by Tim LaHaye
The reporter sized up Campbell’s face before checking his clipboard, just to make sure he had covered all the bases. He turned to the cameraman. “We’ll cut there. I’ll do an intro and a wrap later.”
As he stood and gave a perfunctory handshake to his guest, Kingston made small talk with Campbell. “So you’re currently located in Israel?”
Campbell nodded. “I’ve set up an office in Jerusalem, just off the Old City.”
“Close to the action, eh?”
He smiled. “In a way, yes. This is the only city in the world where geography, theology, and history are rapidly rushing together in one great climax. I’m keeping my eye on the Temple Mount, in particular. For me, that’s where the starting gun of this race will go off. Or to use our national American pastime as an example, it’s like being at the ballpark and hearing the National Anthem. That’s when you know that the action — the human drama — is just about to begin.”
That reminded Kingston of another question. He came at it obliquely. “Okay, pastor, you’ve raised the baseball metaphor … I’m a Red Sox fan. You hail from New York — so, you’re for the Yankees?”
“No, Mets.”
“Ah, the underdogs …”
Campbell chuckled.
Then Kingston made his point. “So these catastrophic events you’re talking about, using your baseball analogy, what inning is the world in right now, would you say? Top of the ninth? Bottom of the ninth?”
“Neither,” the pastor said. His face was flush with anticipation. “We’re in extra innings.”
National Headquarters of Hewbright for President Campaign, K Street, Washington, D.C.
In the middle of the crowded main room, Secret Service Agent Owens flagged down Katrena Amid, Senator Hewbright’s harried and slightly mussed assistant campaign manager. As he tried to explain something to her, the noise of the dozen volunteers manning phones at desks made it difficult to hear.
“Let’s go to my office,” Amid said.
They entered and closed the door.
“Say again — something about a threat?” she began.
“Unconfirmed,” Agent Owens said. “Nothing specific. We get these routinely during the political season. Just want you and the staff to be on the alert for unusual or suspicious people trying to get access to the senator.”
“I’ll be sure and pass it on to him. He’s doing a press call right now.” She motioned to the adjoining office separated by a glass wall where her boss was on the phone, smiling and gesturing as he answered a reporter’s questions.
Just then, Zeta Milla, one of Senator Hewbright’s junior advisors on foreign policy, swung open the door and stepped into the conversation. Milla sized up the man in the dark suit. “Secret Service?”
“Got it covered, Zeta,” Amid snapped.
“And you are …?” the agent asked the attractive Cuban refugee.
Zeta introduced herself and described her position on the staff. “Is there a problem?” she persisted.
“Just some information for the senator,” the agent replied. “General threat, nothing specific. Just want everyone to be on the alert. Be vigilant.”
“I told Agent Owens that Senator Hewbright is on a press call right now, but we’ll be sure to advise him,” Amid noted.
“This is your call, Katrena,” Milla bulleted back. “But if it were me, I’d cut the senator’s call short and advise him immediately. Safety first.”
Katrena Amid threw Milla a withering look. Then she manufactured a smile for the agent, shook his hand, and thanked him as she walked him to the door. When he was gone, Amid confronted Zeta Milla. “From now on, you will remember that security issues are my department, not yours.”
“Fine,” Milla responded. Her tone was cool and unflustered. Then she added, “Just make sure you take care of our candidate. You’re replaceable. He’s not.”
Inside the adjoining glass office, Hewbright was fielding the reporter’s last question.
“As far as the differences in our vision for America,” the senator said, “President Tulrude and I couldn’t be farther apart. I see the need for America to regain its greatness as a world leader. To lead, not just join. To model true freedom, rather than trying to copy the emasculated version that Europe and the United Nations and the international community has adopted.”
“You say emasculated —,” the reporter started to say.
“Right. I use the word deliberately. The current administration has signed onto global treaties against hate speech that are now being used to throw people of faith into jail when they quote the Bible or speak their conscience on issues. Am I the only one who thinks that’s just plain crazy? Those treaties have to be disavowed. If I become president I will urge the Senate to reverse all that. Tulrude has orchestrated the downfall of the American dollar and brought us into the CReDO. Sharing in that global currency is going to sound the death knell for any chance of a vibrant, independent U.S. economy. She’s drawn down our military defenses, stopped defense weapons development necessary for the safety of our nation, and jeopardized our national security by trapping us in a spider web of international agreements that require us to share our weapons information with the rest of the world. Remember the old painting by Norman Rockwell? A Mom and Dad tucking their child into bed? Underneath it says “Freedom from Fear.” Jessica Tulrude has given Americans a lot to be frightened about. I want to replace fear with freedom.”
After the interview, Hewbright stepped out of the media office and trotted up to Katrena Amid in the big room. “Was that Secret Service?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got another press call in exactly sixty seconds. Anything important?”
Amid paused before answering. Then she flashed a smile. “No. Not really. Just a routine security reminder.”
Hewbright nodded, then dashed back into the glass-walled office to take his next call.
ELEVEN
Jewish Quarter, Near the Western Wall, Jerusalem
The young bearded messenger, with prayer locks dangling along each side of his face, sprinted up the uneven stones of the street just off the Western Wall plaza. It was the section of the Old City where the massive Herodian Temple on the Temple Mount once dominated Jerusalem in ancient times.
But that was two millennia ago. Back then the smoke from the animal sacrifices of the Jewish faithful would rise up from the Temple and spiral into the sky during the days of Roman occupation, when political and religious strife made Jerusalem as tense as the strings on a lyre. Eventually the Temple would be leveled by Rome’s legions in A.D. 70, after which, all Temple worship and animal sacrifices came to an abrupt halt. For nearly two thousand years, the Jews were without a Temple on that sacred plateau — with no immediate hope for its restoration.
Until now.
Breathless, the messenger stopped abruptly when he came to a weathered wooden door. He knocked three times. He waited … and knocked two more times. He waited … and knocked once.
The door opened.
A man in his thirties welcomed the messenger in. The messenger bowed to the rabbi seated on the couch at the far end of the room, an aged man with a pale, saggy face and a full grey beard. The rabbi’s assistant pointed to a chair, and the messenger sat.
“Rabbi,” the young man began. “Important news.”
“Speak,” the rabbi instructed him.
“About Prime Minister Bensky. Certain negotiations. Incredible …”
“Catch your breath,” the assistant chided. “Speak clearly.”
“It’s just that,” the young messenger said, “as I watched our secret work in preparation … the fashioning of the altar … the water basins … the great bronze basin … all the sacred implements for sacrifice … making ready for the day when the Temple will be restored to its rightful place on the Mount …”
“Yes …,” the rabbi said, nodding slowly. The old man twisted his head slightly to look through the lace curtain of his apartment so he could catch a g
limpse of the Western Wall’s uppermost row of stones and the Temple Mount above, now occupied by Muslim mosques. He turned to the young messenger. “Please, tell us what you know.”
“There are discussions within the Sol Bensky coalition government. I don’t have the details yet. But hints. More than just rumors.”
“What kind of discussions?” the rabbi’s assistant asked.
“Between the United Nations envoy and the prime minister’s office …”
“About what?” the assistant demanded.
“Jerusalem. Some kind of international solution to control and supervise the city.”
“That’s old news,” the assistant chided him.
“No, not this part …”
“What part?”
The young messenger broke into an ecstatic grin.
“The part about the Temple Mount.”
Hawk’s Nest, Colorado
In the conference room at the Jordans’ ranch, the members of the Roundtable were chatting around a long table of polished birch. The curtains had been pulled open, giving everyone a spectacular view of the Rockies. Even though they had all been there more times than they could count, they still found it awe inspiring.
The group had taken a five-minute break before launching into the last order of business. Some of them, including Cal Jordan, were helping themselves to the snacks on the split-log buffet. Cal grabbed a soda and a huge oatmeal cookie and wandered toward Phil Rankowitz, the Roundtable’s head of media.
Rankowitz, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, stared off at the distant mountains. Abigail was next to him. Phil murmured, “I keep trying to remember that psalm … about the heavens declaring the glory of God …”
“That’s one of my favorites,” Abigail said. “How’s your reading-through-the-Bible-in-a-year project coming?”
“Try to keep up with it. I miss a few days here and there. Funny though, thinking back to the old days. I was just like all the other TV exec’s I worked around back then — reading the Bible, are you kidding?”
Cal laughed. “I remember not long ago when Dad would have had the same reaction. Funny how an encounter with God radically changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“The ultimate paradigm shift,” Phil replied. Cal took a bite of his cookie, and Phil reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Cal, have I told you how glad I am to have you sitting with us on the Roundtable?”
Cal gave a smiling nod. “So, you don’t think with my dad being the founder, my mom sitting as chair, and now with me here that it looks like the Jordan family show?”
“Naw,” Phil replied. “Besides, even if it did — so what? You’ve got an extraordinary family. The more of you the merrier.”
The rest of the group was now slowly migrating back toward the table. Cal got a back-slap from former FBI agent John Gallagher, a favorite of his, as they sauntered back to their chairs. Cal congratulated Gallagher on looking so fit.
“Dropped forty pounds, and now I’m a lean, mean fighting machine,” the former special agent remarked. “Problem is, Cal, I still have the urge to be an eating machine. Got to work on that.”
Cal looked around at the accomplished array — a dozen leaders in business, the military, the media, and the law. He had recently found himself yearning to be included. He wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, but his plans to go to art school had given way to something else: an intense desire to follow the path forged by his parents — fighting to restore the most basic freedoms in the country they loved. It was almost laughable — how he used to shrug off his parents’ commitment — he had silently considered it just a “political obsession.” Now he had come to realize it wasn’t about politics at all. This was a spiritual battle for the soul of a nation at a time in history when the world looked like it was about to head right into its darkest hour. Even some of Cal’s Christian friends called him an “end-times freak” now. A few of them attributed his turnaround to the scary encounter he had had with a terrorist in a New York train station.
And, Cal thought, maybe it did have something to do with that.
Whatever the genesis, Cal had a powerful sense of calling to do what the Roundtable was doing. He would have wanted to be part of it even if his parents weren’t involved.
For him, the timing seemed perfect. He had graduated early from Liberty University and had plenty of time before starting law school. Until then he would act as a paralegal for the Roundtable, something he had been pursuing like a dog on a bone. His parents had finally relented to his request. Joshua and Abigail told him, after everything he had been through, he had earned a seat at the table, even though they feared there could be political — and even legal — fallout against their son for his involvement. After all, they pointed out, under the Tulrude Administration, the Department of Justice had filed a vindictive criminal case two years before against every member of the Roundtable. True, for tactical reasons the DOJ had dropped the charges against everyone except Joshua, their prime target, but Cal’s parents told him this might be the beginning of political retaliation.
Cal didn’t care. It wasn’t reckless abandon. Instead, it was a rock-solid conviction that this is where God wanted him, at least for the next few months. The Roundtable existed to counteract the ruthless, abject corruption that had been spawned in the corridors of power in Washington, and Cal now felt privileged to be part of the Roundtable, even in a small way, like today, when his primary task was to adjust the video feed on the big screen, as he was doing now.
The screen at the end of the room lit up. Ethan March’s face appeared. The image was a little scrambled.
“Cal, is that you?” Ethan asked.
“Sure is,” Cal replied and reached for the remote. “The feed’s off. Let me reset the telemetry here.”
“Fine. I’ll sit tight,” Ethan said. “I’m standing in for Josh, playing the part of a test dummy.”
Cal chuckled. There had been a time, when Ethan first started working with Joshua, that Cal harbored some bad feelings about the arrangement. Envy? Maybe. Though Cal and his father had been through some tough, amazing things that had brought them closer together, still, there were occasional sparks between the two of them. He used to blame his dad for those. But lately Cal wondered whether he wasn’t more like his dad than he had ever imagined. And now Cal felt comfortable with Ethan as a kind of adopted part of the family, even if he was on the other side of the globe, so much so that Cal wished Ethan was back in the States so the two of them could pal around. He didn’t have a brother. Ethan was the closest thing.
Cal reset the feed, and Ethan’s face was crystal clear. “Okay, you’re coming in great. So, how are things in Israel?”
“Hot,” Ethan said with a grin.
“And you’re not just talking about the desert heat?”
Ethan nodded. “You got it. Yeah, there’s talk over here about a major shakeup on the Temple Mount. Josh told me this morning there are plans to rebuild the Jewish Temple up there. Josh says, after two thousand years of waiting, there’s a lot of excitement in Israel over this. I can’t see the big deal, but then, that’s just me …”
“Wow,” Cal shot back. “The Temple rebuilt? That’s huge! Listen, bro, you got to get into your New Testament. It’s all laid out in Matthew 24. Jesus predicted the destruction of the Herodian Temple on the Mount in Jerusalem when He was on earth. And it ended up happening — in AD 70 — just like He said. In that same place in Matthew, Jesus talks about the desecration of the Temple by the Antichrist at the end of days, which implies that the Temple has to be rebuilt first. Man, we’re getting close …”
“Thank you, Reverend Cal,” Ethan cracked. “I’d start the hymn singing except I’ve got a lousy voice.”
Cal chuckled and noticed Phil Rankowitz had finished gathering all the members around the big table. “Okay, Ethan, gotta go. Probably good too. I’m not sure how much of your off-key singing I could take.” Ethan guffawed. “Can you do me a favor?” Cal aske
d. “Have my dad join us on the screen. Good talking to you. Stay safe over there, Ethan.”
Cal touched the prompt for the multiple-screen option, and the video broke into quadrants, one for each remote participant. Once the meeting started, Phil Rankowitz took the lead. He described an article written by an eccentric investigative journalist named Curtis Belltether, whose research had revealed a seamy, even criminal, side to the brilliant and suave Alexander Coliquin, then a rising international diplomat with a global, rock-star kind of following. Belltether’s explosive article had been mailed to AmeriNews on the same day that Belltether was found murdered in a hotel room. Since then Coliquin had been elevated to secretary-general of the United Nations, and the stakes over publishing the article had been raised exponentially.
“Here’s the problem folks,” Phil explained. “We paid Belltether for the article before his death. We own the rights. That’s not the issue. The question is whether we can afford to release the article over our AmeriNews Internet/Allfone service at this time.”
Retired Senator Alvin Leander spoke up. “Why not? Isn’t that why we launched AmeriNews in the first place?”
Phil explained, “Well, as you know, we started the news service because the feds pushed all the TV and radio news over to the Internet so they could use over-the-air broadcast spectrum for other purposes. They said it was for emergencies. But it never worked out that way. You remember the story. A handful of networks and technology companies, mostly controlled by foreign money, became the gatekeepers for all the news and information on the web. And the White House willingly collaborated with them, allowing them to maintain a vise-grip monopoly over the Internet as long as they sang the administration’s tune. Until we introduced AmeriNews, that is, and got it grandfathered onto the Internet through a technical loophole in the FCC regulations. The loophole was quickly closed for all other comers, so AmeriNews is the only show in town where Americans are going to get the other side of the story.