The Sign

by Raymond Khoury

  Today, though, any inspiration was hobbled by the confused thoughts swarming inside him.

  “Maybe this isn’t the End of Times,” Buscema suggested.

  “It sure as hell isn’t,” the pastor agreed huffily. “Can’t be. Not yet. Not when none of the prophecies of the Good Book have happened.” He leaned forward, a studious stare in his eyes, and did the parallel-vertical-karate-chops thing with his hands for emphasis, as he did at his pulpit. “The Bible tells us the messiah will only return after we’ve had the final battle between God’s children and the army of the antichrist out there in Israel. It’s only after that happens that we can be saved by the Rapture.” He shook his head. “This isn’t right. Hell, we’re still waiting for the Israelis to bomb the crap out of Iran and kick-start the whole thing.”

  “God’s giving us a message, Nelson,” Buscema put in thoughtfully. “He’s given us a sign—two signs—over the ice caps. And he’s sent us a messenger.”

  Darby scoffed. “An Arab. And a Catholic at that, if you can get your head around that one.”

  “He’s not Arab, Nelson. He’s Spanish.”

  Darby swatted the correction away. “Same difference. He’s still Catholic.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What did you think the messiah of the Second Coming was gonna be? Lutheran?”

  “I don’t know, but . . . Catholic?” Darby groaned.

  “That’s an irrelevant detail right now. He’s Christian. More importantly, he happens to be one of the holiest men on the planet. He’s spent the last few months holed up in some cave near a monastery in Egypt. Which is part of the Holy Land. Jesus himself hid in that same valley when he was being hounded by the Romans.”

  “What about all that Coptic business?”

  “The monastery where he’s staying is Coptic, but he’s not a Copt. You know much about Copts?”

  “Not yet,” Darby answered with a self-effacing smile.

  “They’re the Christians of Egypt. Maybe ten percent of the population. But they’re the ones who’ve been there longest. They were there long before the Arabs invaded in the seventh century. In fact, they’ve been there since day one. Uninterrupted. The purest, oldest uncorrupted Christians you’ll find, Nelson,” Buscema insisted. He paused to let his words sink in, then continued, “You do know who started the Coptic Church, right?”

  “No,” Darby said.

  “Mark. As in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. That Mark. He went out there to preach the gospel, about thirty years after Jesus’s death. He didn’t have too much of a hard time getting the people there to sign up. They already believed in everlasting life, had done so for thousands of years. Difference was, Mark told them it wasn’t just for pharaohs. No need to be mummified and put inside a huge pyramid and have priests perform all kinds of weird rituals for it to happen. Everyone was entitled to go to heaven, provided they believed in the One God and asked him to forgive them for their sins. Which, as you can imagine, was music to their ears. And that’s where it all started, where Christianity first took shape. The symbolism, the rituals. A lot of it came out of there. Look at the ankh—the ancient Egyptian symbol of eternal life, and the cross. Think about their God, Ra—the God of the sun—and our holy day, Sunday. And that valley where Father Jerome is holed up? It’s holier than you think. Those monasteries out there? They’re the oldest monasteries in the world. They hold some of the earliest holy books anywhere. Fourth- and fifth-century gospels. Priceless manuscripts. Piles of them. Just lying there. They’re still translating them. Who knows what they’ll find in them. It’s a deeply religious place, Nelson. A deeply religious, Christian place. And Father Jerome . . . well, you know all about him. Everything he’s done. God’s work. How he’s helped spread the word. If God was going to choose someone, it seems to me like Father Jerome fits the bill nicely.”

  Darby nodded, grudgingly allowing his advisor’s sermon to sink in. “But why now? And why the signs over the poles?”

  Buscema’s brows rose with uncertainty. “Maybe he’s telling us to watch out. Maybe he’d like us to stick around a bit longer. And who knows?” he smiled. “You might find people end up preferring that message to the End of Times prophecies you’ve been telling them about. Regardless of how much they’ve been looking forward to that.” He smiled inwardly at that last little dig.

  Darby’s eyes narrowed as it registered. He let it pass. “It’s our destiny, Roy. That’s what the Bible says. That’s how those of us who’ve accepted Jesus Christ as our savior are going to be saved. Before Armageddon. Before the earth is reaped. Besides, you don’t really believe these greenhouse gases are gonna end up by wiping us all out with their tidal waves or with that new ice age they’ve been harping on about?”

  Buscema gave him a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not sure it couldn’t happen.”

  “Hogwash,” Darby shot back. “War’s gonna bring about the End of Times, Roy. Nuclear war between the forces of good and evil. Not global warming.” He sighed and sat back. “The good Lord created this earth. And if you remember your Genesis, He said, ‘It is good.’ Which means, He’s happy with how it turned out. It’s His divine creation. And He’s the Almighty, for crying out loud. You think He’d design it in a way that puny little man could destroy it just by driving some SUVs around and setting the A/C on high? His divine creation? It can’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. Not like that.”

  “All I’m saying is,” Buscema countered in his calming manner, “there’s a sign popping up over the planet’s climate change tipping points. It’s a sign, Nelson. And I just saw the first national polling numbers.”

  That fired up a totally different subsection of the pastor’s brain, and his face sharpened with keen interest. “What do they say?”

  “People are taking notice. They’re listening.”

  Darby exhaled with annoyance. “I bet those ‘creation care’ jugheads are smiling now.”

  “‘The Earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof,’” Buscema quoted playfully.

  Darby frowned. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “It’s in the Bible, Nelson. ‘The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it . . . and to take care of it,’ ” he pointed out. “People are worried about the kind of world their kids are going to grow up in. It’s a powerful hook.”

  “They’re misguided. And dangerous. We’ve got to be careful, Roy. What are we talking about here? Are we saying the planet’s holy? Are we supposed to worship nature? That’s a slippery slope. We can’t go out there and tell people to love Mother Earth and look after her. Hell, that’s what the Indians believed in.”

  Buscema smiled. The man understood the subtleties of faith. And he was smart, there was no denying it. A branding whiz, as well as a mesmerizing orator who knew how to entrance his audience. There was a reason thousands of people endured punishing traffic jams every Sunday morning to hear his rousing sermons. Why millions of others tuned in to catch their slick broadcast on national cable and network TV. Why the man’s opinions, despite being primitive and bigoted and containing such brain-dead inanities as blaming 9/11 on gays, had helped him build an empire that extended to over fifty different ministries and a global network of over ten thousand churches, a school and a university, a conference center, twenty-three radio stations, and a couple dozen magazines.

  “It doesn’t have to get to that,” Buscema said. “Think of it more in terms of man’s sinful desires that have led him astray. He needs to see the road to salvation. And it’s your job to hold his hand and show him the way.” Buscema studied him, then leaned in for emphasis. “Unless I’ve got the wrong end of the stick here, you’re pro-life, right?” He teased him by letting the question hang for a beat, always perplexed—and pained—by how pro-lifers applied their zeal to the smallest cluster of cells, no matter how tragically disabled or conceived, but not to any other living species or to the habitat we all shared. “That’s what saving the planet’s all about, isn’t it? Life?”

/>   Darby breathed out heavily, clearly not liking this, and steepled his hands, buttressing his chin with his thumbs.

  “Why aren’t any of those bozos in Washington saying anything?”

  “They will,” Buscema said, his expression leading Darby to assume he knew more than he was saying.

  Darby bought it. “What have you heard?”

  “He’s the real deal, Nelson. They know it. They’re just mapping out how best to handle it.”

  Darby frowned. Small crinkles overpowered the Botox and broke through around his eyes. “They’re worried about the same thing I am.” He waved his arms expansively. “You build all this, you get to the top of the heap, king of your castle . . . then someone shows up and wants you to call him massa.”

  “It’s happened, Nelson. We can’t change that. And he’s out there. I just don’t want you to miss the boat, that’s all.”

  Darby asked, “What do you think I should do?”

  Buscema thought about it for a beat, then said, “Grab him. While you can.”

  “You want me to endorse him?”

  Buscema nodded. “Others are thinking about doing it.”

  “Who?”

  Buscema held his gaze for a beat, then confided, “Schaeffer. Scofield. And many others.” He knew mentioning the names of two of Darby’s biggest competitors in the soul-saving sweepstakes would generate a reaction. One of them even had the affront to have his megachurch in the same city as Darby.

  Judging by Darby’s expression, the names hit the sweet spot he was aiming for.

  “You sure of that?” the pastor asked.

  Buscema nodded enigmatically.

  I should know, he thought. I spoke to them before coming here to see you.

  “The man’s a friggin’ Catholic, Roy,” Darby grumbled, a flutter of panic in his eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Buscema answered flatly. “You’ve got to endorse him and endorse him big. Big and loud. Look, you’re already lagging on this front. The others, your fellow church leaders who signed up for the global warming initiative two years ago . . . they’re on board.” Buscema was referring to the eighty-six Christian leaders who, despite strong opposition from many of their evangelical brethren, had signed up for what became known as the “Evangelical Climate Initiative.” Some of the most prominent church leaders, however, such as the president of the National Association of Evangelicals, had resisted publicly supporting the movement, even if they privately backed it. “This is your chance to leapfrog over them and take control.”

  Darby frowned. “But what about that sign that keeps popping up? What is it? If it was a cross or something clearly Christian, then fine . . . but it’s not.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that it’s there. It’s up there and everyone’s looking at it and wanting to be part of it.” Buscema leaned in and fixed Darby with unflinching resolve. “You’re missing the point here, Nelson. Catholic, Protestant, Baptist, Presbyterian, Quaker, or Amish—or even Mormon, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, or Scientologist for that matter. None of it matters now. You’re right that it’s not a cross up there. But it’s not a Star of David or a crescent or anything linked to any of the other major religions either. It’s a game-changer. An entirely new paradigm. It could be the start of something bigger than anything we’ve seen before, something new, something global. And as we’ve seen throughout history, when these things happen, they spawn big organizations. Right now, there isn’t one. There’s nothing. There’s just a man and a sign in the sky. But people are coming to him in droves. And you need to decide whether or not you want to be part of it. Right now, you can get a jump on the others by hitching your wagon to him before the rest of them. Things can change . . . in the twinkling of an eye.” He just couldn’t resist throwing that one in. “Because even if it isn’t specifically, obviously Christian,” he pressed on, “if you haven’t embraced it while everyone else has, you just might find yourself with a whole bunch of empty pews. And that wouldn’t be a good thing, would it?” He winced, trying to stop himself from taking another dig using an End of Times catchphrase, but he couldn’t resist, and he kept his voice as even as he could and added, “You don’t want to be left behind, now, do you?”

  “DID HE BUY IT?” Drucker asked Buscema.

  “Please,” the journalist said mockingly, the sound of rushing air coming through his car phone. “He’s so into it it’s almost painful to watch.”

  “You gonna see Schaeffer again?”

  “He’s left me two messages since I last spoke to him,” he confirmed. “Same with Scofield. I’ll let them sweat it out a little bit before calling them back.”

  Good man, Drucker thought. It sounded like they’d already reeled in one major marlin. With a bit of luck, they’d be bringing in a record haul.

  Chapter 46

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Matt and Jabba were in the bloodstained Camry, parked outside a modern, six-floor office block in the Seaport district.

  Matt’s face was screened by the shadow of his baseball cap and the upturned collar of his coat. He sat in the passenger seat and eyed the building with quiet fury. It was a bland, architecturally bankrupt tile-and-glass box with a large parking area out front. There was no corporate signage by its front entrance; instead, various tenants probably leased suites there, moving in and out in accordance with the ebb and flow of their earnings. A thin blanket of snow from an early-morning flurry covered the asphalt and trimmed the bare branches of the trees that dotted the lot.

  They’d been parked there for half an hour, and had seen only one person walk into the building. There had been no sign of the hard case.

  The painkillers had taken the sting out of Matt’s wound, but it still hurt every time he moved. He still felt a bit light-headed, which he attributed to the loss of blood. His body was pleading with him to give it time to heal, but the pleas were falling on deaf ears. He could walk, and right now, that would have to do.

  “I’m going to have a look,” he told Jabba. He reached for the door handle, grimacing with discomfort as he pulled on it.

  Jabba reached out to stop him. “Not a good idea, dude. You shouldn’t even be here. Look at you.”

  “Just a look,” Matt repeated; only as he pushed the door open, Jabba put a hand on his shoulder and stayed him.

  “I’ll go,” Jabba said.

  Matt looked at him.

  “I’ll go,” he protested-insisted, his voice rising a notch, before concern flitted across his eyes. “If I’m not out in five minutes, call the cops,” he added, slapping his iPhone into Matt’s hand. Then he caught himself, and grinned. “God, I never imagined I’d ever hear myself say that.”

  Matt brushed it away, dead serious. “Just don’t get too nosy.”

  Jabba looked at him askance. “Seriously, sometimes, it’s like you don’t even know me,” he mock-griped, then climbed out of the car.

  He scanned left and right as he ambled across the lot, slightly overdoing the casual don’t-mind-me attitude, but there was no one around to notice. Matt watched him disappear inside the building’s entrance lobby.

  Less than a minute later, he emerged.

  “Well?” Matt asked.

  Jabba gave him a piece-of-cake smile, but his body told a different story. He was breathing fast, and his face was sprinkled with sweat droplets that weren’t there before.

  “No receptionist. Five names on the roster, one per floor. Third seems unoccupied, or they’ve been too lazy to put their name up,” he informed Matt in between sharp breaths. “But I think I know which one we want. Just need to go online somewhere to confirm it.”

  Matt thought about it, then said, “Okay. Do it here.”

  Which totally threw Jabba. “What, you want me to use my phone?”

  “Yep,” Matt confirmed, sure of it.

  “Dude, they could track our position. My iPhone’s got A-GPS, as in ‘assisted.’ Makes their job even easier.”

  “Fine. Do it. An
d stay on long enough for them to be able to do it.”

  Jabba looked at him like he was nuts. “You want them to know we were here?”

  Matt nodded. “Yep.”

  Jabba was now looking at him like he’d sprouted little green antennas from his ears. “Why?”

  “I want to fuck with them a little. Shake them up. Keep them unbalanced.”

  “It’s my phone, dude,” Jabba specified. “All they’ll know for sure is that I was here.”

  “Same difference. They know we’re together.”

  Jabba looked like he wanted to object more, but he gave up, raised his hands in surrender, and turned on his phone. He checked his watch, then fired up his Macbook and connected it to the phone, using the phone’s Internet connection. Matt watched as Jabba’s fingers danced across the keyboard and tapped the touchpad a few times. He then swung the laptop so Matt could see the screen.

  It was on the home page of a company called Centurion. A slick slideshow showed an oil refinery in a desert location at sundown, then what looked like a gated compound somewhere in the Middle East, then a convoy of cars, again in the same sunny, dusty environment. The last picture showed a steely guy in pristine quasi-military gear, black gloves, and surfer-cool wraparound shades, poised behind a large-caliber machine gun. A slogan flashed up with each image, the last of them announcing the company’s motto, “Securing a Better Future.”