The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books

by Tim LaHaye

  “Well, don’t feel bad about a good hunch there, and never hesitate to ask if something’s not clear to you. We put a lot of confidence in a person at your level and with your scope of responsibilities. Not everyone has this kind of access or information, of course, so—”

  “Say no more, sir,” David said, rising. “I appreciate it more than I can say.”

  Rayford had handled a huge chunk of the flying across the Atlantic, but that hadn’t slowed Dwayne’s oral output. Rayford enjoyed it, actually, though he would have appreciated getting to know Trudy as well. When it was finally time to turn the controls back to Dwayne, Rayford decided to place his call to Albie (shortened from Al B., which in turn had been shortened from Al Basrah).

  Albie was the chief air traffic controller at Al Basrah, a city on the southern end of the Tigris near the Persian Gulf. He was almost totally unknown far and wide as the best black marketer in the business. Mac had introduced him to Rayford, and it had been Albie who supplied the scuba equipment for Rayford’s forage to the wreckage in the Tigris.

  Albie, a devout Muslim, hated the Carpathia regime passionately and was one of few Gentile non-Christians who also steadfastly resisted Enigma Babylon One World Faith. His business was simple. To people he trusted with his life, he could provide anything for a price. That was double retail plus expenses, and if you were caught with contraband, he had never heard of you.

  Dwayne was, for the moment, uncharacteristically quiet, and Trudy was dozing. Rayford dug through his bag and used his ultimate phone—Mac’s term for David’s hybrid because it could do anything from anywhere.

  The number was ringing when Dwayne noticed the equipment. “Now that there is what I call a phone! Uh-huh! Yes, sir, that is a phone and a half. I’ll bet that’s got whistles and bells I’ve never even heard of and—”

  Rayford held up a finger and said, “I’ll let you take a look at it in a minute.”

  “I’ll be countin’ the seconds, pardner. I sure will.”

  “Al Basrah tower, Albie speaking.”

  “Albie, Rayford Steele. Can you talk?”

  “From east at four knots. Your situation?”

  “I want to meet with you about a purchase.”

  “Affirmative. Sorry for negative previous endeavor. First officer?”

  “Mac is recovering. I’m sure you heard about—”

  “Affirmative. Hold please.” Albie covered the phone and Rayford heard him speaking in his own tongue. He came back on. “I’m alone now, Mr. Steele. I was so sorry to hear of your wife.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve also been very worried about Mac. I have heard nothing from him for a while. Of course, as captain now he doesn’t need my services as much. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a weapon, concealable but powerful.”

  “In other words you want it to do what it is intended to do.”

  “You’re reading loud and clear, Albie.”

  “Very difficult. The potentate being a pacifist—”

  “Means you’re the only reliable source.”

  “Very difficult.”

  “But not impossible for you, right?”

  “Very difficult,” Albie said.

  “Expensive, in other words?”

  “Now you’re reading me loud and clear.”

  “If money were not an issue, does something come to mind?”

  “How concealable are we talking about? You want one that’ll hide from a metal detector?”

  “That’s possible?”

  “Made of wood and plastic. Can fire two rounds, three tops, before it disintegrates. Limited range, of course. No kill power past twenty feet.”

  “This has to do the job from thirty yards. One shot.”

  “Mr. Steele, I have access to just the weapon. It is roughly the size of your hand. Heavy, thus accurate. Weight is due to firing mechanism, which is normally used in oversized high-powered rifles.”

  “What kind of action?”

  “Unique. It employs both fuel injection and hydraulic vacuum.”

  “Sounds like an engine. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Who has? It propels a projectile at two thousand miles an hour.”

  “Ammunition?”

  “Forty-eight caliber, high speed—naturally, soft tip, hollow point.”

  “In a handgun?”

  “Mr. Steele, the air displacement caused by the spinning of the bullet alone has been known to sever human tissue from two inches away.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “A man was fired at with one of these pistols from approximately thirty feet away. The shot tore through his skin and damaged subcutaneous tissue in his upper arm. Doctors later determined that there were zero traces of metal in the tissue. The damage had been done by the speed with which the air around the spinning bullet was displaced.”

  “Oh, my. You know what I need to hear. Hundreds?”

  “Thousands.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Thousands plural, my friend.”

  “How many?”

  “Depends on where you take delivery, whether we meet—which I prefer.”

  David was frustrated. He had sprinted back to his quarters and called Rayford, whose phone went to voice mail. That phone had everything, but if Rayford chose to stay on another call rather than pick up, there was nothing David could do about it.

  He dialed again. Still nothing.

  “I didn’t intend to listen in there, Cap, but that sounds like quite a piece of hardware you’re orderin’. I like that you don’t care if it’s illegal. It’s not like we’re subject to the laws of the Antichrist.”

  “That’s my view. You wanted to see the phone?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Take over here, will ya?”

  Dwayne turned the phone over and over, hefting it in his palm. “Heavy sucker. Probably does everything but cook your breakfast, am I right?”

  “It’ll even do that, unless you want scrambled.”

  “Ha! Tru, d’you hear that?! Oh!” He put his hand over his mouth when he saw his wife was sleeping. Then he whispered. “Is this one of them that’ll send or receive from anywhere, all that?”

  Rayford nodded. “Best part is it’s secure. It uses four different channels a second, so it’s untraceable, untappable. Lots of goodies.”

  “You keep it in your bag?” Dwayne said.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Dwayne switched it off and reached behind Rayford to set it in his flight bag. On second thought, he pulled it back out and turned the main power toggle off as well to save the battery.

  “I’ll take ’er now,” Dwayne said, resuming control of the plane. “And if I’m not bein’ too much of a nosy Nellie, can you tell me what you’re gonna use such a powerful handgun for?”

  Rayford thought a moment. He’d made it a practice to be open with fellow believers, even about Tribulation Force matters. He might not reveal the location of the safe house or tell someone’s phony ID name, just so the hearer wouldn’t have to suffer for something he didn’t need to know. But the gun was personal, which stabbed at Rayford because he knew well where the big money was coming from. At the moment he couldn’t imagine following through with his plan.

  “The Global Community may be pacifistic and weaponless by law,” he said. “But we lost a pilot to gunfire, and almost every one of us has been shot at, at least once, and a few hit. Buck and Tsion were shot at—Buck was hit—escaping Israel through Egypt. Buck was shot at helping Hattie escape a GC facility in Colorado. Our newest member and I were shot at recently. And you know what happened to Mac and Abdullah.”

  “I hear you, bro. You’ll get no argument from me. Sounds like it would be pretty expensive to issue one of those babies to everybody though.”

  “I’ll personally test it first,” Rayford said.

  “Good idea. ’Course, the two you just mentioned would never be able to carry weapons in their jobs. You’d almost have to plant theirs on b
oard.”

  “We did that when I was captain of Global Community One. Had a couple of pistols secured in the cargo hold. Would have been awful hard to get to, but they were a last resort. Of course, now they’re gone forever.”

  “By the way, Rafe,” Dwayne said, pointing to the horizon, “that would be what we in the aviation trade refer to as the sun. Our ETA is forty minutes. Customs in Le Havre is pretty much by the book, if you haven’t been there. You got the British visa stamp?”

  Rayford nodded.

  “Did I ask you who you are today and why I ferried you across the channel from England?”

  Rayford pulled out his passport and flipped it open. “Thomas Agee. Import/export. And you are?”

  Dwayne smiled and affected a dead-on British accent. He handed Rayford two United States of Britain passports. “At your service, sir.”

  Rayford read aloud, “Ian Hill. And the wife’s . . . Elva. Nice to meet you both.”

  David wasn’t getting a busy signal anymore. He carefully redialed to be certain he hadn’t erred. The number was right. Either Rayford could not hear the ring, or the phone had been shut off. David called Tsion and woke him. Someone was going to have to contact that plane on an open frequency. And fast.

  CHAPTER 16

  Buck suffered from jet lag and the decision to stay up late with Dr. Rosenzweig. He had spent much of the night pleading with Chaim to come to Christ. “It’s the reason I’m here,” Buck told his old friend. “You must not put it off any longer. You’re not getting younger. The judgments and woes get worse now until the end. Odds are you will not survive.”

  Chaim had nearly dozed off several times, lounging on the couch across from Buck. “I am at a crossroads, Cameron. I can tell you this: I am no longer an agnostic. Anyone who tells you he still is is a liar. I recognize the great supernatural war between good and evil.”

  Buck leaned forward. “What, then, Doctor? Can you remain neutral? Neutrality is death. Neutrality is a no vote. You pretend to leave the issue to others, but in the end you lose.”

  “There is so much I don’t understand.”

  “Who, besides perhaps Tsion, understands much of anything? We’re all new at this, just feeling our way. You don’t have to be a theologian. You just need to know the basics, and you do. The question now is what you do with what you know? What do you do with Jesus? He has staked a claim on your soul. He wants you, and he has tried everything to convince you of that. What will it take, Chaim? Do you need to be trampled by the horses? Do they need to suffocate you with sulfur, set you afire? Do you have to be in terror for your life?”

  Chaim sat shaking his head sadly.

  “Doctor, let me be clear. Life will not get easier. We all missed that bus. It will get worse for all of us. But for believers it will be even worse than for unbelievers, because the day is coming—”

  “I know this part, Cameron. I know what Tsion says about the mark necessary to buy or sell. So you are calling me to a life worse than the wretched existence mine has already come to be.”

  “I’m calling you to the truth. Your life may get worse, but your death will be the best! No matter how you die, you will wake up in heaven. If you survive until the Glorious Appearing . . . imagine! Those are the believer’s options, Doctor. Die and be with Christ, only to return when he does. Or survive until his appearing.

  “Chaim, we want you with us. We want you to be our brother, now and forever. We can’t imagine losing you, knowing you are separated for eternity from the God who loves you.” Buck could not hold back the tears. “Sir, if only I could trade places with you! Do you not know how we feel about you, how God feels about you? Jesus took your place so you don’t have to pay the price.”

  Chaim looked up in surprise at the tears in Buck’s voice. The alarm appeared to give way to some realization. Perhaps the old man had not known the depth of their feeling for him. Buck felt as if he were pleading God’s case in God’s absence. God was there, of course, but he apparently seemed distant to Chaim.

  “I pledge this to you as I did once before to Tsion,” Chaim said. “I will not take the mark of Nicolae Carpathia. If I should starve to death for taking that stand, I shall not be forced to bear a mark in order to live as a free man in this society.”

  That was a step, Buck decided. But it wasn’t enough. In the guest room Buck had wept until he fell asleep, praying for Chaim. At nine in the morning he was still exhausted. He had hoped to get another firsthand look at the two witnesses, but he promised Chloe he would stay on schedule and visit Lukas Miklos in Greece on his way back. The new friend they called Laslos would be the key contact in that part of the world for the co-op.

  It was 7 a.m. in Le Havre when Rayford and the Tuttles bluffed their way through customs as Thomas Agee and Ian and Elva Hill. Trudy was to rent a car and check into two rooms they had reserved at Le Petit Hotel south of the city. It was an expensive, secluded place unlikely to draw curious eyes.

  Dwayne would use another rental car to drop Rayford off a couple of blocks from the address on Rue Marguerite where Bo Hanson had said his brother and Hattie were hiding out under assumed names. Rayford planned to simply show up at their apartment and talk them into opening the door by warning them that the GC was onto them and that they had to move. Rayford believed Hattie would deduce that Bo had led him to them and that thus the GC story must be true. Rayford would offer them a ride and to put them up in an obscure hotel if they were prepared to flee immediately.

  The three would rendezvous with Dwayne and improvise. Either in the process of getting into the car or by some scheme along the way, Rayford and Dwayne would ditch Samuel Hanson and let him fend for himself. He was the one with a plane. They could sort out their differences back in the States.

  Rayford wanted to surprise Hattie and Samuel as early in the day as possible, so he and Dwayne took the first available rental car. With a quick farewell to Trudy, who was to load all their bags into her car, they were off. Dwayne bubbled with ideas of how to outwit Samuel.

  “Are you sure you want to insert yourself this far into a Tribulation Force operation?” Rayford said.

  “Are you kiddin’ me? I’ve been itchin’ for some action ever since I got saved. Now listen, we can ditch this boy soon’s we get in the car. You could tell him to step outside with you for a minute because, like, you’ve got a private message for him. Like from his brother. You get out and walk him behind the car, and then you tell him you forgot the note in the car. You jump back in, I take off, and there we go.”

  “Could work,” Rayford said.

  “Or how ’bout this one?” Dwayne said, following Rayford’s directions as he sped through town. “When you first bring ’em to the car, I get out all mannerly and such and we do the formal introductions. I open the door for the lady and get her inside. Then I give this Hanson character a big ol’ Oklahoma shove. He’ll roll twenty feet, but it won’t hurt him. By the time his head clears, we’ll be long gone.”

  Rayford studied a city map and the note from Bo. “They’re using the names James Dykes and Mae Willie. Sometimes you have to wonder. . . .”

  “Here’s another idea,” Dwayne said, but Rayford cut him off.

  “No offense, Dwayne, but I don’t much care how we do it, as long as we get it done.”

  “You gotta have a plan.”

  “We have plenty. If it doesn’t feel right for me to invite him out of the car, you know what to do.”

  “You got it, pardner.”

  By now David was despairing. It was midmorning in New Babylon, and he and Mac were huddled in Mac’s office. David had programmed his own secure phone to dial Rayford’s every sixty seconds and to leave a digital message that simply read ABORT and gave David’s number.

  “If I’d known it was gonna be this way,” Mac said, “I could’ve flown to France and intercepted him myself by now.”

  David, feeling helpless, brought up on his computer phone calls between Leon and his intelligence enforcement chief, Walter
Moon, the day before, the day of, and the day after the announcement of Hattie’s death. When David finally hit pay dirt and heard something that would help Rayford, he felt even worse.

  “This’ll make your day, Mac,” he said. “Listen to this. It’s Leon and Moon.”

  “What’s your plan on the Durham situation, Wally?”

  “It’s done, Commander. She made it so easy. How long we been looking for that—”

  “Too long. Now what’s done? What did you do?”

  “Like we said, we got rid of the pilot. He was usin’ the name Dykes, but we traced the plane to Sam Hanson out of Louisiana.”

  “By got rid of . . .”

  “You want to know or you want to not know? Let’s just say Sam’s had his last bowl o’ gumbo. We put the filly in the Brussels lockup. She was usin’ the name Mae Willie, so we booked her under that so she could hide out even inside if she wanted. I know the big boss—’scuse me, the Excell—, His Excellency doesn’t want anything noisy.”

  “Right, and anyway, who’d believe she’s Hattie Durham? She’s been reported dead.”

  “And she’s the one who did it. We could leave her in Belgium forever.”

  “And we’re taking advantage of this how?”

  “We informed the pilot’s only living kin, his brother, in a note that looks like it’s from Sam, that Sam would be holing up in France for a while, so don’t expect to hear from him. We figure the brother will eventually get suspicious or run out of patience and come looking for him. We just hope her Judah-ite friends will find her through the brother first, because we have a surprise for them.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve got a look-alike staying at the apartment, claiming to be Dykes. He plays coy but then promises to take any snoops to Hattie. They wind up in the same situation as the Cajun, if you get my drift.”

  “Excellent, Wally.”

  Mac shook his head. “You keeping Tsion informed? Rayford’s walking into a hornet’s nest, and those people over there, particularly his daughter, ought to be prepared, in case he never comes back.”