Soul Harvest

by Tim LaHaye

  Fortunato’s aide backed the video all the way to where the two janitors entered the hallway and walked toward the camera. Rayford, who had never met Ritz, guessed which one he was only by his incomplete janitorial outfit. The only thing resembling a uniform was the cap he had apparently borrowed from the janitor. He carried a broom, but his clothing was western.

  “He could be from that area,” Fortunato said.

  “Good call,” Rayford said.

  “Well, it doesn’t take a trained eye to identify regional clothing.”

  “Still, Commander, that’s an insightful catch.”

  “I don’t see a knife,” Mac said, as the figures neared the camera. Ritz’s cap was pulled low over his eyes. Rayford held his breath as he reached for the bill of his cap. He lifted it and reset it on his head, showing his face more clearly. Rayford and Mac looked at each other behind Fortunato.

  “After they passed that camera,” Fortunato said, “the accomplice got the information he needed and ran the janitor off. He absconded with Miss Durham and opened fire on our guard. And those guards were there only to protect Miss Durham.”

  The guard had conveniently left out details that would have made him appear an idiot. Until someone could thoroughly investigate the scene, the Global Community had not a shred of evidence implicating Rayford.

  “She will contact you,” Fortunato said. “She always does. You had better not have had anything to do with this. His Excellency would consider that high treason and punishable by death.”

  “You suspect me?”

  “I have come to no conclusions.”

  “Am I returning to New Babylon as a suspect or as a pilot?”

  “A pilot, of course.”

  “You want me at the controls of the Condor 216?”

  “Of course. You can’t kill us without killing yourself, and I don’t gauge you suicidal. Yet.”

  Buck spent more than three weeks working on the Internet version of Global Community Weekly. He was in touch with Carpathia nearly every day. Nothing was said about Hattie Durham, but Carpathia often reminded Buck that their mutual “friend,” Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah, would be protected by the Global Community anytime he chose to return to the Holy Land. Buck did not tell Tsion. He merely kept alive his promise that the rabbi could return to Israel within the month.

  Donny Moore’s duplex proved more ideal every day. Nothing else in the neighborhood had survived. Virtually no traffic came by.

  Ken Ritz, now fully on the mend, moved out of the tiny sliver of the Quonset hut he had been allotted at Palwaukee and commuted between Wheeling and Waukegan from his new digs in the basement of the safe house. Dr. Charles visited every few days, and every chance they got, the Tribulation Force met together and sat under Tsion’s teaching.

  It was no accident that they met around the kitchen table with Hattie not eight feet away on her sickbed. Often she rolled onto her side with her back to them, pretending to sleep, but Buck was convinced she heard every word.

  They were careful not to say anything that might incriminate them with Carpathia, having no idea what the future held for Nicolae and Hattie. But they cried together, prayed together, laughed, sang, studied, and shared their stories. Dr. Charles was often present.

  Tsion rehearsed the entire plan of salvation in nearly every meeting. It might come in the form of one of their stories or his simply expositing a Scripture passage. Hattie had lots of questions, but she asked them only of Chloe later.

  The Tribulation Force wanted Dr. Charles to become a full-fledged member, but he declined, fearful that more frequent daily trips to the house might lead the wrong people there. Ritz spent many days tinkering in the underground shelter, getting it into shape in case any or all of them needed complete seclusion. They hoped it would not come to that.

  The flight from Dallas to New Babylon, with several stops to pick up Carpathia’s regional ambassadors, had been a harrowing one for Rayford. He and Mac both worried that Fortunato might enlist Mac to eliminate him. Rayford felt vulnerable, assuming Fortunato believed he was involved in the rescue of Hattie Durham.

  The device that allowed Rayford to hear what was going on in the main cabin yielded fascinating listening throughout the trip. One of the strategically placed transmitters was near the seat usually occupied by Nicolae Carpathia himself. Of course, Leon had appropriated that one, which was propitious for Rayford. He found Leon an incredible master of deceit, second only to Nicolae.

  Each ambassador came aboard with attendant fanfare, and Fortunato immediately ingratiated himself. He ordered the cabin crew to wait on them, whispered to them, flattered them, took them into his confidence. Each heard Fortunato’s tale of having been raised from the dead by Carpathia. It sounded to Rayford as if each was either truly impressed or put on a good front. “I assume you know that you’re among His Excellency’s favorite two regional potentates,” Fortunato privately told each king.

  Their responses were variations of “I didn’t know for sure, but I can’t say it surprises me. I am most supportive of His Excellency’s regime.”

  “That has not gone unnoticed,” Fortunato would say. “He appreciates very much your suggesting the ocean harvesting operation. His Excellency believes this will result in huge profits to the entire world. He’s asking that your region split the income equally with his Global Community administration, and he will then redistribute the GC share to the less fortunate regions.”

  If that made a king blanch, Fortunato went into overdrive. “Of course, His Excellency realizes the burden this puts on you. But, you know the old saying: ‘To whom much is given, much is required.’ The potentate believes you have governed with such brilliance and vigor that you can be counted on as one of the globe’s great benefactors. In exchange, he has given me the liberty to show you this list and these plans for your personal encouragement and comfort.” As Fortunato would unroll papers—which Rayford assumed were elaborate architectural drawings and lists of perquisites—he would say, “His Excellency himself pleaded with me to assure you that he does not in any way believe this is anything but appropriate for a person of your stature and station. While it may appear opulent to the point of ostentation, he asked that I personally convey that he believes you are worthy of such accommodations. While your new domicile, which will be constructed and equipped within the next six months, may appear to elevate you even beyond where he is, he insists that you not reject his plans.”

  Whatever Fortunato showed them seemed to impress. “Well,” they would say, “I would never ask this for myself, but if His Excellency insists . . .”

  Fortunato saved his slimiest approach. Just before his official conversation with each king was finished, he added: “Now, sir, His Excellency asked that I broach with you a delicate matter that must remain confidential. May I count on you?”

  “Certainly!”

  “Thank you. He is gathering sensitive data on the workings of the Enigma Babylon One World Faith. Being careful not to prejudice you, but also not wanting to act without your insight, he is curious. How do you feel about Pontifex Maximus Peter Mathews’s self-serving—no, that is pejorative—let me state it another way. Again, being careful not to sway you, do you share His Excellency’s, shall we say, hesitation over the pontiff’s independence from the rest of the Global Community administration?”

  To a man, every king expressed outrage over Mathews’s machinations. Each considered him a threat. One said, “We do our share. We pay the taxes. We are loyal to His Excellency. With Mathews, it’s just take, take, take. It’s never enough. I, for one, and you may express this to His Excellency, would love to see Mathews out of office.”

  “Then let me broach a yet more sensitive issue, if I may.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If it came to taking an extreme course of action against the very person of the pontiff, would you be one upon whom His Excellency could depend?”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “You understand.”

&
nbsp; “You may count on me.”

  The day before the Condor 216 was to deliver the dignitaries to New Babylon, Mac received word from Albie. “Your delivery is early and ready for pickup.”

  Rayford spent nearly an hour scheduling his and Mac’s time in the cockpit and in the sleeping quarters so both would feel as fresh as possible at the end of the trip. Rayford penciled himself in for the last block of piloting. Mac would sleep and then be available to make the chopper run to make the pickup and pay off Albie. Meanwhile, Rayford would sleep in his quarters at the shelter. Come nightfall, Rayford and Mac would slip away and helicopter to the Tigris.

  It worked almost as planned. Rayford had not anticipated David Hassid’s eagerness to debrief him on everything that had happened in his absence. “Carpathia actually has missiles pointing into outer space, anticipating judgmental meteors.”

  Rayford flinched. “He believes the prophecies that God will pour out more judgments?”

  “He would never admit that,” David said. “But it sure sounds like he’s afraid of it.”

  Rayford thanked David and finally told him he needed rest. On his way out, Hassid shared one more bit of news, and it was all Rayford could do to stay off the Internet. “Carpathia has been manic the last several days,” David said. “He discovered that Web site where you can tap into a live camera shot of the Wailing Wall. He spent days carrying his laptop everywhere he went, watching and listening to the two preachers at the wall. He’s convinced they’re speaking directly to him, and of course they are. Oh, he’s mad. Twice I heard him scream, ‘I want them dead! And soon!’”

  “That won’t happen before the due time,” Rayford said.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” David said. “I’m reading Tsion Ben-Judah’s messages every chance I get.”

  Rayford posted coded notes on bulletin boards all over the Net, trying to locate Amanda. He may have been too obscure, but he didn’t dare make it more obvious. He believed she was alive, and so unless it was proven otherwise, to him she was. All he knew was that if she could communicate with him, she would. As for the charges that she was working for Carpathia, there were moments he actually wished that were true. That would mean she was alive for sure. But if she had been a traitor—no, he would not allow himself to run with that logic. He believed the only reason he had not heard from her was that she did not have the means to contact him.

  Rayford was so eager to prove Amanda was not entombed in the Tigris that he wasn’t sure he could sleep. He was fitful, peeking at the clock every half hour or so. Finally, about twenty minutes before Mac was due, Rayford showered and dressed and accessed the Internet.

  The camera at the Wailing Wall carried live audio as well. The preachers Rayford knew to be the two witnesses prophesied in Revelation were holding forth. He could almost smell their smoky burlap robes. Their dark, bony bare feet and knuckled hands made them appear thousands of years old. They had long, coarse beards, dark, piercing eyes, and long, wild hair. Eli and Moishe they called each other, and they preached with power and authority. And volume. The video identified the one on the left as Eli, and subtitles carried his message in English. He was saying, “Beware, men of Jerusalem! You have now been without the waters of heaven since the signing of the evil pact. Continue to blaspheme the name of Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior, and you will continue to see your land parched and your throats dry. To reject Jesus as Messiah is to spit in the face of almighty God. He will not be mocked.

  “Woe unto him who sits on the throne of this earth. Should he dare stand in the way of God’s sealed and anointed witnesses, twelve thousand from each of the twelve tribes making a pilgrimage here for the purpose of preparation, he shall surely suffer for it.”

  Here Moishe took over. “Yea, any attempt to impede the moving of God among the sealed will cause your plants to wither and die, rain to remain in the clouds, and your water—all of it—to turn to blood! The Lord of hosts hath sworn, saying, ‘Surely, as I have thought, so it shall come to pass, and as I have purposed, so it shall stand!’”

  Rayford wanted to shout. He hoped Buck and Tsion were watching this. The two witnesses warned Carpathia to stay away from those among the 144,000 coming to Israel for inspiration. No wonder Nicolae had been seething. Surely he saw himself as the one who sits on the throne of the earth.

  Rayford appreciated that Mac did not try to dissuade him from his mission. He had never been more determined to finish a task. He and Mac latched their gear to the struts for the short hop from New Babylon to the Tigris. Rayford strapped himself in and pointed toward Baghdad. By the time they landed, the sky was dark.

  “You don’t have to do this with me, you know,” Rayford said. “No hard feelings if you just want to keep an eye out for me.”

  “Not a chance, brother. I’ll be right there with you.”

  They unloaded at a steep bank. Rayford stripped down, pulled on his wet suit and booties, and stretched the rubber cap over his head. Had the suit been any smaller, it would not have worked. “Did I get yours?” he asked.

  “Albie says one size fits all.”

  “Terrific.”

  When they were completely outfitted with eighty-cubic-foot tanks, buoyancy control devices (BCDs), weight belts, and fins, they fog-proofed their masks with spit and pulled them on.

  “I believe in my heart she’s not down there,” Rayford said.

  “I know,” Mac said.

  They inspected each other’s gear, inflated their BCDs, stuffed in their mouthpieces, then slid down the sandy bank into the cold, rushing water, and slipped beneath the surface.

  Rayford had only guessed where the 747 dropped into the river. While he agreed with Pan-Con officials who told Carpathia the plane was too heavy to have been affected much by the current, he believed it could have gone dozens of feet downstream before embedding itself in the bottom. Because no vestige of the plane had ever surfaced, Rayford was convinced the fuselage had holes front and back. That would have resulted in the plane hitting the bottom rather than being held aloft by air pockets.

  The water was murky. Rayford was a good diver, but he was still claustrophobic when unable to see more than a few feet, even with the powerful light strapped to his wrist. It seemed to shine no more than ten feet in front of him. Mac’s was even dimmer and suddenly disappeared.

  Did Mac have bad equipment, or had he turned his off for some reason? It made no sense. The last thing Rayford wanted was to lose sight of his partner. They could spend too much time searching for the wreckage and have little time to investigate it.

  Rayford watched clouds of sand shoot past and realized what had happened. Mac had been pulled downstream. He was far enough ahead that neither could see the other’s light.

  Rayford tried to steer himself. It only made sense that the lower he went, the less the current would pull him. He let more air out of his BCD and kicked harder to dive, peeling his eyes to see past the end of his beam. Ahead a dim, blinking light appeared stationary. How could Mac have stopped?

  As the blinking beam grew larger and stronger, Rayford kicked hard, laboring to align himself with Mac’s light. He was coming fast when the top of his head smacked violently into Mac’s tank. Mac hooked Rayford’s elbow in the crook of his own arm and held firm. Mac had snagged a tree root. His mask was half off and his regulator mouthpiece was out. With one arm holding Rayford and the other gripping the root, he wasn’t free to help himself.

  Rayford grabbed the root, allowing Mac to let go of him. Mac reinserted his regulator and cleared his mask. Dangling in the current, each with a hand on the root, they were unable to communicate. Rayford felt the spot on his head where he had banged into Mac’s tank. A flap of rubber rose from his cap; a matching patch of skin and hair had been gouged from his scalp.

  Mac pointed his light toward Rayford’s head and motioned him to lean over. Rayford didn’t know what Mac saw, but Mac signaled to the surface. Rayford shook his head, which made his wound throb.

  Mac pushed
away from the root, inflated his BCD, and rose to the top. Rayford reluctantly followed. In that current, he could do nothing without Mac. Rayford popped out of the water in time to see Mac reach an outcropping on the bank. Rayford labored to join him. When they had raised their masks and snorkels, Mac spoke quickly.

  “I’m not trying to talk you out of your mission, Ray. But I am telling you we have to work together. See how far we’ve come from the chopper already?” Rayford was stunned to see the dim outline of the helicopter way upriver.

  “If we don’t find the plane soon, that means we’re probably already past it. The lights don’t help much. We’re going to have to be lucky.”

  “We’re going to have to pray,” Rayford said.

  “And you’re gonna have to get that head treated. You’re bleeding.”

  Rayford felt his head again and shined the light on his fingers. “It’s not serious, Mac. Now let’s get back to it.”

  “We’ve got one shot. We need to stay close to the bank until we’re ready to search in the middle. Once we get out there, we’ll be going fast. If the plane is there, we could run right into it. If it’s not, we’ve got to get back to the bank. I’m going to wait for your lead, Ray. You follow me while I’m navigating the edge of the river. I’ll follow you when you signal me it’s time to venture out.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’re the one doing the praying.”

  CHAPTER 19

  It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon in Mt. Prospect. Tsion had spent the morning logging another long message to the faithful and to the seekers on the Internet. The number of messages back to him continued to spiral. He called out to Buck, who trotted upstairs and looked over his shoulder at the quantity meter.

  “So,” Buck said, “it’s finally slowed?”

  “I knew you would say that, Cameron,” Tsion said, smiling. “A message came across at four this morning explaining that the server would now flash a new number not for every response but for every thousand.”