A wave of anxiety passed through Daniel. “You can’t believe that Adrian Romulus is a false messiah.” He grimaced in good humor. “These books are filled with ancient prophecies; they have nothing to do with those of us who live in the twentieth century.”
“What good are prophecies if they don’t tell us about our future?” Witzun looked at Daniel with a vague hint of disapproval in his eyes. “These things will come to pass, Mr. Prentice, and prophecies found in the Bible we share indicate that they will come to pass very soon.”
Daniel gritted his teeth. Now that his Millennium Project was close to uniting the world, the last thing he needed was resistance from a religious faction. “But other than a similarity in the names, what makes you think Adrian Romulus is connected in any way to these ancient writings?” If Adrian fell under suspicion solely because he had inherited an unfortunate surname. . . .
“There are more definite connections.” Rabbi Witzun folded his hands in a pose of tranquillity. “First, there is his work on behalf of the Jews in regard to the Temple.”
“That would seem to indicate that he was your messiah, not a false messiah.”
Something that looked like a smile twitched among the tangles of Witzun’s beard. “A false messiah must have the appearance of a true messiah, or he would never develop a following.” The rabbi spoke patiently, as if he were explaining things to a small, stubborn child. “Second, the calendar itself seems to suggest that Adrian Romulus is this false messiah.”
“The calendar?” Daniel moved his hand to his chin. “Excuse my ignorance, rabbi, but you’ll have to explain.”
“The ninth of Av, to be precise.” Witzun’s eyes shone moist, and his voice grew suddenly husky. “Several ancient rabbis speak of the ‘spirit of Hadrian’ rising in the last days to attack Israel until the Messiah—true Messiah—defeats him. The Roman emperor Hadrian, as I’m sure you’ll recall from your history lessons, destroyed over one and a half million Jews on the ninth day of Av, A.D. 135.”
Daniel searched his memories and found a recollection of Hadrian’s Wall in Scotland, but nothing more. The fact that the man was an anti-Semite had not been mentioned in Daniel’s school.
“I fail to see the connection.”
A tremor touched the rabbi’s firm mouth. “For some reason known only to the Master of the universe, the ninth of Av has often elicited the wrath of men imbued with an evil spirit. On that date in 587 B.C., by the Gregorian calendar, the Babylonians burned King Solomon’s temple; on that day in A.D. 70, the Romans burned the second temple. In 1290, the Jews were driven from England on the ninth of Av; on the same date in 1492, Spain expelled her Jewish population.”
The rabbi’s overwhelming anguish was palpable; Daniel could almost feel the laboring, grieving presence of millions of murdered Jews.
“On the ninth day of Av in 1914, the Russians killed a hundred thousand of my people as they mobilized for World War I.”
The atmosphere thickened with the heaviness of despair. Daniel pressed his hand over his mouth, unwilling to break the respectful silence, but still he could not see any link between Adrian Romulus and the tragic history of the Jews.
“Your associate, the powerful and charming Monsieur Romulus,” the rabbi went on, his lips pale within his beard, “has chosen a date upon which everyone will receive a computer chip, a key to enter his false system. Gentiles and Jews alike will be implanted with these, these things—”
“Personal identification devices,” Daniel offered.
“It does not matter what you call them.” His dark eyes impaled Daniel. “Note this, Mr. Prentice—this year, the day he has chosen, the twenty-second of July, is the ninth of Av.”
A thunderbolt jagged through Daniel. July 22 was a tragic Jewish anniversary? Surely the date was only a bizarre coincidence. Romulus had nothing against the Jews, and there was absolutely no anti-Semitic element to any aspect of the Millennium Project. Everyone was to be implanted with a Millennium Chip; no particular sect was to be particularly sought out or ignored. At present there were no plans to even record a person’s religious preference in the PID code.
Daniel leaned forward and stretched his hand toward his host. “Rabbi Witzun,” he said, the grim line of his mouth relaxing, “I can assure you that the Millennium Project and the PIDs are as safe for the Jews as for any other people. I have nothing against the Jewish people, and neither does Adrian Romulus. If I thought he was an anti-Semite, I would not work for him.”
“He is the next Hitler.”
Their eyes locked tight, and neither man moved for a long minute.
“He is not,” Daniel said finally. He stood, nodded formally at his host, and plucked his coat from the back of a chair.
Before leaving, he threw a quick message over his shoulder. “Thank you, Rabbi, for the tea.”
TWENTY
11:58 A.M., Monday, February 15, 1999
RETURNING TO THE HOTEL, DANIEL PAUSED AT A NEWSSTAND ON THE SIDEWALK and picked up a copy of the International Herald Tribune, wondering all the while if he should tell Lauren about the rabbi’s troubling suspicions. Daniel had known few Jewish people in his life, and had never knowingly held a conversation with a rabbi. But Lauren encountered all types of people in her work; perhaps she could give some rational explanation for the rabbi’s dire warning. Though Daniel knew she wasn’t overly fond of Romulus, she was politically savvy and could certainly offer an insightful opinion on the matter.
Daniel thanked the vendor, pocketed his change, and paused to skim the morning headlines. He had just begun to move toward the hotel when the lobby’s revolving door disgorged a slurry of guests. Daniel blinked in surprise when he saw Lauren’s blonde head bobbing amidst the crowd. She hadn’t mentioned a lunch appointment, but why would she? In the three weeks they’d been in Brussels, Daniel hadn’t inquired more than once or twice about her plans. No wonder she had told Brad she was lonely.
His thoughts clouded with uneasiness as he watched her move away. Should she go out without an escort or guard of any kind? Her picture had been in the papers enough that anyone might recognize her, and she was an official representative of the president of the United States.
More than a little perturbed, Daniel tucked the folded newspaper under his arm, then waited on the sidewalk to see if Lauren would ask a bellhop to call a taxi. If she did, she undoubtedly had a luncheon appointment, but if she did not, perhaps he ought to join her and make up for his inattention of the last few days.
A group of women walked by, chattering like bright parrots, and by the time they had passed Daniel could no longer see Lauren. For one black instant he panicked, then he caught sight of her farther down the street. She had wasted no time but walked at a brisk pace, her slender legs moving beneath the hem of her coat in a quick, even rhythm.
Drawn by curiosity and the challenge of the chase, Daniel threaded his way through the hotel crowd and followed her. A thousand thoughts zipped through his mind as he hurried forward—where was she going, and why had she chosen to go alone? Brad was supposed to be in charge of security, so where in the world was he?
Lauren moved down the Boulevard Charlemagne and turned onto the Rue de la Loi, passing between the Berlaymont Palace, home of the European Commission, and the EU Council of Ministers building without slowing her pace. Daniel’s alarm grew as she skipped lightly down the subway stairs at the Schuman Station. He followed, his heart in his throat, and slipped into a subway car just before the door closed and the train pulled away from the station.
Closing his ears to the babble of languages around him, Daniel swayed to the train’s gentle rhythm and kept his eyes upon Lauren. She rode the train with a distant, distracted look on her face, as if she were deep in thought.
That look did nothing to ease Daniel’s fears.
She stepped off the train at the De Brouckere station, and Daniel followed, glad that at least they were on familiar territory. This was the way they had traveled on Sunday; maybe she merely wante
d to revisit a shop or pick up a fresh bag of croissants.
But even once they hit the row of shops, Lauren showed no signs of slowing. On and on she walked, past the bakery, past the little shop where they sold all sorts of goods emblazoned with the European symbol—a circle of gold stars on a bright blue background. Finally, just as Daniel was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of lunchtime aerobic program, Lauren paused by a side street. She slowed her pace and looked hesitantly around, then lifted her chin and moved past a row of vendors’ flower carts.
Daniel stopped, suddenly remembering. Lauren had found a little church in one of these storefront buildings, and the discovery had left her in a thoughtful mood for the rest of the day. What could have driven her back to this place?
He stood in the center of the bustling sidewalk and debated his options. If he turned around and went back to the hotel, Lauren would never know he had followed her. His indifference might have suited her three weeks ago, but since that time Daniel had sensed a remarkable thawing of her resolve to keep him at a professional distance.
On the other hand, he could follow her inside the building. She would be surprised, perhaps annoyed, but at least she would know he cared enough to worry about her safety. And, since he had come this far, she’d want him to stay with her a while. But then the church, or whatever it was, would reach out for him,wrap its tenuous and persistent arms around his thoughts and feelings— and the one thing he didn’t need right now was a muddled head.
He took a deep breath and felt a dozen different emotions collide. He wanted the woman, not the religion. He wanted Lauren’s strength, intelligence, and stability, not an emotional panacea.
He exhaled in a long, slow stream. He was strong, and so was Lauren. She’d come back to this place because she was feeling nostalgic and probably missed Victoria Stedman.
Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets and forced a grim smile to his face as he wended his way through the flower carts. The faintly muffled sounds of music reached his ear, and as he opened the door he braced himself against the sentimental pull of a familiar melody.
They were singing “The Old Rugged Cross.”
Lauren felt a shock run through her as her eyes met Daniel’s. He hesitated just inside the door, then seemed to make some sort of decision. As the dozen or so men and women around her continued to sing, Daniel hunched forward and slipped into the empty chair beside Lauren.
“I saw you leave the hotel,” he said, by way of explanation, “and I thought you shouldn’t be out alone.”
Lauren gave him a wintry smile. “I can take care of myself, Daniel. And this is personal, not business.”
He crossed his legs and nodded politely at a man who’d shifted in his seat to give Daniel a curious glance. “Celebrities do not have personal time.” He leaned slightly and whispered the words. “You must be more careful.”
Ready to argue the point of her so-called celebrity, Lauren took a quick breath, then released it in an audible sigh. She couldn’t argue in the middle of a church service, even if it was being held on Monday afternoon in a bookbinder’s shop.
The song ended, several of the worshippers shouted in enthusiastic agreement, and the preacher-bookbinder stepped out from behind his tall work counter.
“The Lord has urged me,” the man began, a glow rising in his ruddy face, “to speak to you from the fourth and fifth chapters of Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians. Listen, friends, to what our Lord would have us hear about the coming resurrection.”
Daniel shifted in his chair, and Lauren braced herself for a cutting comment of some sort. But he said nothing. The leg he had crossed, though, began to swing back and forth like a hyperactive pendulum.
“’Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.’” The preacher spoke in a tone filled with awe and respect. “’We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord’s own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words.’”
“Maranatha!” The woman next to Lauren whispered the word in reverent wonder.
Lauren thought the preacher had finished; in her church the minister rarely read from the Bible at all. But the bookbinder brought the leatherbound book closer and kept reading.
“’Now, brothers, about times and dates we do not need to write to you, for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. While people are saying,“Peace and safety,” destruction will come on them suddenly, as labor pains on a pregnant woman, and they will not escape.
“’But you, brothers, are not in darkness so that this day should surprise you like a thief. You are all sons of the light and sons of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness. So then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert and self-controlled. . . . For God did not appoint us to suffer wrath but to receive salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ.’”
Lauren threw a sidelong glance at Daniel. His swinging leg had slowed its pace; his eyes had narrowed. He was either listening with great concentration or mentally writing computer code. She turned back to the preacher, relieved that Daniel was not fretfully bored, then winced when his voice cut through the gathering like a knife.
“Would you mind explaining that, please?”
Shock flickered over the preacher’s face like summer lightning. “I beg your pardon?”
“Please excuse the interruption, but I really want to know.” Daniel uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “What will come like a thief in the night? Nuclear war? And if so, which country is going to drop the first bomb?”
Despite her embarrassment, Lauren looked to the preacher for an answer.
The marks of astonishment faded as the preacher’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. “Why, the day of the Lord, or Tribulation, will come as a thief in the night,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he rose to the challenge. “The day of the Lord will begin when the leader of the revived Roman Empire will consolidate his ten-nation confederacy and sign a seven-year peace treaty with Israel and its enemies. According to the prophet Daniel, the signing of that treaty by the Antichrist will mark the beginning of God’s judgment upon sinners, a terrible time of war, famine, attacks by wild beasts, and plague, as well as the commencement of a seven-year countdown to the Battle of Armageddon. At the conclusion of Armageddon, Jesus Christ will descend to earth with his armies of saints from heaven. On that day, the Lord will defeat the Antichrist and establish his righteous millennial kingdom on earth.”
Lauren’s mind reeled with confusion. What in the world was he talking about? She recognized a few of the words—Armageddon and Antichrist—from popular movies and books, but surely none of that stuff was real.
Daniel brought his hands to his chin in a reflective pose, but Lauren wanted more answers. “What armies of saints in heaven?” she asked, thinking of her mother and Jessica Stedman. “Are you talking about people who have died?”
“Believers who have died.” Every eye in the room shifted toward Lauren and Daniel as the minister took a step forward. “And of course, the living believers will be absent at the day of the Lord—they will have been previously taken away at the Rapture, literally snatched up from the earth.”
Daniel looked at the minister with amused wonder. “Like the Heaven’s Gate cult who waited for the aliens trailing the Hale-Bopp comet?”
Lauren expected Daniel
’s cynical response to bring a frown to the minister’s face, but he responded in a pleasant and calm voice. “There will be no mass suicide at the rapture of the living saints. There will be no bodies left behind. The Lord will appear in the heavens, and all who believe in him will vanish from the face of the earth. Those who have died before will be resurrected and taken to heaven as well, forever to be with the Lord.”
The minister’s kindly blue eyes searched Daniel’s face, as if reaching into his thoughts. “Do you, young man, know any believers in Christ?”
Daniel lifted his head from his hands. “Yes. My mother.”
The preacher nodded. “If she remains alive until the trumpet call, she will vanish at the Rapture, or Resurrection. And all who remain on earth will be left to face the Antichrist alone.”
“Wait a minute.” Daniel held up his hands and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve heard about this Antichrist, and I’m not buying it. The Antichrist is probably a system opposed to organized religion, not an individual. I saw The Omen. You can’t convince me that there’s some little kid out there marked with a 666 tattoo and destined to destroy the world.”
“The Omen was a filmmaker’s distortion of the truth.” A light bitterness filled the preacher’s voice. “Satan would like us to think his coming puppet is a mere fantasy or a symbol, but I can assure you that he is real. He may be alive even now. He may be in a position of power, preparing himself to do his evil work. But his true nature will not be revealed until after the believers are taken to be with the Lord.”
Daniel made a quiet sound of disbelief and looked away, but Lauren could not let the subject pass. “You said the believers would be taken.” Her throat tightened as she thought of Mrs. Stedman. That gracious lady was a believer in every sense of the word. And while Lauren called herself a Christian and believed that Jesus Christ lived and died and taught many good things, she knew she lacked the qualities Mrs. Stedman exhibited. She wasn’t as good, or as committed, or something. . . .
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