by Bill Myers
“I am sorry. What?”
Although he tried to sound angry, the ache in his heart gave him away. “Leave.”
“But the party, it has just begun.” He glanced about. “Banu, Banu!” He motioned for one of the nearby girls — easily as young as his. She wobbled toward Brandon in high heels, obviously drunk, the interest in her dark eyes emboldened by the alcohol.
Salman laughed. “You’re in luck, I think she likes you.”
Brandon repeated himself. “I want you to leave, and I want you to leave now.”
Banu wrapped her arms around one of his. He barely noticed as he remained focused on Salman. “What you are doing is wrong.” The words came harder. He had to breathe between each sentence. “It is wrong and you know it.”
Salman chuckled. “Wrong? It is a little indulgence. A little reward after our hard labors.”
“It’s wrong.” From the corner of his eye he noticed Jerry across the room, hoisting the camera on his shoulder, beginning to tape.
“Maybe it is a little wrong,” Salman admitted with a twinkle, “but a little wrong is sometimes good. Banu, show Mr. Brandon how good a little wrong can be.”
Before he could stop her, the girl had reached her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to him, kissing him fully on the lips. He tried to push her away, but she clung with tenacity. He tried again, harder, until he finally broke her grip. But the force sent her staggering backwards. She hit a table filled with glasses. It collapsed and crashed with her to the floor. Booze splashed, glass shattered, and people gasped. Suddenly, Salman and Brandon were center stage.
Trying to ignore the stares, Brandon repeated himself as evenly as he could. “What you are doing is wrong.”
“Wrong? Celebrating with a few friends, it is wrong?”
Brandon spoke more softly. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I do not. You tell me which is wrong.” He raised his voice so everyone in the room could hear. “Is it wrong for someone to buy an airline ticket for a friend in trouble? Is it wrong to be his companion and guide in a country he would be lost in? Is it wrong to live outdoors with him, to starve with him, to suffer with him? Is that wrong? Or is it wrong for that friend to suddenly throw him onto the streets as thanks for his hard work and dedication?”
Salman’s logic was irrefutable. Brandon had no argument, only what he knew to be true. “You must go, Salman. If you repent, if you sincerely ask God’s forgiveness, then maybe —”
“Repent? Repent of what?” There was no missing the contempt filling his voice. “Of being a man? Of having manly desires?” He reached for the girl he’d slept with, pulling her mouth toward his, kissing her passionately, long and hard. The crowd voiced approval.
“There,” he said, finally releasing her and catching his breath. “That’s what I think of your repentance. Or would you prefer me to treat her as you do your own wife … never fulfilling your duties to her as a man!”
Brandon wasn’t angry. He knew it was the alcohol talking. He also knew it was Salman feeling the betrayal of their friendship. And who could blame him? Certainly not Brandon. Instead, Brandon slowly nodded and looked at him with deep sincerity. “I am sorry, my friend.”
The word triggered something in Salman. Suddenly his voice grew husky with emotion. “Friend? This is not how you treat a friend.” His jaw stiffened, making it clear he was trying to maintain his anger. “This is how you treat an enemy. And you” — he pointed an accusing finger — “you do not even know the difference.”
He turned to one of the group. “Orhan! The newspaper, bring it here.” A young man in his twenties produced a newspaper. Salman grabbed it and threw it down on the table. “That!” He slammed his hand down on the front-page photo. The one of Lucas Ponte standing with a handful of dignitaries. “That is your enemy! He is all of our enemy!”
Brandon glanced at it, then back at Salman. He’d heard the speech about the evils of Ponte and the Cartel a dozen times — if not from Salman, then from his militant friends. This was an obvious attempt to change the subject. But Brandon would not be sidetracked. “I’m sorry, Salman.” There was a large lump in his throat. “We can no longer work together.”
“Look!” Salman roared. “Look at the picture!”
Brandon glanced back down. Salman’s finger was not on Lucas Ponte; instead, it was pointing to a woman. A woman standing beside him, looking on with deep gratitude. But it was far more than gratitude … she was looking at him with heartfelt admiration.
Suddenly Brandon could no longer breathe. He gripped the table, having to lean against it just to stand. Salman continued to talk to him, to berate him, but he no longer heard. People from the party moved in for a better look, but he barely noticed.
All he could do was stare at the photograph of his wife gazing at Lucas Ponte with adoration … and burning love.
CHAPTER 13
SARAH DRAGGED HERSELF UP the courtyard stairs. Her head throbbed, her mouth felt like cotton, and she still didn’t completely trust the ground under her feet. She’d barely made it to the second flight when her stomach heaved and she bent over vomiting. But it was more than just wine that had made her sick. Sarah Martus was sick with guilt.
Lucas had been kind and understanding as always. Once she woke, he had done everything to convince her to stay. He’d even offered to sleep on the sofa. But she had to get away, she had to sort things out. It was Katherine’s shouts and
slamming of the door that had awakened her. She didn’t hear all the words, couldn’t understand the argument, but she knew Katherine was awake and that she was at least one person who would listen.
She pulled herself back to her feet, wiped her mouth, and somehow started across the landing. Fortunately, Katherine’s door was open and her light on. Pausing to gather herself, Sarah pushed her hair behind her ears, straightened her clothes, and approached.
Inside, Katherine flew around the room, packing furiously. She glanced up, was briefly startled at Sarah’s presence, then continued. “What do you want?”
“I …” Sarah squinted at the glaring light. “Where are you going?”
“We’re leaving. Eric and me, we’re out of here.”
“But … the treatments …”
“They’re over. You did what you could.”
“What about the deliverance session? I haven’t gotten together with Eric to —”
Katherine stopped. “To what? To cast out his demon?” She motioned cynically to Sarah’s appearance. “You, the mighty woman of God?”
Sarah’s face grew hot as she adjusted her dress.
Katherine continued. “You can’t even control your own libido, and you think you can get some demon to obey you?”
“I …” Sarah stammered, “We didn’t …”
Katherine turned back to her packing, her voice dripping with disdain. “Please …”
The conversation was racing faster than Sarah could keep up. Suddenly she heard herself blurt out, “I love my husband!”
Katherine looked back to her. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
Sarah nodded, already feeling tears in her eyes.
Katherine shook her head, then resumed packing. “That just makes you more pitiful than I thought.”
“Katherine …” It was more plea than argument.
But Katherine continued packing, not looking up. “As I’ve said before, Doctor, truth is in what we do, not what we say. You say you love your husband, yet you sleep with Lucas Ponte. You tell me which is the truth.”
Her stomach was churning again. Brine filled her mouth as she leaned against the frame of the door, swallowing it back.
“Not that I blame you. What woman in her right mind would pass up the opportunity — especially a woman with so much … ambition.”
Ambition … there was that word again. The one that had haunted her all of her life. The reason behind her abortion, her sordid past. The reason she’d become a Christian and tried to start over with a cl
ean slate. Yet, here it was again, raising its head, just as Gerty had warned, just as Brandon had sensed. Nothing she did could free her of it. Katherine was right. How much of her attraction to Lucas was love and how much of it was simply his power? Surely, it was more than coincidence that she happened to have fallen for one of the most influential men in the world.
But Katherine wasn’t finished. “You two are cut from the same cloth; you always have been.” She reached for the door, making it clear she wanted her privacy. Sarah took a step back. “But be careful, my friend. Lucas Ponte is not as he appears. But then again, I guess, neither are you.”
She shut the door, leaving the indictment ringing in Sarah’s ears.
To the angel of the church in Sardis write:
These are the words of him who holds the seven spirits of God and the seven stars. I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God. Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; obey it, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you.
Yet you have a few people in Sardis who have not soiled their clothes. They will walk with me, dressed in white, for they are worthy. He who overcomes will, like them, be dressed in white. I will never blot out his name from the book of life, but will acknowledge his name before my Father and his angels. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.
Just outside the small village of Sart, the Hall of the Imperial Cult towered fifty, nearly sixty feet above Brandon’s head. Of everything he’d seen in Turkey, this reconstructed portion of building with its multiple columns, balconies, and towering brick walls was the most foreboding and intimidating. Part of it was its architecture, part of it was its history. Built during the peak of the Roman Empire, it symbolized the power of the ancient one-world government, and just as importantly, the worship of its leader.
But there was something else that frightened him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it involved Sarah, it involved himself, and somehow it involved the future. But what did this ancient past have to do with their future?
“I just spoke with Salman.”
He turned to see Tanya approach through the grassy field that had once been the Sardis gymnasium.
“How is he?”
“He’s in the village. Wants to team up with you again. If you’ll have him.”
Brandon felt a surge of joy. “Of course I’ll have him. I’d love for him to join us.”
“So would he. Except …”
“Except?”
“His girlfriend from the party is with him. He says she’s part of the deal.”
Brandon’s heart sank just as quickly as it had leaped. He glanced away, then answered softly, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s your answer, then?”
“My answer is the same as it was back in Thyatira.”
“I told him it would be.”
The two grew quiet. Only the wind and the rustling of dry grass broke the silence.
Changing the subject, Tanya finally asked, “Have you been up to the Citadel yet?” She motioned toward the craggy hill across the road and above them.
He shook his head.
“Not much up there, though the history’s kind of interesting.”
“How’s that?”
“About twenty-five hundred years ago the Pactolus River was the source of gold in the world. That made the ruler, here, a fellow by the name of Croesus, the richest man on earth. And that’s where he stored his riches, right up there in the Citadel.”
Brandon looked at the hilltop. As Tanya spoke, he listened carefully. So far every church letter from Revelation had also been related to that city’s history or geography. He suspected this would be no different.
“The place was absolutely impregnable,” she explained, “except for one small opening in the wall. So Croesus stationed two watchmen there to guard it. Everything was fine, until Cyrus, King of Persia, decided he wanted the ruler’s gold. But there was no way to get in and get it. So he brought his army into this valley, and he waited and waited and waited.”
“Until?” Brandon asked.
“Until one night both watchmen fell asleep. That’s when Cyrus made his move. He broke through the wall, stormed the Citadel, and defeated Croesus, taking all of the man’s gold and riches.”
“All because the watchmen fell asleep?”
“Exactly.”
But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you.
Immediately Brandon recognized the symbolism. Five hundred years after Croesus, a church at this same location had existed which seemed to have had a rich history of good works. There was no false teaching, no lack of love, and no immorality. Christ had nothing against them … except that they had fallen asleep. They had rested on their past accomplishments. Like the two watchmen they had slept when they should have been on duty. And eventually … Brandon looked around the ruins … the thief had come to steal. And now there was nothing.
Again he wondered how similar that was to today’s church. He wondered how often good people pointed to past accomplishments as an excuse not to act, as a reason to retire from the battle. But the battle always continues. And, like Cyrus, the enemy is always waiting … waiting for us to quit, waiting for us to retire, waiting for us to fall asleep … so he can storm the gates.
Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God. Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; obey it, and repent.
The more Brandon thought on this truth, the more he understood. Christian service is not historical fact, it’s contemporary action. It is not past glory, it is current doing. Retirement would have to wait until heaven. Because right now the battle continued to rage for the hearts and minds and souls of people God loved more than His own life.
“Brandon … Brandon?”
He looked up, returning from his thoughts.
“There’s another bit of information you need to know … considering Sarah and the Cartel and all.”
He couldn’t hide the anxiety in his voice. “What’s that?”
“The last of the holdout countries has agreed to endorse the Cartel. Seventy-two hours from now, in Jerusalem, the Cartel will be given full authority over matters of world peace. That’s when Lucas Ponte will officially be installed as their chairman.”
Brandon looked back up at the Hall of the Imperial Cult. Once again, he felt the stirring of the Spirit, the movement of pieces falling into place. He gave an involuntary shudder. Something had been happening. Something under his very nose. And now it was stirring from its slumber.
“Wake up!”
“Brandon, are you all right?”
“It’s happening.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“What?”
“The Imperial Cult.”
“What are you talking about?”
He swallowed hard and continued. “One world government, one world leader … Ponte and the Cartel, they’re coming into power. They’re bringing everything to an end, exactly as it began.”
“Whoa, wait a minute, now you’re sounding like Salman.”
He turned to her. “Salman was right.”
“What? You’re not serious?”
He was as surprised as she was. “It’s been staring me in the face all this time, and I just hadn’t seen it. About the Cartel, about Ponte … Salman was right.” Brandon slowly shook his head, amazed at his own thickheadedness.
Tanya continued searching his face. “You really believe that?”
He turned back to her. “I know that.”
An eerie silence crept over them.
Tanya cleared her throat. “So what are you talking about here? Some sort of Antichrist thing?” She tried to sh
ow her scorn, but it came out more as a nervous chuckle.
Brandon answered quietly, “Whoever he is, he will rise up to become the next ruler of the Imperial Cult — he will become the next world … god.”
“Come on,” Tanya scoffed.
Brandon said nothing.
She continued. “Who are we kidding? The people would never allow something like that. They’d never stand for it.”
He agreed. “Not if they knew.”
More silence, more thinking.
Finally Tanya spoke again. “If you really think it’s true, then the people have to be warned. Somebody has to tell them.”
Brandon nodded. He knew she was trying to capitalize on the situation, but that didn’t stop the pieces from moving about in his mind, from him seeking some way to try and make them fit. She saved him the trouble. “Brandon …”
He glanced at her.
“It’s you.”
The words caught his breath.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“But —”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“But you agree, the people have to be warned. And if you’re supposed to be some sort of end-time prophet guy, shouldn’t that be your —”
“No … I’m not the one.” He turned away.
“But if it’s true, if you really believe it’s happening, then somebody has to warn them, somebody has to wake them up.”
The phrase spun him back to her, but she had no idea what she’d said. Without a word he turned and began walking away.
“Brandon?”
“No …”
She scrambled to his side, doing her best to keep up with his long strides in the grass. “If you seriously believe that, then you need to say it. You need to go public and say it.”
He remained silent. He’d “gone public” once before, in Los Angeles. And one disaster like that per lifetime was enough.
But Tanya didn’t let up. “Isn’t that your job?” He knew full well she was more interested in a story than the truth, but that didn’t make her any less right. “Who’s going to tell them if you don’t?” Nor did it prevent her from going for the jugular. “And what about Sarah, who’s going to warn Sarah?”