by Tim LaHaye
But, understandably, Rayford had found it difficult to balance his emotion and his intellect. No one could argue that he had been through more than his share of loss and trauma in three and a half years. But the emotion necessary to round him out as a new believer somehow overrode the levelheaded temperament that made him a natural leader. Never one for psychobabble, when Rayford opened himself to God that night, in his spirit he saw his failure for what it was: sin.
He had become selfish, angry, vengeful. He had tried to take God’s place as defender and protector of the Tribulation Force. In the process, he had left them more vulnerable than ever to danger. As Rayford dared peek at himself in that spiritual mirror, he hated what he saw. Here was a man who had been wholly grateful to God for his forgiveness and love and salvation, now living as a maverick. He still called himself a believer. But what had happened to his dependence upon God, upon the counsel of his friends and relatives and spiritual mentors? What had happened to his love for the Bible and prayer, and for the guidance he had once found there?
As God seemed to shine the light of truth into his soul, Rayford pleaded for forgiveness, for restoration. Had his rage been sin? No, that didn’t compute. The Scriptures counseled, “Be angry, and do not sin,” so the anger itself was not wrong. What he did as a result of it clearly was. He had become consumed by rage and had allowed it to interfere with his relationship to God and to those he loved.
Rayford had become isolated, living out his private ambitions. He had fought to see through his tears as God showed him his very self in its rawest state. “I’ll understand,” he prayed, “if I have disqualified myself from any role with the Trib Force,” but God did not seem to confirm that. All Rayford felt was an overwhelming hunger and thirst for the Bible and for instruction. He wanted to pray like this from now on, to constantly be in touch with God as he had been when he first became a believer. What that meant to his role as head of the Tribulation Force, he didn’t know. More important was getting back to the basics, getting back to God.
Rayford found the cargo plane crew busy with their own work as he taxied a quarter of a mile north to park the Gulfstream. They barely looked up as he hurried past on foot, his bag slung over his shoulder as if he were headed somewhere specific. As soon as he emerged from the airfield’s gated entrance and found a dark spot between road lamps, he phoned the Mikloses’ home. Mrs. Miklos answered on the first ring.
“This is your friend from America,” he said, and she immediately switched from Greek to her very limited English.
“Say code so I know,” she said.
Code? He didn’t remember any code. Maybe that was something among the local believers. “Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah,” he said.
“That not code,” she said, “but I know voice. Saw on television.”
“You did? Me?”
“Yes. Did you shoot Carpathia?”
Rayford’s mouth went dry. So the cameras had caught him. “No!” he said. “At least I don’t think so. I didn’t mean to. What are they saying?”
“Fingerprints,” she said. “On gun.”
Rayford shook his head. He had been so certain that if he shot Carpathia he would be immediately captured or killed that he had not even worried about fingerprints. He hadn’t considered escaping. Some criminal he was! Why didn’t he think to wipe the handle on his robe before dropping the weapon?
“Are they showing my face?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He told her where he was and asked if Laslos was there.
“No. With our shepherd. Praying for you.”
“I don’t want to compromise you,” he said. “I’ll just fly on to America.”
“Don’t know compromise,” she said.
“Ah, sorry. Give you away. Get you in trouble. Be seen with you.”
“Laslos would not leave you alone,” she said. “I tell him. He call you.”
Rayford hated the idea of jeopardizing Greek believers, but Laslos’s English was better than his wife’s, so perhaps Rayford would have an easier time dissuading him from becoming involved. He gave her the number and settled in to wait for the call in the shadows of the shrubbery off the makeshift road that led north out of the airport.
Upstairs in Rosenzweig’s massive house, Buck used the flashlight sparingly as he searched for any sign of Chaim. From outside he heard noises in the underbrush that paralyzed him. He held his breath and crept to the window, peering down while desperate to stay out of sight. Someone signaled a few others, and their shapes moved about in the darkness. He couldn’t imagine a scenario that would allow him to escape until it played out before his eyes.
Suddenly all GC Peacekeeping Forces were rallied for one purpose—to find a fugitive. And when the multi-language announcement came over rolling bullhorns, it was clear whom they were looking for.
“Attention, citizens and all Global Community personnel!” came the announcements. “Be on the lookout for American Rayford Steele, former GC employee wanted in connection with the conspiracy to assassinate Potentate Nicolae Carpathia. May be in disguise. May be armed. Considered dangerous. Qualified pilot. Any information about his whereabouts . . .”
Rayford? Conspiracy? Now the GC was grasping at straws.
From below, the GC Peacekeepers appeared to be arguing whether one or more should stay. Finally their leader barked at them and waved that they should follow. Buck waited a few minutes, then checked every window, staring into the night and listening for any enemy. He saw and heard nothing, but he knew time was his greatest adversary now.
He saved Chaim’s workshop till last. It had no windows, so when he threw open the door, he didn’t hesitate to shine the flashlight all about. It was empty, but it also looked different from when last he’d seen it. Chaim had shown him his handiwork, but now there was no evidence of that. The place was spotless. Even the vises had been unfastened from the workbenches and stored. The floor was clean, tools hung, counters spotless. It almost looked the way it would if someone were moving or had another function in mind for the room.
Buck backed out and closed the door. Something niggled at his mind, despite the taste of fear and revulsion in his throat. He tucked the flashlight into his pocket and carefully made his way to the front door. The casing had been shattered. Though he was sure the GC had done this and abandoned the place, Buck felt safer leaving the way he had come. As he moved toward the back door, he wondered who had cleaned Chaim’s workshop for him. Had he done it himself before the stroke, or had the staff done it after it became clear he would be unable to engage in his hobby?
Buck felt his way through the sparse landscaping in the back and stopped frequently to listen for footsteps or breathing over the sirens and announcements from blocks away. He stayed out of the light and in the middle of earthquake rubble as much as he could until he found an area where the streetlamps were out.
He had to know for sure about Chaim before he could even think about trying to rendezvous with Rayford or Leah. But where should he start? Not that long ago, Buck would have tried to find him through Jacov, Hannelore, her mother, or Stefan. As he broke into a jog, heading for who knew where, tears dripped from his face.
Late Friday afternoon in Illinois, Chloe had been feeding Kenny in the other room when Rayford’s photo—the one from his former GC ID—came on television. Tsion blanched and bolted for the set to turn it down and listen from up close. Tsion had been praying for Rayford, worried about him. When Rayford and Leah and Buck had left, Tsion thought he knew their various assignments and missions, and he feared playing mere shuttle pilot would not be enough for Rayford. He had been in the middle of so much action but was now, even more than the rest, merely a fugitive, having to stay out of sight.
Now what would he do? The news implied he had fired the weapon that may have killed Carpathia. How could one do that in such a crowd and escape? Never had Tsion so wanted to talk to Rayford, and never had he felt such a burden to pray for a man.
That compulsion
was nothing new. It struck Tsion that he had spent more time in concerted prayer for Rayford than for any other individual. It was obvious why Rayford needed prayer now, of course, but when Tsion closed his eyes and covered them with a hand, he felt uncomfortable. He knew he would have to tell Chloe soon that her father was a suspect in the assassination—or the conspiracy, as the TV anchors called it—but that was not what made him fidgety. It seemed he was not in the proper posture to pray, and all he could make of that was that perhaps Rayford needed real intercession.
Tsion had studied the discipline of intercession, largely a Protestant tradition from the fundamentalist and the Pentecostal cultures. Those steeped in it went beyond mere praying for someone as an act of interceding for them; they believed true intercession involved deep empathy and that a person thus praying must not enter into the practice unless willing to literally trade places with the needy person.
Tsion mentally examined his own willingness to truly intercede for Rayford. It was mere exercise. He could not trade places with Rayford and become a suspect in the murder of the Antichrist. But he could affect that posture in his mind; he could express his willingness to God to take that burden, literally possible or not.
Yet even that did not assuage Tsion’s discomfort. He tried dropping to one knee, bowing his head lower, then slipping to both knees, then turning to lay his arms on the seat of the couch and rest his head on his hands. He worried that Chloe would not understand if she saw him this way, suddenly not watching TV obsessively as he had since the assassination, but in a posture of total contrition—something foreign to his nature. He often prayed this way in private, of course, but Chloe would see this “showing” of humility so aberrational that she would likely feel obligated to ask if he was all right.
But these concerns were quickly overridden by Tsion’s spiritual longings. He felt such deep compassion and pity for Rayford that he moaned involuntarily and felt himself sliding from the couch until his palms were flat on the floor.
His head now pressing against the front of the couch, his body facing away from the near silent TV, he groaned and wept as he prayed silently for Rayford. Having not come from a tradition comfortable with unusual manifestations, Tsion was startled by a sudden lack of equilibrium. In his mind’s eye his focus had suddenly shifted from Rayford and his troubles to the majesty of God himself. Tsion at once felt unworthy and ashamed and impure, as if in the very presence of the Lord.
Tsion knew that praying was figuratively boldly approaching the throne, but he had never felt such a physical proximity to the creator God. Knees sliding back, palms forward, he lay prostrate, his forehead pressing into the musty carpet, nose mashed flat.
But even that did not alleviate his light-headedness. Tsion felt disembodied, as if the present were giving way. He was only vaguely aware of where he was, of the quiet drone of the television, of Chloe cooing and Kenny giggling as she urged him to eat.
“Tsion?”
He did not respond, not immediately aware he was even conscious. Was this a dream?
“Tsion?”
The voice was feminine.
“Should I try the phone again?”
He opened his eyes, suddenly aware of the smell of the old carpet and the sting of tears.
“Hm?” he managed, throat constricted, voice thick.
Footsteps. “I was wondering, should I try calling—Tsion! Are you all right?”
He slowly pulled himself up. “I’m fine, dear. Very tired all of a sudden.”
“You have a right to be! Get some rest. Take a nap. I’ll wake you if anything breaks. I won’t let you miss anything.”
Tsion sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders slumped, hands entwined between his knees. “I would be grateful,” he said. He nodded toward the other room. “Is he all right for a minute?”
She nodded.
“You’d better sit down,” he said.
Chloe looked stricken. “Was there news? Is Buck all right?”
“Nothing from Buck or Leah,” he said, and she seemed to finally exhale. “But you need to know about your father. . . .”
David tried e-mailing Viv Ivins a list of those in his department who might be available for double duty over the next few days, but the message bounced back undeliverable. He would go past her office on the way to the hangar anyway, so he printed out the message and took it with him.
On the way he received a call from the foundry foreman. “You know what you’re asking, don’t you?” the man said.
“Of course, Hans,” David said. “You have to know this didn’t originate with me.”
“Unless it’s from Fortunato himself, I don’t see how we can be expected—”
“It is.”
“—to comply. I mean, this is way too—it is?”
“It is.”
“’nough said.”
David slipped the printout into the slot on Viv Ivins’s door, but it was not shut all the way and swung open. The small, dark office immediately brightened as the motion-sensitive light came on. The gossip around the palace was that on occasion, Carpathia’s alleged aunt on his mother’s side dozed for so long at her desk that her office went dark. If something woke her or caused her to move in her sleep, the lights came back on, and she resumed working as if nothing were awry.
David made sure she wasn’t in there dozing, then reached to shut the door. But something on her desk caught his eye. She had laid out a map of the world, boundaries between the ten regions clearly marked. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, except that this was an old map, one drawn when the ten regions were members of the newly expanded United Nations Security Council. When Carpathia had renamed the one-world government the Global Community, he had also slightly renamed the ten regions. For instance, the United States of North America became the United North American States. Viv Ivins had not only handwritten these adjustments, but she had also added numbers in parentheses after each name.
David felt conspicuous and nosy, but who knew what significance this might hold for the Trib Force, the Judah-ites, tribulation saints around the world? He concocted his alibi as he moved toward the desk. If Viv were to return and catch him studying her map, he would simply tell the truth about the door tripping the light and the map catching his eye. How he would explain his scribbling the numbers, he did not know.
With one last look out her office window, David grabbed a business card from his wallet and wrote furiously in tiny script as he bent over Viv’s map.
The United Holy Land States* (216)
The United Russian States (72)
The United Indian States (42)
The United Asian States (30)
The United Pacific States (18)
The United North American States (-6)
The United South American States (0)
The United Great Britain States (2)
The United European States (6)
The United African States (7)
David traced the asterisk after “The United Holy Land States” to the bottom of the map, where Viv, or someone, had noted in faint, tiny pencil marks “aka The United Carpathian States.”
That was a new one. David had never heard another moniker for the Holy Land States. As he was straightening to leave he saw more pencil writing that appeared to have been erased. He bent close and squinted but needed more light. Dare he turn on Viv’s desk lamp?
No. Rather, he held the whole map up to the ceiling light, knowing he would simply have to confess to pathological curiosity, if necessary. He only hoped that Viv, like nearly everyone else in the compound, was watching Carpathia’s body being transported from the Phoenix 216 to the morgue. He was glad to miss that, knowing that most would hold hands or hats over their hearts, and he wasn’t prepared to do that even as a ruse.
With the overhead light shining brightly through the map, David was barely able to make out the erasures. It appeared someone had written “Only caveat: H. L. highest, N. A. lowest.”
David shook his he
ad as he carefully replaced the map and headed out.
Viv Ivins was coming toward him. “Oh, David,” she said, “I wish you could have seen the spontaneous outpouring of emotion . . .”
“I’m sure there’ll be a lot of that over the next few days.”
“But to see the workers, the soldiers, everybody . . . ah, it was moving. The salutes, the tears. Oh! Did I leave my light on?”
David explained the door tripping the motion sensor.
“And your list is in the door?”
He nodded and his phone rang, startling him so that he nearly left his feet.
“Carry on,” Viv said.
It was Mac. David talked as he walked. “Half thought you’d be here to greet us,” Mac said. “Corporal Christopher waited on the evidence until the pallbearers got the body out of here.”
“The evidence?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen pallbearers in dress unies carrying a big ol’ wood crate like it was a polished mahogany casket. Where were you?”
“On my way, but what’d you say about evidence?”
“Annie’s off-loading it now. Couple of huge plastic trash bags full of pieces of the lectern. And another crate with apparently the whole fabric backdrop off the stage. Moon wouldn’t let us leave Jerusalem without it. You heard about the weapon, right?”
“’Course. And our friend.”
“Funny thing, though, David.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d better save this for in person.”
“Rayford here.”
“Mr. Steele!” came the easily recognized voice of Lukas Miklos. “Where are you?”
Rayford told him.
“Stay in the shadows but walk three kilometers north. We will pick you up north of the three-kilometer marker. When you see a white four-door slow and leave the road, run to us. If there is any traffic, we may pass and come back, but when we pull off, do not hesitate.”
