by Tim LaHaye
“But should either the Judah—”
“Have you seen the image of the potentate yet, Anika? The Reverend Fortunato judged the entries himself, and the winner is stunningly beautiful.”
“I have not seen it yet, but I hope to—oh, I’m getting word that our cameras do have a shot of the image, so let’s go there now.”
Buck had found the area around the Temple Mount—now dominated by the gleaming new temple itself, of course—so congested that he and Chaim were able to just amble around and observe, drawing little attention despite Chaim’s getup. Buck looked for other dissidents and was surprised to see that many Orthodox Jews were allowed at the Wailing Wall. He could not get close enough to see whether anyone in that area had the mark of the believer, but he suspected that these devout men of prayer were prepared to oppose the desecration in more overt ways than merely wearing their own religious garments and assembling to pray at the Wall.
The rest of the Mount had been entirely converted into a virtual factory of efficiency. Dozens and dozens of lines herded the Carpathian faithful, or at least the fearful, to stations where they were registered, processed, prepped, and finally marked. Most accepted the mark on their foreheads, but many took it on the backs of their right hands.
Unlike what Buck had seen in Greece, here it was not assumed that anyone in line would decide against taking the mark. In the middle of all the processing stations stood one gleaming guillotine with two operators sitting patiently beside it. Ten feet behind the contraption was a freestanding frame with a drape hung on it, apparently so that the disembodied could be discreetly hidden once the awful sound and severing had served their deterring purposes. No sense rubbing it in, apparently.
As the supplicants finished showing each other their marks and posing for pictures, they were funneled to the east-facing steps of the new temple, where the winning image of Carpathia stood at the second to the top level. The temple itself, a sparkling replica of Solomon’s original house for God, was pristine but simple on the outside, as if modest about the extravagance of cedar and olive wood, laden with gold and silver and brass on the inside.
The image of Carpathia appeared bigger than life, but everything Buck had heard about it confirmed it was as exact a copy of Carpathia himself as it could be. Behind it were two freestanding pillars outside the entrance to the temple, and Buck could see what appeared to be a recently fabricated platform, made of wood but painted gold, in the porch area. “Carpathia leaves out nothing,” Chaim told him. “That appears to be a replica of where both Solomon and the evil Antiochus—a forerunner of Antichrist—stood to address the people in centuries past.”
Many gasped and fell to their knees upon their first glimpse of the golden statue, the sun bouncing off its contours. Unlike the mark application lines, this one moved more quickly as dozens at a time rushed the steps and knelt—weeping, bowing, praying, singing, worshiping the very image of their god.
Chaim’s revulsion mirrored Buck’s own. The older man looked more resolute than before, but his carriage evidenced no more authority or promise. And still he limped. Buck wasn’t sure how Chaim felt or how he would know when the time had come to reveal himself as the enemy of Carpathia, but the more he watched, the more Buck could barely contain himself. He realized that these people—all of them—were choosing Satan and hell before his very eyes, that he was powerless to dissuade them, and that their choice was once and for all.
Buck estimated it would be hours before the GC personnel made way for the average citizens. He found a ledge where Chaim could rest and asked if he wanted anything to eat. “Strangely, no,” Rosenzweig said. “You eat. I could not.”
Buck pulled a meal bar from deep in his pocket and showed it to Chaim. “You’re sure?”
Chaim nodded, and Buck ate. But he could enjoy nothing while thousands eagerly lined up to seal their doom. He swallowed his last bite and was scanning the area for a water vendor when a cloud shouldered in front of the sun and the temperature dipped. As if on cue, conversation stopped and the colossal crowd stared at the image, which seemed to rock forward and backward, but which Buck was convinced was an illusion.
The voice emanating from it was no illusion, however. Even the rabbis at the Wall stopped praying and moving, though Buck could see they were not in the line of sight of the statue.
“This assemblage is not unanimous in its dedication to me!” the image boomed, and grown men fell to their faces, weeping. “I am the maker of heaven and earth, the god of all creation. I was and was not and am again! Bow before your lord!” Even the workers in the mark application lines froze.
Buck worried that he and Chaim would be exposed. Though the old man had to be as frightened as he, neither, of course, knelt before the evil apparition. He forced himself to look away to see if he could find other believers, and he was amazed at what appeared to be row after row of them at the far edges of the crowd. Some were dressed in fatigues; many could have easily been mistaken for GC. They had to be part of Operation Eagle! They must have driven into Jerusalem, found the schedule delayed, and wandered to the Temple Mount, prepared to help with the evacuation.
Buck wanted to signal them, to wave, to approach, to embrace his brothers and sisters. But who knew how far God chose to extend his protection? The Trib Force believed Chaim would somehow be supernaturally insulated, but other brave believers had been martyred for their faith and courage.
“The choice you make this day,” the golden image roared, “is between life and death! Beware, you who would resist the revelation of your true and living god, who resurrected himself from the dead! You who are foolish enough to cling to your outdated, impotent mythologies, cast off the chains of the past or you shall surely die! Your risen ruler and king has spoken!”
The sun reappeared, the people slowly rose, and more and more tourists and pilgrims joined the lines. Buck was jealous that those undecided should hear both sides, yet when he looked at Chaim, he saw passivity.
As if the man could read his mind, Rosenzweig said, “They know their options. No one alive could doubt that a great gulf is fixed between good and evil, life and death, truth and falsehood. This is the battle of the ages between heaven and hell. There is no other option, and no honest man or woman can claim otherwise.”
Well, the old man knew how to summarize, but his was still the plaintive, weak voice with the thick Hebrew accent that reminded Buck of Jewish comedians or storytellers or timid scholars—the latter of which Dr. Rosenzweig certainly was. Buck wanted the faith to believe that somehow this modest specimen of a man—so endearing, so engaging—could capture the imaginations, the hearts, and the minds of people on the fence.
And yet that was not Chaim’s calling. He was to stand against Antichrist—the evil one, the serpent, that old dragon, the devil. He was to go nose to nose with Carpathia himself, while instructing the remnant of Israel that it was time to flee unto the mountains. Different as Chaim appeared now, whom would he fool? He had been a close personal friend of Carpathia’s long before Nicolae became head of the Global Community. Chaim had once murdered the man! Would Chaim not be immediately recognized from his voice alone?
Buck wondered if he himself had the faith to believe this was anything but folly. If there were really a million Messianic believers in Israel, surely they were unarmed. Carpathia was of no mind to let them go! He had more than one hundred thousand armed, plainclothes Morale Monitors and uniformed Peacekeepers. His arsenal of personnel carriers, tanks, missiles, rocket launchers, artillery, rifles, and side arms was on public display. Buck shrugged. Only God could do this, so that made the thought process simple: You either believed it or you didn’t.
Buck had long since chosen to believe it and had to fight a grin. Resting apparently none too comfortably beside him was the most unlikely leader of a million people. He couldn’t wait to see how God would manage this.
By now, thousands of GC personnel had received the mark of loyalty and clogged the area, celebrating. Their commanding officers u
rged them to return to their posts and vehicles, and suddenly the Temple Mount was alive and animated again. Men and women, clearly midlevel managers, stood in a ring near the front of the application centers, using bullhorns to remind the newly tattooed and chip-implanted novices that their spiritual obligation for the day was only half over.
“The worship of the image is not optional!” they shouted. “You are not finished here until you have knelt before the living, breathing, speaking image of your lord.”
It wasn’t as if they were trying to get out of it, Buck thought. But many of these were young people, excited, flushed with renewed enthusiasm for their work. They had seen the manifestations of power. They had seen the potentate himself. They knew that Nicolae’s making the temple of Jerusalem his own was tantamount to setting up residence in the mosque of the Dome of the Rock or moving into what had once been St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. This would establish him once and for all the true god over all. And if the pathetic, weakened resistance had breath left, if they truly believed there was a higher being than His Excellency the potentate, where were they? Did they dare reveal their true loyalties in the face of such overwhelming evidence?
And now the revelers were still again. Those with the bullhorns clicked them off. Activities in the line ceased. Carpathia himself appeared in his white robe and gold sandals and shiny rope belt, smiling, standing one step above his own image, arms outstretched. The silence gave way to a deafening roar. Would he speak? Would he touch the worshipers? Some must have wondered the same, for they slowly rose from their knees on the steps and moved as if to advance upon him. He stopped them with a gesture and nodded toward the center mark application line.
There came his top military brass in all their finery, dress uniforms with white gloves, broad epaulets, buttons with sheens as reflective as their patent-leather shoes, capturing and emitting every staggered ray from the sun. Two dozen men and women, heads high, bearings regal, marched to the front of the line, upon command stood at ease, and removed their uniform caps.
One by one they proudly submitted to the application of the mark of loyalty, each receiving it on the forehead, several asking for the largest, darkest tattoo so their homeland designations would be obvious from far away.
As the last of these were processed, the effusive crowd bubbled over again as the dozen members of the Supreme Cabinet marshaled themselves into the staging area. The last three in this contingent were Suhail Akbar, Walter Moon, and Viv Ivins. While the military brass knelt on the temple steps, worshiping Carpathia and his image, the cabinet waited until all were processed and then moved as one to the worship area.
All the while, Carpathia stood benevolently above and beside the gold statue, gesturing toward these humble shows of loyalty. The assembled masses cheered as Mr. Akbar turned to display the giant black 42 that dominated his olive forehead. Then Mr. Moon displayed his -6. Finally Viv Ivins chose to kneel on the pavement as she received the application, then slowly stood and turned. Buck could not make out her number, but he knew her native Romania was part of the United Carpathian States and that her discreet tattoo would read 216.
The cabinet solemnly filed to the temple steps as the military brass moved away. One by one they ascended the steps on their knees, finishing by wrapping their arms around the statue’s feet, their shoulders heaving with emotion. Carpathia watched each one and dismissed them by placing his open palm upon their heads.
Finally only Viv Ivins remained at the base of the steps. The crowd seemed to wait breathlessly as she delicately removed her shoes, tugged up the hem of her suit’s smart skirt, and began the slow, awkward climb on her knees. Her hose ran with the first brush against the marble, but people seemed to moan in sympathy and in awe of her willingness to publicly humble herself.
When finally she reached the third step from the top, she only briefly embraced the statue, then detoured slightly and went up one more stair, where she prostrated herself and kissed Nicolae’s feet. He raised his face to the sky as if he could imagine no greater tribute. After several minutes, he bent and reached for her, but instead of letting him help her up, she enveloped his hands and kissed them. Then she reached into a pocket and pulled out a vial—Buck assumed perfume—and poured it over Nicolae’s shoes.
Again Carpathia feigned a humbly honored look and shrugged to the crowd. Finally, as he pulled Ms. Ivins to her feet, leaving her a step below him, he turned her to face the crowd and rested his hands upon her shoulders.
When the cheering died, Nicolae announced, “I personally will be watching from a secure vantage point, all night if need be, until the last devoted citizen of Jerusalem receives the mark of loyalty and worships my image. And tomorrow at noon, I will ascend to my throne in my new house. I shall initiate new ceremonies, and you will see again the ‘friend’ who accompanied me for as long as she could on the journey today. And you shall be led in worship by the Most High Reverend Father of Carpathianism.”
Nicolae waved farewell to every side, and the application lines began moving again.
“I’m tired,” Buck said. “Shall we head back to the hotel to rest and pray and prepare for tomorrow?”
Chaim shook his head. “You go, my friend. I feel the Lord would have me stay.”
“Here?”
Chaim nodded.
“I’ll stay with you,” Buck said.
“No, you need your rest.”
“How long will you be?”
“I will be here until the confrontation.”
Buck shook his head and leaned close. “Will that be before or after the desecration?”
“God has not told me yet.”
“Chaim, I cannot leave you. What if something happens?”
The old man waved him off.
“I can’t, Chaim! Leave you here overnight? I would never forgive myself.”
“If what?”
“If anything! You sit here until the last mark has been applied, and it will be obvious you have not taken it. I have reason to think Carpathia is watching, as he said. He doesn’t sleep anymore, Chaim. He’ll know.”
“He will know soon enough anyway, Cameron. Now you go. I insist.”
“I need to check with the others. This is lunacy.”
“Excuse me? Cameron, you believe God has chosen me for this?”
“Of course, but—”
“He is leading me to stay and prepare. Alone.”
Buck pulled out his phone. “Just let me—”
“I will take full responsibility for the consequences. I have my inspiration in my pocket. The young woman who modeled the ultimate obedience once personally encouraged me, though she was newer even than I to the things of God. You are to go back to the hotel to rest and pray for me.”
“God told you that too?”
Chaim smiled sadly. “Not in so many words, but I am telling you that.”
Buck was at a loss. Should he pretend to go but watch from somewhere? He’d done that before. It was near this very spot where he had seen the two witnesses resurrected and raised to heaven.
“I see your mind turning,” Chaim said. “You do what I say. If it is true that I have been assigned this task, it must come with some leadership responsibility.”
“Only for a million people.”
“But not for you?”
“I am not a Messianic Jew, sir. I am not part of the remnant of Israel.”
“But surely you must obey one who is to answer for so many.”
“I don’t follow your logic.”
“Ah, Cameron! If this had to do with logic, what would I be doing here? Look at me! An old man, a scientist. I should be in an easy chair somewhere. But here I am, a stranger in my own mirror, trying to tell God he has made a mistake. But he will not listen. He is more stubborn than I. He uses the simple to confound the wise. His ways are not ours. The sheer illogic of his choice of me forces me to the reluctant acceptance that it must be true. Am I ready? No. Am I willing? Perhaps. After tonight, I must go forward, wil
ling or not. Do I believe he will go before me? I must.”
It seemed as if he and Chaim were alone in a sea of people. Buck pawed at the pavement with his foot. “Chaim, I—”
“Cameron, I would ask that you call me Micah.”
“Micah?”
Chaim nodded.
“I don’t get it.”
“I am not foolhardy enough to call myself Moses, and I shall not reveal my real name to Nicolae unless God wills it.”
“So you’ll tell him you’re Micah? Why not Tobias Rogoff? Zeke has provided identification for that and—”
“Think about it and you will understand.”
“Should I bring my fake ID? You don’t have a new name for me, do you?”
“You will not need a name.”
“You know this for sure.”
“As sure as I know anything.”
“So I bring no ID.”
“Your papers show you as Jack Jensen. Should that be checked, you would be traced to the ranks of the Peacekeeping forces. How would you explain a GC corporal assisting the leader of the opposition?”
“So I’ll come without papers, and if they demand to know who I am, I’ll be deemed a vagrant.”
“I will identify you as my assistant, and that will satisfy them.”
Buck looked away. “I liked you more when you were less sure of yourself.”
“And Cameron,” Chaim said, “you are a vagrant. We all are. We are aliens in this world, homeless if anyone is.”
Buck thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He couldn’t believe it. The old man had persuaded him. He was going to leave his old friend alone overnight with the enemy. What was the matter with him? “Micah?” was all he could say.
“You go,” Chaim said. “Check in with our comrades and your family. And think about my new name. It will come to you.”
CHAPTER 6
The late-afternoon sun made beautifully interesting shadows on the stunning architecture at Petra. David found a sweater and pulled it over his shoulders as he descended from the pagan high place to one of the most remarkable cities ever built.
