Isn’t knowledge and enlightenment something we all yearn for?”
That was his public statement. But within the very small circle of Colliquin’s close advisors, it was known that the global chancellor really had a different opinion. He privately joked that he thought that the real hero was the scaly creature wrapped around the tree.
Now, in the flickering light from eleven huge candles on eleven gothic candle stands mounted on the altar of the chapel, Colliquin knelt down beneath the stained glass image. As he did, he ran his finger across the golden profile fashioned on the ring on his left hand—the image of the ruby-eyed serpent.
“Today,” Colliquin said aloud, “your manifestations through the ages—Baal and Astoreth and Molech—are consummated in me. I am the vengeance of Cain. I am the right hand of the lord of the air, who is my god and sovereign. I am the one who has accomplished every one of the tasks that were set before me. Nothing has been left undone. I ask that I be granted your power, every bit of it. For I crave it all.”
His lord answered him.
An hour later Ho Zhu arrived outside of the chapel, looking for Colliquin. He knew he was forbidden to enter. But he also knew that Colliquin must be inside the chapel because he could see a vague shape through the glazed glass of the outer door, set off against the flickering light of candles.
A few more minutes passed, and then the door to the chapel opened and Alexander Colliquin stepped out. But Ho Zhu noticed something different about him, and it caused him to take a step back with a startled look, as a pedestrian might halt at the sight of a menacing figure in a dark alley.
“Don’t be afraid,” Colliquin said in a gentle voice. “Everything is perfect.”
Ho Zhu paused and gathered himself. “I have been told,” he said, “that Ethan March, the Jesus Remnant leader, is now in the digital lab and is being subjected to the nontagger protocol in lab testing room number six.’’
Colliquin smiled at that. “Of course he is,” he replied nonchalantly, as if he knew it without even being told. As if he also knew that the tipping point for his plan for Planet Earth had finally been achieved and that it was now utterly unstoppable.
Ethan was no longer in darkness. He was now in a place flooded with light. He had the strangest feeling that time had ceased, and that he had found himself in a region where schedules, deadlines, and the laws of nature were irrelevant.
All around him there was a golden illumination, like the kind that comes from the welcoming warmth of burning logs in a fireplace. At the same time, the light had the brilliance of a burning star, though there was no harshness in it and it didn’t blind his eyes.
When Ethan’s vision cleared, he saw that the light was coming from One who sat on a white throne and who was the source of the light itself. Then Ethan realized something else. He wasn’t alone, but he was in the midst of millions upon millions of others who all stood with him before the throne. Now the One sitting on the throne spoke. and as Ethan listened to Him his heart burned within him.
The King on the throne spoke to the millions and millions about the holy fire that had burned away all of the stubble and straw from their lives—the trivial things, the worthless things, the acts done for mere show or out of secret or selfish intentions. When Ethan heard that, he had no regrets, because it was all so very clear to him now: in this place, the shiny tinsel of cheap, earthly achievements had finally been swept away like confetti, leaving at last only those things that would be truly worthy of praise—the pure acts of grace and sacrificial love and the honest, unpretentious labors that had been performed out of love for the King of kings who sat on the throne. And it was clear too why it must be that way—because, of all of the things that had ever been done on earth, only those acts that were fully true and truly good would abide forever in this realm where the ocean of Jesus followers stood before the King on His throne.
Then the King, Jesus the Christ, the Alpha and the Omega, rose from His seat with a smile and slowly stepped forward, and as He did the multitude parted for Him as He approached one man in particular.
In the crowd of millions and millions, voices began to call out, “It is Stephen!” There was cheering and applause from this human tide, and a chorus of singing burst out in countless different languages, yet they could all be clearly understood.
Jesus wrapped His arms around the bearded fellow. “Stephen,” Jesus called out. His voice thundered like a thousand Niagara Falls. “You were faithful unto death. That day in Jerusalem, as you proclaimed My Truth to the mob as they picked up their rocks to dash them against your head and strike you down and kill you—even then you were faithful to Me and true to My Word. And so I give you the imperishable crown of victory.”
And the millions burst into cheering that seemed to rock the rafters of heaven.
Over to his right, Ethan noticed another man, broad shouldered and bearded, who stepped backward, looking to hide himself, as if preferring anonymity. A shorter man, slightly bald and a bit bowlegged, with bright, intense eyes, stopped him and kept him from retreating. The shorter man said, “How I have waited to see you honored.”
“Honored?” the big man said. “Brother Paul, you deserve it, all of it, but me? Not me. I am content.”
Paul looked him in the eye. “No. Both of us had our own betrayal against the Savior, did we not? Mine was against the Savior’s followers.” And with that, Paul gestured toward Stephen, who stood before the cheering millions as Jesus held His arm around him. “I consented to Stephen’s murder.” As he said it, his voice cracked.
The taller man simply shook his head, which hung low.
But the crowd parted again and opened itself to Jesus, who now held His inscrutable gaze on the tall man, who by then had turned himself slightly to the side. Jesus called out in a loud voice, “Simon.”
The tall man froze. Then Jesus called out to him by his other name. “Peter, come to me.”
“I turned against You, Lord,” Peter said. “Yet still You saved me and forgave me. I am content with that.”
There was a soft, unblinking look in Jesus’ eyes as He made His way toward him.
“I am guilty of that terrible denial,” Peter insisted.
“Denial?”
“That terrible night. When You were arrested, my Lord. When the guards had You bound I was standing by the fireside, not far from You. Denying that I even knew You . . .” Peter’s voice trembled. Ethan could see te
ars welling up in the big man’s eyes.
Jesus held Peter by his shoulders. “Denial?” Jesus repeated in an even softer voice. “What denial?”
Jesus reached out toward Peter’s face. And as He did, Ethan caught a glimpse of the scar on His hand, just there, where it met the wrist—the wound that was now healed, where He had been pierced by the six-inch Roman spikes. With that same hand, Jesus reached out and wiped the tears from Peter’s eyes. And then He said, “Your sins have been cast away as far away as the west is from the east.”
Peter looked at Jesus and smiled and cried and laughed and nodded his big shaggy head as his shoulders shook with emotion. Jesus then said to Peter, as His arm clasped around the big fisherman, “I know your service to My kingdom, and your steadfastness even to death. And now I say to you, Simon Peter, well done, good and faithful servant. Well done!”
Suddenly Ethan turned in a slow circle, scanning the millions around him. Breathless now, he saw in an instant that sea of faces, all those who would be honored by Christ the King. Ethan saw the missionaries who had died from dysentery or from the spears of tribesmen in distant jungles and the humble and faithful teachers from obscure Christian schools around the world who had sacrificially imparted the gospel of Christ to tender hearts. He saw the pastors and secretaries and Bible study leaders and musicians and writers and Sunday school workers and campground preachers, radio talkers and television broadcasters, statesmen and lawyers, carpenters and brick layers. He saw tech engineers and late-night cleaning persons who with aching arms and tired feet were the last ones to turn out the lights in humble buildings that had been built on faith. He saw soup kitchen providers and rescue mission workers, and those followers of Jesus who lived out their lives in wheelchairs, on crutches, in blindness, or without limbs, and yet who still labored cheerfully in the vineyards of God to do His bidding, to preach the salvation of Jesus Christ to everyone they encountered. Ethan saw all those workers of a billion acts of unseen kindness and compassion toward the oppressed, the wanderers, the broken of body or mind, the poor, the diseased, who did it all for no other purpose than to spread the love of the Savior to those who desperately needed redemption and who sought His touch. These were the ones, the faithful, who had been saved by the blood of the Lamb of God, and now they would be rewarded by the Lamb, who was the King of kings and Lord of lords.
Just then a man directly in front of Ethan, who stood next to an attractive dark-haired woman, turned around to face Ethan. And when he did, Joshua Jordan looked Ethan straight in the eye, as they stood face-to-face. And as he did, the millions disappeared. Even Abigail Jordan, whom Ethan had suddenly recognized as she stood next to Josh, was gone too. Now it was only the two of them: Ethan and Josh.
“Be courageous,” Josh said in a voice that had a calm certainty to it. He looked so much younger now, perhaps in his thirties, yet Ethan could recognize the familiar features. The stone-square jaw, the piercing eyes, the slightly receding hair, cut short.
“Don’t be afraid,” Josh said. “The Lord is with you. Greater is He who is in you than he that is in the world.” Then he laid his hand on Ethan’s shoulder and said, “Now, go. And turn the world upside down.”
Ethan nodded. But as he turned to leave, he wondered, Go where?
He swiveled back to face Josh, but when he did he realized that he was now utterly alone. Even the King of kings and His throne were gone, and the only thing left was Ethan and the silence that had enveloped him.
“Tell me, am I still alive?” Ethan tried to yell into the milky void that was now all around him. But his voice had grown weaker and fainter, almost unintelligible. He heard his own voice, and it was barely audible as he spoke.
“I think I’m dying . . .”
FORTY-ONE
WHITE HOUSE GROUNDS
Washington, D.C.
Vlad Malatov, aka agent Theodore Booth, stood at the northwest gate, dressed smartly in his suit and tie. He pushed the button on the intercom and announced himself. A voice came back, “ID, please.”
He slid his paperwork and ID through the slot in the bulletproof security booth. He knew what would come next. The security guard would cross-check the information against the NCIC and NLETS databases on the computer screen. He saw the officer tapping some buttons on the screen. Then the door buzzed and Malatov entered and passed through the body scanner.
“Okay, Agent Booth,” the security guard said. “Remain here. Another agent is on the way to escort you.”
Malatov waited, relaxed but focused. Ten minutes passed. Then he saw another dark-suited Secret Service agent approaching the gatehouse along the flagstone walkway. When Agent Decker entered the gate booth, he shook hands with Malatov, introduced himself, and retrieved the transfer papers from the security guard. The agent glanced at the paperwork, then nodded for Malatov to follow him back along the stone walkway that led to the West Wing of the White House.
“Transfer from Miami?” Agent Decker asked as they walked.
“Yes, sir,” Malatov replied.
“Gee,” the agent said, “leaving all that behind—tropical breezes, pretty girls on the beach.”
“But now I can root for the Nationals,” Malatov said with a grin.
“What’s wrong with the Miami Marlins?”
“Everything. They came in second to last in the National League East last season,” Malatov shot back. “After they fired Ozzie Guillen way back when—That was awhile ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, after Guillen was gone, things suddenly went straight down the tubes for them.”
“Oh?” Decker replied, slowing down his pace slightly and eyeing Malatov closer now. The doors to the West Wing lobby were just ahead. Decker smiled. “So, Washington, D.C., now, huh? Why’d you pick this place? Haven’t you heard what August is like in this city with all of the humidity?”
“Why, Agent Decker,” Malatov answered with a grin as he came to a full halt. “You know better than that. It wasn’t my idea. The Service told me I was to be transferred. It’s right there in the reassignment documents. So here I am.”
“Yes,” Decker agreed as he escorted him into the West Wing lobby. “So you are.”
AMERINEWS HEADQUARTERS
New York City, New York
Inside the office with the title Publisher etched on the glass door, Bart Kingston leaned back in his chair, eyeing the enlarged digital copy on the big wall screen. The story was about to go worldwide.
Terri Schultz jogged in. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I’ve been checking out this piece on the Hewbright impeachment,” he said. “Powerful stuff.”
“Thanks,” she said and cocked her head like she was waiting for the rest.
“But”—Kingston continued.
“Yeah, here it comes.”
“It’s just that we’ve done several stories on Jessica Tulrude.”
“Of course. And one of those was mine—the interview with the pharmacologist from NIH who checked the treatment records of President Corland back when Tulrude was his VP and swore up, down, and sideways that Corland had been given the fatally wrong medication. And then we were able to tie that to Tulrude’s personal physician . . .”
“Sure, who then conveniently committed suicide before the inquiry. I remember it all too, Terri. But that also prevented us from getting any clear proof that Jessica was some kind of . . .”
“Lady Macbeth?”
“Something like that,” Kingston said. “And so, here we go again, targeting Tulrude one more time.”
“I think I see your point. It’s as subtle as a semi.”
He guffawed. “Good. I’m glad you’ve got it.” Quickly his tone switched to the all-business channel. “Everything we write has to be nailed down. We’re a very successful, but very small, digital news service. The only reason we still exist on the Internet is because the U.S. hasn’t been roped into the Global Alliance yet. And the only reason that hasn’t happened is because Hewbright survived the Senate trial and is still in the Oval Offi
ce. And the only reason that is the case . . .”
“. . . is because,” Terri said, finishing the sentence, “Jessica Tulrude and Alexander Colliquin weren’t able to pull enough strings with enough senators in the Senate. But, Bart, they tried. That’s the point of my story.”
“And according to you, Colliquin wants Hewbright out because . . . ?”
“You’ve read the piece I wrote,” she shot back. “Colliquin used Tulrude to try to pressure the Senate into removing Hewbright. And then he got the World Parliament to enact this brutal sanctions boycott against us just for good measure. To up the ante. Keeping the heat on the Senate in an effort to try to get rid of Hewbright.”
“I don’t have any quarrel with that. It’s all true, and you’ve documented it. But then you go out on a limb—way out—and speculate about the reasons why Colliquin is trying so hard to pull America into the Alliance.”
“Isn’t it obvious? We have the massive communications infrastructure that he needs. Private telecommunications networks. Satellites. The NSA. The guy’s a megalomaniac of the highest order. So I think it’s beyond debate that he wants to control every bit of the information and communication technology on the planet. And the United States has all of the tech hardware and networks for him to achieve that.”
Kingston leaned back in his executive chair. “And what’s your source for all of that?”
Terri threw up her hands in exasperation. “All my sources are listed on my computer superzip. It’s all there.”
“I know your sources,” he said in a knowing voice. His voice was firmer now, even though his face had an understanding look. “You’ve pieced your theory together from a few comments Ethan made during our Roundtable video conference. But you know that anything discussed in those meetings can never be used to substantiate news stories. You have to nail them down independently. That’s the deal.”
