by Tim LaHaye
The men behind yelled at him to halt, and as Trudy leaned out, reaching, he heard their footsteps. Just as he left the ground to leap for the steps the fastest of the men dove and slapped Rayford’s trailing foot. He was thrown off balance and nearly flipped off the side of the stairs, but Trudy proved stronger than she looked. Rayford grabbed her wrist and was afraid he would pull her out the door with him, but as his weight dragged her to the floor, she turned lengthwise, her shoulders on one side of the opening and her knees on the other. He vaulted over her, Dwayne throttled up, and Rayford helped Trudy shut the door.
“That’s twice today you’ve saved my bacon,” Rayford said.
She smiled, shaking as she collapsed into a seat. “It’s the last time, too. I just retired.”
Dwayne whooped and hollered like a rodeo cowboy as the Super J shot into the sky. “She’s somethin’, ain’t she? Whoo boy!”
“Quite a machine,” Rayford said, dreading what he was going to feel like the next morning.
Dwayne gave him a puzzled look. “I wudd’n talkin’ about the Super J, pardner. I was talkin’ about the little woman.”
Trudy leaned forward and wrapped both arms around her husband’s neck. “Maybe you’ll quit calling me that now.”
“Darlin’,” he said, “I’ll call you anything your little ol’ heart desires. Whoo boy!”
“You heading west?” Rayford said suddenly.
“I can head any direction you want, Rafe. Say the word.”
“East.”
“East it is, and I’ll stay below the radar level awhile so they can forget about tracking us. Buckle up and hang on.”
He wasn’t kidding. Dwayne made the Super J change direction so fast, Rayford’s head was pinned to the chair.
“Like a roller coaster, eh? You gotta love this!”
Rayford muttered to himself.
“How’s that, Cap?” Dwayne said.
“I said you need to work up a little enthusiasm.”
Dwayne laughed until tears rolled.
Late in the day David received a private e-mail message from Annie, reporting that the head of her department and a couple of the other higher-ups had met briefly in Fortunato’s office. David wrote back, “I’d love you with all my heart even if you weren’t the most valuable mole in the place.”
While he skipped around his hard drive trying to retrieve the audio of the meeting in question, his status bar told him he had another message. Again it was from Annie. “I never dreamed of so lofty a compliment from the love of my life. Thank you from the bottom of my moley little heart. Love and kisses, AC.”
When David found the recording, he recognized the voice of his peer, the head of Annie’s department. He rambled through the obligatory kissing up, then turned the floor over to his intelligence analysis chief. Jim Hickman was brilliant but self-possessed and clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.
“These cultists,” Hickman began, “are what I like to call literalists. They believe ancient writings, particularly the Jewish Torah and the Christian New Testament, and they make no distinction between historical records—many of which have proved accurate—and figurative, symbolic languages of the so-called prophetic passages. For instance, anyone—myself included—with even a cursory background in the history of ancient civilizations knows that much of the so-called prophetic books of the Bible are not prophetic at all. Oh, after the fact of some strange natural phenomenon one could make some of the imaginative and descriptive language fit the event. For instance, the current rash of death by fire, smoke, and sulfur—which is clearly poison-vapor warfare, probably by this very group—becomes the fulfillment of what they believe is a prophecy that includes monstrous horses with lions’ heads, ridden by 200 million men.”
“Are we going somewhere with this, Jim?” Fortunato said. “His Excellency is looking for specifics.”
“Oh, yes, Commander. All that to say this: as these people take these writings literally, they attribute to these two crazy preachers—”
“The potentate calls them the Jerusalem Twosome!” Fortunato said.
“Yes!” Hickman cried. “I love that! Anyway, the Ben-Judah-ites believe that these old coots are the so-called witnesses of the eleventh chapter of the book of Revelation. In their precious old King James translation the operative verse reads like this: ‘And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth.’”
“So that’s why those two dress in those burlap bags,” Fortunato said. “They’re trying to make us think they’re these—what did it say?—witnesses.”
Hickman dripped with condescension. “Exactly, Commander. And Ben-Judah has always held that this period began the day the one-world government entered into a peace agreement with Israel. You count exactly twelve hundred and sixty days from then, and you must have what the preachers themselves call the ‘due time.’”
Fortunato asked the others if they minded leaving him alone with Hickman for a moment. David heard the sliding of chairs, the door, people moving about. Then, “Jim, I need to confide something that’s troubling me. You’re a smart guy—”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And you and I both know there are things in those ancient writings that would be hard to fake.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Turning water to blood is being perpetrated by the same people who are killing us with germ warfare. It’s a trick, something planted in the water supply.”
“But at Kollek Stadium it seemed to happen to water already in bottles.”
“I’ve seen magicians do the same thing. Something in the mix responds to weather conditions—maybe when the temperature drops at a certain time in the evening. If you have an idea when that is, you can make it look like you caused the phenomenon.”
“But what about keeping it from raining for so long?”
“Coincidence! I’ve seen Israel go months without rain. What is new? It’s easy to claim you’re keeping it from raining when there is no rain. What will they say when the rain comes, that they decided to give us a break?”
“People who try to kill them wind up incinerated.”
“Someone said the two conceal a flamethrower they produce when the crowd has been distracted. Really, Commander, you’re not suggesting these two breathe fire.”
Fortunato was silent. Then, “Well, if they are not who they claim to be, how do we know they will be vulnerable at the prescribed moment?”
“We don’t. But either they are vulnerable or they are not who they say they are. Either way, we win. They lose.”
David would transmit the information to Tsion, but first he wanted to eavesdrop on Fortunato when he reported to Carpathia. He checked Fortunato’s and Margaret’s phones. Nothing. Fortunato’s office was quiet. He hit the mother lode when he tapped into Carpathia’s office. Fortunato had just summarized his conversation with Hickman.
“Twelve hundred and sixty days since the treaty,” Carpathia repeated. “We had already decided on a pageant. Now we know precisely when to stage it. You have your work cut out for you, Leon. You must turn the regional potentates against Peter the Second—not that they are not against him already, but it must result in his demise. I will leave it to you. Leave to me the so-called witnesses. The world, especially Israel, has long since looked forward to their end. For months I have believed it beneath me to personally rid the world of those two. I wondered about the public-relations fallout and considered merely sanctioning and ordering their killing by GC troops. But they will have so alienated even their own followers by then that doing it personally will be considered my crowning achievement so far.”
“If you’re certain.”
“You do not agree?”
“It would be so easy, Excellency. We could have it done without your being implicated. You could even decry the deed publicly, restating that you encourage freedom of speech and thought.”
“But not freedom to torment the world with p
lagues and judgments, Leon!”
“But doesn’t that imply that these men are who they say they are?”
“It makes no difference, do you not see? I want responsibility, credit, points for standing up to these impostors.”
“Of course, as always, Excellency, you know best.”
The Super J sat at the end of the runway at Al Basrah. Upon arrival, several airport workers had run barefoot to the plane, gawking at the sleek lines and the British flag. Where Dwayne’s Aussie alter ego “Dart” had “Fair Dinkum” emblazoned on the side, the decal now read “Black Angus.”
Rayford was impressed with how the British accent affected Dwayne’s posture and bearing and even his vocal volume. “Very good then, gents,” he said. “Ian Hill, proprietor, and the wife, Elva. Thanks so much for looking after the refueling.”
Rayford introduced himself as Jesse Gonder, and one of the workers gave him an envelope with keys and a note enclosed. “You remember the truck. Take it to this address and I will be along. Al B.”
Rayford found Albie’s ancient vehicle, and they chugged into town and a crowded marketplace. He and Dwayne and Trudy sat awaiting Albie in a bustling, stone-hewn café under a cloth roof.
Dwayne apparently knew enough to keep his voice down in public, especially while losing the British accent. The three sipped warm cans of soda as they—at least Rayford and Dwayne—spoke guardedly about the Tribulation Force. Trudy seemed to nap between sips. “I’m sorry,” she slurred. “Too much excitement for one day.”
“She’s a trooper,” Dwayne whispered, eyeing patrons at nearby tables who likely couldn’t understand anyway. “But I don’t guess she’s been this scared in her life.”
Trudy shook her head, then nodded, and her head bobbed again.
“That daughter of yours is smart as a whip, I don’t mind tellin’ ya, Rafe. I know you all must pitch in with ideas and such, but she’s got this co-op organized and coming along like nobody’s business. You know I’ve had a thing for bein’ bold about my beliefs.”
“I heard.”
“I’m gonna hafta put the kibosh on that as soon as the mark is required for buying and selling. It’ll be obvious enough where I stand, and the way I get it, at least from Pastor Ben-Judah’s messages, eventually I could lose my head. We all could.”
Rayford allowed a tired smile. His mind had been on Hattie and how foolishly she had allowed herself to be imprisoned. But he had never heard Tsion referred to as Pastor Ben-Judah, and he liked it. It fit. He was more than the pastor of the Trib Force. He was anybody’s pastor who chose to engage his daily cyberpulpit.
As Dwayne carried on about the honor of his and Trudy’s being the key southwest operatives of the Commodity Co-op, Rayford’s mind wandered to Leah’s suggestion. She was right; she was free of family obligations. Maybe she could be mobile. She was a small-time fugitive compared with the rest in the safe house. Her face wouldn’t be recognized by more than the local GC. With makeup, contact lenses, and hair dye, she could travel anywhere.
Even to Brussels.
She could pose as a relative of Hattie’s. Someone had to share the bad news of Hattie’s sister. Rayford hoped the GC would keep Hattie alive until she became a believer, but he didn’t mind their keeping her incarcerated until after the midpoint of the Tribulation. If she was free, she would try to get herself in position to kill Nicolae. Rayford had to admit to himself that he coveted that role. Though he knew it was ludicrous, his doing the deed wouldn’t be any more disastrous than Hattie’s doing it. Whoever did it was not going to get away with it. He prayed silently, “Lord, search my motives. I want what you want. I want Hattie saved before she does something to get herself killed.”
“I’d like to meet that Greek you told me about,” Dwayne was saying. “Harvesting the ocean out of the Bering Strait, shipping grain from the southwest, and bartering produce in Greece is just part of what Miz Williams has ready to roll. It’s gonna be something, Rafe.”
A truck creakier than the dilapidated junker Albie lent them squealed to a stop in the narrow street and Albie hopped out. He smacked the truck on the side panel, and it roared off. Rayford stood to welcome him, but Albie—carrying a rolled-up brown paper bag—motioned that he should stay seated. Albie bowed to Trudy, but she was asleep, her chin in her hand.
“One of my people reports strangers about,” he whispered as he pulled up a chair.
“You can trust us, Mr. Albie,” Dwayne said.
“I trust by referral, sir,” Albie said. “You’re with him. Him I trust, you I trust.”
“Strangers where?” Rayford said, not eager to engage the GC again. “Here?”
“You would never see them here,” Albie said. “That doesn’t mean they are not here. They have learned to blend.”
“Where then?”
“At the airport.”
“We have to have access to that plane, Albie.”
“Don’t worry. I had someone slap a GC quarantine sign on the door, warning of sulfur vapors on board. No one will dare go near it. And as far as I know, for now no GC craft are at the airstrip. If you can get up and away and stay below radar awhile, you can escape.”
“But are they looking for us?”
Albie shrugged. “I am an entrepreneur, not a spy. You would know better than I. Come, let me show you your merchandise. Do you want your friends to see it too?”
“I don’t mind.”
“We will go far away and test it.”
“I’m gonna stay here with Trudy,” Dwayne said. She seemed to be sleeping soundly, her head on her arms on the table. “Don’t forget us now, hear?”
“Stay alert,” Rayford whispered as he rose.
“Don’t worry about me, pardner. You won’t catch me napping. I haven’t had this much fun since the pigs ate my sister.”
Rayford narrowed his eyes at Dwayne.
“I’m joshin’, Rafe. It’s a country expression.”
“Is it true?” Leon wanted to know.
“Sir?” David asked, sitting in Fortunato’s office.
“You haven’t seen the internal audit on your department?”
David fought to keep calm. “I knew they were doing a report, but I didn’t have the sense they had been there long enough to file a report.”
“Well, they have come to some conclusions, and I don’t like them one bit.”
“They didn’t talk to me.”
“When does Internal Auditing ever talk to anybody? They’re supposed to, but they never do. Anyway, you’re not going to like what they found, but I’m still going to ask you to answer for it.”
David was aware of his pulse and tried to regulate his breathing. “I’d be happy to study their findings and respond as thoroughly as I can.”
“They give you high marks. They say it’s not your fault.”
“Fault?”
“For the fiasco, the disaster. They say it’s not because of your leadership, which they find stellar.”
“What are they calling a disaster?”
“Not the morale of your troops, that’s for sure. Or your own work ethic. Seems you put in more hours than anybody but the potentate and me.”
“Well, I don’t know about that . . .”
“Bottom line, Hassid, they’re recommending pulling the plug on the cyber-transmission detection project.”
“Oh, no. I’d like to keep trying.”
“I know it’s been a pet of yours and that you’ve put heart and soul into it. Fact is, it’s not cost efficient.”
“But wouldn’t a little more time be worth it if we did turn up something?”
“You’re not going to turn up anything now, are you, David? Be honest. Internal Audit says you’re no closer than you were the day we installed the equipment, and with the thousands of man-hours and the budget thrown at it, it doesn’t make sense anymore.”
David worked up his most disappointed expression.
“So, I ask you again,” Leon said. “Is it true? Is it more tro
uble than it’s worth? Should we pull the plug?”
“What will the potentate say?”
“That’s my worry. I’m going to take the tack that we don’t need to know the source location that badly and that the Judah-ites are making fools of us this way. He’ll agree. How about you?”
“Who am I to disagree with the potentate and the supreme commander?”
“Atta boy.”
“Not to mention Internal Audit.”
“There you go. Now I have an idea for the use of those man-hours and computers.”
“Good. I’d hate to see them go to waste.”
“Now that the cockpit crew is back to work and the Phoenix 216 is appropriately outfitted, His Excellency has assigned me a rather ambitious ten-region tour over the next few weeks. In preparation for a gala celebration of reaching the halfway point of the Global Community’s seven-year protection agreement with Israel, he would like me to meet personally with each of the regional potentates, including the new African leader. I would like your staff, the ones who will be freed up by the dissolution of the other project—”
“Excuse me, Commander, but I have a dumb question. . . .”
“The only dumb question is the one that isn’t asked.”
Never heard that one before! David thought. “Well, again, it’s outside my area.”
“Fire away.”
“Wouldn’t it be more cost efficient to just have the ten, ah, potentates come here or meet somewhere else with you?”
“Good thinking, but there are reasons for doing it this way.” Leon had shifted into his patronizing teaching mode. He steepled his fingers and studied them. “His Excellency Nicolae Carpathia is, along with his many other stellar leadership qualities, a diplomat nonpareil. He leads by example. He leads by serving. He leads by listening. He leads by delegating, thus my trip. The potentate knows that each of his ten subpotentates, as it were, needs to keep a sense of his own presence. To keep them loyal, energized, and inspired, he prefers to defer to their own orbits of authority and autonomy. By sending me as his emissary to, how shall we put it, their turf, he is honoring them.
