by Tim LaHaye
He bowed and the people clapped again.
Moon stepped back to the mike and read from his notes. “He is risen!”
The people murmured, “He is risen indeed.”
“Come, come,” Moon said, smiling nervously. “You can do better than that. He is risen!”
“He is risen indeed!” the crowd responded, and someone applauded. The ovation slowly built until Moon held up a hand to silence it. “We are providing you with the opportunity to worship your potentate and his image at the Temple Mount, and there you may express your eternal devotion by accepting the mark of loyalty. Do not delay. Do not put this off. Be able to tell your descendants that His Excellency personally was there the day you made your pledge concrete.”
Speaking softly now and making it sound like an afterthought but still clearly reading, Moon added, “And please remember that neither the mark of loyalty nor the worshiping of the image is optional.”
A helicopter nosed into place and descended to take Carpathia and the rest of the dignitaries to the Temple Mount. Buck still had not seen Chaim since he had left him near Golgotha. The crowd dispersed quickly, and many ran in the direction of the loyalty mark application site.
Unable to reach Buck, Rayford called Tsion. “Hattie was the victim, then, in whatever happened at Calvary?” he said.
“That is what we have pieced together, Rayford. We are grieving and praying, but we are also amazed at how God spoke to her.”
Rayford had known Hattie for years, of course, and had once jeopardized his marriage over her. He asked to speak with Chloe. At first neither he nor his daughter could speak. Finally Rayford said, “It seems forever ago that you met her.”
“Think she accomplished anything, Dad?”
“That’s not for me to say. She obeyed God, though. That seems clear.”
“What was he up to there?”
“I don’t know. If someone in the crowd was wavering, who knows?”
“They would see what happens when you oppose Carpathia,” Chloe said. “I don’t see what it was all about. Everybody here is speechless.”
Rayford tried to dismiss an intruding thought but couldn’t. “Chloe, are you envious?”
“Of Hattie?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course I am. More than I can say.”
He paused. “Kenny okay?”
“Sleeping.” She paused. “Dad, am I a scoundrel?”
“Nah. I know how you feel. At least I think I do. But most people see you as a hero, hon.”
“That’s not the point. That’s not why I’m envious.”
“What then?”
“She was there, Dad! Front lines. Doing the job.”
“You’re—”
“I know. Just put me out there next time, will ya?”
“We’ll see. You heard from Buck?”
“Can’t raise him,” she said.
“Me neither. I imagine he and Chaim are treading carefully.”
“I just wish he’d check in, Dad.”
Buck waited at the Garden Tomb until the crowd was gone. He no longer cared how suspicious he looked. He scanned the horizon and worried how he would explain himself if he lost track of Chaim. Buck forgot what he had been trying to prove or elicit by leaving him. He was still frustrated with Chaim, of course, but what should he expect from an old man who had endured so much? Chaim had hardly sought this assignment.
Buck moseyed among the olive trees, drawing glances from guards. He recalled his first meeting with Dr. Rosenzweig. He had known of him years before that. It wasn’t common to become friends with story subjects, especially Newsmakers of the Year, but it was fair to say the two had been close.
The afternoon sun was hot. The garden was still a beautiful spot, untouched by the earthquake. An armed guard, so still he could have been a mannequin, stood by the entrance to the tomb. “May I?” Buck said. But the guard did not even look at him. “If I’m just a minute?” he tried again. Zero response.
Buck shook his head and ducked inside as if to say, “If you’re going to stop me, stop me.”
Still the guard did not move. Buck found himself in the surprising coolness of the sepulchre. The slanting light from the entrance cast a thin beam where Christ’s burial cloth would have been left. Buck wondered why Carpathia and his people had left this place untouched.
He looked up quickly when Chaim shuffled in. Buck wanted to say something, to apologize, anything. But the man was weeping softly, and Buck didn’t want to intrude. Chaim knelt at the slab of rock where the light shone, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. Buck leaned against the far wall. He bowed his head, and a lump invaded his throat. Could it be that Chaim would claim here the final vestige of courage to follow through on his assignment? He looked so small and frail in the oversized robe. He seemed so overcome that he could hardly bear up under his grief.
Buck heard a sigh from outside, then the creak of leather, the crunch of footsteps. The entrance filled, the silhouette of the guard nearly blotting out the light.
“Just give us another minute, please,” Buck said.
But the guard remained.
“If you don’t mind, we’ll leave in just a moment. Sir? Do you speak English? Excuse me . . .”
The guard whispered, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? Fear not, for I know that you seek Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here, for he is risen, as he said.”
Chaim straightened and whirled to look at Buck, squinting at him in the low light.
“You,” Buck said to the guard. “You’re—you’re a—”
But the guard spoke again. “And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying: ‘This is the way you shall bless the children of Israel. Say to them: “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.”’
“ ‘So they shall put my name on the children of Israel, and I will bless them.’ ”
“Thank you, Lord!” Chaim rasped.
Buck stared. “Sir? Are you a—”
“I am Anis.”
“Anis!”
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.
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p; 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.
