by Tim LaHaye
Buck actually found himself curious to know what his sister-in-law thought about what was going on. Sharon was the religious one in the family, nearly alienating her husband—Buck’s brother, Jeff—and his dad in the process.
But the invitations to come home had ended with his mother’s death. Buck did not feel wanted. And while he knew Sharon would happily engage in the very conversation that intrigued him, he knew better than to seek real story content from relatives.
Countless experts abounded on both sides of the issue of the future and where society was headed. Thing was, he was not being assigned stories on that subject. His beat was hard international news, geopolitical stuff. He would leave the other to the religion editor, personally intriguing as it might be.
Leon Fortunato was struck that Romanian president Gheorghe Vasile appeared to be an older copy of himself. They were of the same blocky height and build, though the president was much more jowly and his hair was gray. In his late sixties, Vasile was a humorless politico in private, gregarious and smiling in public. He had told the people he had one more term in his old body, and early polls showed him a huge favorite over several potential candidates.
But the polls did not reflect any public opinion over how he would fare against the much-younger Nicolae Carpathia. No one had ever reached the presidency directly from the lower house. However, everyone was, of course, familiar with the charismatic peacenik who had proved so eloquent and articulate, endearing himself to fellow party members and ingratiating himself with the opposition.
Vasile seemed bemused as he read Leon’s card. “I am meeting with you, Mr. Fortunato, not because I have time or interest but because Mr. Carpathia begged my indulgence. And you serve him as chief of staff?”
“I serve him in many roles,” Leon said, earnestness oozing from every pore. “But, yes, in his role as a member of the house, I am his chief of staff.”
President Vasile had come out from around his enormous ebony desk that appeared as if it had grown where it stood and had rested there for centuries. He sat across from Fortunato at a small round table, the shape a recurring motif of the men themselves.
“I was unaware,” Vasile said, “that members of the lower house had echipi, let alone chiefs of the same.”
Fortunato smiled, trying to soften the bite of his words. “You well know that Dr. Carpathia is much more than a politician. Indeed his influence is wide and varied.”
“Dr. Carpathia? Oh yes, the adjunct professorships. I am quite aware of the flăcău’s outside interests and influence.”
“He is anything but a lad, Mr. President, despite his youth.”
“So you say.”
“Have you ever experienced Dr. Carpathia’s opposition to one of your initiatives?” Fortunato said, writing on his small notepad all the while, clearly piquing Vasile’s interest.
“Of course I have. What do you mean? He has spoken often and loudly in opposition to our defense initiatives, despite his connections with the military schools. His associations with them and then his insipid pandering to the public with his peacemongering make garish his aim to unseat me someday.”
“Someday?” Fortunato said dismissively, still writing. By now Vasile was leaning to see what he had written. But when Fortunato finished, he turned the paper upright and slid it across to the president.
Are you aware that Dr. Carpathia is a partner of Jonathan Stonagal’s? He has been aware of and signed off on every transaction. Every transaction.
Fortunato fought to suppress a grin when Vasile blanched and cleared his throat. The older man checked his watch, stood, and buttoned his suit coat. “What is your schedule like, Mr. Fortunato? I would like to treat you to my favorite băutură alcoolică.”
Fortunato, resolutely ignoring protocol by remaining seated though the president was standing, said, “I am not big on liquor, sir, but I will sample a taste if you insist. I assume, if it is your favorite, that you have a selection here.”
Vasile glared at him. “I have a special place I like to go.”
“Oh, I am fine right here,” Leon said, which caused Vasile to grab his pen and scribble on the paper:
INSTALAŢIE ELECTRICĂ! PRIVATE!
Fortunato had known, of course, that the wiring in the presidential offices was bugged and that any serious discussion of this nature would have to take place elsewhere. “Very well,” he said, rising and donning his overcoat.
Vasile told his secretary to cancel his appointments and have the securitate bring a car around and reserve a table at Căruţaş. He added that he wanted to be left alone with Fortunato, which Leon took to mean that the securitate would remain close but not close enough to listen in.
Interesting choice, The Waggoner. Leon, who had lied about his impartiality toward liquor, knew the place well. It was a hole in the wall less than two miles from the capitol, and the patrons had been trained to leave the president to his cups, should they see him there.
Leon loved the pomp and circumstance that surrounded a brief jaunt by car with the president. Citizens milled about on the street, hoping for such an occurrence and a glimpse of the man they had seen on state television for years. When they crowded the vehicle, the secret police held them back, and soon Vasile and Fortunato were on their way to the cafenea.
Knowing it would take a moment for the securitate to get the president from the vehicle to his favorite booth, Leon leaped out as soon as they stopped and rushed in, asking the manager if he was aware Vasile was coming.
“Of course. We are prepared.”
“I will be joining him,” Leon said, pressing a large bill in the man’s palm. “What is the president’s favorite drink?”
“A Russian vodka.”
“Clear?”
“Yes.”
“Make mine water, regardless of what I say. Cuprinde?”
“I understand.”
Within minutes Fortunato and Vasile were jammed into tiny quarters and the public was kept away, though passersby stared.
When the vodka was brought to the table, along with two glasses, Fortunato panicked. “Scuză,” he whispered, waving for the manager. “A head of state should not be expected to pour his own drinks!”
“Nonsense,” Gheorghe Vasile said.
But Fortunato insisted, and the manager, bowing and apologizing, took the bottle and glasses away, then returned with the glasses full. He winked at Fortunato, and Leon was grateful to discover that his was water.
“The impudence!” Leon whispered.
“Ach! They know me here. I often pour for myself.”
“You should not. Never. You preside over this country. That is due some deference.”
“But in here, in a bar, I’m just a man.”
“May it never be so.” Leon could tell he was making an impression on the man. He wondered if Vasile’s chief of staff ever treated him this way. He did not know a leader whose ego did not crave such regard.
When Fortunato opened his mouth to speak, Vasile held up a hand for silence as he downed one glass and held it up for another pour.
Leon waved for the manager, who handled the task. Leon had barely sipped his water.
“Excellent,” Vasile said.
“Eh? You see? That is how you should be treated.”
“I see.” Vasile knocked back the second glass and set it down loudly.
“Another?” Leon said.
“Later,” Vasile said. “Talk to me. What are you saying?”
Fortunato had long loved the directness of the powerful. They did not have the time for pleasantries and small talk, and that, naturally, was not what Leon was here for anyway.
“I am saying that your fortune, the one the public believes is appropriately tied up in trusts during the tenure of your presidency, is being managed by not only Jonathan Stonagal but also Nicolae Carpathia.”
Vasile stared, glowering. “And what are the ramifications of this?”
“The ramifications? Need you ask? Surely you would not expect
the Romanian people to believe your presidential salary alone finances your wife’s annual stipend, your son’s palatial estate that people think is funded by his lucrative stallion-breeding operation—but which you and I both know is a house of cards—your own storehouses of precious metals, American stocks and bonds, Asian securities, European land holdings. Were word to get out that you, sir, fund all this with income wholly criminally gained, why, it would all be in jeopardy.”
Vasile squinted and leaned forward. “Carpathia is aware of all this?”
“How do you think I know?”
“And is he not also vulnerable, if he has such information and has not reported it?”
Fortunato sat back, still speaking softly. “No one can determine when this information came to him. But you well know that knowledge is power. He has both. He has no wish to humbly, reluctantly, sadly come forward and announce his abject disappointment in a worthy opponent he has long admired, despite political disagreements.”
“But he would, would he not?”
“Of course he would.” Fortunato was warm in the smoky, crowded place, and he wriggled out of his overcoat.
The president, flushed and sweaty, not only left his on but also left it buttoned to his neck. He folded his arms and lowered his chin, appearing sad. He stared at Leon and then at the table. “So, this is stoarcere?”
“It is indeed extortion, Mr. President.”
Vasile rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms against his generous cheeks. He sighed, inhaled as if to speak, then appeared to rethink himself. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he said, “I suppose you are prepared to tell me what the man wants.”
“Of course I am,” Leon said.
FIVE
SO THIS WAS why Irene had been buttering up Rayford. She had him in a good mood, wasn’t on his case about anything. She gave him eye contact. She listened. She encouraged. In short, she was pleasant.
But then Irene sweetly lowered the boom. “May I talk with you about something without your being offended or getting upset?”
He smirked. “What’d I do now?”
“Oh no, nothing. It’s just that I want to talk with you about something Pastor Billings is preaching about, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“And what would the wrong idea be?”
“Well, for instance, your thinking that I’m trying to change you or get you to come to church or criticize you.”
“And you’re not trying to do any of that?”
“No. I mean, you know how I feel about all that, so I’m not interested in starting anything. You’re an adult and can make up your own mind, but Pastor Billings has been speaking on something so incredible that I would sincerely like your opinion about it.”
Rayford was in a bind. She had pushed him into a corner, overwhelming him with pleasantness so that he was in a lose-lose situation. If he begged off this discussion, he would seem as unreasonable as she was. If he acceded, and he didn’t seem to have a choice, he would have to endure yet another come-to-Jesus meeting.
“You know something?” he said, brightening.
“What?” Irene said flatly, clearly on guard against another lame excuse to delay the conversation.
“That stuff I promised Raymie is in, and I have to go pick it up.”
“Can’t that wait a day? Anyway, Rafe, stuff is not going to make up for your absence. He doesn’t want stuff. He wants you.”
“Three new toys all at once? And, may I say, big-boy toys? We’re talking a four-wheeler, a snowmobile, and a bike for when the snow clears.”
“You’re trying to buy him.”
Rayford snorted. “See how you are? See what you do?”
“I’m sorry, Rayford. Truly, I am. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you meant it. And you know better. I’ve just been so busy.”
“Order that kind of stuff online and spend the time you used to shop for it just being with your son.”
“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“How much?” Gheorghe Vasile said.
“How much?” Fortunato parroted. “Surely you don’t think you can buy off a man like Nicolae Carpathia.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nicolae Carpathia does not want your money. He wants your job.”
A laugh escaped Vasile. “Never. I’d die first.”
Fortunato loved this more than life. With the authority vested in him by the most powerful man he had ever known, he leaned forward until his nose was six inches from Vasile’s and told the president of the Republic of Romania, “That too can be arranged.”
“I could have you executed for even hinting at such a thing.”
“But you won’t. If anything happens to me, the same thing would happen that would occur if you do not comply with Dr. Carpathia’s wishes.”
“Pray tell.”
“I can tell you this, Mr. President: it will not be anything so pedestrian as taking the truth to the press, though the international media community would enjoy this. No, I believe the plan is to start with your son’s operation. Maybe a barn burns, a few horses are lost. Harbingers of what could happen to your grandchildren.”
Vasile flushed, obviously smoldering. He narrowed his eyes and pointed a sausagelike finger. “You leave them out of this. You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, this would be on you, sir. Not on me. Not on Carpathia. Not on Stonagal. The ramifications of your response are wholly up to you. You’ve had a good reign and you enjoy a fortune. Retire. Enjoy. Kick back.”
“Romania is my life.”
“The presidency will be your death. Give it up. You’ll be a statesman. The people will continue to revere you, provided they are not made aware of your finances.”
Vasile seemed to fade from red to gray. “So, what, I announce I will not run for reelection, and you think that paves the way for Carpathia?”
“Oh no, it’s not quite that simple.”
“Why did I not assume so?”
“You must resign within one week and engineer Carpathia’s succession.”
“Without an election? Impossible. There is the matter of protocol and many in place behind me—”
“That is why this must come from you.”
“No one would buy it! No, Carpathia and I have not been bitter rivals, but everyone knows we disagree on something so fundamental as arms. Who would ever believe that I am stepping aside so a peacenik can assume the presidency?”
“I do not know, Mr. President. But that is your task. Your chore. Your price.”
Yasmine Ababneh, the delicate and fair and soon-to-be-divorcee of Abdullah, left a message for him at the air base. She wanted a face-to-face, but she needed his pledge of civility. He called her immediately. “You have my solemn promise,” he said.
Abdullah showered and shaved and dressed in his recently laundered uniform, topped with a clean turban. He was as nervous as a schoolboy on his first date. For all his bitterness and hatred—even considering murder—he wanted Yasmine back so badly that he was willing to concede almost anything. How he wished she would bring the children. His son and daughter would soften the meeting, make them all realize what they missed by not being a family.
But she arrived alone, as she had said she would. And Yasmine was so lovely Abdullah could barely breathe. He moved to embrace her, but she did not respond. “I love you,” he said. “I miss you, and I’ll forgive you if you will forgive me.”
“For what are we forgiving each other, Abdullah?”
“You are forgiving me for being unkind. I am forgiving you for causing that by your religious infidelity.”
“And your unkindness,” she said, exhibiting a maddening sense of self, of purpose, of independence. “Are you confessing what that entailed, speaking of infidelity?”
“Yes, I have sinned. I was unfaithful to you. I took to drink. I became slothful. But Allah has forgiven me and I am on the path to spirituality now, praying at the prescri
bed times and remaining pure.”
Yasmine’s countenance seemed to soften, and Abdullah was encouraged. “Thank you for being honest and forthright with me, Abdullah. And if what you say is true, I am encouraged. Because though I believe you will stay entrapped should you remain loyal to Islam, seeing you try to live morally makes me feel better about allowing the children to see you occasionally.”
“Occasionally? Why can we not reunite, Wife?”
“They are doing well. They miss you, naturally, but they miss the father they knew—the disciplined, decorated pilot. Not the man who has wasted his days.”
“I told you! I am a new man. I am newly devout. We must restore our marriage. Why do you ignore my pleas?”
Yasmine sat back and crossed her legs, smoothing the flowing colorful thob that covered both her elbows and knees and yet favored her dark skin. “Because you have offered to forgive me of something for which I am not prepared to repent.”
Abdullah stood quickly and paced. “You remain resolutely an infidel to god?”
“Not to my God,” she said. “Abdullah, I could no more turn my back on the Christ than I could abandon my children.”
“Our children! And you are abandoning me! You are turning your back on Islam and on Allah.”
She leaned forward. “I do not mean to be unkind. And of course you are free to choose whom you will serve. But as for me and the children, we will serve the one true God and His Son, Jesus.”
Abdullah covered his face and rubbed his eyes, shuddering. “And you do not fear the wrath of Allah.”
“I fear nothing and no one, Abdullah. Not even you. If God be for me, who can be against me?”
Abdullah turned his back to her and stared out onto the empty tarmac, still shimmering in the late-afternoon heat. He lowered his voice and tried to sound reasonable, though he chose harsh, threatening words. “You know there is still enough Islamic influence in our government that I could likely regain custody.” He heard her rise behind him, but he did not turn.
“Oh, Abdullah, listen to yourself. The world has passed you by. We live in an age of tolerance. Yes, we Christian believers remain in the minority here, and yes, I will be vilified by many. But there has not been official religious persecution here for more than a decade. And you do not want to force me to rehearse your own weaknesses in such a tribunal, even if one were to be staged.”