Desecration: Antichrist Takes the Throne

by Tim LaHaye

  The guard stepped back outside. Buck followed, but the guard was gone. Chaim emerged, shielding his eyes from the light. He grabbed Buck’s arm and pulled him to a souvenir shop, where a young woman looked as if she was about to close up. Buck found it hard to believe such a place remained open in the Global Community.

  Chaim seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. He picked up a small, cheap replica of the container in which the Dead Sea Scrolls had been found in the caves of Qumran. He took it to the young woman and looked to Buck, who felt in his pockets for cash. “Two Nicks,” she said.

  He peeled off the bills, and Chaim opened the package on the way out. He discarded the box and the tiny printed scroll and put the palm-sized clay vessel and its miniature top in the pocket of his robe. Suddenly his gait was sure and quick, and he led Buck back the way the crowd had come. Golgotha was deserted now, but Chaim found his way to where Hattie had been immolated. He knelt by what was left of her ashes and carefully scooped a handful into the little pot and pressed the top down.

  Chaim put the container of ashes back into his pocket and stood. “Come, Cameron,” he said. “We must get to the Temple Mount.”

  CHAPTER 5

  David Hassid sat stunned in the desolate aloneness of a “high place” in Petra. While the pagan religions of the ancient past had used such locations to sacrifice to their gods in a helpless, desperate attempt to gain favor, all he wanted was to express to God his thanks for grace. Nothing he could do or say or give or sacrifice could gain what God had offered him freely.

  All he could see were sky, clouds, valleys, and the occasional bird of prey. It was clear this would be the ideal cradle of refuge for the remnant of Israel, for those who recognized that Jesus was the long-awaited, prophesied Messiah. It was he who would put the finishing touches on God’s love affair with his chosen people.

  But David’s own field of expertise, the gadgets and marvels of technology, would not allow him the proper reprieve to exult in the holiness of God’s plan. He had needed, desperately, to know the truth about Chang. But now the news of Hattie Durham had rocked him. And here was a brief message, laboriously pecked in from Buck’s cell phone, that said David needed to monitor activities at the Temple Mount. Yet another message from Tsion announced a final teaching on the next event on the prophetic calendar, Antichrist’s desecration of the Holy of Holies.

  Well, that was not news, and Tsion had taught on it before. But if the rabbi felt the need to clarify and crystallize it for his billion constituents, who was David to argue? The teaching, according to the worldwide web announcement, would be posted that evening. The very people who might most benefit from Tsion’s teaching could be in flight for their lives the next day.

  David tapped in the string that brought up the GCNN coverage of the Temple Mount activities and patched the other half of his screen to an ancient video monitor that kept a twenty-four-hour eye on the Wailing Wall. He was convinced the camera there had long been forgotten, and it was amazing it still functioned, though the fidelity of the picture had been compromised by the years.

  David wanted to set his transceivers in strategic spots to maximize the wireless network he envisioned for Petra. But here came yet another urgent message from Chang:

  I have been invigorated, encouraged, motivated. Dr. Ben-Judah concurs that the record vindicates me, though he fears Carpathia and his henchmen are devious enough to come up with the idea of doping known believers and forcing the mark on them, and that would be a catastrophe.

  I know you’re busy, but I thought you’d want to know: I intercepted a private transmission between Moon and the head of both Peacekeeping and Morale Monitor forces in Jerusalem. Apparently Walter was spooked by the change in the attitude of the crowd with the martyrdom of the dissident and the sudden mystery about Fortunato’s health. Without informing Carpathia, he has directed that armed personnel lead the way in taking the mark of loyalty. If you haven’t checked it out yet, connect with the Temple Mount and look at the chaos.

  So that’s what had Buck so exercised that he would transmit a message to David’s computer. The official GC broadcast feed showed news anchors nearly beside themselves with glee. “Look at the hundreds and hundreds of military vehicles lined up for miles outside the Old City. They would clog the narrow passageways leading to the Temple Mount anyway, but these are mostly unmanned. Only a skeleton crew of, we would estimate, perhaps one uniformed Peacekeeper maintains custody over every four or five vehicles. We’ve learned that the ones left to keep an eye on the rolling stock are personnel who have already received the mark of loyalty. The rest are leading the way today, becoming patriotic examples to civilian citizens. Indeed, by the time the massive crowd followed Potentate Carpathia’s pageant through the Via Dolorosa and half of what is known as the Stations of the Cross from the now defunct Christian religion, the loyalty mark application site was already clogged with Peacekeepers and Morale Monitors.

  “Many citizens are less than happy about the delay, but the response from Global Community brass, including His Excellency himself, appears to be one of delight. Here’s the scene at the Temple Mount, where tens of thousands of GC personnel noisily jockey for position to receive the mark, and civilians, patient for the most part, are lined up all the way outside the city walls, awaiting their turn.

  “Here’s our reporter, Anika Janssen, with several civilians deep in the long lines.”

  The tall, blonde reporter exhibited mastery of at least the rudiments of several languages as she guessed nationalities and began the interviews in citizens’ native languages. Mostly she asked in their tongue if they understood English so translators would not be forced to employ captioning on the screen.

  “What do you make of this?” she asked a couple hailing from the United African States.

  “It is exciting,” the man said, “but I confess we expected to be among the first in line, rather than the last.”

  His wife stood nodding, appearing reluctant to speak. But when Ms. Janssen waved the microphone in her face, the woman proved opinionated. “Frankly, I believe someone in authority should insist that the soldiers make way. Those men and women are assigned here. Many of us are on pilgrimages. I do not mean to criticize the risen potentate, and I can hardly blame those who happened to have the privilege of transportation and could get here first, but this does not seem fair.”

  Other interviews unearthed the same attitudes, though most seemed almost bemused, or perhaps afraid, to complain publicly. “Oh, look at this special privilege,” Anika Janssen said. “Here is Ms. Viv Ivins of the potentate’s inner circle, working the lines, so to speak. She is greeting people, thanking them for their patience. Let’s see if we can get a word with her.”

  To David it seemed that Ms. Ivins had been directed to a spot where a camera crew would notice her. She was certainly ready with the party line. “I’m so impressed with the loyal citizens and their patience,” she said. “His Excellency was overwhelmed at the eagerness of his own personnel to become examples and role models of loyalty.”

  “Though there is, of course, a visible, prominent guillot—”

  “Which we prefer to call a ‘loyalty enforcement facilitator,’ ” Ms. Ivins said with an icy smile. “Of course it represents the gravity of such a decision. In all candor, Anika, our intelligence reports indicated that we might face more opposition here, in the traditional homeland of several obsolete religions. Yet I daresay that except for the lunatic fringe, such as the lone representative of the Judah-ites who recklessly challenged the power and authority of our Most High Reverend Father of Carpathianism, any such stubborn opponents have learned to keep silent.”

  “Speaking of Reverend Fortunato, ma’am, what can you tell us? We expected to see him here.”

  “Oh, he’s fine, and thanks for asking. He’s fallen a bit under the weather, but he passes along his greetings and best wishes and expects to be back at full strength tomorrow for the potentate’s blessing of the temple.”

/>   “The blessing of it?”

  “Oh, yes. We believe that the beautiful temple was constructed with the best intentions to honor god, even though the ancients were unaware that they had misplaced their devotion. They meant to serve the one true god but were misled by their own innocent ignorance and erred only in directing worship to their chosen deity. We now know, of course, that our risen potentate is clearly the god above all pretenders and that his rightful place is in a house built for the one who sits high above the heavens. By making this his own house of worship, he lends credibility and authenticity to it, and it becomes the true house of god.”

  “Besides the Judah-ites and their seemingly large Internet following—”

  “Clearly inflated and exaggerated, of course.”

  “Of course. But besides that faction, might you expect opposition from holdout Jews who are neither Christ-followers nor Carpathianists?”

  “An excellent question, Anika. You do your homework. This should give the lie to those who say that the Global Community News Network is merely a shill for the potentate.”

  “Thank you. So, opposition?”

  “Well, that is what we were led to believe and what we have been prepared for. It is still possible, of course, but I am confident that the display of divine power exhibited a few hours ago, along with the overwhelming enthusiasm on the part of GC personnel and these thousands of civilian pilgrims, will far overshadow any pockets of resistance.”

  “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 urged 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.”