The Regime: Evil Advances

by Tim LaHaye

  "Maybe. What do you have?"

  "Did you wonder, Captain, why I was able to so quickly rattle off the many goods produced here?"

  Rayford nodded. "As a matter of fact..."

  "I have not seen you smoke since you arrived. Are you not a smoker?"

  Rayford shook his head.

  "Neither am I," Abdullah said. "But I used to be, and I have tried cigarettes from all over the world. None compare with ours. They would make excellent gifts for your smoking friends."

  "How much?"

  "About triple what you would pay in the States, but of course you can't get ours there."

  "Will I have trouble getting them into my country?"

  "They are contraband. Will you be searched upon boarding or deplaning?"

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  "I wasn't on the way."

  "Then you are unlikely to be on the way back. If you are, you may tell them these were given to you as gifts, but you would protect me by not saying it was I who gave the gift."

  Rayford decided lying was no worse than buying contraband on the black market. And who knew what other exotic gifts he might find through this source? Once he started flying to Europe, Jordan wasn't so awfully far away. Abdullah Smith could prove a valuable contact.

  Meanwhile, they had better talk business and make this trip worthwhile.

  Not only was Nicolae Carpathia never officially considered a suspect in the assassination of Emil Tismaneanu, but he also became the object of public sympathy over the loss of his dear friend. Small pockets of suspicion were obliterated when he made good on his pledge to withdraw from the race, going so far as paying the fees and filing the paperwork to make it legal.

  Nicolae seeded the murder investigation with a huge infusion of funds, so that the force empowered to look into the matter became known as the Carpathia Commission. Despite the stony stare from Tismaneanu's daughter and the look of apprehension on the face of her fiancé, Carpathia not only attended the funeral, but he also spoke briefly--"brilliantly," according to the press--eulogizing his former opponent to the point that

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  editorials all over Europe lauded him as a model for the politics of the future.

  The day after the funeral Carpathia was elected to the lower house of the Romanian parliament, garnering more than 80 percent of the votes as a write-in candidate. His competition proved to be dozens of dilettantes and pretenders whose friends wrote them in on a lark.

  Leon Fortunato took credit for the write-in idea, having employed dozens of lackeys to spread the notion to reporters, commentators, and columnists, many of whom claimed the idea as their own. Support for the idea had swept Bucharest, and the polls had reflected the change immediately.

  With the death of Tismaneanu and Carpathia's withdrawal, the polls had been hopelessly skewed, but by the time of the election they accurately predicted a landslide for Nicolae vastly beyond what had been forecast when both candidates were on the ballot.

  An obsequious Carpathia, eyes cast down, stepped before press microphones when the actual polls closed and, with a quavery voice, announced, "I said I would not run. I did not say I would not serve. I am overwhelmed. I am humbled. And I hereby accede to the wishes of the people and pledge to give this my all in the memory of my friend."

  Several days later the new member of Parliament was an uninvited guest at Luciana Tismaneanu's wedding. Leon choreographed a quiet, understated arrival. "No fanfare," he said. "We are simply dropped off at a side entrance and slip into a back pew. No escorts, no sirens."

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  "But a lot of press, no?" Nicolae said.

  "Of course. What is the point otherwise?"

  When Leon's driver pulled into an alleyway beside the church, the way was besieged by reporters and photographers, each having thought they were scooping the others. Someone had confided in each that the faint third- or fourth-generation copy of Carpathia's itinerary, outlining his arrival time and location, was something no one else was privy to.

  Carpathia made a great show of trying to simply hurry into the biserica , only to pause at the door because of the press of media personnel. He sighed and sadly said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I respectfully aver that this is not the time or place for this. Please allow me to simply celebrate with the daughter of my late friend and not detract in any way from her day."

  Such a humble display was trumpeted in every newspaper and on every television station. It was garnished with another tidbit: "Private sources tell us that Mr. Carpathia's wedding gift is a trust fund that will fully cover the education of the new couple's offspring. While the bride stands to inherit vast business interests, there is some speculation that legal issues and falling profits may find these less than beneficial to her. No word as yet as to her response to Mr. Carpathia's largesse."

  Meeting Abdullah's delicate young wife, Yasmine, and their small boy and girl was a treat for Rayford, as was

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  enjoying another delicious meal--though much lighter evening fare--in their home.

  Rayford was intrigued by the formal interaction between Abdullah and his wife. She was quiet and servile, handling the household and meal preparation and serving details. She appeared to nearly panic when Rayford offered to help, but Abdullah rescued her with a raised hand and a shake of the head, which told Rayford he would be violating some cultural domestic code.

  Yasmine also tended to the children, though Abdullah seemed smitten by them too. When the meal was over and the children were in bed, Yasmine disappeared as the men sat and talked.

  "Your wife is lovely," Rayford said.

  "I worry about her," Abdullah said. "When first I began to let it show that I was not as devout a Muslim as I had led her to believe--ignoring the calls to prayer and so forth--I saw sadness and bewilderment on her face. But what troubled me even more was that she soon followed my example."

  "Have you discussed it?"

  Abdullah held his index finger and thumb a half inch apart. "Only a little. She is frightened by the whole prospect of whether Allah might be disappointed or angry with her, but she shares my feeling that our religion has become too impersonal and rigid. And while she is not what I would call a modern woman and hardly a feminist, neither does she feel honored or respected in the Islam system."

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  Rayford returned home via Washington, D.C., where he was debriefed by his CIA and Defense Department contacts.

  "We heard the two of you hit it off," Jack Graham said.

  "That's fair. He's an impressive young man."

  Abdullah's ideas for defending against terrorist attacks were understandably military in nature: teaching pilots evasive maneuvers, equipping jetliners with defensive weapons, and increasing cockpit and cabin security measures--all of which would merely add to the already astronomical projected costs that attended this new threat. But Graham and his associates assured Rayford that they believed the connection with Jordan--and Abdullah Ababneh in particular--was worth the time and effort.

  For Rayford personally it certainly had been. By the time he had assessed the black-market goods Abdullah offered, he had added several hundred dollars' worth of treasures from Arabia to his luggage. To his knowledge neither Abdullah's superiors nor his own were aware of any of this. Rayford would be careful not to resell any of the booty in the U.S., so that if he was questioned about it, he could rightly say they were all gifts.

  Several of the items from the black market--though Rayford did not, of course, describe them that way-- were met with enthusiasm by his own family. Irene seemed to love a supply of velvet material. Raymie enjoyed a collection of small animals carved from olive wood. And Rayford was stunned at Chloe's response to

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  an embroidered rug, which she immediately put to use in her room.

  "I had no idea you'd like this," he said, sitting on her bed.

  Chloe sat at her computer desk. "It's beautiful," she said. "And it's from you."

  "Your mother told me about the electio
n," he said. "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged. "The kids want a dumb jock; they got one. At least it was close."

  "Don't be defeated by one defeat."

  "That's sorta like what the principal said in his letter to all the losers. Something about losing a battle doesn't mean you've lost the war."

  "There'll be more elections."

  Chloe shook her head. "I've had enough of politics. I couldn't take another disappointment like this. The worst part is, Mom was right. It was a popularity contest, and I'm not popular."

  "C'mon," Rayford said. "You said it was close."

  "Not close enough. And you know, Dad, there are more girls than boys in our class. Let's face it: we live in a male-dominated society. Even the girls vote for the boys."

  Rayford was struck by the contrast between his smart, articulate daughter and Yasmine Ababneh. Was he raising an activist? a feminist? He had the feeling Chloe would do him proud one day.

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  THIRTY-FOUR

  Cameron Williams got himself in gear, finished well at Princeton, and graduated with honors, awards, and acclaim. He hit Boston like a road sweep of the Yankees and immediately made enemies on the staff of the Globe .

  Fortunately, according to Dizzy Rowland, this was assessed by the brass as "largely jealousy. Anything that interrupts the status quo threatens the old-timers. And when a young guy comes in and does well, noses get bent out of joint. I would, however, urge you, Cameron, to lie low. Let others praise you. And throw out a few compliments. Don't be criticizing colleagues or offering suggestions. Just do your job and let the readership assess you."

  It was good counsel but hard to keep. Cameron was alarmed at the laziness on the part of other reporters. They shirked, they cheated, they counted on secondary sources. They would spend a whole day doing nothing,

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  then finally interview someone late and try to make a feature of it. Cameron didn't understand that. He loved his job, read everything he could get his hands on, looked for stories. He used the phone and the computer and a lot of shoe leather and tire tread, blanketing the Back Bay. He had his regular assignments, but at least every other day he submitted a human-interest story too, a feature, even a few opinion pieces. He was, in short, working full-time fulfilling his regular duties while also acting as a freelance writer with a wealth of ideas.

  "You're working over and above the call of duty," Dizzy said. "If you'd rather do this stuff on your own time, we can pay you freelance rates."

  "I don't mind doing it on work time, unless you see it as a conflict," Cameron said.

  "So far it hasn't been."

  "Anyway, I've seen newspaper freelance rates. I'd rather use my own time to sell elsewhere."

  And he did. Cameron's social life was virtually nil, except for a young woman he'd met at the mailboxes in his building. They went to dinner and a movie a few times, but twice he was late and another time he had to cancel. He shouldn't have been surprised, he told himself, but he was, when she finally gave him the same speech he had heard at Princeton. He was in love with his career and didn't have time for a relationship, and any woman who pursued him would have to compete with journalism as his mistress.

  Cameron let that depress him for about half a day until he serendipitously ran into a jockey at a bar,

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  a young Mexican hoping to make the grade at Suffolk Downs, the thoroughbred horse-racing track in East Boston, a mile past Logan Airport.

  Enrique Reyes of Mexico City had made a name for himself at tracks in his homeland and had ventured north to conquer American racing. He had shone at Southern tracks but decided he would not get his real break until he made it at the big tracks in New York. Boston was on the way, and so he had settled in, trying to catch the eye of trainers and owners in New York.

  The going had been rough so far for the rider, but Cameron saw a bit of himself in Enrique. Something in his eyes made it plain he would not be denied, and Cameron decided to chronicle a week in the life of a jockey. He did not consult his superiors about it; he merely turned in a small feature, then wrote the series on his own time.

  Cameron knew he was on to something when Dizzy Rowland asked to see him off-site after hours. "I'm getting heat for not talking to you through your immediate supervisor," Rowland said. "And frankly, that's fair counsel. I keep telling you how to avoid making others jealous, yet I contribute to it by parading you up here during the day."

  When they finally got together, Rowland came right to the point. "Let me tell you what I like best about the jockey feature. It was your infusion of yourself into the piece."

  "Seriously? I worried about that. It wasn't a column, and I didn't want to be intrusive."

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  "Intrusive? You just mentioned that you got to the track on the Blue Line. Genius. That's how our readers get there, Cameron. It would have been easy for you to drive and let the Globe pay for mileage and parking. But no. Your telling about the characters on the train, how some share their hints and others jealously guard theirs while reading the scratch sheets ... great, great stuff."

  "Thanks." Cameron told Rowland of his plan for the weeklong feature.

  "Can't wait to see it. And if it's as good as this first piece, maybe I'll show it to my friend at Sports Illustrated."

  "Seriously?"

  "Of course."

  "Because, sir, it will be better. It's coming along well and starting to look like something special--if I do say so myself."

  Cameron had to deal with the guilt of knowing his career turned on a propitious tragedy that thrust his name into the national spotlight. Rowland kept telling him that it was his instincts and skill and energy that put him in the position in the first place, but for weeks, Cameron could not be consoled. He feared his stature had benefited from the pain of another.

  Cameron's weeklong series on Enrique Reyes had proved immediately popular, and Dizzy Rowland's Sports Illustrated contact was impressed too. While he initially passed on rerunning the feature, he set up an appointment to have Cameron visit in New York and talk about other assignments. Before Cameron could go, however,

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  tragedy struck at the racetrack and changed Enrique's and Cameron's lives overnight.

  Enrique had been having a good week, on pace to win more than he had in any previous week of the season. In a match race in the middle of the afternoon Enrique found himself settled in third place along the rail, mounted on a promising filly. The favorite was leading, but Enrique would tell Cameron later that he sensed fatigue in the stallion and believed he could steal the race if he could get past the number-two horse and stay on the rail.

  Coming around the far turn, the number-two horse broke down and tossed its rider directly into the face of Enrique's filly. The filly crashed into the rail, and Enrique was thrown, cart-wheeling toward the infield. His foot caught briefly in the rail, and though he landed on his head and was knocked out, the only serious damage was to his leg.

  And it was serious enough to cost him his career.

  Cameron's feature went from one about the hopes and dreams of an immigrant rider to what happens when a leg and a dream are shattered. Enrique's leg had to be amputated just below the hip, and though he made bold pronouncements about one day riding with a prosthetic, it would never happen.

  The Enrique Fund, initiated by the Globe , brought in hundreds of thousands of dollars--not enough to defray the real costs of his care but enough to get him back to Mexico City, where he was eventually able to start a training facility for young jockeys.

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  Sports Illustrated assigned Cameron a fresh feature on the story, then used a shorter version in Time magazine. Suddenly Cameron was known to all the newsweeklies and other high-paying magazine markets, and he began to make as much money--and noise--after hours as he did on the job.

  He had been at the Globe less than a year when it was learned that his Enrique coverage had been nominated for a Pulitzer Pri
ze as a distinguished example of local reporting of breaking news--already his second such nomination. The Globe also had nominations in other categories, including one for the paper itself in the public service category--the only non-cash category. Winners of the other categories would be awarded cash prizes, while the paper that won the Public Service prize would receive a gold medal.

  Late in May Cameron traveled to New York City with Dizzy Rowland and a half dozen others from the Globe for the Pulitzer Prize luncheon at the beautiful and ancient Low Library on the Morningside Heights campus of Columbia University. There Cameron became the only reporter to win for the Globe that year, pocketing a check for $15,000. The Globe also won the Public Service gold medal for its series on security issues at Logan Airport.

  On the way back to Boston, Dizzy Rowland chatted privately with Cameron. "I'm sure it is not lost on you, son, that you are the youngest and most celebrated new employee the Globe has ever had. Now is the time for you to buckle down, recommit yourself to excellence and

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  industriousness, which is what got you where you are today."

  Cameron nodded, wondering where this was going. He certainly hoped he had not given the impression that he thought he had arrived and would begin taking liberties as a man of privilege.

  "If you haven't already, you will soon start hearing from many other prestigious periodicals, and many will turn your head. We don't want to lose you. I want to offer you a thrice-weekly column, which we will also syndicate. You will see your income double or triple almost immediately. And you will still be free to pursue any features or reportage you care to."

  Cameron, still reeling from the fact that much of this was due to the disaster that befell Enrique Reyes, simply said, "I accept, Mr. Rowland. And thank you."