Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

  After she had gone to bed, he called Bruce Barnes and told him his frustrations.

  “You’re trying too hard, Rayford,” the younger man said. “I should think telling other people about our faith would be easier than ever now, but I’ve run into the same kind of resistance.”

  “It’s really hard when it’s your own daughter.”

  “I can imagine,” Bruce said.

  “No, you can’t,” Rayford said. “But it’s all right.”

  Chaim Rosenzweig was in a beautiful suite of rooms. The bodyguards were posted out front, while Carpathia invited Rosenzweig and Buck into a private parlor for a meeting of just the three of them. Carpathia shed his coat and laid it carefully across the back of a couch. “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” he said.

  “I do not need to be here, Nicolae,” Rosenzweig whispered.

  “Oh, nonsense, Doctor!” Carpathia said. “You do not mind, do you, Buck?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You do not mind my calling you Buck, do you?”

  “No, sir, but usually it’s just people at—”

  “Your magazine, yes, I know. They call you that because you buck the traditions and the trends and the conventions, am I right?”

  “Yes, but how—”

  “Buck, this has been the most incredible day of my life. I have felt so welcome here. And the people have seemed so receptive to my proposals. I am overwhelmed. I shall go back to my country a happy and satisfied man. But not soon. I have been asked to stay longer. Did you know that?”

  “I heard.”

  “It is amazing, is it not, that all those different international meetings right here in New York over the next few weeks are all about the worldwide cooperation in which I am interested?”

  “It is,” Buck said. “And I’ve been assigned to cover them.”

  “Then we will be getting to know each other better.”

  “I look forward to that, sir. I was most moved at the U.N. today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And Dr. Rosenzweig has told me so much about you.”

  “As he has told me much about you.”

  There was a knock at the door. Carpathia looked pained. “I had hoped we would not be disturbed.” Rosenzweig rose slowly and shuffled to the door and a subdued conversation.

  He slipped back to Buck. “We’ll have to give him a couple of minutes, Cameron,” he whispered, “for an important phone call.”

  “Oh, no,” Carpathia said. “I will take it later. This meeting is a priority for me—”

  “Sir,” Rosenzweig said, “begging your pardon . . . it is the president.”

  “The president?”

  “Of the United States.”

  Buck rose quickly to leave with Rosenzweig, but Carpathia insisted they stay. “I am not such a dignitary that I would not share this honor with my old friend and my new friend. Sit down!”

  They sat and he pushed the speaker button on the phone. “This is Nicolae Carpathia speaking.”

  “Mr. Carpathia, this is Fitz. Gerald Fitzhugh.”

  “Mr. President, I am honored to hear from you.”

  “Well, hey, it’s good to have you here!”

  “I appreciated your note of congratulations on my presidency, sir, and your immediate recognition of my administration.”

  “Boy, that was a heckuva thing, how you took over there. I wasn’t sure what had happened at first, but I don’t suppose you were either.”

  “That is exactly right. I am still getting used to it.”

  “Well, take it from a guy who’s been in the saddle for six years. You don’t ever get used to it. You just develop calluses in the right places, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Listen, the reason I called is this. I know you’re gonna be here a little longer than you expected, so I want you to spend a night or two here with me and Wilma. Can you do that?”

  “In Washington?”

  “Right here at the White House.”

  “That would be such a privilege.”

  “We’ll have somebody talk to your people about the right time, but it’s got to be soon ’cause Congress is in session, and I know they’ll want to hear from you.”

  Carpathia shook his head and Buck thought he seemed overcome emotionally. “I would be more than honored, sir.”

  “Speaking of something that was a heckuva thing, your speech today and your interview tonight—well, that was something. Look forward to meetin’ ya.”

  “The feeling is mutual, sir.”

  Buck was only a little less overcome than Carpathia and Rosenzweig. He had long since lost his awe of U.S. presidents, especially this one, who insisted on being called Fitz. He had done a Newsmaker of the Year piece on Fitzhugh—Buck’s first, Fitz’s second. On the other hand, it wasn’t every day that the president called the room in which you sat.

  The glow of the call seemed to stay with Carpathia, but he quickly changed the subject. “Buck, I want to answer all your questions and give you whatever you need. You have been so good to Chaim, and I am prepared to give you a bit of a secret—you would call it a scoop. But first, you are in deep trouble, my friend. And I want to help you if I can.”

  Buck had no idea how Carpathia knew he was in trouble. So he wouldn’t even have to bring him up to speed and ask for his help? This was too good to be true. The question was, what did Carpathia know, and what did he need to know?

  The Romanian sat forward and looked directly into Buck’s eyes. That gave Buck such a feeling of peace and security that he felt free to tell him everything. Everything. Even that his friend Dirk had tipped him off about someone meeting with Stonagal and Todd-Cothran, and Buck’s assuming it was Carpathia.

  “It was I,” Carpathia said. “But let me make this very clear. I know nothing of any conspiracy. I have never even heard of such a thing. Mr. Stonagal felt it would be good for me to meet some of his colleagues and men of international influence. I formed no opinions about any of them, neither am I beholden to any of them.

  “I will tell you something, Mr. Williams. I believe your story. I do not know you except by your work and your reputation with people I respect, such as Dr. Rosenzweig. But your account has the ring of truth. I have been told that you are wanted in London for the murder of the Scotland Yard agent and that they have several witnesses who will swear they saw you distract Tompkins, plant the device, and activate it from within the pub.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Well, of course it is if you were mourning the mysterious death of your mutual friend.”

  “That’s exactly what we were doing, Mr. Carpathia. That and trying to get to the bottom of it.”

  Rosenzweig was called to the door again; then he whispered in Carpathia’s ear. “Buck, come here,” Carpathia said, rising and leading Buck toward a window, away from Rosenzweig. “Your plan to get in here while being pursued was most ingenious, but your boss has been identified and now they know you are here. They would like to take you into custody and extradite you to England.”

  “If that happens and Tompkins’s theory is right,” Buck said, “I’m a dead man.”

  “You believe they will kill you?”

  “They killed Burton and they killed Tompkins. I’m much more dangerous to them with my potential readership.”

  “If this plot is as you and your friends say it is, Cameron, writing about these people, exposing them, will not protect you.”

  “I know. Maybe I should do it anyway. I don’t see any way out.”

  “I can make this go away for you.”

  Buck’s mind was suddenly reeling. This was what he had wanted, but he had feared Carpathia could do nothing quickly enough to keep him from getting into Todd-Cothran’s and Sullivan’s hands. Was it possible Carpathia was in deeper with these people than he had let on?

  “Sir, I need your help. But I am a journalist first. I can’t be bought or bargained with.”

  “Oh, of course
not. I would never ask such a thing. Let me tell you what I can do for you. I will arrange to have the London tragedies revisited and reevaluated, exonerating you.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Does it matter, if it is the truth?”

  Buck thought a moment. “It is the truth.”

  “Of course.”

  “But how will you do that? You have maintained this innocence, Mr. Carpathia, this man-from-nowhere persona. How can you affect what has happened in London?”

  Carpathia sighed. “Buck, I told you your friend Dirk was wrong about a conspiracy. That is true. I am not in bed with Todd-Cothran or Stonagal or any of the other international leaders I have been honored to meet recently. However, there are important decisions and actions coming up that will affect them, and it is my privilege to have a say in those developments.”

  Buck asked Carpathia if he minded if they sat down again. Carpathia signaled to Rosenzweig to leave them for a few minutes. “Look,” Buck said when they were seated, “I’m a young man, but I’ve been around the block. It feels to me as if I’m about to find out just how deep into this—well, if it’s not a conspiracy, it’s something organized—how deep into this thing you are. I can play along and save my life, or I can refuse and you let me take my chances in London.”

  Carpathia held up a hand and shook his head. “Buck, let me reiterate that we are talking politics and diplomacy, not skullduggery or crime.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First,” Carpathia said, “a little background. I believe in the power of money. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “You will. I was a better-than-average businessman in Romania while still in secondary school. I studied at night, many languages, the ones I needed to succeed. During the day I ran my own import-and-export businesses and made myself wealthy. But what I thought was wealth was paltry compared to what was possible. I needed to learn that. I learned it the hard way. I borrowed millions from a European bank, then found that someone in that bank informed my major competitor what I was doing. I was defeated at my own game, defaulted on my loan, and was struggling. Then that same bank bailed me out and ruined my rival. I didn’t mean to or want to hurt the rival. He was used by the bank to lock me into a relationship.”

  “Was that bank owned by an influential American?”

  Carpathia ignored the question. “What I had to learn, in just over a decade, is how much money is out there.”

  “Out there?”

  “In the banks of the world.”

  “Especially those owned by Jonathan Stonagal,” Buck suggested.

  Carpathia still wasn’t biting. “That kind of capital is power.”

  “This is the kind of thing I write against.”

  “It is about to save your life.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “That kind of money gets a man’s attention. He becomes willing to make concessions for it. He begins to see the wisdom of letting someone else, a younger man, someone with more enthusiasm and vigor and fresh vision take over.”

  “That’s what happened in Romania?”

  “Buck, do not insult me. The former president of Romania asked me of his own free will to replace him, and the support for that move was unanimous within the government and almost totally favorable among the masses. Everyone is better off.”

  “The former president is out of power.”

  “He lives in luxury.”

  Buck could not breathe. What was Carpathia implying? Buck stared at him, unable to move, unable to respond. Carpathia continued. “Secretary-General Ngumo presides over a country that is starving. The world is ripe for my plan of ten members of the Security Council. These things will work together. The secretary-general must devote his time to the problems within Botswana. With the right incentive, he will do that. He will be a happy, prosperous man, with a happy and prosperous people. But first he will endorse my plan for the Security Council. The representatives from each of the ten will be an interesting mix, some current ambassadors, but mostly new people with good financial backgrounds and progressive ideas.”

  “Are you telling me you will become secretary-general of the U.N.?”

  “I would never seek such a position, but how could I refuse such an honor? Who could turn his back on such an enormous responsibility?”

  “How much say will you have about who represents each of the ten permanent members of the Security Council?”

  “I will merely be there to provide servant leadership. Are you aware of that concept? One leads by serving, not by dictating.”

  “Let me take a wild guess,” Buck said. “Todd-Cothran is in line for a role on your new Security Council.”

  Carpathia sat back, as if learning something. “Would that not be interesting?” he said. “A nonpolitician, a brilliant financial mind, one who was wise enough and kind enough and globally minded enough to allow the world to go to a three-currency system that did not include his own pounds sterling? He brings no baggage to such a role. The world would have a certain level of comfort with him, would they not?”

  “I suppose they would,” Buck said, his mind black with depression as if he were losing his soul before his very eyes. “Unless, that is, Todd-Cothran were in the middle of a mysterious suicide, a car bombing, that sort of a thing.”

  Carpathia smiled. “I should think a man in a position of international potential like that would want a very clean house just now.”

  “And you could effect that?”

  “Buck, you overestimate me. I am just saying that if you are right, I might try to stop what is clearly an unethical and illegal action against an innocent man—you. I cannot see how there is anything wrong with that.”

  Rayford Steele could not sleep. For some reason he was overcome anew with grief and remorse over the loss of his wife and son. He slid out of bed and onto his knees, burying his face in the sheet on the side where his wife used to sleep. He had been so tired, so tense, so worried about Chloe that he had pushed from his heart and mind and soul his terrible loss. He believed totally that his wife and son were in heaven, and he knew they were better off than they had ever been.

  Rayford knew he had been forgiven for mocking his wife, for never really listening, for having ignored God for so many years. He was grateful he had been given a second chance and that he now had new friends and a place to learn the Bible. But that didn’t stop the aching emptiness in his heart, the longing to hold his wife and son, to kiss them and tell them how much he loved them. He prayed for the grief to lessen, but part of him wanted it, needed it, to remain.

  In a way he felt he deserved this pain, though he knew better. He was beginning to understand the forgiveness of God, and Bruce had told him that he needn’t continue to feel shame over sin that had been dealt with.

  As Rayford knelt praying and weeping, a new anguish flooded over him. He felt hopeless about Chloe. Everything he had tried had failed. He knew it had been only days since the disappearance of her mother and brother, and even less time since his own conversion. What more could he say or do? Bruce had encouraged him just to pray, but he was not made that way. He would pray, of course, but he had always been a man of action.

  Now, every action seemed to push her farther away. He felt that if he said or did anything more, he would be responsible for her deciding against Christ once and for all. Rayford had never felt more powerless and desperate. How he longed to have Irene and Raymie with him right then. And how he despaired over Chloe.

  He had been praying silently, but the torment welled up within him, and despite himself he heard his own muffled cries, “Chloe! Oh, Chloe! Chloe!”

  He wept bitterly in the darkness, suddenly jarred by a creak and footsteps. He turned quickly to see Chloe, the dim light from her room silhouetting her robed form in the doorway. He didn’t know what she had heard.

  “Are you all right, Dad?” she asked quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nightmare?”

 
; “No. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “I miss them, too,” she said, her voice quavery. Rayford turned and sat with his back to the bed. He held his arms open to her. She came and sat next to him, letting him hold her.

  “I believe I’ll see them again someday,” he said.

  “I know you do,” she said, no disrespect in her voice. “I know you do.”

  CHAPTER 17

  After a few minutes, Chloe gave Rayford evidence that she had heard his cry. “Don’t worry about me, Daddy, OK? I’m getting there.”

  Getting where? Did she mean that her decision was just a matter of time or simply that she was getting over her grief? He wanted so badly to tell her he was worried, but she knew that. Her very presence brought him comfort, but when she padded back to her room he felt desperately alone again.

  He could not sleep. He tiptoed downstairs and turned on the new TV, tuning in CNN. From Israel came the strangest report. The screen showed a mob in front of the famous Wailing Wall, surrounding two men who seemed to be shouting.

  “No one knows the two men,” said the CNN reporter on the scene, “who refer to each other as Eli and Moishe. They have stood here before the Wailing Wall since just before dawn, preaching in a style frankly reminiscent of the old American evangelists. Of course the Orthodox Jews here are in an uproar, charging the two with desecrating this holy place by proclaiming that Jesus Christ of the New Testament is the fulfillment of the Torah’s prophecy of a messiah.

  “Thus far there has been no violence, though tempers are flaring, and authorities keep a watchful eye. Israeli police and military personnel have always been loath to enter this area, leaving religious zealots here to handle their own problems. This is the most explosive situation in the Holy Land since the destruction of the Russian air force, and this newly prosperous nation has been concerned almost primarily with outside threats.