Mark of Evil

by Tim LaHaye

  But now something else: the image of him training for months on that rooftop in Athens—the daily rope climbing with a fifty-pound backpack. There was a reason for that. There were no accidents. Not in God’s universe.

  Ethan was mentally back in that lab room again. His head was clearer now. He tried harder, holding himself by the power of his left arm and with his right pushing on the shard of glass, back and forth, in a sawing and cutting motion. Sawing and cutting. The strap was starting to give way . . .

  It broke. He reached over and with his left hand unbuckled the leather band on his right wrist and fell clumsily to the floor.

  After climbing through the big window frame where the glass had been shattered with the miraculous blast, Ethan could see that both lab scientists were still unconscious. He noticed that the younger guy with blond hair was roughly his size. Ethan stripped the blue lab coat off of him, removed his security card from around his neck, and hung it around his own. For good measure, he donned the guy’s horn-rimmed glasses. But Ethan had perfect vision, and the lab techie must have had the eyesight of a mole because the lenses were Coke-bottle thick. That added another carnival fun-house dimension to Ethan’s stumble-bum getaway.

  Ethan made it to a stairwell. The lab explosion had set off red emergency lights that flashed up on the ceiling, and he could hear sirens wailing somewhere. Still dizzy, and squinting with the eyestrain from the prescription glasses, he swayed and tripped down the emergency stairs leading from the laboratory floor, trying to keep his balance against the rocking-horse vertigo in his head. The grotesque experiment had rattled his brain and left him with an off-kilter sensation that he couldn’t shake.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, Ethan swung open the heavy metal door . . . to the sight of dozens of communications technology staffers rushing to the stairwell at the other end of the floor. Because of the alarm, all these middle-level tech staffers were avoiding the elevator, blindly following the standard operating procedure in an emergency. Ethan used the security card around his neck to activate the elevator. He saw the Down light blinking over the elevator door. It was heading his way. A few more seconds, and then the door opened.

  Ethan stepped into the elevator, still unsteady on his feet. There were three other men already there. Two of them were oversized fellows with thick necks and earbuds in their ears, and Ethan knew that they had to be security. They were on either side of a tall, handsome man in the middle. He looked familiar, but Ethan didn’t dwell on it. He turned around immediately, stumbling a little as he did, and faced the door as the elevator started down.

  For a moment no one in the elevator talked. Then the man in the middle with the expensive-looking suit and the five-hundred-dollar haircut started to speak. When he did, Ethan knew once again that there was an unnerving familiarity to this individual.

  The man said, “I was on my way to your lab. To see the experiment for myself. What happened?”

  Ethan shook his head.

  One of the big bodyguards punched him in the shoulder. “Answer when you are spoken to.”

  Ethan slowly turned around and looked the tall, handsome man right in the eye. When he did, the shock of recognition had him stepping back. He was speechless, while inside of him a combination of righteous rage and terror shot through him like an electrical fire.

  The other security guard was yelling at him now. “Answer Chancellor Colliquin, lab geek.”

  Ethan was now face-to-face with Alexander Colliquin. And that is when he realized something else. Colliquin’s face was the image in the 3-D holograph, the one that had hung in the air in front of Ethan in the testing room and then by some hellish technology had wormed its way into his head, invading his mind and his thoughts. There was something else too. Ethan knew now that it had been Colliquin in his visions all along—the human mask with the beast hiding behind it.

  Ethan had to silently coach himself. Hold it together. Stay cool. Don’t react.

  Colliquin stared hard at Ethan, but with a detached, otherworldly expression on his face. It was as if his eyes were peering out from some dark, nameless place and didn’t belong to the rest of him. Colliquin asked, “What kind of tech failure went on up there?”

  Ethan swayed a bit. “Tech failure? No. It wasn’t that.”

  “Then what?” Colliquin snapped.

  Ethan cemented his features to a bland expression as he replied, “Something else. Higher than technology. Way higher.”

  One of the guards pointed to the side of Ethan’s head. “Hey, you’re bleeding from your ears. Better get to the infirmary.” The other guard added, as an aside to Colliquin, “Your Excellency, no wonder he’s acting stupid,” and snickered.

  The elevator stopped and the two guards and Alexander Colliquin swept past Ethan and out of the elevator and began to stride down the hallway. Ethan turned in the opposite direction. He had to find an exit before somebody discovered that he was the lab rat and that he had just escaped from his cage.

  FORTY-NINE

  WHITE HORSE, YUKON TERRITORY

  After Bobby Robert’s emergency call, four local Remnant volunteers from the city responded. They had been gone for a while, working on a commercial fishing boat, but now they were back and they showed up at the hotel with hunting rifles. One of them had an ancient revolver that looked like it could have belonged to Wild Bill Cody. In the old days, John Galligher would have thought that the whole scene looked like a sick joke. Particularly when he saw the armored Global Alliance vehicles begin to rumble up to the front of the hotel.

  But Galligher was a different man now. No longer the cynical FBI special agent. Not anymore. God had changed everything for him. But it was clear He was going to have to work a big-time miracle if Chiro was to keep his communications center functioning. Galligher had never been privy to the big picture—to the way in which Chiro’s mass of cables and computers upstairs fit into the global scheme to push back against Alexander Colliquin’s worldwide takeover, and the bigger plan to spread the gospel message throughout the disintegrating world. Because of that, Galligher may have resented Ethan for keeping him in the dark. But that was something Galligher would have to get over.

  Galligher sprinted upstairs to Chiro’s tech lab. He found the computer genius peering into the guts of his eight-foot-high quantum computer through the machine’s two open doors.

  Galligher spoke, puffing a little. “You’d better hunker down, Chiro. The guys with the black hats just pulled up.”

  Chiro glanced out the one window of his second-floor lab overlooking the backyard. Then he whirled around with a look on his face that was strangely optimistic, given the drastic circumstances. “Yes, but our friend just showed up too,” he exclaimed. “In his red suit.”

  Galligher threw him a confused look but couldn’t pass up the chance for a smart-aleck retort. “Red suit? Let’s hope he’s got some missile launchers on his sleigh.”

  “Go down and see for yourself,” Chiro shouted, wide-eyed.

  Galligher told Chiro to lock himself into his lab by closing the big metal security door they had installed to create a safe room for Chiro and his equipment. Then he charged downstairs and pulled his .357 Magnum from his shoulder holster. Bobby Robert and his four minutemen were hiding behind pieces of furniture in the lobby. The whole thing looked like an Old West shoot-out. Bobby Robert was ready for battle; he had his long black hair unbraided, a Tlinget tribal bandana tied around his forehead and war paint on his face.

  “No one fires,” Galligher called to them, “until I say so. And let’s pray I don’t have to say so. Those are my rules of engagement. Any questions?”

  Everyone shook their heads. Bobby Robert threw a tense smile. Galligher looked over this small bunch of amateurs who were risking their lives and thought about how they all counted on him. He really didn’t want to screw this up now.

  He strode toward the front door, praying silently as he did. God, John Galligher here. Thanks for saving me. You hunted me down and found me and
then reminded me that Jesus died for my sins. Thanks again for that, by the way. I don’t thank You enough. Please keep Helen alive long enough for me to tell her about Jesus. Okay? She’s my ex-wife. But, yeah, well, I guess You already knew that.

  As he stepped outside, Galligher glanced up and noticed that the sky was blue and clear. It reminded him of that movie where an Indian chief talked about it being a good day to die. Then he looked straight ahead and found himself staring down the long barrel of the cannon on the Alliance combat tank. On the other hand, how about a good day to live?

  The Global Alliance commander was standing up in his roofless Humvee. He leaned forward and touched something on the dashboard and there came a burst of electronic feedback. Then he started speaking. “Attention, hotel occupants. This is an official Global Alliance military action. Throw down your weapons. Give yourselves up. You will be treated humanely under the international articles of the Alliance War Crimes Act. You have ten seconds to comply or we will commence firing on you as enemies of the Alliance.”

  Galligher wanted to say something, anything. Particularly something clever. But his mouth was dry and he had completely run out of his supply of clever. During his FBI career he had been in several gun battles with terror cells. But somehow this was different. Not just a battle against evil. His job now was to protect something infinitely good: a northern outpost that was somehow going to figure into the spread of the good news about Jesus over this entire sick, tired, beat-up planet.

  He was about to say something, though he wasn’t sure what, when someone answered for him. A shout came out from somewhere. “This is Captain Morganthau of the Canadian Mounted Police.”

  Galligher looked over to his left. Appearing from around the side of the hotel came the mounted police officer he had met before—the one who’d drawn the ichthus in the dust of the furniture. He was decked out in his bright-red Mountie dress uniform and his wide-brimmed Mountie hat, and he was riding a big black horse. Then several more Mounties, all dressed the same, and all in the saddle, came up behind him and joined him on each flank.

  The Alliance commander grimaced, and even from a distance Galligher could see how ticked off he was. “Retreat immediately!” he yelled. “Or you will be treated as enemies of the Global Alliance and will be shown no mercy.”

  The mounted police captain shouted back, “And I am hereby ordering you to withdraw from this street and from this city. You’ve committed an illegal act of military occupation. Eight minutes ago the Canadian Parliament voted to withdraw Canada from the Global Alliance. Don’t you know that, aye? You have no lawful authority here. If you fail to withdraw I will make sure that several of our Royal Air Force jets are given orders to direct missiles onto your position.”

  The top hatch of the Alliance tank opened and the head of one of the Alliance soldiers popped out. He looked frantically up toward the sky.

  Galligher stood there slack jawed as he watched the Mountie, sitting tall in his saddle, practically daring the Global Alliance military to shoot first. It was High Noon, The Alamo, and half a dozen of his favorite John Wayne movies all playing out in front of him.

  Galligher raised his .357 in the air. “And I am former FBI special agent John Galligher,” he shouted. “And I am prepared to make a civilian arrest of you, Commander, if these brave Canadian Mounties should fall in the line of duty.”

  Somewhere, high up in the air, came the roar of a jet. Everyone on that street jerked their heads up and searched the sky. But it was only a commercial jetliner.

  Time passed in the standoff. Galligher didn’t know how long, but it seemed to go on forever. The Global Alliance commander was still standing up in his military vehicle and Captain Morganthau was still sitting high in his saddle. It was time for someone to blink.

  Someone did.

  “I am ordering my unit,” the commander finally called out over his loudspeaker, “to relocate to the other side of White Horse.” Then he added, “But we are not withdrawing from the city. You, Captain Morganthau, will be dealt with accordingly. That I can promise you.”

  FIFTY

  NEW BABYLON, IRAQ

  Ethan March had been running for his life, trying to sprint, but he found it hard because of his dizzy spells. He had made his way out into a parking lot not far from the digital lab building. As part of the confusion created around the palace compound after the alarm was sounded, crowds of New Babylon officials and employees were now milling outside, and a few were sitting under the shade of the tall palm trees, waiting for the all-clear sign to return to their offices. Ethan slowed his pace so he wouldn’t stand out, but he was desperately searching for his next move while he walked. Then he saw it.

  He noticed a white Range Rover with a Red Cross insignia on the side that was parked just outside one of the administrative buildings. A European-looking man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up came striding out of a building carrying a briefcase and headed toward the vehicle. He tossed a look back at the administrative building, shook his head in apparent disgust, and then began to climb into the Red Cross vehicle.

  Ethan stepped quickly up to the driver’s side window while the door was still open. “Can I ask you something?” Ethan said.

  The driver eyed him suspiciously and nodded.

  “Are you heading out of the compound?”

  “Indeed I am,” the man said in a crisp British accent as he looked closer at Ethan. “You sound like an American.”

  Ethan nodded.

  The man glanced down at the ID badge Ethan had taken off the body of the big blond lab technician. “But your name looks Norwegian—Hans Jorgenson.”

  Ethan tried to manage a smile. He wondered if there was still blood trickling down from his ears. He had tried to wipe it clean while he walked. But he couldn’t tell for sure. He began to pray silently. Lord, tell me whether this man can be trusted.

  “So is that your name, really?” the Englishman asked.

  Ethan flashed a struggling smile. “What’s in a name?”

  The Red Cross official suddenly broke into a smile and chuckled. “Right. ‘A rose by any other name’ and all that . . .” Then he nodded his head toward the sky, where the sound of a siren was still wailing. “Are you somehow tied into this mess?”

  “Yes, in a way. It’s a long story.”

  “Technically, I am not supposed to ferry passengers,” he said. “On the other hand, this is a bit awkward, because I am also supposed to be involved in humanitarian work. Which is bloody ironic, because the Global Alliance hasn’t the faintest idea what that word even means.”

  Then he took a long look at Ethan again. “But I suppose as a staff technician with the Alliance, you couldn’t agree with any of what I just said.”

  “You might be surprised,” Ethan said, moving closer to the open door of the vehicle.

  The two men looked at each other for a few seconds. Then the British Red Cross worker added, “So . . . tell me something, Mr. Jorgenson. Would my driving you out of this compound constitute an act of humanitarian aid?”

  “Yes,” Ethan replied in an instant. “Definitely humanitarian.”

  The driver sighed heavily, as if he had a pretty good idea that this was not merely a matter of giving a man a ride, and that things were about to become complicated. Finally the Brit gave his decision. “All right, then. Climb aboard. Before I change my mind.”

  Ethan scooted around to the passenger side and climbed in.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Anywhere right now.”

  The Englishman shook his head as he started up his car. “I was afraid you might say something like that.”

  As they headed down the long drive toward the checkpoint gate, Ethan noticed now that Global Alliance security guards were starting to fill the parking lot and were approaching the staff members who loitered there.

  “Anything you want to share with me?” the driver asked.

  “For starters, you and I have something in common,” Et
han said.

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t trust the Alliance any more than you do. Probably less.”

  “A strange thing for an Alliance staffer to say.”

  “It would be . . . if I were one.”

  The driver glanced over at Ethan’s borrowed ID and then gave Ethan a quizzical look. The driver ventured out a little in his next comment. “I had an appointment scheduled today. To ask the Global Alliance to stop blocking Red Cross aid in a number of countries. I thought at least I would get a meeting. But then I heard that our British Parliament just voted to exit this Babylonian atrocity called the Global Alliance. And it’s about time, I must say. But in terms of my chance of doing any business here, that was the end of that. My meeting in New Babylon was abruptly canceled. I’m sure because of the vote in London.” Something caught the driver’s attention. He looked at Ethan. “You must have had a head injury. You’re bleeding.”

  “I know.”

  Something must have sunk in, because then the driver added, “I’ll do what I can for you.”

  That was good to hear. “My name is Ethan.” As he reached out and shook the Brit’s hand, Ethan suddenly started feeling woozy. He couldn’t afford to pass out. Not now. They were pulling up to the gatehouse. But the four guards didn’t wait for the Range Rover to pull up. They piled out of the little guard building, each with one hand on his side arm and the other up in the air, blocking the Englishman’s car.

  One of the guards, who looked like he might be an Iraqi, stepped up to the driver’s side and motioned for his papers. The Brit handed them over. The Alliance guard took his time poring over them. Then he handed them back. But he leaned in through the window and nodded to Ethan. “Papers?”