The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books

by Tim LaHaye

  Carpathia made an effort to take back the microphone, but President Fitzhugh resisted. “Now I have the floor, sir, if you don’t mind!” This brought a peal of laughter. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the secretary-general’s idea for global disarmament is a stroke of genius. I support it without reservation and am proud to lead the way to the rapid destruction of 90 percent of our weapons and the donation of the other 10 percent to Global Community, under Mr. Carpathia’s direction.”

  Buck’s head swam and he fought to keep his equilibrium.

  “As a tangible expression of my personal support and that of our nation as a whole, we have also gifted Global Community with the brand-new Air Force One. We have financed its repainting and titling, and it can be viewed at Ben Gurion International.

  “Now I surrender the microphone to the man of destiny, the leader whose current title does not do justice to the extent of his influence, to my personal friend and compatriot, Nicolae Carpathia!”

  Nicolae appeared to accept the microphone reluctantly and seemed embarrassed by all the attention. He looked bemused, as if helpless to know what to do with such a recalcitrant U.S. president who didn’t know when enough was enough.

  When the applause finally died down, Carpathia affected his humblest tone and said, “I apologize for my overexuberant friend, who has been too kind and too generous, and to whom the Global Community owes a tremendous debt.”

  Rayford kept a close eye on Buck. The man did not look well. Buck had seemed to nearly topple, and Rayford wondered if it was the heat or merely the nauseating mutual-admiration-society speeches that were turning Buck green around the gills.

  The Israeli dignitaries, except Rosenzweig of course, looked vaguely uncomfortable with all the talk of destroying weapons and disarming. A strong military had been their best defense for decades, and without the covenant with Global Community, they would have been loath to agree to Carpathia’s disarmament plan.

  The rest of the ceremony was anticlimactic to the rousing—and, in Rayford’s mind, disturbing—speech of the president. Fitzhugh seemed more enamored of Carpathia every time they were together. But his view only mirrored that of most of the populace of the world. Unless one was a student of Bible prophecy and read between the lines, one would easily believe that Nicolae Carpathia was a gift from God at the most crucial moment in world history.

  Buck recovered control as other leaders made innocuous speeches and rattled on about the importance and historicity of the document they were about to sign. Several decorative pens were produced as television, film, digital video, and still cameras zeroed in on the signers. The pens were passed back and forth, the poses struck, and the signatures applied. With handshakes, embraces, and kisses on both cheeks all around, the treaty was inaugurated.

  And the signers of this treaty—all except one—were ignorant of its consequences, unaware they had been party to an unholy alliance.

  A covenant had been struck. God’s chosen people, who planned to rebuild the temple and reinstitute the system of sacrifices until the coming of their Messiah, had signed a deal with the devil.

  Only two men on the dais knew this pact signaled the beginning of the end of time. One was maniacally hopeful; the other trembled at what was to come.

  At the famed Wall, the two witnesses wailed the truth. At the tops of their voices, the sound carrying to the far reaches of the Temple Mount and beyond, they called out the news: “Thus begins the last terrible week of the Lord!”

  The seven-year “week” had begun.

  The Tribulation.

  CHAPTER 17

  Rayford Steele sat in a lounge at Ben Gurion Airport. He was early, preceding the Carpathia delegation by more than an hour. His crew was busy on Global Community One, and he had time to try to get through to Chloe.

  “I saw you, Dad!” she laughed. “They tried to flash names with each shot. They had yours almost right. It said you were Raymond Steel, no e on the end, and that you were the pilot of Air Force One.”

  Rayford smiled, warmed by the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Close. And the press wonders why no one trusts them.”

  “They didn’t know what to do with Buck,” Chloe said. “The first few times they panned to him, they didn’t put anything on the screen. Then somebody must have heard the announcement when he was introduced and they came up with ‘Duke Wilson, former writer, Newsweek.’”

  “Perfect,” Rayford said.

  “Buck’s all excited about this rabbi who’s going to be on international CNN in a couple of hours. You going to get a chance to watch?”

  “We’ll have it on the plane.”

  “You can get it that far away and that far up?”

  “You should see the technology, Chlo’. The reception will be better than we get on cable at home. At least as good, anyway.”

  Buck felt an overwhelming sadness. Chaim Rosenzweig had embraced him at least three times after the ceremony, exulting that this was one of the happiest days of his life. He pleaded with Buck to come along on the flight to Baghdad. “You will be working for Nicolae in a month regardless,” Chaim said. “No one will see this as conflict of interest.”

  “I will, especially in a month when he owns whatever rag I work for.”

  “Don’t be negative today, of all days,” Chaim said. “Come along. Marvel. Enjoy. I have seen the plans. New Babylon will be magnificent.”

  Buck wanted to weep for his friend. When would it all come crashing down on Chaim? Might he die before he realized he’d been duped and used? Maybe that would be best. But Buck also feared for Chaim’s soul. “Will you watch Dr. Ben-Judah on live television today?”

  “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it! He has been my friend since Hebrew University days. I understand they will have it on the plane to Baghdad. Another reason for you to come along.”

  Buck shook his head. “I will be watching from here. But once your friend outlines his findings, you and I should talk about the ramifications.”

  “Ah, I am not a religious man, Cameron. You know this. I likely should not be surprised with what Tsion comes up with today. He is an able scholar and careful researcher, brilliant really, and an engaging speaker. He reminds me somewhat of Nicolae.”

  Please, Buck thought. Anything but that!

  “What do you think he’ll say?”

  “Like most Orthodox Jews, he will come to the conclusion that Messiah is yet to come. There are a few fringe groups, as you know, who believe Messiah already came, but these so-called Messiahs are no longer in Israel. Some are dead. Some have moved to other countries. None brought the justice and peace the Torah predicts. So, like all of us, Tsion will outline the prophecies and encourage us to keep waiting and watching. It will be uplifting and inspirational, which I believe was the point of the research project in the beginning.

  “He may talk about hastening the coming of Messiah. Some groups moved into ancient Jewish dwellings, believing they had a sacred right to do so and that this would help fulfill some prophecies, clearing the way for the coming of Messiah. Others are so upset at the Muslim desecration of the Temple Mount that they have reopened synagogues in the same vicinity, as close as they can to the original site of the temple.”

  “You know there are Gentiles who also believe Messiah has already come,” Buck said carefully.

  Chaim was looking over Buck’s shoulder, making sure he was not left behind when the entourage moved toward transportation back to the hotels and eventually to Ben Gurion for the flight to Baghdad. “Yes, yes, I know, Cameron. But I would sooner believe Messiah is not a person but more of an ideology.”

  He began moving away and Buck suddenly felt desperate. He held Chaim’s arm. “Doctor, Messiah is more than an ideology!”

  Rosenzweig stopped and looked his friend in the face. “Cameron, we can discuss this, but if you are going to be so literal about it, let me tell you something. If Messiah is a person, if he is to come to bring peace and justice and hope to the world, I agree wi
th those who believe he is already here.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, don’t you?”

  “You believe in Messiah?”

  “I said if, Cameron. That is a big if.”

  “If Messiah is real and is to come, what?” Buck pleaded as his friend pulled away.

  “Don’t you see, Cameron? Nicolae himself fulfills most of the prophecies. Maybe all, but this is not my area of scholarship. Now I must go. I will see you in Babylon?”

  “No, I told you—”

  Rosenzweig stopped and returned. “I thought you just meant you were finding your own way there so as not to accept any favors from an interview subject.”

  “I was, but I have changed my mind. I’m not going. If I do wind up working for a Carpathia-owned publication, I imagine I’ll tour New Babylon soon enough.”

  “What will you do? Are you returning to the States? Will I see you there?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  “Cameron! Give me a smile on this historic day!”

  But Buck could not muster one. He walked all the way back to the King David Hotel, where the clerk asked if he still wanted information on commercial flights to Baghdad. “No, thanks,” he said.

  “Very good, sir. A message for you.”

  The envelope bore the return address of Dr. Tsion Ben-Judah. Buck trotted up to his room before tearing it open. It read, “Sorry to abandon you last night. Would not have been able to converse. Would you do me the honor of joining me for lunch and accompanying me to the ICNN studio? I will await your call.”

  Buck looked at his watch. Surely it was too late. He placed the call, only to get a housekeeper who said that the rabbi had left twenty minutes before. Buck slammed his hand on the dresser. What a privilege he would miss, just because he had walked back to the hotel instead of taking a cab! Perhaps he would take a cab to the TV studio and meet Tsion there after lunch. But did the rabbi want to talk before going on the air; was that it?

  Buck lifted the receiver, and the front desk answered. “Can you get me a cab, please?”

  “Certainly, sir, but a call has just come in for you. Would you like to take it now?”

  “Yes, and hold onto that cab until I get back to you.”

  “Yes, sir. Hang up, please, and I will ring your call through.”

  It was Tsion. “Dr. Ben-Judah! I’m so glad you called! I just got back.”

  “I was at the signing, Buck,” Tsion said in his thick Hebrew accent, “but I did not make myself visible or available.”

  “Is your lunch invitation still open?”

  “It is.”

  “When shall I meet you, and where?”

  “How about now, out in front?”

  “I’m there.”

  Thank you, Lord, Buck breathed as he ran down the stairs. Give me the opportunity to tell this man that you are the Messiah.

  At the car the rabbi shook Buck’s hand with both of his and pulled him close. “Buck, we have shared an incredible experience. I feel a bond. But now I am nervous about informing the world of my findings, and I need to talk over lunch. May we?”

  The rabbi directed his driver to a small cafe in a busy section of Jerusalem. Tsion, a huge black three-ring binder under his arm, spoke quietly to the waiter in Hebrew, and they were directed to a window table surrounded by plants. When menus were brought, Ben-Judah looked at his watch, waved off the menus, and spoke again in his native tongue. Buck assumed he was ordering for both of them.

  “Do you still need your patch, identifying yourself as a reporter from the magazine?”

  Buck quickly yanked the patch off his pocket.

  “It came off much easier than it went on, did it not?”

  Buck laughed.

  As Tsion joined in the laughter, the waiter brought an unsliced loaf of warm bread, butter, a wheel of cheese, a mayonnaise-like sauce, a bowl of green apples, and fresh cucumbers.

  “If you will allow me?” Ben-Judah pointed to the plate.

  “Please.”

  The rabbi sliced the warm bread in huge sections, slathered them with butter and the sauce, applied slices of the cucumber and cheese, then put apple slices on the side and slid a plate in front of Buck.

  Buck waited as the rabbi prepared his own plate. “Please do not wait for me. Eat while the bread is warm.”

  Buck bowed his head briefly, praying again for Tsion Ben-Judah’s soul. He raised his eyes and lifted the delicacy.

  “You are a man of prayer,” Tsion observed as he continued to prepare his meal.

  “I am.” Buck continued to pray silently, wondering if now was the time to jump in with a timely word. Could this man be influenced within an hour of revealing his scholarly research to the world? Buck felt foolish. The rabbi was smiling.

  “What is it, Tsion?”

  “I was just recalling the last American with whom I shared a meal here. He was on a junket, sightseeing, and I was asked to entertain him. He was some sort of a religious leader, and we all take turns here, you know, making the tourists feel welcome.” Buck nodded.

  “I made the mistake of asking if he wanted to try one of my favorites, a vegetable and cheese sandwich. Either my accent was too difficult for him or he understood me and the offering did not appeal. He politely declined and ordered something more familiar, something with pita bread and shrimp, as I recall. But I asked the waiter, in my own language, to bring extra of what I was having, due to what I call the jealousy factor. It was not long before the man had pushed his plate aside and was sampling what I had ordered.”

  Buck laughed. “And now you simply order for your guests.”

  “Exactly.”

  And before the rabbi ate, he prayed silently too.

  “I skipped breakfast,” Buck said, lifting the bread in salute.

  Tsion Ben-Judah beamed with delight. “Perfect!” he said. “An international adage says that hunger is the best seasoning.”

  Buck found it true. He had to slow down to keep from overeating, which had rarely been a problem for him. “Tsion,” he began finally, “did you just want company before going on the air, or was there something specific you wanted to talk about?”

  “Something specific,” the rabbi said, looking at his watch. “How does my hair look, by the way?”

  “Fine. They’ll probably comb out the hat line there in makeup.”

  “Makeup? I had forgotten that part. No wonder they want me so early.”

  Ben-Judah checked his watch, then pushed his plates aside and hefted the notebook onto the table. It contained a four-inch stack of manuscript pages. “I have several more of these in my office,” he said, “but this is the essence, the conclusion, the result of my three years of exhaustive—and exhausting—work with a team of young students who were of incalculable help to me.”

  “You’re not dreaming of reading that aloud in an hour, are you?”

  “No, no!” Ben-Judah said, laughing. “This is what you would call my security blanket. If I draw a blank, I pick up the blanket. No matter where I turn, there is something I should say. You might be interested to know that I have memorized what I will say on television.”

  “An hour’s worth?”

  “That might have seemed daunting to me, too, three years ago. Now I know I could go on for many more hours, and without notes. But I must stick to my plan to redeem the time. If I get off on tangents, I will never finish.”

  “And yet you’ll take your notes with you.”

  “I am confident, Buck, but I am no fool. Much of my life has consisted of speaking publicly, but about half the time that has been in Hebrew. Naturally, with their worldwide audience, CNN prefers English. That makes it more difficult for me, and I don’t want to compound that by losing my way.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “You have just satisfied the requirements of your end of the conversation!” the rabbi said, grinning. “Treating you to lunch is already a profitable proposition.”

  “So you jus
t needed a little cheerleading.”

  The rabbi seemed to think about the word for a moment. Though it was an American term, Buck assumed it was self-explanatory. “Yes,” Ben-Judah said. “Cheerleading. And I want to ask you a question. If it is too personal, you may decline to answer.”

  Buck held his hands apart as if open to any question.

  “Last night you asked me my conclusions on the Messiah question, and I told you, in essence, that you would have to wait until the rest of the world heard it. But let me pose the same question to you.”

  Praise the Lord, Buck thought. “How much time do we have?”

  “About twenty minutes. If it takes longer, we can continue in the car on the way to the studio. Maybe even into makeup.”

  The rabbi smiled at his own humor, but Buck was already formulating his story. “You already know about my being at a kibbutz when the Russians attacked Israel.”

  Ben-Judah nodded. “The day you lost your agnosticism.”

  “Right. Well, I was on an airplane, headed for London, the day of the disappearances.”

  “You don’t say.”

  And Buck was off and running with the story of his own spiritual journey. He wasn’t finished until the rabbi was out of makeup and sitting nervously in the green room. “Did I go on too long?” Buck asked. “I realize it was asking a lot for you to even pretend to pay attention with your mind on your own presentation.”

  “No, Buck,” the rabbi said, deep emotion in his voice. “I should be able to do this in my sleep. If I tried to push any more into my head at this late date, I would lose it all.”

  So that was it? No response? No thank you? No “you’re a fool”?

  Finally, after a long silence, Tsion spoke again. “Buck, I deeply appreciate your sharing that with me.”

  A young woman with a battery pack on her hip, earphones and mouthpiece in place, slipped in. “Dr. Ben-Judah,” she said. “We are ready for you in the studio for sound check, and ninety seconds to air.”

  “I am ready.” Ben-Judah did not move.

  The young woman hesitated, looking doubtful. Apparently she was not used to guests who didn’t simply nervously follow her to the set. She left.