Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

  Buck was not convinced. “One global currency? Never happen,” he had said.

  “How can you flatly say that?”

  “Too bizarre. Too impractical. Look what happened in the States when they tried to bring in the metric system.”

  “Should have happened. You Yanks are such rubes.”

  “Metrics were only necessary for international trade. Not for how far it is to the outfield wall at Yankee Stadium or how many kilometers it is from Indianapolis to Atlanta.”

  “I know, Cam. Your people thought you’d be paving the way for the Communists to take over if you made maps and distance markers easy for them to read. And where are your Commies now?”

  Buck had passed off most of Dirk Burton’s ideas until a few years later when Dirk had called him in the middle of the night. “Cameron,” he had said, unaware of the nickname bestowed by his friend’s colleagues, “I can’t talk long. You can pursue this or you can just watch it happen and wish it had been your story. But you remember that stuff I was saying about the one world currency?”

  “Yeah. I’m still dubious.”

  “Fine, but I’m telling you the word here is that our guy pushed the idea at the last meeting of these secret financiers and something’s brewing.”

  “What’s brewing?”

  “Well, there’s going to be a major United Nations Monetary Conference, and the topic is going to be streamlining currency.”

  “Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal, Cameron. Our guy got shot down. He, of course, was pushing for world currency to become pounds sterling.”

  “What a surprise that that won’t happen. Look at your economy.”

  “But listen, the big news, if you can believe any leak out of the secret meeting, is that they have it down to three currencies for the entire world, hoping to go to just one inside a decade.”

  “No way. Won’t happen.”

  “Cameron, if my information is correct, the initial stage is a done deal. The U.N. conference is just window dressing.”

  “And the decision has already been made by your secret puppeteers.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know, Dirk. You’re a buddy, but I think you would rather be doing what I’m doing.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Well, that’s true. I sure wouldn’t want to be doing what you’re doing.”

  “But I’m not wrong, Cameron. Test my information.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll predict what’s going to come out of the U.N. within two weeks, and if I’m right, you start treating me with a little deference, a little respect.”

  Buck realized that he and Dirk had been sparring the way everyone at Princeton had during weekend pizza and beer bashes in the dorms. “Dirk, listen. That sounds interesting, and I’m listening. But you do know, don’t you, all kidding aside, that I wouldn’t think any less of you even if you were way off base here?”

  “Well, thanks, Cam. Really. That means a lot to me. And for that little tidbit, I’m going to give you a bonus. I’m not only going to tell you that the U.N. resolution is going to be for dollars, Euros, and yen within five years, but I’m also going to tell you that the real power behind the power is an American.”

  “What do you mean, the power behind the power?”

  “The mightiest of the secret group of international money men.”

  “This guy runs the group, in other words?”

  “He’s the one who shot down sterling as one of the currencies and has dollars in mind for the one world commodity in the end.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Jonathan Stonagal.”

  Buck had hoped Dirk would name someone ludicrous so he could burst into laughter. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that if there was anything to this, Stonagal would be a logical choice. One of the richest men in the world and long known as an American power broker, Stonagal would have to be involved if serious global finance was being discussed. Though he was already in his eighties and appeared infirm in news photos, he not only owned the biggest banks and financial institutions in the United States, but he also owned or had huge interests in the same throughout the world.

  Though Dirk was a friend, Buck had felt the need to play him along a bit, to keep him eager to provide information. “Dirk, I’m going back to bed. I appreciate all this and find it very interesting. I’m going to see what comes out of this U.N. deal, and I’m also going to see if I can trace the movements of Jonathan Stonagal. If it happens the way you think, you’ll be my best informant. Meanwhile, see if you can find out for me how many are in this secret group and where they meet.”

  “That’s easy,” Dirk had said. “There are at least ten, though more than that sometimes come to the meetings, including some heads of state.”

  “U.S. presidents?”

  “Occasionally, believe it or not.”

  “That’s sort of one of the popular conspiracy theories here, Dirk.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. And they usually meet in France. I don’t know why. Some kind of private chalet or something there gives them a sense of security.”

  “But nothing escapes your friend of a friend of a relative of a subordinate of a secretary, or whatever.”

  “Laugh all you want, Cam. Our guy in the group, Joshua Todd-Cothran, may just not be quite as buttoned-down as the rest.”

  “Todd-Cothran? Doesn’t he run the London Exchange?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Not buttoned-down? How could he have that position and not be? Plus, who ever heard of a Brit who was not buttoned-down?”

  “It happens.”

  “Good night, Dirk.”

  Of course, it had all proven correct. The U.N. made its resolution. Buck discovered that Jonathan Stonagal had lived in the Plaza Hotel in New York during the ten days of the confab. Mr. Todd-Cothran of London had been one of the more eloquent speakers, expressing such eagerness to see the matter through that he volunteered to carry the torch back to the prime minister regarding Great Britain moving to the mark from the pound.

  Many Third World countries fought the change, but within a few years the three currencies had swept the globe. Buck had told only Steve Plank of his tip on the U.N. meetings, but he didn’t say where he’d gotten the information, and neither he nor Plank felt it worth a speculative article. “Too risky,” Steve had said. Soon they both wished they had run with it in advance. “You’d have become even more of a legend, Buck.”

  Dirk and Buck had become closer than ever, and it wasn’t unusual for Buck to visit London on short notice. If Dirk had a serious lead, Buck packed and went. His trips had often turned into excursions into countries and climates that surprised him, thus he had packed the emergency gear. Now, it appeared, it was superfluous. He was stuck in Chicago after the most electrifying phenomenon in world history, trying to get to New York.

  Despite the incredible capabilities of his laptop, there was still no substitute for the pocket notebook. Buck scribbled a list of things to do before setting off again:

  Call Ken Ritz, charter pilot

  Call Dad and Jeff

  Call Hattie Durham with news of family

  Call Lucinda Washington about local hotel

  Call Dirk Burton

  The phone awakened Rayford Steele. He had not moved for hours. It was early evening and beginning to get dark. “Hello?” he said, unable to mask the sleepy huskiness in his voice.

  “Captain Steele?” It was the frantic voice of Hattie Durham.

  “Yes, Hattie. Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! My phone was dead for the longest time, then everything was busy. I thought I was getting a ring on your phone, but you never answered. I don’t know anything about my mother or my sisters. What about you?”

  Rayford sat up, dizzy and disoriented. “I got a message from Chloe,” he said.

  “I knew that,” she said. “You told me at O’Ha
re. Are your wife and son all right?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Rayford was silent. What else was there to say?

  “Do you know anything for sure?” Hattie asked.

  “I’m afraid I do,” he said. “Their bedclothes are here.”

  “Oh, no! Rayford, I’m sorry! Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Do you want some company?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “So am I, Hattie.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep trying to get Chloe. Hope she can come home or I can get to her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Stanford. Palo Alto.”

  “My people are in California, too,” Hattie said. “They’ve got all kinds of trouble out there, even worse than here.”

  “I imagine it’s because of the time difference,” Rayford said. “More people on the roads, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m scared to death of what’s become of my family.”

  “Let me know what you find out, Hattie, OK?”

  “I will, but you were supposed to call me. ’Course my phone was dead, and then I couldn’t get through to you.”

  “I wish I could say I tried to call you, Hattie, but I didn’t. This is hard for me.”

  “Let me know if you need me, Rayford. You know, just someone to talk to or be with.”

  “I will. And you let me know what you find out about your family.”

  He almost wished he hadn’t added that. Losing his wife and child made him realize what a vapid relationship he had been pursuing with a twenty-seven-year-old woman. He hardly knew her, and he certainly didn’t much care what happened to her family any more than he cared when he heard about a remote tragedy on the news. He knew Hattie was not a bad person. In fact, she was nice and friendly. But that was not why he had been interested in her. It had merely been a physical attraction, something he had been smart enough or lucky enough or naive enough not to have acted upon. He felt guilty for having considered it, and now his own grief would obliterate all but the most common courtesy of simply caring for a coworker.

  “There’s my call waiting,” she said. “Can you hold?”

  “No, just go ahead and take it. I’ll call you later.”

  “I’ll call you back, Rayford.”

  “Well, OK.”

  Buck Williams followed an excited crowd to an old pay phone that was miraculously working. He wanted to see how many personal calls he could make. He reached Ken Ritz’s voice mail first.

  “This is Ritz’s Charter Service. Here’s the deal in light of the crisis: I’ve got Learjets at both Palwaukee and Waukegan, but I’ve lost my other flyer. I can get to either airport, but right now they’re not lettin’ anyone into any of the major strips. Can’t get into Milwaukee, O’Hare, Kennedy, Logan, National, Dulles, Dallas, Atlanta. I can get into some of the smaller, outlying airports, but it’s a seller’s market. Sorry to be so opportunistic, but I’m asking two dollars a mile, cash up front. If I can find someone who wants to come back from where you’re goin’, I might be able to give you a little discount. I’m checkin’ messages tonight and will take off first thing in the morning. Longest trip with guaranteed cash gets me. If your stop is on the way, I’ll try to squeeze you in. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  That was a laugh. How would Ken Ritz get hold of Buck? With his cell phone unreliable, the only thing he could think of was to leave his New York voice-mail number. “Mr. Ritz, my name is Buck Williams, and I need to get as close to New York City as you can get me. I’ll pay the full fare you’re asking in traveler’s checks, redeemable in whatever currency you want.” Sometimes that was attractive to private contractors because they kept up with the differences in currency and could make a little margin on the exchange. “I’m at O’Hare and will try to find a place to stay in the suburbs. Just to save you time, let me just pick somewhere between here and Waukegan. If I get a new number in the meantime, I’ll call it in. Meanwhile, you may leave a message for me at the following New York number.”

  Buck was still unable to get through to his office directly, but his voice-mail number worked. He retrieved his new messages, mostly from coworkers checking on him and lamenting the loss of mutual friends. Then there was the welcome message from Marge Potter, who was a genius to think of leaving it there for him. “Buck, if you get this, call your father in Tucson. He and your brother are together, and I hate to tell you here, but they’re having trouble reaching Jeff’s wife and the kids. They should have news by the time you call. Your father was most grateful to hear that you were all right.”

  Buck’s voice mail also noted that he still had a saved message. That was the one from Dirk Burton that had spurred his trip in the first place. He would need to listen to it again when he had time. Meanwhile, he left a message for Marge that if she had time and an open line, she needed to let Dirk know Buck’s flight never made it to Heathrow. Of course, Dirk would know that by now, but he needed to know Buck wasn’t among the missing and that he would get there in due time.

  Buck hung up and dialed his father. The line was busy, but it was not the same kind of a tone that tells you the lines are down or that the whole system is kaput. Neither was it that irritating recording he’d grown so used to. He knew it would be only a matter of time before he could get through. Jeff must be beside himself not knowing about his wife, Sharon, and the kids. They’d had their differences and had even been separated before the children came along, but for several years the marriage had been better. Jeff’s wife had proven forgiving and conciliatory. Jeff himself admitted he was puzzled that she would take him back. “Call me undeserving, but grateful,” he once told Buck. Their son and daughter, who both looked like Jeff, were precious.

  Buck pulled out the number the beautiful blonde flight attendant had given him and chastised himself for not trying again to reach her earlier. It took a while for her to answer.

  “Hattie Durham, this is Buck Williams.”

  “Who?”

  “Cameron Williams, from the Global—”

  “Oh yes! Any news?”

  “Yes, ma’am, good news.”

  “Oh, thank God! Tell me.”

  “Someone from my office tells me they reached your mother and that she and your sisters are fine.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I wonder why they haven’t called here? Maybe they’ve tried. My phone has been haywire.”

  “There are other problems in California, ma’am. Lines down, that kind of a thing. It may be a while before you can talk to them.”

  “I know. I heard. Well, I sure appreciate this. How about you? Have you been able to reach your family?”

  “I got word that my dad and brother are OK. We still don’t know about my sister-in-law and the kids.”

  “Oh. How old are the kids?”

  “Can’t remember. Both under ten, but I don’t know exactly.”

  “Oh.” Hattie sounded sad, guarded.

  “Why?” Buck asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just that—”

  “What?”

  “You can’t go by what I say.”

  “Tell me, Miss Durham.”

  “Well, you remember what I told you on the plane. And on the news it looks like all children are gone, even unborn ones.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not saying that means your brother’s children are—”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I brought that up.”

  “No, it’s OK. This is too strange, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I just got off the phone with the captain who piloted the flight you were on. He lost his wife and son, but his daughter is OK. She’s in California, too.”

  “How old is she?”

  “About twenty, I guess. She’s at Stanford.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mr. Williams, what did you call yourself
?”

  “Buck. It’s a nickname.”

  “Well, Buck, I know better than to say what I said about your niece and nephew. I hope there are exceptions and that yours are OK.” She began to cry.

  “Miss Durham, it’s OK. You have to admit, no one is thinking straight right now.”

  “You can call me Hattie.”

  That struck him as humorous under the circumstances. She had been apologizing for being inappropriate, yet she didn’t want to be too formal. If he was Buck, she was Hattie.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t tie up this line,” he said. “I just wanted to get the news to you. I thought maybe by now you already knew.”

  “No, and thanks again. Would you mind calling me again sometime, if you think of it? You seem like a nice person, and I appreciate what you did for me. It would be nice to hear from you again. This is kind of a scary, lonely time.”

  He couldn’t argue with that understatement. Funny, her request had sounded like anything but a come-on. She seemed wholly sincere, and he was sure she was. A nice, scared, lonely woman whose world had been skewed, just like his and everyone’s he knew.

  When Buck got off the phone, he saw the young woman at the counter flagging him down. “Listen,” she whispered, “they don’t want me making an announcement that would start a stampede, but we just heard something interesting. The livery companies have gotten together and moved their communications center out to a median strip near the Mannheim Road interchange.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Just outside the airport. There’s no traffic coming into the terminals anyway. Total gridlock. But if you can walk as far as that interchange, supposedly you’ll find all those guys with walkie-talkies trying to get limos in and out from there.”

  “I can imagine the prices.”

  “No, you probably can’t.”

  “I can imagine the wait.”

  “Like standing in line for a rental car in Orlando,” she said.

  Buck had never done that, but he could imagine that, too. And she was right. After he had hiked, with a crowd, to the Mannheim interchange, he found a mob surrounding the dispatchers. Intermittent announcements got everyone’s attention.