by Tim LaHaye
“But you’re not going to?”
She shook her head.
“Then would you do me a favor? Would you try to reach Hattie Durham for me?”
“Why?”
“Actually, I’m just curious to know whether she’s already moved to New York.”
“Why wouldn’t she have? Carpathia’s hired her, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t know. She’s on a thirty-day leave. Just call her apartment. If she’s got a machine running, then she’s not made up her mind yet.”
“Why don’t you call her?”
“I think I’ve intruded enough in her life.”
Buck stopped for Chinese carryout on the way home and sat eating alone, staring out the window. He turned on a ball game but ignored it, keeping the sound low. His mind was full of conflict. His story was ready to be transmitted to New York, and he would be eager for a reaction from Stanton Bailey. He also looked forward to getting his office machines and files, which should arrive at the Chicago bureau office in the morning. It would be good to pick those up and get organized.
He couldn’t shake Bruce’s message, either. It wasn’t so much the content as Bruce’s passion. He needed to get to know Bruce better. Maybe that would be a cure for his loneliness—and Bruce’s. If Buck himself were this lonely, it had to be much worse for a man who had had a wife and children. Buck was used to a solitary life, but he’d had a network of friends in New York. Here, unless he heard from the office or someone else in the Tribulation Force, the phone was not going to ring.
He certainly wasn’t handling the Chloe situation well. When he had been demoted, Buck had considered the relocation from New York to Chicago a positive turn—he would get to see more of her, he’d be in a good church, get good training, have a core of friends. But he also felt he had been on the right track when he began to slow his pursuit of her. The timing was bad. Who pursues a relationship during the end of the world?
Buck knew—or at least believed—that Chloe was not toying with him. She wasn’t playing hard to get just to keep him interested. But whether she was doing it on purpose or not, it was working, and he felt foolish to be dwelling on it.
Whatever had happened, however she was acting, and for whatever reason, he owed it to her to have it out. He might regret the let’s-be-friends routine, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. He owed it to her and to himself to just pursue the friendship and see what came of it. For all he knew, she wouldn’t be interested in more than that anyway.
He reached for the phone, but when he put it to his ear, he heard a strange tone, and then a recorded voice. “You have a message. Please push star two to hear it.”
A message? I never ordered voice mail. He pushed the buttons. It was Steve Plank.
“Buck, where the devil are you, man? If you’re not going to answer your voice mail, I’m going to quit leaving messages there. I know you’re unlisted there, but if you think Nicolae Carpathia is someone to trifle with, ask yourself how I got your phone number. You’ll wish you had these resources as a journalist. Now, Buck, friend to friend, I know you check your messages often, and you know Carpathia wants to talk to you. Why didn’t you call me? You’re making me look bad. I told him I’d track you down and that you’d come and see him. I told him I didn’t understand your not accepting his invitation to the installation meeting, but that I know you like a brother and you wouldn’t stand him up again.
“Now he wants to see you. I don’t know what it’s all about or even whether I’ll sit in on it. I don’t know if it’s on the record, but you can certainly ask him for a few quotes for your article. Just get here. You can hand deliver your article to the Weekly, say hi to your old friend Miss Durham, and find out what Nicolae wants. There’s a first-class ticket waiting for you at O’Hare under the name of McGillicuddy for a nine o’clock flight tomorrow morning. A limo will meet your plane, and you’ll have lunch with Carpathia. Just do it, Buck. Maybe he wants to thank you for introducing him to Hattie. They seem to be hitting it off.
“Now, Buck, if I don’t hear from you, I’m going to assume you’ll be here. Don’t disappoint me.”
“What’s the scoop?” Rayford asked.
Chloe imitated the recorded voice. “‘The number you have dialed has been disconnected. The new number is . . .’”
“Is what?”
She handed him a scrap of paper. The area code was for New York City. Rayford sighed. “Do you have Buck’s new number?”
“It’s on the wall by the phone.”
Buck called Bruce Barnes. “I hate to ask you this, Bruce,” he said. “But could we get together tonight?”
“I’m about to take a nap,” Bruce said.
“You should sleep through. We can do it another time.”
“No, I’m not going to sleep through. You want the four of us to meet, or just you and me?”
“Just us.”
“How about I come to your place then? I’m getting tired of the office and the empty house.”
They agreed on seven o’clock, and Buck decided he would turn his cell phone off after one more call. He didn’t want to risk talking to Plank, or worse, Carpathia, until he had talked over and prayed about his plans with Bruce. Steve had said he would assume Buck was coming unless he heard back, but it would be just like Steve to check in with him again. And Carpathia was totally unpredictable.
Buck called Alice, the Chicago bureau secretary. “I need a favor,” he said.
“Anything,” she said.
He told her he might be flying to New York in the morning but he didn’t want Verna Zee knowing about it. “I also don’t want to wait any longer for my stuff, so I’d like to bring you my extra key before I head for the airport. If you wouldn’t mind bringing that stuff over here for me and locking back up, I’d really appreciate it.”
“No problem. I have to be going that way late morning anyway. I’m picking up my fiancé at the airport. Verna doesn’t have to know I’m delivering your stuff on the way.”
“You want to go to Dallas with me tomorrow morning, Chlo’?” Rayford asked.
“I don’t think so. You’re going to be in 777s all day anyway, right?”
Rayford nodded.
“I’ll stay around here. Maybe I’ll take Buck up on his offer to see his place.”
Rayford shook his head. “I can’t keep up with you,” he said. “Now you want to go over there and see the guy who treats you like a sister?”
“I wouldn’t be going to see him,” she said. “I’d be going to see his place.”
“Ah,” Rayford said. “My mistake.”
“You hungry?” Buck asked before Bruce had even gotten in the door that evening.
“I could eat,” Bruce said.
“Let’s go out,” Buck suggested. “You can see the place when we get back.”
They settled into a booth in a dark corner of a noisy pizza place, and Buck filled Bruce in on the latest from Steve Plank.
“You thinking about going?” Bruce asked.
“I don’t know what to think, and if you knew me better, you’d know that’s pretty bizarre for me. My instincts as a journalist say yes, of course—go, no question. Who wouldn’t? But I know who this guy is, and the last time I saw him he put a bullet through two men.”
“I’d sure like to get Rayford’s and Chloe’s input on this.”
“I thought you might,” Buck said. “But I’d like to ask you to hold off on that. If I go, I’d rather they not know.”
“Buck, if you go, you’re going to want all the prayer support you can get.”
“Well, you can tell them after I’m gone or something. I should be having lunch with Carpathia around noon or a little after, New York time. You can just tell them I’m on an important trip.”
“If that’s what you want. But you have to realize, this is not how I see the core group.”
“I know, and I agree. But they both might see this as pretty reckless, and maybe it is. If I do it, I don’t wan
t to disappoint them until I’ve had a chance to debrief them and explain myself.”
“Why not do that in advance?”
Buck cocked his head and shrugged. “Because I haven’t sorted it out myself yet.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind to go.”
“I suppose I have.”
“Do you want me to talk you out of it?”
“Not really. Do you want to?”
“I’m as much at a loss as you are, Buck. I can’t see anything positive coming from it. He’s a dangerous man and a murderer. He could wipe you out and get away with it. He did it before with a roomful of witnesses. On the other hand, how long can you dodge him? He gets access to your unlisted phone number two days after you move in. He can find you, and if you avoid him you’ll certainly make him mad.”
“I know. This way I can just tell him I was busy moving in and getting settled—”
“Which you were.”
“—Which I was, and then I’m there on time, on his ticket, wondering what he wants.”
“He’ll be trying to read you, to find out how much you remember about what he did.”
“I don’t know what I’ll say. I didn’t know what I’d do at the installation meeting either. I sensed the evil in that room, but I also knew God was with me. I didn’t know what to say or how to react, but as I look back on it, God led me perfectly just to be silent and let Carpathia come to whatever conclusion he wanted to.”
“You can depend on God this time, too, Buck. But you should have some sort of plan, go over in your mind what you might say or not say, that sort of thing.”
“In other words, instead of sleeping tonight?”
Bruce smiled. “I don’t suppose there’s much prospect of that.”
“I don’t suppose.”
By the time Buck gave Bruce the quick tour of his place, Buck had decided to go to New York in the morning.
“Why don’t you just call your friend . . . ,” Bruce began.
“Plank?”
“Yeah, Plank, and tell him you’re coming. Then you can quit dreading his call and leave your phone open for me or whoever else might want to talk to you.”
Buck nodded. “Good idea.”
But after leaving a message for Steve, Buck got no more calls that night. He thought about calling Chloe to tell her not to come by the next morning, but he didn’t want to have to tell her why or make up something, and he was convinced she wasn’t coming anyway. She certainly hadn’t sounded interested that morning.
Buck slept fitfully. Fortunately, the next morning he didn’t see Verna until after he had dropped off his key to Alice and was driving out of the lot. Verna was driving in, and she did not see him.
Buck had no identification with the name McGillicuddy on it. At O’Hare he picked up an envelope under the phony name and realized that not even the young woman at the counter would have known a ticket was inside.
At the gate he checked in about half an hour before boarding was to begin. “Mr. McGillicuddy,” the middle-aged man at the counter said, “you are free to preboard if you wish.”
“Thanks,” Buck said.
He knew that first-class passengers, frequent flyers, the elderly, and people with small children boarded first. But as Buck went to sit in the waiting area, the man asked, “You don’t wish to board right away?”
“I’m sorry?” Buck said. “Now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Buck looked around, wondering if he had missed something. Few people were even in line yet, let alone preboarding.
“You have the exclusive privilege of boarding at your leisure, but of course it’s not required. Your choice.”
Buck shrugged. “Sure, I’ll board now.”
Only one flight attendant was on the plane. The coach section was still being cleaned. Nevertheless, the flight attendant offered him champagne, juice, or a soft drink and allowed him to look at a breakfast menu.
Buck had never been a drinker, so he declined the champagne, and he was too keyed up to eat. The flight attendant said, “Are you sure? An entire bottle has been set aside for you.” She looked at her clipboard. “‘Compliments of N. C.’”
“Thanks anyway.” Buck shook his head. Was there no end to what Carpathia could—or would—do?
“You don’t want to take it with you?”
“No, ma’am. Thanks. Would you like it?”
The attendant gave him a stunned look. “Are you kidding? It’s Dom Pérignon!”
“Feel free.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“Well, would you sign that you accepted it so I don’t get in trouble for taking it?” Buck signed the clipboard. What next?
“Um, sir?” the attendant said. “What is your name?”
“I’m sorry,” Buck said. “I wasn’t thinking.” He took the clipboard, crossed out his own name, and signed “B. McGillicuddy.”
Normally coach passengers would steal glances at those in first class, but now even the other first-class passengers checked Buck out. He had tried not to be showy, but clearly he was getting preferential treatment. He was waiting on board when they arrived, and during the flight the attendants hovered felicitously around him, topping off his drink and asking if he wanted anything else. Whom had Carpathia paid for this treatment, and how much?
At Kennedy International, Buck did not have to look for someone holding a placard with his name on it. A uniformed driver strode directly to him as he appeared at the end of the jetway, reached for his carry-on, and asked if he had checked any bags.
“No.”
“Very good, sir. Follow me to the car, please.”
Buck was a world traveler and had been treated like both a king and a pauper over the years. Yet even he found this routine unsettling. He followed the driver meekly through the airport to a black stretch limo at the curb. The driver opened the door, and Buck stepped from the sun into the dark interior.
He had not told the driver his name and had not been asked. He assumed this was all part of Carpathia’s hospitality. But what if he had been mistaken for someone else? What if this was just a colossal blunder?
As his eyes adjusted to the low light and the tinted windows, Buck noticed a man in a dark suit sitting with his back to the driver, staring at him. “You with the U.N.,” Buck asked, “or do you work directly for Mr. Carpathia?”
The man did not respond. Nor did he move. Buck leaned forward. “Excuse me!” he said. “Do you—”
The man put a finger to his lips. Fair enough, Buck thought. I don’t need to know. He was curious, though, whether he was meeting Carpathia at the U.N. or at a restaurant. And it would have been nice to know whether Steve Plank would be there.
“You mind if I talk to the driver?” Buck said. No reaction. “Excuse me, driver?”
But there was Plexiglas between the front seat and the rest of the chassis. The man who looked like a bodyguard still sat staring, and Buck wondered if this would be his last ride. Strangely, he didn’t experience the dread that had overwhelmed him that last time. He didn’t know if this was from God, or if he was just naive. For all he knew, he could be on his way to his own execution. The only record of his trip was a mistaken signature on the flight attendant’s clipboard, and he had crossed that out.
Rayford Steele sat in the cockpit of a Boeing 777 on the military runway in the shadow of Dallas–Fort Worth. A certifying examiner in the first officer’s seat had already clarified that he was there only to take notes. Rayford was to run through the proper preflight checklist, communicate to the tower, wait for clearance, take off, follow tower instructions for the proper flight path, enter a holding pattern, and land. He was not told how many times he might have to repeat that entire sequence, or whether anything else would be required.
“Remember,” the examiner said, “I’m not here to teach you a thing or to bail you out. I answer no questions, and I touch no controls.”
The preflight check went off
without a hitch. Taxiing the 777 was different from the huge, bulky feel of the 747, but Rayford managed. When he received clearance, he throttled up and felt the unusually responsive thrust from the aerodynamic wonder. As the plane hurtled down the runway like a racehorse eager to run, Rayford said to the examiner, “This is like the Porsche of airplanes, isn’t it?”
The examiner didn’t even look at him, let alone answer.
The takeoff was powerful and true, and Rayford was reminded of flying the powerful but much smaller fighter planes from his military days. “More like a Jaguar?” he asked the examiner, and that at least elicited a tiny smile and a slight nod.
Rayford’s landing was picture-perfect. The examiner waited until he had taxied back into position and shut down the engines. Then he said, “Let’s do that two more times and get you on your way.”
Buck Williams’ limo was soon stuck in traffic. Buck wished he’d brought something to read. Why did this have to be so mysterious? He didn’t understand the point of his treatment on both ends of the plane ride. The only other time someone had suggested he use an alias was when a competing magazine was making an offer they hoped he couldn’t refuse, and they didn’t want Global Weekly to get wind he was even considering it.
Buck could see the United Nations headquarters in the distance, but he still didn’t know whether that was his destination until the driver swept past the appropriate exit. He hoped they were headed somewhere nice for lunch. Besides the fact that he had skipped breakfast, he also liked the prospect of eating more than that of dying.
As Rayford was escorted to the Pan-Con courtesy van for his ride to DFW airport, his examiner handed him a business-size envelope. “So did I pass?” Rayford said lightly.
“You won’t know that for about a week,” the man said.
Then what’s this? Rayford wondered, entering the van and tearing open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of United Nations stationery, already embossed with Hattie Durham, Personal Assistant to the Secretary-General. The handwritten message read simply:
Captain Steele,
