Brink of Chaos

by Tim LaHaye

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mayflower Hotel, Washington, D.C.

  Cal had been down in the hotel’s fitness room, working out with free weights. Physical conditioning had been one of his regular routines for the last few years. After that he stopped by his hotel room to check his Facebook page on his laptop. A Captain Jimmy Louder was reaching out to him. Cal had to think a minute. Then he remembered. Oh, yeah, you’re the pilot that my dad helped to rescue. You just got the Medal of Honor. Cool. I’m absolutely friending you.

  After Cal finished adding Captain Louder to his Facebook, he ambled over to his mother’s room and turned on the Internet TV. After all, of the two televisions in their suite, hers had the bigger screen. Now he was standing in his sweats in front of it. He and Abigail had extended their stay after her meeting with the former federal prosecutor. She asked her former law firm in D.C. if she could use their offices to crank out some quick legal papers on Joshua’s case while she was in town, and her former senior partner and sometime personal lawyer, Harry Smythe, was glad to oblige.

  Silently, Cal had been struggling with something. After Virgil Corland had shared his suspicions that Tulrude’s physician — and probably Tulrude herself — had plotted to sabotage his medical recovery, Cal planned on sharing the information with his mother. But things kept getting in the way. He hadn’t told his mother about his meetings with Corland. Up to now Cal didn’t think he needed to check in with Abigail before responding to Corland’s surprising invitations to meet. But now that a former president was accusing his successor of attempted murder, Cal thought now might be the time to consult with the acting chair of the Roundtable — even if that person was his mother. He also thought he should mention his Facebook contact from Captain Louder.

  Just then something jumped off the TV screen. Cal couldn’t believe it. “Hey, Mom — look at these pictures. Another earthquake …”

  Abigail glanced over. The camera was panning over downtown Minneapolis. Then it focused on a skyscraper — the fifty-seven-story IDS Tower. The tower swayed and shimmied, and the upper floors began to collapse. The video camera caught the very moment when the windows began to shatter, sending a shower of glass onto the street below.

  “Can you believe it?” Cal asked. “Earthquakes in Minnesota!”

  Abigail’s face looked grim, but she was surprisingly unperturbed. “Yes, I can,” Abigail said quietly from the wrap-around couch. Her eyes darted back to her Allfone. “I certainly can believe it. We’re going to see more of it, Cal. Add it up. We’ve had three major earthquakes in the U.S. in the last two months.”

  She reread the text in the little window of her Allfone. There was a tilt to her head, as if it had grown heavy from some invisible burden. Cal glanced away from the TV long enough to notice that. He asked what she was reading. Abigail explained, “First, I’ve got a copy of the motion papers filed by the Department of Justice, asking the court of appeals to strike the affidavit I just filed with this new evidence of prosecution misconduct in your dad’s case — moving the court to disregard it completely. You know, all that information I received from Harley Collingwood.”

  “That can’t be a surprise.”

  “No, not really,” Abigail said. “They’re arguing that the information is blocked by attorney-client privilege between Collingwood and his prior employer — the United States government.”

  “So, is there more?” Cal asked.

  “I also just received an instant-memo from the court, an order for a hearing.”

  “Is there a date for oral argument?”

  “Yes. I filed for an expedited hearing, asked that the date for oral argument be moved up as quickly as possible.” But there was a look of desperation on her face. “Now I feel pretty foolish. I filed that request yesterday with the court. At the same time I filed the affidavit from Collingwood about the blatant corruption by the attorney general’s office.”

  Something didn’t make sense to Cal. “Wait a minute. What’s the problem?”

  “I didn’t think it would come so soon. I thought I would have some time to figure things out.”

  “Like what?”

  “The security entrance at the U.S. Courthouse in Washington. How am I going to get into the building, get past security, to argue the case? I don’t have a BIDTag. They’ll stop me at the scanner, and I’ll be taken into custody. I’ll never get into the courtroom.”

  Now it was starkly clear to Cal. He had been an informal law clerk for the Roundtable while he was waiting to start law school. So his mother had brought him into the inner workings of her wrangling with the first criminal-defense firm that had represented Joshua. Now he saw the handwriting on the wall. He wondered whether his mother regretted having terminated her husband’s last set of lawyers. Yes, they had been begging her to talk to Joshua and to pressure him into accepting a plea deal. When Joshua learned about that, he instructed Abigail to dump all of them. But now Cal realized that those lawyers would at least be able to appear before the hearing that was now only three days away.

  Cal thought out loud, “Mom, without a BIDTag, you’d have to be a Houdini to appear at the oral arguments yourself, seventy-two hours from now.” Cal grimaced. “Wow.”

  Abigail hit the Quick-dial function on her Allfone and called her husband’s previous lawyers. She asked to speak to the partner in the office who had been handling Joshua’s case until Abigail had fired him.

  She drummed her fingers while she was on hold. She motioned for Cal to conference-in with his own Allfone. He snatched his cell and clicked into the call. After listening to a few more minutes of Muzak, the lawyer picked up. He asked Abigail why she was calling. She explained about the appeals hearing coming up in seventy-two hours. “Things have changed dramatically. I’ve filed an affidavit from Harley Collingwood, a former member of the prosecution team. This is what we’ve been looking for. A confession, proving that the attorney general’s office coerced false testimony from a key witness.”

  “And now you want us back on the case?”

  Abigail swallowed hard. “That’s why I called. I need you to argue it. Oral argument is scheduled in three days. I realize this is extremely short notice, but you’re the only ones — besides me — who know the details of this case.”

  She didn’t have to wait long for the answer. “My partners and I half expected something like this, Abby, a last-minute plea to come back in. I just don’t think this is going to work.”

  “You mean you’re not willing to make it work …”

  “Something like that.” Then the lawyer halfheartedly added, “Why not ask for an extension?”

  “I can’t. I’m the one who had asked for this hearing to be expedited. Now that they granted it — beyond anything I could have anticipated — I can’t retreat. It would make our case look shaky.”

  “Sorry, Abby. Wish we could help you. But no one in this firm wants to touch your husband’s case with a ten-foot pole anymore. It’s too messy.”

  Abigail said good-bye and clicked off her Allfone. She turned to Cal. “I suppose you’re going to say, ‘I told you so …’? You and Deb have questioned my decision to not get tagged.”

  “I know you think it’s a biblical stand,” Cal said. “Don’t you worry that Deb and I did get tagged?”

  “I explained it to you. You need it to get into law school and Deborah for her work.”

  “So, what are you going to do now?”

  She shook her head. “Pray and then show up at the courthouse in three days. If I’m blocked from arguing your dad’s case, I’ll go to jail, I suppose.”

  Cal stood up straight. He ran his hands through his hair. A thought occurred to him. An all-important magic act was now starting to formulate in his head. “Mom, listen. I’ve got an idea. First, my mother’s not going to jail. Neither is my dad — especially for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Abigail gave a smile that was half pride, half wonderment.

  Cal strode toward the door.

  �
�Where are you going?”

  “To get my laptop.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll tell you when I find what I’m looking for.”

  At the door, he stopped as one more thought struck him. “Just answer this — are you willing to go all the way on this?”

  “Meaning what?” she asked.

  He shot back an answer that made sense only to him. “I mean — are you willing to consort with the underground?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Pentagon

  Deborah Jordan stood silently in her cubicle, staring at the document she had just been given. Corporal Tom Birdow was next to her, rocking on his feet and looking up and down the hallway to see if anyone was coming.

  Deborah realized she could spend all day looking at this paper, but it wouldn’t change a thing. She had known her mother’s name would be put on the list of nontaggers, all those who had refused to be BIDTagged, but that alone didn’t mean she would be apprehended as a violator. Another step was necessary. Someone high up needed to authorize a specific warrant for her arrest. Deborah had hoped and prayed that step might be delayed — or even overlooked in the morass of government red tape.

  But her hopes had now been dashed. The notice read: “Order for Immediate Seizure — Failure to Comply with Identification Process — BIDTag Warrant List.”

  Now, it seemed, nothing would be able to remove one special name from that warrant list: “Abigail Jordan.”

  “You realize,” Tom said, snatching the paper back from Deborah, “how much trouble I could get into if my boss at DISA or the people at the Security ID Agency found out that I shared this with you.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Which means …”

  “I won’t tell anyone — except my family.”

  Tom shook his head violently. “That’s what I mean.”

  “Put yourself in my position, Tom. Tell me that you wouldn’t tell your own mother if she were about to be arrested.”

  Tom tucked the document back into his DISA folder. “Fine. But just remember — you didn’t get this information from me.” Then he strode off.

  In their downtown Washington hotel suite, Abigail was looking over Cal’s shoulder as he pulled up some data on his laptop.

  Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID. It was John Gallagher.

  “John,” she said, “what’s up?”

  “Got some news on several fronts. First, I encrypted an email to you yesterday on that digging you wanted me to do in the public records in Miami-Dade. You know, on that refugee situation down there from years ago. I think I found what you were looking for. Not sure what that’s all about …”

  “I read it late last night,” Abigail shot back. “Thanks. When I get a breather, I’ll explain. Life has been a whirlwind wrapped in a tornado around here. But a picture is starting to emerge. I’ve got a person of interest I’m looking at.”

  “You know, Abby, you’re starting to sound more like my old buddies in clandestine services. Vague, intriguing — and smarter than me. Maybe you missed your calling.” Abigail chuckled. Then Gallagher gave her the rest of the story. “On the main investigation, the murder of Perry Tedrich, I’m afraid we’re at a dead end. I shadowed Ben Boling, the main FBI agent detailed to the Wichita killing, and dropped your hint that maybe it was an inside job. So Ben interviewed Katrena Amid, the only staffer who seems to have visited the victim. But she’s got an air-tight alibi. She met with Perry Tedrich all right, but she had left two days before he went missing. She flew out of Wichita while the guy was still very much alive and well.” After a pause, Gallagher cleared his throat. “So, Abby, where are we going with this?”

  “Actually, that’s not bad news at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. I never suspected Katrena Amid.”

  Another pause on the line. “You didn’t?” More silence. “Hey, maybe it’s time to spell it out for your pal John Gallagher. You know I’m a slow learner.”

  She laughed. “Okay, maybe it is time.”

  Just then, the call-waiting lit up on Abigail’s Allfone. At the same moment, Cal pointed to something on his laptop. Abigail trotted over and nodded as she read it too. Then she asked Gallagher to hold while she took the other call.

  It was Deborah.

  “Mom, Debbie here. I’m on a secure line.”

  “What’s wrong? You sound stressed.”

  “I am. I just saw your name on a list for immediate apprehension as a nontagger. It’s just a matter of time before they track you down.”

  Abigail took a moment to process that.

  “Mom, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, darling. I did. It’s just that there’s a lot coming at me right now. The Lord is going to have to give me patience, to keep my feet on the ground in the middle of all of this.”

  “Well, what I’d like the Lord to do is to give you a pair of wings because you need to get out of sight for a while.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “You’re kidding. Why not?”

  “It’s complicated. I’ve got to argue Dad’s case in three days … in the federal court of appeals here in D.C.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” Deborah exclaimed. “You’re going to walk into a federal building that’s crawling with U.S. marshals and FBI agents. You’ll be toast within five minutes.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “How’s that?” Deborah asked.

  Abigail glanced again at Cal’s laptop screen to a posting on a blog called The Underground. Abigail’s reply was cryptic. “Because I may learn a sleight-of-hand trick.”

  Cal smiled when she said that.

  “I still don’t understand,” Deborah said.

  “I’ll explain later. Hang on, Deb …” Abigail clicked back to John Gallagher.

  “Okay, John, one question: did you ever check into that health club like I asked? The one Perry Tedrich belonged to?”

  “Yeah. I was able to wrangle a look at his records. He worked out at the fitness center early in the morning on the day he disappeared.”

  “Anyone else check in with him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bring any female guest to the gym?”

  “Nope. Look, Ben checked all this out too … the member list … the whole bit. I shadowed his investigation to make sure he didn’t drop the ball.”

  “How about anyone who might have seen him in the workout area?”

  “You shoulda’ been an agent, Abby,” Gallagher cracked. “That’ll be my next assignment. Not that I expect anything to break on this. I can smell a cold case a mile away. This may be one of them. Anyway, I’ll check the list to see who else was there at that time. After that, I got to fly out of Wichita and get to Northern California. I’ve got an uncle getting married —” After a moment, Gallagher added — “for the third time. He ought to know better by now. I met his fiancé. I’ll just say that three times is definitely not a charm.”

  “Do me a favor, John,” Abigail said. “The minute you find out anything, call me.”

  “Will do, Señorita.”

  Then Abigail clicked back to Deborah. “I need to see you right away. Can you come to my room here in the Mayflower Hotel after you leave the Pentagon?”

  “Sure.”

  “One more question. Do you still have some time off coming?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Is there any way you could take it right away … like starting tomorrow?”

  “Well — I suppose I could put in for it before I leave. I could say ‘family emergency,’ that sort of thing.”

  “Exactly,” Abigail said. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Abigail directed her daughter back to the photo. It was laying on the hotel coffee table next to a file of papers. “Look again.”

  “All right,” Deborah replied, “but all I see is a photograph
of a guy sitting in a room with his back to the camera.”

  “What else?”

  Deborah raised an eyebrow and tucked up the corner of her mouth. She stared hard at the picture. “Well … he’s got his hand outstretched to the left, reaching, I guess, for a cup on a saucer on the end table next to his chair. It was shot from the back. Whoever took it was behind him.”

  “Now, look at the next photo.”

  Abigail slid another photo out of the file and laid it on the coffee table. After studying it, Deborah said, “Looks like a blow up — magnified several times. It’s focused just on the guy’s left hand.”

  “Right,” Abigail said, “these were taken by an investigative journalist named Curtis Belltether. He mailed all this to the Roundtable, along with his article, just before he was murdered.”

  “What are the pictures supposed to prove?”

  “The man in the photo is Alexander Coliquin. At that time he was at the end of his tenure as the Romanian ambassador to the United Nations. But he was also the head of a global movement to enforce universal controls over all of the industries of the world.”

  “The One Movement, right?”

  Cal jumped in. “Actually, that’s just the religious aspect of it. I’ve been studying this for the Roundtable.” There was audible pride in his voice. Deborah tossed him an older-sister look as he continued, “Coliquin has managed to create an international coalition of major religions to get behind his initiative. That gives him the moral and religious cover for his plan to regulate global business in the name of preventing catastrophic climate change. He was the architect behind the international treaties that created the world climate agency. By the way, the guy that’s been running that particular agency — this zillionaire from Belgium, Faris D’Hoestra — is one scary dude. They’re seizing control of industries that are supposedly out of compliance with their super technical green standards, including companies in the U.S.”

  “I’ve missed a lot of that,” Deborah remarked, “buried in the Pentagon everyday at my desk. But I haven’t seen any of this on the news.”