by Tim LaHaye
The bottom line was that life was not as fun as he thought it would be. Money, he was convinced, would change that. Prestige, which went with captaining an airliner, would too.
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The happiest day of Rayford Steele’s life—though he didn’t admit to Irene that it superseded even their wedding day, their honeymoon night, or the birth of their daughter—came when he got the offer from Pan-Continental Airlines to become a flight engineer in the cockpit for flying 747-200s. He had trained on the monsters in the air force and impressed the Pan-Con brass.
Standing before the mirror in his new dress blues with Irene and Chloe, then four, admiring him and cooing over him, Rayford could not stop grinning. At six-four and two hundred and twenty pounds, his gold braid and buttons gleaming, all he could think of was a house in the suburbs and a great new car. Within a month he was dreamily, satisfyingly, as deep in debt as he could afford.
Irene cautioned that they had bought more house than they needed, but Rayford could see in her eyes that she loved the place. She had been a fastidious housekeeper in their dingy apartment, but now she was a woman on a mission. Creative and precise, she made their new home neat and gorgeous—a haven.
Complicating Rayford’s life, however, was the fact that his father was now altogether incapacitated. He was in the full-care unit, nearly twice as expensive as the normal residence had been. Rayford’s mother had deteriorated as well. She seemed older and more fragile than ever. That her husband did not recognize or even acknowledge her seemed to crush her spirit.
Worse, though Rayford tried to convince himself otherwise, he detected symptoms in his mother he had noticed in his dad before he was diagnosed. “Tell me it’s just normal aging, Irene,” he said.
“I wish I could.”
__
For the next few years, the Steeles lived on the edge of solvency. When his mother was also institutionalized, Rayford drowned in the many details of selling off the family home, trying to salvage something from the sale of the tool and die, and attempting to stay afloat financially. Despite what he called “too much month at the end of the money” every paycheck, his income allowed him more credit than he could afford. He would not deny himself a BMW convertible and a sedan for his wife.
“I don’t need this,” Irene said. “Can we afford it?”
“Of course,” he said. “Don’t deny me the privilege of buying you something nice.”
Though it racked him with guilt, Rayford began wishing his parents would die. He told himself it would be better for them. His father had long since been virtually gone, unaware of his surroundings, enjoying hardly anything resembling quality of life. And his mother was hard on his heels. They would be better off, and so would Rayford and his family.
Nick Carpathia somehow avoided the typical travails of preadolescence. He never went through a gangly or awkward stage. His glowing skin never broke out. By the time he was sixteen he was so far ahead of his peers that he could have tested out of high school. But he wanted to be valedictorian first. Once that was accomplished, he enrolled at the University of Romania at Bucharest, determined to graduate in two years.
“I want to stay at the InterContinental,” he told Aunt Viv.
“That would be exorbitant,” she said.
“And I want Star Diamond boarded as close by as possible.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Of course she would. She had apparently been put on earth to do Nick’s bidding. He found her amusing. He loved going to her classes and beating her to the punch. The netherworld seemed to communicate with him first, and it was not beyond him to clarify messages for her or even shout them out before they reached her.
Irene Steele had talked of having another child, but Rayford wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t want to tell her how delicate their financial situation had become, but she had to have an idea. When Chloe was seven years old, Irene carefully broke the news to Rayford: another baby was on the way.
He tried to act excited, but he couldn’t muster the requisite enthusiasm. That threw Irene into a funk that lasted until she was able to announce that it was a boy and that she hoped Rayford would agree to name him after himself. Rayford’s ego was stroked, and he even looked into moving to a better neighborhood—until Irene put the kibosh on that. “You think I can’t read our bank statements?” she said. “I admire what you’re doing for your parents, but as long as that continues, this is going to be our lot.”
Rayford enjoyed striding through the corridors of the country’s major airports. He was already graying, but he liked the new look, and Irene said it only made him more distinguished.
When he was nineteen Nick Carpathia demanded a meeting with Reiche Planchette. “It is time for me to know my natural history,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“You know what I mean, Reiche.” He could tell Planchette didn’t like to be referred to by his first name, especially by a teenager. “I want to know who my father is.”
“Impossible. Thoroughly confidential.”
“By tomorrow,” Nick said.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The next day Planchette arrived at Nick’s suite with a thick folder. “I need not remind you how highly classified this information is.”
“Then why remind me, Reiche? Just let me see it.”
“I can’t leave it with you. It is not to leave my—”
“You have copies.”
“Of course, but—”
“I will return these to you tomorrow.”
“Very well.”
The next day Nick showed up at Planchette’s tiny office in a dingy building in downtown Bucharest. “This place is an embarrassment to the association,” Nick said.
“All our money goes to your lodging and whims, Nick.”
Young Carpathia stared at him. “Do I detect resentment, Reiche?”
“Maybe. Are you familiar with the phrase high maintenance?”
Nick rubbed his eyes and let his head roll back. “Oh, Reiche. Are you familiar with the term unemployment?”
Planchette stood. “I’ve been a loyal employee of the association long enough to not have to be subjected—”
“Oh, sit down. I have questions about this file.”
“I can’t imagine, Nick. Everything is there.”
“So I am a freak. I have two fathers.”
“Correct. Well, not the freak part, but yes.”
“And they have been given all this money?”
“By Mr. Stonagal, yes.”
“And you complain about my expenses?”
“Well—”
“Stonagal has a sea of money, Reiche. I would say that, so far, I am a bargain. I want two things: a stake in an international import/export business. Say ten million euros to start.”
“Ten million!”
“And I want these two opportunists off the payroll.”
“Impossible.”
“Not if they are eliminated.”
“They are your fathers. We can’t just—”
“Am I having trouble making myself understood, Reiche?”
“I’ll pass the word along, Nick.”
Carpathia tossed the folder onto Planchette’s desk, and it pushed other papers onto the floor as it slid to him. “That reminds me. I guess I want a third thing: to be referred to by my given name.”
“Nicolae? You seem—”
“Good guess, Reiche.”
“You seem so young—”
“To be making more money than you? Was that what you were going to say?”
“No. I just—”
“Because that will be true soon; will it not?”
“Well, I—I mean, the powers that be will have to decide whether your being a businessman is in the best interest of—”
Nicolae stood. “Please, Reiche, spare me the time, would you?”
Planchette sighed and hefted the folder, scowling.
“You are going to resent working for me; are
you not, Reiche?”
Planchette cocked his head. “Am I?”
“Going to resent it or going to work for me? Because there is no question of the latter. The only question is the former.”
“I am a loyal soldier, Nick . . . olae. Nicolae. I will do what I am called upon to do.”
“I know you will. Tell me something. When does one get the privilege of talking to the big guy, the leader, the boss?”
“Stonagal?”
Nicolae laughed. “You think he is in charge? Maybe that is why you will be working for me before long. You know who I am talking about.”
“The chief spirit? That is a privilege. A rare privilege.”
“How about you, Reiche? Have you had the privilege?”
“Two different times, now many years ago. Ms. Ivinisova too. Just once for her. But I can tell you this: it isn’t like you talk to him; he talks to you.”
“But you can then respond, right?”
“Of course.”
“I cannot wait.”
TWENTY-FIVE
WHEN HE FINALLY became a captain, Rayford believed he had arrived. He got his finances under some modicum of control, and he looked forward to the birth of Rayford Jr., whom Irene was already referring to as Raymie.
“That makes no sense if he’s a Rayford Jr.,” Rayford said, but the name stuck.
He loved flying, being in charge, supervising a crew, chatting up the passengers; and he took satisfaction in his perfect safety record. But when Rayford allowed himself the luxury of assessing his life, he had to admit he was living for himself, not for anyone else. Oh, he did things for Irene and Chloe and soon Raymie. But everything revolved around him.
Rayford was proud he had never allowed his love for alcohol to impede his work. One December afternoon, just after he arrived for a flight, O’Hare had been shut down due to heavy snow. The forecast looked bleak, and he assumed he would be sent home soon. So he and a few colleagues enjoyed a couple of martinis each, then hung around in the pilots’ lounge, waiting to be released.
But suddenly the snow stopped, the plows gained purchase on the runways, and the announcement came that takeoffs would begin again in half an hour. Rayford asked his teammates if they were up to flying after drinking. To a person, each said he had had only a couple and felt fine about proceeding.
Rayford felt the same but also believed he shouldn’t risk it. He called his supervisor, Earl Halliday. “I’ll take whatever dock in pay you have to mete out, Earl,” he said, “but I had a couple of martinis when I was sure we’d be grounded, and now I’m afraid I had better ground myself.”
“Where’m I gonna get a replacement at this hour, Steele?” Halliday said. “You sure two martinis are going to have an effect on a big guy like you?”
“I’m sorry, Earl. But I’m not going to drive a fully loaded heavy tonight.”
Halliday slammed down the phone, but on Rayford’s way home—confident to drive himself but not to be responsible for hundreds of passengers—he took a call from Earl. “Got somebody, in case you’re interested.”
“That’s a relief. Sorry about that, Chief. I won’t let it happen again. What’s it going to cost me?”
“Nothing.”
“Say again?”
“You did the right thing, Steele, and I’m proud of you. You gave me a headache, but the alternative could have been a nightmare. Good man.”
Irene seemed to love to tell that story. Rayford had to ask her to quit referring to him as her “straight-arrow captain,” though secretly he was thrilled that she was proud of him. That’s why his brush with infidelity would have flattened her. He could never tell Irene, and he lived with the guilt of it—even though, thankfully, it stopped short of actual adultery—for years.
It happened just two weeks after he had grounded himself. He and Irene were about to head to Earl Halliday’s staff Christmas party when at the last minute Irene announced she couldn’t make it. She was two weeks from delivery and not feeling well, but she insisted he go and enjoy himself and greet everyone for her.
He wasn’t scheduled to fly that night, of course, and knowing he could get a cab home, Rayford did not temper his thirst. He was not the type to dance on tables, but he sensed himself getting louder and friendlier as the night wore on. Trish, a beautiful young intern in Earl’s office—the one who always smiled when he dropped by—flirted with him all evening. Her boyfriend was out of town, and when she said one too many times that she would love to get Rayford alone, he said, “You’d better quit advertising if you’re not selling.”
“Oh, I’m selling,” she said, “if you’re buying.”
While some were holding forth at the top of their lungs around the piano and others were dancing, Trish grabbed Rayford’s hand and pulled him into a secluded closet.
Five minutes later, after some heavy necking, Rayford pulled away. “I’m not going to do this,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Captain. I won’t tell.”
“Neither would I, but I would know. And I’d like to be able to face myself tomorrow. Irene is—”
“I know,” she said. “Go home to your pregnant wife. There are more where you came from.”
Two days later, racked by a guilt he would never fully shed, Rayford dreaded a visit to Earl’s office. The boss just had routine business with him, but Rayford didn’t want to face Trish. No such luck. She greeted him on his way in and asked if he had a minute later.
On his way out she beckoned him to a corner where they could be seen but not heard. “I want to apologize for the other night,” she said.
“Don’t give it another thought,” he said. “We were both drunk.”
“Not as drunk as I got later, thinking about my boyfriend. He’s about to pop the question, and I feel terrible.”
“Imagine how I feel, Trish.”
“Forgive me,” she said.
“It never happened,” he said.
But it happened over and over in his mind for the next several years. The pangs hit him at the strangest times. It might be when he was frolicking with Raymie or playing with Chloe or just talking with Irene. At times he felt such a compulsion to confess to his wife that he had to find other things to distract himself. Nothing had really happened, and while it had been stupid and would have infuriated him if it had been Irene with some guy, he knew telling her would only hurt her and that nothing positive could come of it besides getting it off his conscience. Trish had long since left the airline, married, and moved away.
So what was the guilt all about? It certainly hadn’t come from their church, something he had feared when first they began to attend. He actually liked the generic flavor of the services. No one was made to feel like a worthless sinner. There was just lots of inspiration and friendliness. No wonder people enjoyed going there.
Strangely, in the last several months, Irene had seemed to grow restless. “There has to be more,” she said more than once. “Don’t you ever feel like you’d like to reconnect with God, Rayford? Personally, I mean.”
He had to think about that one. “That implies we were once connected.”
“Weren’t you, ever? I feel like I was. Until He didn’t answer my prayers.”
Rayford shook his head. “I was never really into it. I mean, I’m okay with church. And I believe in God; don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want to become some fundamentalist or literalist or whatever they call those people who talk to God every day and think He talks to them too.”
“I don’t want to be a weirdo either, Rafe,” Irene said. “But feeling like you’re actually talking with God and He’s communicating with you? What could be better than that?”
By age twenty-one, Nicolae Carpathia was nearly finished with graduate school and ran an import/export empire with Reiche Planchette low on his payroll. Carpathia was on the cover of every business magazine in Europe, and while he had not yet made the cover of Time or Global Weekly, that couldn’t be far off.
He lived in a mansion on the o
utskirts of Bucharest, not a half mile from where his biological fathers had been assassinated a few years before. Viv Ivins enjoyed quarters on the top floor and managed his personal affairs. She supervised his valets, his drivers, his household and garden staff. His every need was cared for.
Nicolae was in the middle of two projects: clandestinely hiring an off-the-books cadre of professional facilitators who would make sure his least cooperative competitors met the same fate his fathers and his mother had, and surrounding himself with the politically astute. His next horizon was government. First he would get himself elected to the Romanian parliament. Then he would angle for the presidency. Next step Europe. Ultimate goal: the world.
There was no such position yet, of course, leader of the world. But by the time he ascended, there would be. He just knew it.
The day would come when Rayford Steele tried desperately to communicate with God. He and Irene had been married a dozen years. Chloe was eleven, Raymie three.
Rayford had just been named captain on a Pan-Con Boeing 747-400 and was about to fly from O’Hare to LAX with a first officer who introduced himself as Christopher Smith. “I go by Chris.” A couple of years younger than Rayford, Chris said he was married and had two elementary-school–age boys. He seemed a seasoned, no-nonsense guy—the type Rayford appreciated. Having only two men in the cockpit of a heavy was going to take some getting used to.
The only other newbie on the crew was a young flight attendant named Hattie Durham, who looked enough like the infamous Trish that Rayford had to once again slug it out with his conscience over the Christmas party fiasco a few years before. Hattie was introduced to him by his favorite senior flight attendant, Janet Allen. When she sent Hattie back to her chores, Janet whispered, “Just between you and me, Captain, she’s a little ditzy. Ambitious, though, I’ll give her that. Wants my job on an international route.”
“Think she’ll make it?”
“I’m not sure she knows when we’re in the air or on the ground just yet.”
As he and Chris Smith settled into the cockpit, Rayford said, “I love flying these. They handle nice and solid on final because of the weight.”
