by Tim LaHaye
The clock was ticking for Hewbright’s future. He knew that. And he had a sense that it was not just his political future. There was more at stake than that. During the last election cycle, on the eve of Hewbright receiving the nomination of his party, there had been an attempt on his life. He knew it was part of the job, though he was a little surprised there hadn’t been more assassination attempts, more near misses, during his presidency. But now he harbored the firm belief that his current term, and perhaps even his life, could end dramatically and soon. He believed right down to the hollow of his gut that there were not only enemies outside, but also an enemy presence lurking inside his own house. And there were very few people he could trust with that information.
As Hewbright walked Zandibar to the door and then closed it behind him and turned, alone, back to his solo vigil inside the White House, he was convinced more than ever before that the time to cross the Jordan River was at hand.
NINETEEN
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
The rioters had come from the ranks of the homeless, the unemployed, and the hopeless. Some of them were armed. They had barricaded the entrance doors and taken over the first few floors of the exclusive shopping mall high-rise at Water Tower Place and had set fire to several of the shops. On the ground level, with the help of the police, the fire fighters dodged bullets and tried to get their ladders in place to reach the fire that sent flames out of the broken glass in the tall semicircular windows over the entrance to Macy’s.
A few blocks away, in the backseat of a cab that was slammed in the middle of horn-blowing, dead-stop traffic, Bart Kingston was making a call to Dr. Terrance Radameyer, a retired professor who used to teach digital image forensics. His condo was along the Lake Shore, not far from there.
Radameyer picked up the call. Kingston spoke quickly. “Doctor, I’m sorry I’m late. Caught in traffic.”
“Yes, I know. The riots. Terrible. Are you all right?”
“I am. But I’m going to bail out of this cab and go it on foot. Be there as fast as I can.”
Kingston hung up and tossed his taxi fare over the seat to the driver, then jumped out of the cab, briefcase in hand. In little under an hour, after dodging police squads that were on their way to Water Tower Place, he made it to Radameyer’s tenth-floor condo. It was a large, classy place with a nice view of Lake Michigan.
As they sat on the couch, Kingston noticed that Radameyer had the little compact AllView device on the coffee table that he had couriered to him.
“I notice you didn’t want to talk over the phone,” Kingston began.
“Well, my late wife was a psychologist. She used to tell me, ‘Sometimes there’s a healthy side to paranoia.’ What you and I are about to discuss right now, this is potentially very dangerous stuff.”
“We’re agreed on that,” Kingston said solemnly. “I’m sure you know about the international law that outlaws even the possession of this kind of material.”
Radameyer raised both eyebrows. “That gave me pause at first. But then, Mr. Kingston, someone has to be willing to find out where the truth lies—no matter where it happens to be found.” Radameyer reached out and waved a finger over the Start icon on the little screen and it lit up. “So, Mr. Kingston, I take it you want to know my reaction to this video material marked as ‘raw footage’ from the archives of the Global Alliance news network.”
“Exactly,” Kingston said. “It supposedly shows large masses of dead Christians, with crosses or clutching Bibles, scattered in groups, lying on the ground in enormous numbers, and all in remote locations.”
Radameyer reached out and touched the Pause icon, then turned to Kingston. “I don’t think I saw this footage at the time when it was first played on the web television news stories. But I obviously read about it later. Everybody did. Telling the story about millions and millions of Christians spontaneously migrating to remote locations. Deserts. Wilderness areas. And then committing mass suicide, all at the same time. Those were the headlines. But being a forensic expert who has testified in court about faked video images over the last thirty-five years—two hundred and three times to be exact—I have developed a certain amount of skepticism when stories don’t add up. My first question was: Where are the bodies?”
Kingston nodded. He had made the same point himself, many times.
The retired professor explained the counterargument. “But then the Alliance officials said that many of the bodies were detected to have dangerous biological contaminants and had to be buried in mass graves immediately. A public health hazard, they said. Of course they refuse to tell anyone where these supposed mass graves are located.”
Kingston wanted to pursue another angle. “On the other hand, you’ll notice, Dr. Radameyer, that the footage of all of the supposed mass suicides were outside of the United States. In other words, in countries under Global Alliance control. No real attempt to document any alleged mass suicides in America. When this news hit, the only press mention of alleged U.S. suicides among Christians was a handful of still photographs of some bodies on farm properties, lying on barn floors, supposedly somewhere in the plains states. No location was ever given. I’m betting that those photos were lifted from police files on actual suicides of a few of those poor folks who took their lives after their farms went belly-up—decimated by a combination of drought and of course the bankrupting of the whole American economy courtesy of some terrible decisions in Washington over the years.”
Kingston pointed to the little video player on the coffee table. “The problem is, as logical as those explanations are, it isn’t enough. I’m after hard evidence—facts—that prove definitely that the Global Alliance news feeds were fraudulent in the way they tried to portray the disappearance of Christians.”
Radameyer swept his finger over the Forward icon and the news footage flashed on the screen. Then he set the Elapsed Time button at a specific point and fast-forwarded the footage to that spot. “Okay,” the professor said. “I’ve picked the most dramatic depiction that was aired by the Global Alliance News Network over web TVs all over the world. This piece of footage was shown more times than any other. And when I dug a little further, I learned that it had more hits on the Internet than any other news story that year.”
But then Radameyer hit Stop on the screen and stood up. “I think, to give you a better picture, I’d like to show you this on the bigger screen in my study.”
He led Kingston into his library. It had only one wall lined with books, and the rest of the bookshelves were lined with cases of videos, DVDs, MP3 cartridges, and little cartons of megapixel zip drives all carefully labeled and alphabetized. He had an ultra-wide computer screen on his desk. The computer was already on and humming, and in less than a minute he synced the little video player with his computer. Then he hit Play.
On the screen was the familiar footage. Kingston had seen it many times. And he had heard people remark how it seemed to explain—at least to some extent—the bizarre disappearance of so many Christians.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bodies lying together in a field in various postures. Many of them grasping Bibles and crosses. Their faces twisted in the final grimaces of death.
“This is the footage I was referring to,” Radameyer said. “Now, let me show you a close-up.”
He brought the view into a close-up of a man on his back, his eyes staring straight up, clutching a Bible. Next to him a woman in a scarf, also staring out blankly. “This is where there has been artificial image rearrangement—fakery.” He brought the image even closer, to where just the eyes of the man and the eyes of the woman were visible in two separate viewing panes on the screen. “I applied a mathematical formula—standard stuff for people in my area of study—to the light refraction you see on these eyes. Taking into consideration their position next to each other, and in reference to a supposed common light source, what kind of specular highlights—in other words, the glint in the eye—should they have had? I have concluded beyond a reasonable d
oubt that the man’s position was real, but the woman with a cross around her neck was inserted into the photo artificially. Obviously for dramatic effect, to show these were Christians who were dead. This footage is doctored. Now this is pretty hard to detect unless you know what to look for. But I also found some other, more obvious signs of fraud.”
Kingston perked up. “Like?”
“I found six examples in this footage of image cloning—where the shot of a small group of bodies was pasted repeatedly into distant sections of this group photo of bodies—to inflate the size of the group, to make the mass of victims look larger. It was done smoothly, mind you. Well done. But obviously tampered with.”
“If it was that obvious, why did they do it?”
“For the dramatic effect, for one. And also, as both of us know, these images were flashed over web TV sets, and the footage that the Alliance broadcasted had an imbedded no-copy matrix. So viewers only had a short time to view it. And unauthorized possession or examination of Alliance news footage is . . . Well, you know the penalties.”
Kingston grinned. He knew he had hit pay dirt. Now that he had begun his own walk with Christ and spent time reading the New Testament, he knew what had really happened to pastor Peter Campbell, his friend in Israel who disappeared with all those others. The man had spoken to him so many times about Christ and His Second Coming, and the Rapture of His church that would happen before that—before the great and awful Tribulation.
The unbelieving, skeptical world—all of those who had been fed a monstrous and hellish lie about why millions of Jesus followers had suddenly vanished—needed to hear this.
“This is impressive,” Kingston said.
“But there is something else,” Radameyer continued. “The news report and the raw-footage identification both indicated that these photos were supposedly shot in a grassy field in Canada. But they couldn’t have been.”
“Why?”
“Look closely here and see if you can see something interesting in this grotesque field of death.”
Kingston stared at the screen as Radameyer brought the image of the bodies closer and closer. Until at last Kingston saw it.
“A butterfly. On the chest of one of the corpses.”
“Not just any butterfly. I checked it out. It’s a Freyer’s Purple Emperor. Fairly rare. Found in the former Soviet-bloc countries. Especially Romania. And the grass types in this field match the geological descriptions of the Romanian countryside.”
“Romania,” Kingston muttered.
“That means something to you?”
Kingston felt a sudden shiver. He shook it off and explained. “A number of years ago, when Alexander Colliquin was rising to power in the United Nations, a story broke through AmeriNews, the news network that I work for now, about Colliquin and about his criminal behavior back when he was a small-time local politician in Romania. The reports were that he had ordered the gassing of a group of Christian villagers who had opposed him. Dr. Radameyer, I believe that’s what we’re looking at. The victims of Alexander Colliquin. That’s why he would have had access to this footage and could provide it to the Alliance News Network to use it as a lie to explain the disappearance of Christians. What an evil sick-o he is.”
Radameyer clicked off his computer. “So, Mr. Kingston, you have my opinions. And as long as I stay put here in the U.S. and this nation doesn’t join the Global Alliance, I guess I would have a fighting chance to avoid prosecution under international law for possessing this news footage.” He took a minute to stare at the floor. “I suppose you will want me to sign an affidavit, describing my scientific findings?”
“Better than that. I want to videotape you telling the world exactly what you just told me.”
Radameyer thought about it for a few seconds. “I’ve come this far. So I guess I’ll do it.”
As Kingston reached out and shook the expert’s hand, his stomach growled and he thought about dinner. “Can I see if any of the restaurants around here are delivering, even with the riot at Water Tower Place? It’ll be my treat.”
Radameyer smiled. “There’s a great little Italian place, Vini’s, only a block from here. I think they’ll deliver. Make mine shrimp linguine with marinara.”
Kingston nodded. “And while we’re having dinner, I’ve got another question for you.”
“I thought I answered them all for you.”
“Not this one.”
“Shoot,” the retired professor said.
“If the footage was fake—and you know that it was—and you know that the official explanation from the Global Alliance about Christians killing themselves in a mass suicide is hogwash, then here is my question to you: How do you explain the vanishing of millions of followers of Jesus? Doesn’t all of this prove the accuracy of what the New Testament says? What is written there about Christians being caught up in the clouds with Jesus Christ, in the blink of an eye?”
Radameyer stood up and made his way over to a cabinet drawer to retrieve a menu from Vini’s, handing it to Kingston. “You can make your choice for dinner and then call them. The telephone number is on the front.” The beginning of a smile broke over his face. “Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking about your question.”
TWENTY
HONG KONG
Ethan March had found a temporary home in the high-rise penthouse of Zhang Lee, a wealthy real estate broker who had recently come to faith in Christ. Rivka had first connected with him a few months before when she heard about his becoming a Jesus follower, and since then she had held regular Bible studies in his opulent suite. The place was spectacular, full of Yongzheng Dynasty vases and original oil portraits by Wu Zuoren. Now that Ethan was in town, Rivka had arranged for him to stay at Mr. Zhang’s place.
It was midday and Ethan was sitting on a small outside porch off the living room. It had a reflective privacy screen around it that would block any snooping drone-bots from spying down on the occupants. Ethan still had a good view of the cluster of skyscrapers and residential towers that surrounded the affluent Asian Crown apartments where Zhang’s residence was situated.
His Bible was on his lap, and he had just turned to chapter six of the New Testament book of Ephesians, where he was pondering again the principles of spiritual warfare. He began to read: “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might. Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil.”
But then it happened. Without warning, everything in his field of sight fled. And then the vision appeared. The same as before, and yet slightly different this time. Yes, there was the same handsome face that was quickly replaced by the horrible image of the beast. But now it came more into focus. In the visions before, the image had been like an artist’s quick rendering, a charcoal sketch of a horrific face that moved and breathed and seemed to be a thing alive. But this time the image morphed into something like a finely wrought oil painting—a detailed portrait of hatred incarnate, with red eyes and a gaping mouth that dripped with the blood of its victims. Judging by the increasing amount of detail now in the image, the time of the fulfillment had to be getting closer.
And there was something else too, reflected within the eyes of the beast. Within those eyes Ethan could see the bodies of his victims strewn everywhere, murdered and martyred. And Ethan knew at that very moment who they were. They were the souls of those who would be slain because of the Word of God, and because of having testified boldly to the world about the saving grace of the God who had delivered His only Son, Jesus Christ, to be a living sacrifice and a ransom for many.
In an instant the vision was gone, just as quickly as it had come. Ethan dropped his head into his hands. He wept for the darkness he knew had come into the world, and for the unrestrained evil that was yet to come.
He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he wiped the tears from his eyes and saw Rivka watching him with a searching, comforting expression.
“One of your visions?” s
he asked.
He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “Not my visions but His,” he said. “I know God gives them to me for a reason. But I search the Bible and read it and study it, and yet I still don’t know why He has decided to deliver these images to me.”
For a few minutes Rivka simply stood next to Ethan with her hand on his shoulder, and the two of them silently gazed out over the metropolis of Hong Kong spread out below them. Then she said, “Could any of us really have understood how we’d end up being caught up in the beginning of this? This terrible, last night of the world? The birth pangs of the Tribulation . . . But here we are, you and I.” Then she looked Ethan in the eye. “And by the way, Ethan, aren’t you the one always quoting your hero, Joshua Jordan? That ‘the real choice before us is always simple in the end . . .’ ”
Ethan finished the sentence. “ ‘The choice between faith and fear.’ ” He looked out over the city of Hong Kong and out even farther to the harbor and the ocean beyond. Then he added a thought. “And I know what the Bible says—that faith is the substance of things not seen, the evidence of things hoped for. So I have to trust God and His Word, especially about those things not seen, and then do my part in dealing with the things that are seen, even if it means I have to witness the world falling into flames and beginning to blow apart.”
He suddenly broke out of his dark mood, looking at Rivka with a glint in his eye and flashing a big grin. “But there’s something else I need to get off my chest: I really can’t understand why I let so much time go by without trying to connect with you. What an idiot I am! So listen carefully. Because I can’t tell you how really good it is to have you near me again.”
A little chime sounded on Rivka’s wrist Allfone watch. She tapped it. “Sorry, but duty calls. Your video conference call is about to start. You should come inside.”