by Tim LaHaye
“He already has.”
“Yes, but it appears that all these long-range agreements he has been conceded will take months or years to effect. Now he has to show some potency. What might he do to entrench himself so solidly that no one can oppose him?”
“I don’t know.”
“He undoubtedly has ulterior motives for wanting you there.”
“I’m no good to him.”
“You would be if he controlled you.”
“But he doesn’t.”
“If he is the evil one the Bible speaks of, there is little he does not have the power to do. I warn you not to go there without protection.”
“A bodyguard?”
“At least. But if Carpathia is the Antichrist, do you want to face him without God?”
Buck was taken aback. This conversation was bizarre enough without wondering if Bruce was using any means necessary to get him to convert. No doubt it had been a sincere and logical question, yet Buck felt pressured. “I see what you mean,” he said slowly, “but I don’t think I’m going to get hypnotized or anything.”
“Mr. Williams, you have to do what you have to do, but I’m pleading with you. If you go into that meeting without God in your life, you will be in mortal and spiritual danger.”
He told Buck about his conversation with the Steeles and how they had collectively come up with the idea of a Tribulation Force. “It’s a band of serious-minded people who will boldly oppose the Antichrist. I just didn’t expect that his identity would become so obvious so soon.”
The Tribulation Force stirred something deep within Buck. It took him back to his earliest days as a writer, when he believed he had the power to change the world. He would stay up all hours of the night, plotting with his colleagues how they would have the courage and the audacity to stand up to oppression, to big government, to bigotry. He had lost that fire and verve over the years as he won accolades for his writing. He still wanted to do the right things, but he had lost the passion of the all-for-one and one-for-all philosophy as his talent and celebrity began to outstrip those same colleagues.
The idealist, the maverick in him, gravitated toward such ideas, but he caught himself before he talked himself into becoming a believer in Christ just because of an exciting little club he could join.
“Do you think I could sit in on your core group meeting tomorrow?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Bruce said. “I think you’d find it interesting and I personally believe it would help convince you, but it is limited to our leadership team. Truth is, I’ll be going over with them tomorrow what you and I are talking about tonight, so it would be a rerun for you anyway.”
“And church Sunday?”
“You’re very welcome, but I must say, it’s going to be the same theme I use every Sunday. You’ve heard it from Ray Steele and you’ve heard it from me. If hearing it one more time would help, then come on out and see how many seekers and finders there are. If it’s anything like the last two Sundays, it will be standing room only.”
Buck stood and stretched. He had kept Bruce long past midnight, and he apologized.
“No need,” Bruce said. “This is what I do.”
“Do you know where I can get a Bible?”
“I’ve got one you can have,” Bruce said.
The next day the core group enthusiastically and emotionally welcomed its newest member, Chloe Steele. They spent much of the day studying the news and trying to determine the likelihood of Nicolae Carpathia’s being the Antichrist. No one could argue otherwise.
Bruce told the story of Buck Williams, without using his name or mentioning his connection with Rayford and Chloe. Chloe cried silently as the group prayed for his safety and for his soul.
CHAPTER 24
Buck spent Saturday holed up in the otherwise empty Chicago bureau office, getting a head start on his article on the theory behind the disappearances. His mind continually swirled, forcing him to think about Carpathia and what he would say in that piece about how the man seemed to be a perfect parallel to biblical prophecy. Fortunately, he could wait on writing that until after the big day Monday.
Around lunchtime, Buck reached Steve Plank at the Plaza Hotel in New York. “I’ll be there Monday morning,” he said, “but I’m not inviting Hattie Durham.”
“Why not? It’s a small request, friend to friend.”
“You to me?”
“Nick to you.”
“So now it’s Nick, is it? Well, he and I are not close enough for that familiarity, and I don’t provide female companionship even to my friends.”
“Not even for me?”
“If I knew you would treat her with respect, Steve, I’d set you up with Hattie.”
“You’re really not going to do this for Carpathia?”
“No. Am I uninvited?”
“I’m not going to tell him.”
“How are you going to explain it when she doesn’t show?”
“I’ll ask her myself, Buck, you prude.”
Buck didn’t say he would warn Hattie not to go. He asked Steve if he could get one more exclusive with Carpathia before starting his cover story on him.
“I’ll see what I can do, but you can’t even do a small favor and you want another break?”
“He likes me, you said. You know I’m going to do the complete piece on the guy. He needs this.”
“If you watched TV yesterday, you know he doesn’t need anything. We need him.”
“Do we? Have you run into any schools of thought that link him to end-times events in the Bible?”
Steve Plank did not respond.
“Steve?”
“I’m here.”
“Well, have you? Anybody that thinks he might fill the bill for one of the villains of the book of Revelation?”
Steve said nothing.
“Hello, Steve.”
“I’m still here.”
“C’mon, old buddy. You’re the press secretary. You know all. How’s he going to respond if I hit him with that?”
Steve was still silent.
“Don’t do this to me, Steve. I’m not saying that’s where I am or that anybody who knows anything or who matters thinks that way. I’m doing the piece on what was behind the disappearances, and you know that takes me into all kinds of religious realms. Nobody anywhere has drawn any parallels here?”
This time when Steve said nothing, Buck merely looked at his watch, determined to wait him out. About twenty seconds after a loud silence, Steve spoke softly. “Buck, I have a two-word answer for you. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“Staten Island.”
“Are you tellin’ me that—?”
“Don’t say the name, Buck! You never know who’s listening.”
“So you’re threatening me with—”
“I’m not threatening. I’m warning. Let me say I’m cautioning you.”
“And let me remind you, Steve, that I don’t warn well. You remember that, don’t you, from ages ago when we worked together and you thought I was the toughest bird dog you’d ever sent on a story?”
“Just don’t go sniffing the wrong brier patch, Buck.”
“Let me ask you this then, Steve.”
“Careful, please.”
“You want to talk to me on another line?”
“No, Buck, I just want you to be careful what you say so I can be, too.”
Buck began scribbling furiously on a yellow pad. “Fair enough,” he said, writing, Carpathia or Stonagal resp. for Eric Miller? “What I want to know is this: If you think I should stay off the ferry, is it because of the guy behind the wheel, or because of the guy who supplies his fuel?”
“The latter,” Steve said without hesitation.
Buck circled Stonagal. “Then you don’t think the guy behind the wheel is even aware of what the fuel distributor does in his behalf.”
“Correct.”
“So if someone got too close to the pilot, the pilot might be pro
tected and not even know it.”
“Correct.”
“But if he found out about it?”
“He’d deal with it.”
“That’s what I expect to see soon.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Can you tell me who you really work for?”
“I work for who it appears to you I work for.”
What in the world did that mean? Carpathia or Stonagal? How could he get Steve to say on a phone from within the Plaza that might be bugged?
“You work for the Romanian businessman?”
“Of course.”
Buck nearly kicked himself. That could be either Carpathia or Stonagal. “You do?” he said, hoping for more.
“My boss moves mountains, doesn’t he?” Steve said.
“He sure does,” Buck said, circling Carpathia this time. “You must be pleased with everything going on these days.”
“I am.”
Buck scribbled, Carpathia. End times. Antichrist? “And you’re telling me straight up that the other issue I raised is dangerous but also hogwash.”
“Total roll in the muck.”
“And I shouldn’t even broach the subject with him, in spite of the fact that I’m a writer who covers all the bases and asks the tough questions?”
“If I thought you would consider mentioning it, I could not encourage the interview or the story.”
“Boy, it didn’t take long for you to become a company man.”
After the core-group meeting, Rayford Steele talked privately with Bruce Barnes and was updated on the meeting with Buck. “I can’t discuss the private matters,” Bruce said, “but only one thing stands in the way of my being convinced that this Carpathia guy is the Antichrist. I can’t make it compute geographically. Almost every end-times writer I respect believes the Antichrist will come out of Western Europe, maybe Greece or Italy or Turkey.”
Rayford didn’t know what to make of that. “You notice Carpathia doesn’t look Romanian. Aren’t they mostly dark?”
“Yeah. Let me call Mr. Williams. He gave me a number. I wonder how much more he knows about Carpathia.” Bruce dialed and put Buck on the speakerphone. “Ray Steele is with me.”
“Hey, Captain,” Buck said.
“We’re just doing some studying here,” Bruce said, “and we’ve hit a snag.” He told Buck what they had found and asked for more information.
“Well, he comes from a town, one of the larger university towns, called Cluj, and—”
“Oh, he does? I guess I thought he was from a mountainous region, you know, because of his name.”
“His name?” Buck repeated, doodling it on his legal pad.
“You know, being named after the Carpathian Mountains and all. Or does that name mean something else over there?”
Buck sat up straight and it hit him! Steve had been trying to tell him he worked for Stonagal and not Carpathia. And of course all the new U.N. delegates would feel beholden to Stonagal because he had introduced them to Carpathia. Maybe Stonagal was the Antichrist! Where had his lineage begun?
“Well,” Buck said, trying to concentrate, “maybe he was named after the mountains, but he was born in Cluj and his ancestry, way back, is Roman. That accounts for the blond hair and blue eyes.”
Bruce thanked him and asked if he would see Buck in church the next day. Rayford thought Buck sounded distracted and noncommittal. “I haven’t ruled it out,” Buck said.
Yes, Buck thought, hanging up. I’ll be there all right. He wanted every last bit of input before he went to New York to write a story that could cost him his career and maybe his life. He didn’t know the truth, but he had never backed off from looking for it, and he wouldn’t begin now. He phoned Hattie Durham.
“Hattie,” he said, “you’re going to get a call inviting you to New York.”
“I already did.”
“They wanted me to ask you, but I told them to do it themselves.”
“They did.”
“They want you to see Carpathia again, provide him some companionship next week if you’re free.”
“I know and I am and I will.”
“I’m advising you not to do it.”
She laughed. “Right, I’m going to turn down a date with the most powerful man in the world? I don’t think so.”
“That would be my advice.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because you don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”
“First, I’m not a girl. I’m almost as old as you are, and I don’t need a parent or legal guardian.”
“I’m talking as a friend.”
“You’re not my friend, Buck. It was obvious you didn’t even like me. I tried to shove you off onto Rayford Steele’s little girl, and I’m not sure you even had the brains to pick up on that.”
“Hattie, maybe I don’t know you. But you don’t seem the type who would allow herself to be taken advantage of by a stranger.”
“You’re pretty much a stranger, and you’re trying to tell me what to do.”
“Well, are you that kind of a person? By not passing along the invitation, was I protecting you from something you might enjoy?”
“You’d better believe it.”
“I can’t talk you out of it?”
“You can’t even try,” she said, and she hung up.
Buck shook his head and leaned back in his chair, holding the yellow pad in front of him. My boss moves mountains, Steve had said. Carpathia is a mountain. Stonagal is the mover and shaker behind him. Steve thinks he’s really wired in deep. He’s not only press secretary to the man Hattie Durham correctly called the most powerful man on earth, but Steve is also actually in league with the man behind the man.
Buck wondered what Rayford or Chloe would do if they knew Hattie had been invited to New York to be Carpathia’s companion for a few days. In the end, he decided it was none of his, or their, business.
Rayford and Chloe watched for Buck until the last minute the next morning, but they could no longer save a seat for him when the sanctuary and the balcony filled. When Bruce began his message, Chloe nudged her father and pointed out the window, down onto the walk before the front door. There, in a small crowd listening to an external speaker, was Buck. Rayford raised a celebratory fist and whispered to Chloe, “Wonder what you’re going to pray for this morning?”
Bruce played the former pastor’s DVD, told his own story again, talked briefly about prophecy, invited people to receive Christ, and then opened the microphone for personal accounts. As had happened the previous two weeks, people streamed forward and stood in line until well after one in the afternoon, eager to tell how they had now, finally, trusted Christ.
Chloe told her father she had wanted to be first, as he had been, but by the time she made her way down from the last row of the balcony, she was one of the last. She told her story, including the sign she believed God had given her in the form of a friend who sat beside her on the flight home. Rayford knew she could not see Buck over the crowd, and Rayford couldn’t either.
When the meeting was over, Rayford and Chloe went outside to find Buck, but he was gone. They went for lunch with Bruce, and when they got home, Chloe found a note from Buck on the front door.
It isn’t that I didn’t want to say good-bye. But I don’t. I’ll be back for bureau business and maybe just to see you, if you’ll allow it. I’ve got a lot to think about right now, as you know, and frankly, I don’t want my attraction to you to get in the way of that thinking. And it would. You are a lovely person, Chloe, and I was moved to tears by your story. You had told me before, but to hear it in that place and in that circumstance this morning was beautiful. Would you do something I have never asked anyone to do for me ever before? Would you pray for me? I will call you or see you soon. I promise. Buck.
Buck felt more alone than ever on the flight home. He was in coach on a full plane, but he knew no one. He read several sections from the Bible Bruce had given him and had marked for him
, prompting the woman next to him to ask questions. He answered in such a way that she could tell he was not in the mood for conversation. He didn’t want to be rude, but neither did he want to mislead anyone with his limited knowledge.
Sleep was no easier for him that night, though he refused to allow himself to pace. He was going into a meeting in the morning that he had been warned to stay away from. Bruce Barnes had sounded convinced that if Nicolae Carpathia were the Antichrist, Buck ran the danger of being mentally overcome, brainwashed, hypnotized, or worse.
As he wearily showered and dressed in the morning, Buck concluded he had come a long way from thinking that the religious angle was on the fringe. He had gone from bemused puzzlement at people thinking their loved ones had flown to heaven to believing that much of what was happening had been foretold in the Bible. He was no longer wondering or doubting, he told himself. There was no other explanation for the two witnesses in Jerusalem. Nor for the disappearances.
And the furthest stretch of all, this business of an Antichrist who deceives so many . . . well, in Buck’s mind it was no longer an issue of whether it was literal or true. He was long past that. He had already progressed to trying to decide who the Antichrist was: Carpathia or Stonagal. Buck still leaned toward Stonagal.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, tempted to take the gun from his bedside table but knowing he would never get it through the metal detectors. Anyway, he sensed, that was not the kind of protection he needed. What he needed was safekeeping for his mind and for his spirit.
All the way to the United Nations he agonized. Do I pray? he asked himself. Do I “pray the prayer” as so many of those people said yesterday morning? Would I be doing it just to protect myself from the voodoo or the heebie-jeebies? He decided that becoming a believer could not be for the purpose of having a good luck charm. That would cheapen it. Surely God didn’t work that way. And if Bruce Barnes could be believed, there was no more protection for believers now, during this period, than there was for anyone else. Huge numbers of people were going to die in the next seven years, Christian or not. The question was, then where would they be?
