by Tim LaHaye
Something had happened in the disappearances of loved ones all over the globe. Journalism might never be the same. Oh, there would be skeptics and those who worshiped objectivity. But what had happened to brotherly love? What had become of depending on one another? What had happened to the brotherhood of men and nations?
It was back. And while no one expected that the press might become the public-relations agency for a new political star, Carpathia certainly had them in his corner this afternoon. By the end of his litany of nearly two hundred nations, young Nicolae was at an emotional, fevered pitch. With such electricity and power in the simple naming of all the countries who had longed to be united with each other, Carpathia had brought the entire crowd to its feet in full voice and applause, press and representative alike. Even the cynical Steve Plank and Buck Williams continued to clap and cheer, never once appearing embarrassed at their loss of detached objectivity.
And there was more, as the Nicolae Carpathia juggernaut sailed on. Over the next half hour he displayed such an intimate knowledge of the United Nations that it was as if he had invented and developed the organization himself. For someone who had never before set foot on American soil, let alone visited the United Nations, he displayed amazing understanding of its inner workings.
During his speech he casually worked in the name of every secretary-general from Trygve Lie of Norway to Ngumo and mentioned their terms of office not just by year but also by specific day and date of their installation and conclusion. He displayed awareness and understanding of each of the six principal organs of the U.N., their functions, their current members, and their particular challenges.
Then he swept through the eighteen U.N. agencies, mentioning every one, its current director, and its headquarters city. This was an amazing display, and suddenly it was no wonder this man had risen so quickly in his own nation, no wonder the previous leader had stepped aside. No wonder New York had already embraced him.
After this, Buck knew, Nicolae Carpathia would be embraced by all of America. And then the world.
CHAPTER 14
Rayford’s plane touched down in Chicago during rush hour late Monday afternoon. By the time he and Chloe got to their cars, they had not had the opportunity to continue their conversation. “Remember, you promised to let me drive your car home,” Chloe said.
“Is it that important to you?” he asked.
“Not really. I just like it. May I?”
“Sure. Just let me get my phone out of it. I want to see when Hattie can join us for dinner. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?”
“As long as you don’t expect me to cook or something sexist and domestic like that.”
“I hadn’t even thought of it. She loves Chinese. We’ll order some.”
“She loves Chinese?” Chloe repeated. “You are familiar with this woman, aren’t you?”
Rayford shook his head. “It’s not like that. I mean, yes, I probably know more about her than I should. But I can tell you the culinary preferences of a dozen crew members, and I hardly know anything else about them.”
Rayford retrieved his phone from the BMW and turned the ignition switch far enough to read the gas gauge. “You picked the right car,” he said. “It’s almost full. You’ll beat me home. Your mother’s car is on empty. You going to be all right there by yourself for a few minutes? I think I’ll pick up a few groceries while I’m out.”
Chloe hesitated. “It’s eerie in there when you’re by yourself, isn’t it?” she said.
“A little. But we’ve got to get used to it.”
“You’re right,” she said quickly. “They’re gone. And I don’t believe in ghosts. I’ll be fine. But don’t be long.”
At the post-U.N.-appearance press conference for Nicolae Carpathia of Romania, Buck briefly found himself the center of attention. Someone recognized him and expressed surprise and pleasure that he was alive. Buck tried to quiet everyone and tell them that it had all been a misunderstanding, but the furor continued as Chaim Rosenzweig saw him and hurried over, covering Buck’s hand with both of his and pumping vigorously. “Oh, I am so glad to see you alive and well,” he said. “I heard dreadful news about your demise. And President Carpathia was also disappointed to hear of it. He had so wanted to meet you and had agreed to an exclusive interview.”
“Can we still do that?” Buck whispered, to the boos and catcalls of the competition.
“You’ll do anything to get a scoop,” someone groused. “Even have yourself blown up.”
“It will probably not be possible until late tonight,” Rosenzweig said. His hand swept the room, crowded with TV cameras, lights, microphones, and the press. “His schedule is full all day, and he has a photo shoot at People magazine early this evening. Perhaps following that. I’ll speak to him.”
“What’s your connection?” Buck asked, but the old man put a finger to his lips and pulled away to return and sit near Carpathia as the press conference began.
The young Romanian was no less impressive and persuasive up close, beginning the session with his own statement before fielding questions. He conducted himself like an old pro, though Buck knew his press relations in Romania and the limited other areas of Europe he had visited would not have provided him this experience.
At one point or another, Buck noticed, Carpathia met the eyes of every person in the room, at least briefly. He never looked down, never looked away, never looked up. It was as if he had nothing to hide and nothing to fear. He was in command of himself and seemingly unaffected by the fuss and attention.
He seemed to have unusually good eyesight; it was clear he could see people’s name tags from across the room. Anytime he spoke to members of the press, he referred to them by name as Mr. or Ms. so-and-so. He insisted that people call him by whatever name made them comfortable. “Even Nick,” he said, smiling. But no one did. They followed his lead and called him “Mr. President” or “Mr. Carpathia.”
Carpathia spoke in the same impassioned and articulate tones he had used in his speech. Buck wondered if this was always the same, in public or private. Whatever else he brought to the world scene, he had a mastery of spoken communication second to none.
“Let me begin by saying what an honor it is for me to be in this country and at this historic site. It has been a dream of mine since I was a small boy in Cluj to one day see this place.”
The initial pleasantries over, Carpathia launched into another minispeech, again showing incredible knowledge and grasp of the U.N. and its mission. “You will recall,” he said, “that in the previous century the U.N. seemed to be in decline. U.S. president Ronald Reagan escalated the East-West controversies, and the U.N. seemed a thing of the past with its emphasis on North-South conflicts. This organization was in trouble financially, with few members willing to pay their share. With the end of the Cold War in the 1990s, however, your next president, Mr. Bush, recognized what he called the ‘new world order,’ which resonated deep within my young heart. The original basis for the U.N. charter promised cooperation among the first fifty-one members, including the great powers.”
Carpathia went on to discuss the various peacekeeping military actions the U.N. had taken since the Korean conflict of the 1950s. “As you know,” he said, speaking again of things long before he was born, “the U.N. has its legacy in the League of Nations, which I believe was the first international peacekeeping body. It came about at the end of the First World War, but when it failed to prevent a second, it became anachronistic. Out of that failure came the United Nations, which must remain strong to prevent World War III, which would result in the end of life as we know it.”
After Carpathia outlined his eagerness to support the U.N. in any way possible, someone interjected a question about the disappearances. He became suddenly serious and unsmiling, and spoke with compassion and warmth.
“Many people in my country lost loved ones to this horrible phenomenon. I know that many people all over the world have theories, and I wish not to denigrate
any one of them, the people or their ideas. I have asked Dr. Chaim Rosenzweig of Israel to work with a team to try to make sense of this great tragedy and allow us to take steps toward preventing anything similar from ever happening again.
“When the time is appropriate I will allow Dr. Rosenzweig to speak for himself, but for now I can tell you that the theory that makes the most sense to me is briefly as follows: The world has been stockpiling nuclear weapons for innumerable years. Since the United States dropped atomic bombs on Japan in 1945 and the Soviet Union first detonated its own devices September 23, 1949, the world has been at risk of nuclear holocaust. Dr. Rosenzweig and his team of renowned scholars are close to the discovery of an atmospheric phenomenon that may have caused the vanishing of so many people instantaneously.”
“What kind of a phenomenon?” Buck asked.
Carpathia glanced briefly at his name tag and then into his eyes. “I do not want to be premature, Mr. Oreskovich,” he said. Several members of the press snickered, but Carpathia never lost pace. “Or I should say, ‘Mr. Cameron Williams of Global Weekly.’” This elicited amused applause throughout the room. Buck was stunned.
“Dr. Rosenzweig believes that some confluence of electromagnetism in the atmosphere, combined with as yet unknown or unexplained atomic ionization from the nuclear power and weaponry throughout the world, could have been ignited or triggered—perhaps by a natural cause like lightning, or even by an intelligent life-form that discovered this possibility before we did—and caused this instant action throughout the world.”
“Sort of like someone striking a match in a room full of gasoline vapors?” a journalist suggested.
Carpathia nodded thoughtfully.
“How is that different from the idea of aliens from outer space zapping everybody?”
“It is not wholly different,” Carpathia conceded, “but I am more inclined to believe in the natural theory, that lightning reacted with some subatomic field.”
“Why would the disappearances be so random? Why some people and not others?”
“I do not know,” Carpathia said. “And Dr. Rosenzweig tells me they have come to no conclusions on that either. At this point they are postulating that certain people’s levels of electricity made them more likely to be affected. That would account for all the children and babies and even fetal material that vanished. Their electromagnetism was not developed to the point where it could resist whatever happened.”
“What do you say to people who believe this was the work of God, that he raptured his church?”
Carpathia smiled compassionately. “Let me be careful to say that I do not and will not criticize any sincere person’s belief system. That is the basis for true harmony and brotherhood, peace and respect among peoples. I do not accept that theory because I know many, many more people who should be gone if the righteous were taken to heaven. If there is a God, I respectfully submit that this is not the capricious way in which he would operate. By the same token, you will not hear me express any disrespect for those who disagree.”
Buck was then astonished to hear Carpathia say that he had been invited to speak at the upcoming ecumenical religious confab scheduled that month in New York. “There I will discuss my views of millenarianism, eschatology, the Last Judgment, and the second coming of Christ. Dr. Rosenzweig was kind enough to arrange that invitation, and until then I think it would be best if I did not attempt to speak on those subjects informally.”
“How long will you be in New York?”
“If the people of Romania will permit me, I may be here an entire month. I hate to be away from my people, but they understand that I am concerned for the greater global good, and with technology as it is today and the wonderful people in positions of influence in Romania, I feel confident I can keep in contact and that my nation will not suffer for my brief absence.”
By the time of the evening network news, a new international star had been born. He even had a nickname: Saint Nick. More than sound bites had been taken from the floor of the U.N. and the press conference. Carpathia enjoyed several minutes on each telecast, rousing the U.N. audience with the recitation of countries, urgently calling for a recommitment to world peace.
He had carefully avoided specific talk of global disarmament. His was a message of love and peace and understanding and brotherhood, and to quit fighting seemed to go without saying. No doubt he would be back to hammer home that point, but in the meantime, Carpathia was on the charmed ride of his life.
Broadcast commentators urged that he be named an adjunct adviser to the U.N. secretary-general and that he visit each headquarters of the various U.N. agencies around the world. By late that evening, he was invited to make appearances at each of the international meetings coming up within the next few weeks.
He was seen in the company of Jonathan Stonagal, no surprise to Buck. And immediately following the press conference he was whisked away to other appointments. Dr. Rosenzweig found Buck. “I was able to get a commitment from him for late this evening,” the old man said. “He has several interviews, mostly with the television people, and then he will be live on ABC’s Nightline with Wallace Theodore. Following that, he will return to his hotel and will be happy to give you an uninterrupted half hour.”
Buck told Steve he wanted to hurry home to his apartment, get freshened up, get his messages, run to the office and educate himself as quickly as possible from the files, and be totally prepared for the interview. Steve agreed to accompany him.
“But I’m still paranoid,” Buck admitted. “If Stonagal is related in any way to Todd-Cothran, and we know he is, who knows what he thinks about what happened in London?”
“That’s a long shot,” Steve said. “Even if that dirt goes into the exchange and Scotland Yard, that doesn’t mean Stonagal would have any interest in it. I would think he’d want to stay as far from it as possible.”
“But, Steve, you have to agree it’s likely that Dirk Burton was murdered because he got too close to Todd-Cothran’s secret connections with Stonagal’s international group. If they wipe out people they see as their enemies—even friends of their enemies like Alan Tompkins and I were—where will they stop?”
“But you’re assuming Stonagal was aware of what happened in London. He’s bigger than that. Todd-Cothran or the guy at the Yard may have seen you as a threat, but Stonagal has probably never heard of you.”
“You don’t think he reads the Weekly?”
“Don’t be hurt. You’re like a gnat to him if he even knows your name.”
“You know what a swat with a magazine can do to a gnat, Steve?”
“There’s one big hole in your argument,” Steve said later as they entered Buck’s apartment. “If Stonagal is dangerous to you, what does that make Carpathia?”
“Like I said, Carpathia can be only a pawn.”
“Buck! You just heard him. Did I overrate him?”
“No.”
“Were you blown away?”
“Yes.”
“Does he look like anybody’s pawn?”
“No. So I can assume only that he knows nothing about this.”
“You’re pretty sure he met with Todd-Cothran and Stonagal in London before coming here?”
“That had to be business,” Buck said. “Planning for the trip and his involvement with international advisers.”
“You’re taking a big risk,” Steve said.
“I have no choice. Anyway, I’m willing. Until he proves otherwise, I’m going to trust Nicolae Carpathia.”
“Hmph,” Steve said.
“What?”
“It’s just that usually you work the other way around. You distrust someone until they prove otherwise.”
“Well, it’s a new world, Steve. Nothing’s the same as it was last week, is it?”
And Buck pushed the button on his answering machine while beginning to undress for his shower.
Rayford pulled into his driveway with a sack of groceries on the seat beside him. He had go
tten a hold of Hattie Durham, who wanted to keep him on the phone talking until he begged off. She was delighted with the dinner invitation and said she could come three nights later, on Thursday.
Rayford guessed he was half an hour behind Chloe, and he was impressed that she had left the garage door open for him. When he found the door locked between the garage and the house, however, he was concerned. He knocked. No answer.
Rayford reopened the garage door to go around to the front, but just before shutting it on his way out, he stopped. Something was different in the garage. He flipped on the light to add to the single bulb of the door opener. All three cars were in their places, but—
Rayford walked around the Jeep at the end. Raymie’s stuff was missing! His bike. His four-wheeler. What was this?
Rayford jogged to the front door. The window of the storm door was broken and the door hung on one hinge. The main door had been kicked in. No small feat, as the door was huge and heavy with a dead bolt. The entire frame had been obliterated and lay in pieces on the floor of the entryway. Rayford rushed in, calling for Chloe.
He ran from room to room, praying nothing had happened to the only family member he had left. Everything of immediate material value seemed to be gone. Radios, televisions, DVD players, iPods, jewelry, video games, the silver, even the china. To his relief there was no sign of blood or struggle.
Rayford was on the phone to the police when his call waiting clicked. “I hate to put you on hold,” he said, “but that may be my daughter.”
It was. “Oh, Daddy!” she said, crying. “Are you all right? I came in through the garage and saw all that stuff missing. I thought maybe they’d come back, so I locked the door to the garage and was going to lock the front, but I saw the glass and wood and everything, so I ran out the back. I’m three doors down.”
