Edge of Apocalypse

by Tim LaHaye

  Come on, Miles, what's going on here?

  EIGHTEEN

  Davos, Switzerland

  Two entire floors of the Hotel Belvedere had been rented by Caesar Demas to accommodate the large staff that operated his private foundation. For his own comfort, though, the billionaire had secured a sprawling villa in the nearby mountains. He was a man who loved quiet whenever possible. And on the day before the start of his organization's fifth annual World Peace Summit, he had a lot of thinking to do.

  Demas, with his neatly trimmed beard and carefully managed salt-and-pepper hair, stood on the massive veranda with a cup of mint tea in his hand. The view of the Alps was stunning, to be sure, but that particular moment, he wasn't contemplating the scenery.

  That afternoon Demas was expecting a visitor who might be able to help move him, maybe, just a little closer to his ultimate goal.

  He had not yet finished his tea when Alexi, Demas's longtime administrative chief, entered the security foyer of the villa's private quarters, along with the visitor from the U.S. State Department, and pressed the buzzer signaling their arrival.

  Using a remote, Demas unlocked the door. He gave a warm welcome to his guest, while Alexi simultaneously vanished from the room.

  Strolling out onto the veranda, Demas made small talk with Mr. Burke until he sensed that it was time for business. Then he jumped right to the point.

  "I was very happy to hear that Secretary of State Danburg will be addressing our peace conference. Has he arrived?"

  "He has. We traveled together. The accommodations are greatly appreciated. Secretary Danburg should be settled into his suite shortly after our security people complete their sweep."

  "I was hoping to be able to get a sense of his remarks."

  "We knew you would," Burke replied with a smile and handed Demas an envelope. "Here's a draft of his speech. I had the privilege of working on it with him. We're asking that it remain embargoed until thirty minutes prior to his remarks tomorrow afternoon."

  "Of course," Demas said courteously. He understood the rules. He opened the envelope and began to scan the draft. After a minute, Demas looked up.

  "There is a strong implication here," Demas responded tapping the printed speech with his finger, "that the United States might be willing to initiate a unilateral offer to share some of its weapons technology, in the hopes of obtaining what you refer to as 'the hope of universal deterrence.'"

  "Yes, in the interests of peace," Burke replied. "Mr. Demas, the administration also wants you to know that we recognize the fact that you've been a good friend to the Corland administration. When the rest of the world was denouncing our use of the RTS weapon system, I know you consulted with U.N. Secretary General Beragund on our behalf. The secretary general's conciliatory remarks regarding the United States were deeply appreciated by President Corland. I am certain you played a primary role in making that happen."

  "America is a key player in our hopes for global peace. Anything I can do to help, just ask. And yet..."

  The envoy from the State Department listened carefully for Demas to finish his thought.

  "And yet," Demas continued, "if the United States is willing to seriously consider sharing its weapon technology with other nations, then the question remains..."

  "Yes?"

  "Which weapons systems are we specifically referring to?"

  "Of course, that's a key question," Burke replied, eyeing his host closely.

  "For instance, would the United States be willing to share its RTS technology?"

  For the next few moments there was dead silence. Burke's expression showed a lack of surprise. He knew where this was going. But he had to avoid jumping in too quickly. He was certainly not about to reveal any details about President Corland's willingness to negotiate an international credit-for-weapons trade.

  Caesar Demas was a master at getting to the core of an issue, while maintaining a perfect poker-face demeanor. There wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face. Nothing to reveal just how important the RTS weapons system was to Demas's ultimate mission.

  Finally Mr. Burke responded. "There may be the potential for dialogue on that subject, yes. Which is why we are bringing this subject up with you first. Rather than using the usual official diplomatic avenues of exploration, we thought we'd approach you directly. Here at the conference. As you can imagine, this is a tremendously sensitive issue."

  "Yes, of course," Demas agreed. "Using the formal diplomatic methods between nations can be clumsy. And so very public. And if things don't work out...it could be an embarrassment to your administration. With me, on the other hand, I can act as an unofficial envoy for your position. I can do some investigation regarding the sharing of the RTS system with those nations that could provide economic and trade assistance to the United States. I could test the waters...find out its net value. I can work a lot of that through the U.N. And if my efforts fail, and the press gets a hold of it,...you can just denounce me to the media as some kind of nosey busybody!"

  Burke and Demas shared a polite laugh. Finally the State Department official extended his hand to the billionaire. "I think we have an understanding," Burke said.

  "At the same time," Demas added with a note of hesitation, "I am aware that the designer of the RTS system, a former Air Force pilot, is engaged in a dispute with Congress. A brazen act, if you ask me...refusing to divulge his design to his own government. Are you sure that the specifications for his weapon system will be available to share with other nations at some point?"

  "That's just a minor issue. Joshua Jordan will be forced to comply. You needn't worry about that."

  "Just one final suggestion," Demas stated as he walked his guest through the cavernous living room to the front door of the villa's private quarters. "I hope you don't consider me arrogant in saying this, but you may want to modify Secretary of State Danburg's speech slightly."

  "Oh? How?"

  "I would make your intentions at sharing weapons technology even more ambiguous. Not quite so obvious. That might give me more leverage in my private negotiations, behind the scenes. Just a thought."

  Mr. Burke acknowledged the request with a nod of his head.

  As soon as Burke was gone, Demas immediately placed a call to an ocean shipping office in the industrial harbor of Rotterdam.

  A phone rang in the small import-export office tucked among the miles of shipping docks and mammoth industrial loading cranes that stretched along the Dutch coast.

  Petri Feditzch, the office manager, answered the phone.

  "It's me," Caesar Demas began.

  Feditzch was a good soldier in Demas's small army. He knew better than to interrupt. He waited for his boss to continue.

  "You need to inform the messenger that our project has to be delayed temporarily."

  "Should I give him a timeline? How long does he wait?"

  "You will tell the messenger," Demas elaborated, "a few days, at least. Perhaps longer. Maybe permanently. Tell him to hold until he hears further. Is that clear?"

  Petri Feditzch hung up the phone and wiped his mouth. He lit a cigarette. He would delay the call until he had finished his smoke. Feditzch's background as a former member of the Soviet KGB made him a tough customer.

  But even with that, he was not looking forward to the phone call he now had to make.

  NINETEEN

  "So, you told him...Dad, I mean?"

  "I did. Cal, he's your father. He has a right to know. You confided in me as your mother, and I'm glad you did. But your dad and I don't keep secrets from each other."

  "So, whatever I tell you, you're gonna turn right around and tell Dad. Is that it?"

  "Honey, God looks at your father and I as one. And you should too. That's just the way it is."

  "Still, I don't understand why this has turned into such a big deal."

  Cal Jordan was leaving the Demoss Learning Center at Liberty University with his backpack slung over one shoulder and with his Allfone plugged into his ear. In
the distance he noticed Karen Hester with her friend Julie, crossing the campus. Karen spotted him and waved.

  "Because you're in pain," Abigail Jordan replied firmly on the other end of the line. "That's always a big deal. If it hadn't been for the missile attack, we still wouldn't know you'd stayed in New York, would we? Besides, if it was such a minor thing, why'd you tell me?"

  "I couldn't keep it in anymore. Missiles were flying. People were getting trampled. New York City was on every channel. And my father was the one right in the middle of the whole thing. My father. Not somebody else's. Mine! He's the big hero, but I couldn't even help a woman three feet away. I was frozen, scared to death. That's what I have to deal with."

  "I know that had to be devastating--"

  "It was..."

  "But just put yourself in your dad's shoes. He thinks you're safely out of the city during a horrible disaster, and then he finds out that you weren't, because you'd lied to us about where you were and what you were doing."

  "So this whole thing is just because I didn't give you guys the straight scoop? That instead of leaving the night before for school like I told you, I went up to New York City to be with Karen instead. Okay, so I didn't tell you the truth. Look, I know Dad doesn't like Karen. And I knew he'd blow a gasket about the two of us spending an overnight in New York--even if we weren't sleeping in the same room. I just can't believe how this is becoming such a big deal--"

  "Cal, you know I expect you to be truthful. Because you're my son--"

  "Sure, yeah, okay--"

  "But even more important than that. You're a Christian. You made the same decision to put your faith in Jesus Christ that I have."

  "Of course--"

  "And because you're a Christian, then truth ought to be a priority--"

  "Fine..."

  "Isn't that right?"

  "Yeah..."

  "And in the same way truth is a priority to me."

  "Right, Mom. Fine."

  By this time, Karen was just a few feet away. Cal put his finger to his lips to keep her from saying anything. Her response was to put one hand on her hip and flash a pretend display of anger, almost making Cal laugh.

  "And your dad considers telling the truth a big deal," his mother continued.

  "No kidding," Cal shot back.

  "So, then your lying to your parents was a big deal after all."

  Cal mouthed the words my mom to Karen.

  "Yes or no?" Abigail repeated a little more forcefully than before. "Yes or no, Cal, your lying to us was a big deal after all..."

  "Mom, don't do the lawyer thing with me. It drives me crazy--"

  "It's not a lawyer thing. It's a mom thing. Two very different things, Cal."

  "Okay. So it was a big deal. I was wrong. Dad is ticked at me. Wow, there's something new..."

  "Cal, I want you to listen carefully to me. He loves you. Your dad loves you so much."

  Abigail's voice caught a little. Cal could hear that. He could hear the tenderness. It was the thing he loved most about his mom. And yet he hated it when it happened. When her love and passion got to the breaking point and the tears would start filling her eyes. Now he was starting to get teary-eyed himself. Cal quickly turned away from Karen so she couldn't see.

  "You are so important to him," Abigail said. She was pacing her words, forming them in her mouth with an exquisite kind of care. Her voice was slow and soft. "He'd lay down his life for you..."

  Cal didn't speak for a few seconds. Neither did his mother.

  "It's just that..." Cal was trying to sound sure of himself. After a few more seconds he continued. "It's just that he's always on my back--about everything, all day, every day, twenty-four-seven--"

  "Cal, you're going to have to love him the way he is," Abigail added. "I do. He's a wonderful man. He wants nothing less than the absolute best for you. That makes him demanding, I know. But cut him some grace, Cal. That's something you ought to know about..."

  Karen had moved around Cal so she was facing him again. But this time no comic routine, no attempts to make him laugh. She could see what was in his eyes.

  "Gotta go, Mom."

  "Okay. Love you, Cal. So does Dad. Keep in touch. Call us..."

  Cal clicked off his Allfone, then looked at Karen.

  "Sorry about that..."

  "Your mom?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sounded serious."

  "Same song. Different melody."

  "Oooh," she said breaking into a bright smile. "Nice metaphor. I thought I was supposed to be the music major and you were the art major."

  He smiled and shrugged, then asked her if she wanted to catch a cup of coffee before the next class. Karen agreed and tugged at his arm as they walked together.

  "So, anything you want to share?"

  "Not really. Constant issues with my father."

  "About New York?"

  "Right."

  "You in trouble?"

  "Nothing I can't handle."

  "Now you do sound like your father."

  "How do you know? You only met him once--"

  "Twice. Remember the football game? Up in the stands? We all sat together."

  "The point is--," Cal started to say.

  "The point is," she said finishing the thought, "that maybe you are more like your father than you'd like to admit."

  "So what, now you've switched from being a music major to a psych major?" he joked. Then he added, "Hey, I hope they've still got some of those sugar donuts left. I'd love to have a couple of those with my coffee."

  "Nice move, Mr. Jordan. Trying to blow me off. Changing the subject."

  As they walked together to the student cafe, Karen could see Cal was thinking hard.

  Finally he let it out. "So, I've got a question for you. A serious one."

  "Okay," she said. "What?"

  He paused for a moment and stopped. She stopped with him and tilted her head a little, studying him closely. Then Cal asked her.

  "Exactly who would you be willing to die for?"

  TWENTY

  The reporter was having a hard time keeping up with her interviewee. The subject of her focus, an impeccably dressed middle-aged man who hailed from Pakistan, was walking at a fast clip toward the diplomatsonly elevator inside the Davos Conference Center. The reporter was trying her best to get as many questions in as possible before Hamad Katchi disappeared into the elevator's sanctuary--beyond the reach of the press.

  Twenty feet ahead, Katchi's executive assistant was holding the elevator door open for him.

  "Mr. Katchi," the reporter continued, "you were at one time one the world's most notorious arms dealers. Supplying advanced weapons systems to a wide variety of countries, rogue nations, and terror groups--"

  "Correction. I have never done business with terrorists," Katchi retorted with a smile. Now at the elevator's entrance, he paused, then turned. "Besides, I am now out of the weapons business completely--"

  "I understand," she replied. "Still, there are many who believe your decision to align yourself with the Society for Global Change, the organization you cofounded with Caesar Demas, was to camouflage your past--"

  "I am now fully committed to building peace, rather than expanding war," Katchi stated. "You may have heard the story already. How the death of my own brother was caused by one of the very same weapons systems that I had sold. Therefore, several years ago I chose to redirect my energies into humanitarian causes. Now, please, I am sorry, I have another commitment..."

  Katchi turned again and, along with his aide, stepped into the empty elevator.

  Both of them were quiet until the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors hissed open.

  Waiting for them in the small hallway was Caesar Demas, flanked by two plainclothes security guards. Katchi and his aide stepped out to greet him.

  "Let's take a walk alone," Demas insisted and motioned to Katchi to follow him down the hall while the aide stayed behind by the elevator. Demas waved a finger toward the door of
a restroom. Then he blew through the door with Katchi close behind. The two bodyguards quickly took a position to block the entrance to the men's room.

  Demas and Katchi began perusing the bathroom, flinging open every stall door to make sure they were alone.

  Then Demas walked over to the two hand dryers on the wall and punched them both on until the sound of their roaring filled the room.

  He leaned over to Katchi and spoke directly into his ear.

  "I have given the order for the messenger to stand down. At least temporarily."

  "Really? I would have waited. I know your reason. You are banking on the U.S. caving in. Well, maybe they will. And maybe not. I think you should have put the messenger securely in place first before delaying his mission--"

  "Why? So he could be poised to grab the RTS information first? Then bypass us and sell the data directly to someone else? Hamad, I thought you were smarter than that."

  "Even if the United States decides not to share the RTS specifications, then, per our plan, our man will still be able to get his hands on the designs anyway."

  "Yes," Demas replied, "but by that time I will have my own people in place around him to make sure he doesn't go rogue on us..."

  At that same moment, on the other side of the Atlantic, cars were stacked up in a long line at the Canadian-U.S. border. Those wishing to cross from Lacolle, Quebec, to Champlain, New York, could expect delays of up to forty-five minutes. The U.S. customs officers were carefully checking passports of all incoming drivers.

  Behind the steering wheel of his rental car, the Algerian took a few moments to examine himself in his rearview mirror. He had Yergi Banica's passport open on the seat next to him. He glanced down at the passport photo and then up at his own face in the mirror.

  It was a good match.

  Zimler had grown a mustache to match Banica's. He had accomplished that even before he had murdered him. Funny, Zimler thought, that Yergi never even noticed the similarity before the zip cord was looped around his neck. Despite his academic prowess, Banica had failed to realize that his executioner had actually taken great pains to create a close resemblance. To complete his transformation into the middle-aged Romanian professor, Zimler had obtained a pair of spectacles and had tinted portions of his hair just slightly.