by Tim LaHaye
Buck had first met the man a little more than a year before that assignment, after Rosenzweig had won a huge international prize for his invention (Chaim himself always called it more of a discovery) of a botanic formula. Rosenzweig’s concoction, some said without much exaggeration, allowed flora to grow anywhere—even on concrete.
The latter had never been proven; however, the desert sands of Israel soon began to blossom like a greenhouse. Flowers, corn, beans, you name it, every spare inch of the tiny nation was quickly cleared for agriculture. Overnight, Israel had become the richest nation in the world.
Other nations had been jealous to get hold of the formula. Clearly, this was the answer to any economic woes. Israel had gone from vulnerable, geographically defenseless country to a world power—respected, feared, envied.
Rosenzweig had become the man of the hour and, according to Global Weekly, “Person of the Year.”
Buck had enjoyed meeting him more than any powerful politician he had ever interviewed. Here was a brilliant man of science, humble and self-effacing, naive to the point of childlikeness, warm, personable, and unforgettable. He treated Buck like a son.
Other nations wanted Rosenzweig’s formula so badly that they assigned high-level diplomats and politicians to court him. He acceded to audiences from so many dignitaries that his life’s work had to be set aside. He was past retirement age anyway, but clearly here was a man more comfortable in a laboratory or a classroom than in a diplomatic setting. The darling of Israel had become the icon of world governments, and they all came calling.
Chaim had told Buck at one point that each suitor had his own not-so-hidden agenda. “I did my best to remain calm and diplomatic,” he told Buck, “but only because I was representing my mother country. I grew almost physically ill,” he added with his charming Hebrew-accented dialect, “when each began trying to persuade me that I would personally become the wealthiest man in the world if I would condescend to rent them my formula.”
The Israeli government was even more protective of the formula. They made it so clear that the formula was not for sale or rent that other countries threatened war over it, and Russia actually attacked. Buck had been in Haifa the night the warplanes came screaming in. The miraculous delivery of that country from any damage, injury, or death—despite the incredible aerial assault—made Buck a believer in God, though not yet in Christ. There was no other explanation for bombs, missiles, and warships crashing and burning all over the nation, yet every citizen and building escaping unscathed.
That had sent Buck, who had feared for his life that night, on a quest for truth that was satisfied only after the vanishings and his meeting Rayford and Chloe Steele.
It had been Chaim Rosenzweig who had first mentioned the name Nicolae Carpathia to Buck. Buck had asked the old man if any of those who had been sent to court him about the formula had impressed him. Only one, Rosenzweig had told him; a young midlevel politician from the little country of Romania. Chaim had been taken with Carpathia’s pacifist views, his selfless demeanor, and his insistence that the formula had the potential to change the world and save lives. It still rang in Buck’s ears that Chaim Rosenzweig had once told him, “You and Carpathia must meet one day. You would like each other.”
Buck could hardly remember when he had not been aware of Nicolae Carpathia, though his first exposure even to the name had been in that interview with Rosenzweig. Within days after the vanishings, the man who had seemingly overnight become president of Romania was a guest speaker at the United Nations. His brief address was so powerful, so magnetic, so impressive, that he had drawn a standing ovation even from the press—even from Buck. Of course, the world was in shock, terrified by the disappearances, and the time had been perfect for someone to step to the fore and offer a new international agenda for peace, harmony, and brotherhood.
Carpathia was thrust, ostensibly against his will, into power. He displaced the former secretary-general of the United Nations, reorganized it to include ten international mega-territories, renamed it the Global Community, moved it to Babylon (which was rebuilt and renamed New Babylon), and then set about disarming the entire globe.
It had taken more than Carpathia’s charismatic personality to effect all this. He had a trump card. He had gotten to Rosenzweig. He had convinced the old man and his government that the key to the new world was Carpathia’s and Global Community’s ability to broker Rosenzweig’s formula in exchange for compliance with international rules for disarmament. In exchange for a Carpathia-signed guarantee of at least seven years of protection from her enemies, Israel licensed to him the formula that allowed him to extract any promise he needed from any country in the world. With the formula, Russia could grow grain in the frozen tundra of Siberia. Destitute African nations became hothouses of domestic food sources and agricultural exports.
The power the formula allowed Carpathia to wield made it possible for him to bring the rest of the world willingly to its knees. Under the guise of his peacenik philosophies, member nations of the Global Community were required to destroy 90 percent of their weaponry and to donate the other 10 percent to Global Community headquarters. Before anyone realized what had happened, Nicolae Carpathia, now called the grand potentate of the Global Community, had quietly become the most militarily powerful pacifist in the history of the globe. Only those few nations that were suspicious of him kept back any firepower. Egypt, the new United States of Great Britain, and a surprisingly organized underground group of American militia forces had stockpiled just enough firepower to become a nuisance, an irritant, a trigger for Carpathia’s angry retaliation. In short, their insurrection and his incredible overreaction had been the recipe for World War III, which the Bible had symbolically foretold as the Red Horse of the Apocalypse.
The irony of all this was that the sweet-spirited and innocent Chaim Rosenzweig, who always seemed to have everyone else’s interests at heart, became an unabashed devotee of Nicolae Carpathia. The man whom Buck and his loved ones in the Tribulation Force had come to believe was Antichrist himself played the gentle botanist like a violin. Carpathia included Rosenzweig in many visible diplomatic situations and even pretended Chaim was part of his elite inner circle. It was clear to everyone else that Rosenzweig was merely tolerated and humored. Carpathia did what he wanted. Still, Rosenzweig nearly worshiped the man, once intimating to Buck that if anyone embodied the qualities of the long-sought Jewish Messiah, it was Nicolae himself.
That had been before one of Rosenzweig’s younger protégés, Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah, had broadcast to the world the findings of his government-sanctioned quest for what Israel should look for in the Messiah.
Rabbi Ben-Judah, who had conducted a thorough study of ancient manuscripts, including the Old and New Testaments, had come to the conclusion that only Jesus Christ had fulfilled all the prophecies necessary to qualify for the role. To his regret, Rabbi Ben-Judah had come just short of receiving Christ and committing his life to him when the Rapture occurred. That sealed for sure his view that Jesus was Messiah and had come for his own. The Rabbi, in his midforties, had been left behind with a wife of six years and two teenage stepchildren, a boy and a girl. He had shocked the world, and especially his own nation, when he withheld the conclusion of his three-year study until a live international television broadcast. Once he had clearly stated his belief, he became a marked man.
Though Ben-Judah had been a student, protégé, and eventually a colleague of Dr. Rosenzweig, the latter still considered himself a nonreligious, nonpracticing Jew. In short, he did not agree with Ben-Judah’s conclusion about Jesus, but mostly it was simply something he didn’t want to talk about.
That, however, made him no less a friend of Ben-Judah’s and no less an advocate. When Ben-Judah, with the encouragement and support of the two strange, otherworldly preachers at the Wailing Wall, began sharing his message, first at Teddy Kollek Stadium and then in other similar venues around the world, everyone knew it was just a matter of time before he would
suffer for it.
Buck knew that one reason Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah was still alive was that any attempt on his life was treated by the two preachers, Moishe and Eli, as attempts on their own. Many had died mysterious and fiery deaths trying to attack those two. Most everyone knew that Ben-Judah was “their guy,” and thus he had so far eluded mortal harm.
That safety seemed at an end now, and that was why Buck was in Israel. Buck was convinced that Carpathia himself was behind the horror and tragedy that had come to Ben-Judah’s family. News reports said black-hooded thugs pulled up to Ben-Judah’s home in the middle of a sunny afternoon when the teenagers had just returned from Hebrew school. Two armed guards were shot to death, and Mrs. Ben-Judah and her son and daughter were dragged out into the street, decapitated, and left in pools of their own blood.
The murderers had driven away in a nondescript and unmarked van. Ben-Judah’s driver had raced to the rabbi’s university office as soon as he heard the news, and he had reportedly driven Ben-Judah to safety. Where, no one knew. Upon his return, the driver denied knowledge of Ben-Judah’s whereabouts to the authorities and the press, claiming he had not seen him since before the murders and that he merely hoped to hear from him at some point.
CHAPTER 8
Rayford thought he had had enough sleep, catching catnaps on his long journey. He had not figured the toll that tension and terror and disgust would exact on his mind and body. In his and Amanda’s own apartment, as comfortable as air-conditioning could make a place in Iraq, Rayford disrobed to his boxers and sat on the end of his bed. Shoulders slumped, elbows on knees, he exhaled loudly and realized how exhausted he truly was. He had finally heard from home. He knew Amanda was safe, Chloe was on the mend, and Buck—as usual—was on the move. He didn’t know what he thought about this Verna Zee threatening the security of the Tribulation Force’s new safe house (Loretta’s). But he would trust Buck, and God, in that.
Rayford stretched out on his back atop the bedcovers. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. How he’d love to get a peek at the treasure trove of Bruce’s computer archives. But as he drifted off to a sound sleep, he was trying to figure a way to get back to Chicago by Sunday. Surely there had to be some way he could make it to Bruce’s memorial service. He was pleading his case with God as sleep enveloped him.
Buck had often been warmed by Chaim Rosenzweig’s ancient-faced smile of greeting. There was no hint of that now. As Buck strode toward the old man, Rosenzweig merely opened his arms for an embrace and said hoarsely, “Cameron! Cameron!”
Buck bent to hug his tiny friend, and Rosenzweig clasped his hands behind Buck and squeezed tightly as a child. He buried his face in Buck’s neck and wept bitterly. Buck nearly lost his balance, the weight of his bag pulling him one way and Chaim Rosenzweig’s vice-grip pulling him forward. He felt as if he might stumble and fall atop his friend. He fought to stay upright, holding Chaim and letting him cry.
Finally Rosenzweig released his grip and pulled Buck toward a row of chairs. Buck became aware of Rosenzweig’s tall, dark-complected driver standing about ten feet away with his hands clasped before him. He appeared concerned for his employer, and embarrassed.
Chaim nodded toward him. “You remember Andre,” Rosenzweig said.
“Yeah,” Buck said, nodding, “how ya doin’?”
Andre responded in Hebrew. He neither spoke nor understood English. Buck knew no Hebrew.
Rosenzweig spoke to Andre and he hurried away. “He’ll bring the car around,” Chaim said.
“I have only a few days here,” Buck said. “What can you tell me? Do you know where Tsion is?”
“No! Cameron, it’s so terrible! What a hideous, horrible defiling of a man’s family and of his name!”
“But you heard from him—”
“One phone call. He said you would know where to begin looking for him. But, Cameron, have you not heard the latest?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“The authorities are trying to implicate him in the murders of his own family.”
“Oh, come on! No one is going to buy that! Nothing even points in that direction. Why would he do that?”
“Of course, you and I know he would never do such a thing, Cameron, but when evil elements are out to get you, they stop at nothing. You heard, of course, about his driver.”
“No.”
Rosenzweig shook his head and lowered his chin to his chest.
“What?” Buck asked. “Not him too?”
“I’m afraid so. A car bombing. His body was barely recognizable.”
“Chaim! Are you sure you’re safe? Does your driver know how to—”
“Drive defensively? Check for car bombs? Defend himself or me? Yes to all of those. Andre is quite skilled. It makes me no less terrified, I admit, but I feel I am protected the best I can be.”
“But you are associated with Dr. Ben-Judah. Those looking for him will try to follow you to him.”
“Which means you should not be seen with me either,” Rosenzweig said.
“It’s too late for that,” Buck said.
“Don’t be too sure. Andre assured me we were not followed here. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone picked us up at this point and followed us, but for the instant, I believe we are here undetected.”
“Good! I cleared customs with my phony passport. Did you use my name when booking me a room?”
“Unfortunately I did, Cameron. I’m sorry. I even used my own name to secure it.”
Buck had to suppress a smile at the man’s sweet naiveté. “Well, friend, we’ll just use that to keep them off our trail, hm?”
“Cameron, I’m afraid I’m not too good at all this.”
“Why don’t you have Andre drive you directly to that hotel. Tell them my plans have changed and that I will not be in until Sunday.”
“Cameron! How do you think of such things so quickly?”
“Hurry now. And we must not be seen together anymore. I will leave here no later than Saturday night. You can reach me at this number.”
“Is it secure?”
“It’s the latest technology. No one can tap into it. Just don’t put my name next to that number, and don’t give that number to anyone else.”
“Cameron, where will you begin looking for Tsion?”
“I have a couple of ideas,” Buck said. “And you must know, if I can get him out of this country, I’ll do it.”
“Excellent! If I were a praying man, I’d pray for you.”
“Chaim, one of these days soon, you need to become a praying man.”
Chaim changed the subject. “One more thing, Cameron. I have placed a call to Carpathia for his assistance in this.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that, Chaim. I don’t trust him the way you do.”
“I’ve sensed that, Buck,” Rosenzweig said, “but you need to get to know the man better.”
If you only knew, Buck thought. “Chaim, I’ll try to communicate with you as soon as I know anything. Call me only if you need to.”
Rosenzweig embraced him fiercely again and hurried off. Buck used a pay phone to call the King David Hotel. He booked a room for two weeks under the name of Herb Katz. “Representing what company?” the clerk said.
Buck thought a moment. “International Harvester,” he said, deciding that that would have been a great description of both Bruce Barnes and Tsion Ben-Judah.
Rayford’s eyes popped open. He had not moved a muscle. He had no idea how long he had slept, but something had interrupted his reverie. The jangling phone on the bedside table made him jump. Reaching for it, he realized his arm was asleep. It didn’t want to go where he wanted it to. Somehow he forced himself to grasp the receiver. “Steele here,” he gargled.
“Captain Steele? Are you all right?” It was Hattie Durham.
Rayford rolled onto his side and tucked the receiver under his chin. Leaning on his elbow, he said, “I’m all right, Hattie. How are you?”
“Not so good.
I’d like to see you if I could.”
Despite the closed curtains, the brilliant afternoon sun forced its way into the room. “When?” Rayford said.
“Dinner tonight?” she said. “About six?”
Rayford’s mind was reeling. Had she already been told of her lessened role in the Carpathia administration? Did he want to be seen in public with her while Amanda was away? “Is there a rush, Hattie? Amanda’s in the States, but she’ll be back in a week or so—”
“No, Rayford, I really need to talk to you. Nicolae has meetings from now until midnight, and their dinner is being catered. He said he didn’t have a problem with my talking with you. I know you want to be appropriate and all that. It’s not a date. Let’s just have dinner somewhere where it will be obvious that we’re just old friends talking. Please?”
“I guess,” Rayford said, curious.
“My driver will pick you up at six then, Rayford.”
“Hattie, do me a favor. If you agree this shouldn’t look like a date, don’t dress up.”
“Captain Steele,” she said, suddenly formal, “stepping out is the last thing on my mind.”
Buck settled into his room on the third floor of the King David Hotel. On a hunch he called the offices of the Global Community East Coast Daily Times in Boston and asked for his old friend, Steve Plank. Plank had been his boss at Global Weekly what seemed eons ago. He had abruptly left there to become Carpathia’s press secretary when Nicolae became secretary-general of the United Nations. It wasn’t long before Steve was tabbed for the lucrative position he now held.
