by Tim LaHaye
The camera panned to the press conference platform, where more than two dozen religious leaders from around the world, all dressed in their native garb, jockeyed for position. As Archbishop Mathews worked his way through to the bank of microphones, Rayford heard Chloe squeal.
“There’s Buck, Dad! Look! Right there!”
She pointed to a reporter who was not in the crowd with the rest of the journalists but seemed to teeter on the back edge of the raised platform. Buck appeared to be trying to keep his balance. Twice he stepped down only to step back up again.
As Mathews droned on about international cooperation, Rayford and Chloe stared at Buck in the back corner. No one else would have even noticed him. “What’s he got?” Rayford said. “Is that some sort of a notebook or recorder?”
Chloe looked close and gasped. She ran to the kitchen and returned with her cookie sack. “It’s his cookie!” she said. “We’re going to eat our cookies at the same time!”
Rayford was lost, but he was sure glad he hadn’t eaten that cookie. “What—?” he began, but Chloe shushed him.
“It smells just like last night!” she said.
Rayford snorted. “Just what did last night smell like?” he said.
“Shhh!”
And sure enough, as they watched, Buck quickly and quietly reached into his little sack, surreptitiously and almost invisibly slid out the cookie, put it to his mouth, and took a bite. Chloe matched him gesture for gesture, and Rayford noticed she was smiling and crying at the same time.
“You’ve got it bad,” he said, and he left for the airport.
Buck had no idea whether his little antic had been seen by anyone, let alone Chloe Steele. What was this girl doing to him? He had somehow gone from international star journalist to love-struck romantic doing silly things for attention. But, he hoped, not too much attention. Few people ever noticed anyone on the edge of a TV shot. For all he knew, Chloe could have been watching and not have seen him at all.
More important than his efforts was the major story that broke from what might otherwise have been labeled a typical international confab. Somehow Nicolae Carpathia, either by promising support for Mathews’s papacy or by his uncanny ability to charm anyone, had gotten these religious leaders to produce a proposition of incredible significance.
They were announcing not only an effort to cooperate and be more tolerant of each other but also the formation of an entirely new religion, one that would incorporate the tenets of all.
“And lest that sound impossible to the devout members of each of our sects,” Mathews said, “we are all, every one of us, in total unanimity. Our religions themselves have caused as much division and bloodshed around the world as any government, army, or weapon. From this day forward we will unite under the banner of the Global Community Faith. Our logo will contain sacred symbols from religions that represent all, and from here on will encompass all. Whether we believe God is a real person or merely a concept, God is in all and above all and around all. God is in us. God is us. We are God.”
When the floor was opened to questions, many astute religion editors zeroed in. “What happens to the leadership of, say, Roman Catholicism? Will there be the need for a pope?”
“We will elect a pope,” Mathews said. “And we expect that other major religions will continue to appoint leaders in their usual cycles. But these leaders will serve the Global Community Faith and be expected to maintain the loyalty and devotion of their parishioners to the larger cause.”
“Is there one major tenet you all agree on?”
This was met with laughter by the participants. Mathews called on a Rastafarian to answer. Through an interpreter he said, “We believe two things concretely. First, in the basic goodness of humankind. Second, that the disappearances were a religious cleansing. Some religions saw many disappear. Others saw very few. Many saw none. But the fact that many were left from each proves that none was better than the other. We will be tolerant of all, believing that the best of us remain.”
Buck moved around to the front and raised his hand. “Cameron Williams, Global Weekly,” he said. “Follow-up question for the gentleman at the microphone or Mathews or whomever. How does this tenet of the basic goodness of humankind jibe with the idea that the bad people have been winnowed out? How did they miss possessing this basic goodness?”
No one moved to answer. The Rastafarian looked to Mathews, who stared blankly at Buck, clearly not wishing to act upset but also wanting to communicate that he felt ambushed.
Mathews finally took the microphone. “We are not here to debate theology,” he said. “I happen to be one of those who believes that the disappearances constituted a cleansing, and that the basic goodness of humankind is the common denominator of those who remain. And this basic goodness is found in greater measure in no one other than United Nations Secretary-General Nicolae Carpathia. Welcome him, please!”
The platform erupted with religious leaders cheering. Some of the press clapped, and for the first time Buck became aware of a huge public contingent behind the press. Due to the spotlights, he had not seen them from the platform, and he had not heard them until Carpathia appeared.
Carpathia was his typical masterful self, giving all the credit to the leadership of the ecumenical body and endorsing this “historic, perfect idea, whose time is long overdue.”
He took a few questions, including what would happen to the rebuilding of the Jewish temple in Jerusalem. “That, I am happy to say, will proceed. As many of you know, much money has been donated to this cause for decades, and some prefabrication of the temple in other sites has been underway for years. Once the reconstruction begins, completion should be without delay.”
“But what happens to the Islamic Dome of the Rock?”
“I am so glad you asked that question,” Carpathia said, and Buck wondered if he hadn’t planted it. “Our Muslim brothers have agreed to move not only the shrine but also the sacred section of the rock to New Babylon, freeing the Jews to rebuild their temple on what they believe is the original site.
“And now, if you will indulge me for a moment longer, I would like to say that we clearly are at the most momentous juncture in world history. With the consolidation to one form of currency, with the cooperation and toleration of many religions into one, with worldwide disarmament and commitment to peace, the world is truly becoming one.
“Many of you have heard me use the term Global Community. This is a worthy name for our new cause. We can communicate with one another, worship with one another, trade with one another. With communications and travel advancements, we are no longer a conglomeration of countries and nations, but one complete global community, a village made up of equal citizens. I thank the leaders here who have assembled this piece of the beautiful mosaic, and I would like to make an announcement in their honor.
“With the move of the United Nations headquarters to New Babylon will come a new name for our great organization. We will become known as the Global Community!” When applause finally subsided, Carpathia concluded, “Thus the name of the new one-world religion, Global Community Faith, is precisely appropriate.”
Carpathia was being whisked away as camera and sound crews began tearing down the press conference site. Nicolae saw Buck and broke stride, telling his bodyguards he wanted to talk with someone. They formed a human wall around him as Carpathia embraced Buck. It was all Buck could do to not recoil. “Be careful of what you’re doing to my journalistic independence,” he whispered in Carpathia’s ear.
“Any good news for me yet?” Carpathia asked, holding Buck at arm’s length and looking into his eyes.
“Not yet, sir.”
“I will see you in Jerusalem?”
“Of course.”
“You will keep in touch with Steve?”
“I will.”
“You tell him what it will take, and we will do it. That is a promise.”
Buck sidled over to a small group where Peter Mathews was holding court. B
uck waited until the archbishop noticed him; then he leaned forward and whispered, “What’d I miss?”
“What do you mean? You were there.”
“You said Carpathia would make some announcement about an expanded role for the next pope, something bigger and more important even than the Catholic Church.”
Mathews stood shaking his head. “Perhaps I had you overrated, friend. I am not the pope yet, but couldn’t you tell from the secretary-general’s statement that there will be need for a head of the new religion? What better place to headquarter it than the Vatican? And who better to lead it than the new pope?”
“So you’ll be the pope of popes.”
Mathews smiled and nodded. “P. M.,” he said.
Two hours later, Rayford Steele arrived at the United Nations. He had been praying silently since he phoned Bruce Barnes just before he boarded his flight. “I feel like I’m going to meet the devil,” Rayford said. “Not much in this life scares me, Bruce. I’ve always taken pride in that. But I’ve got to tell you, this is awful.”
“First, Rayford, only if you were encountering the Antichrist in the second half of the Tribulation would you actually be dealing with the person who was possessed by Satan himself.”
“So what is Carpathia? Some second-rate demon?”
“No, you need prayer support. You know what happened in Buck’s presence.”
“Buck is ten years younger, and in better shape,” Rayford said. “I feel as if I’ll fall apart in there.”
“You won’t. Stay strong. God knows where you are, and he has perfect timing. I’ll be praying, and you know Chloe and Buck will be too.”
That was of great comfort to Rayford, and it was particularly encouraging to know that Buck was in town. Just knowing he was in close proximity made Rayford feel less alone. Yet in his anxiety over meeting Carpathia face-to-face, he did not want to look past the ordeal of confronting Hattie Durham.
Hattie was waiting when he stepped off the elevator. He had hoped to have a moment to get the lay of the land, to freshen up, to take a deep breath. But there she stood in all her youthful beauty, more stunning than ever because of a tan and expensively tailored clothes on a frame that needed no help. He did not expect what he saw, and he sensed evil in the place when a flash of longing for her briefly invaded his mind.
Rayford’s old nature immediately reminded him why she had distracted him during a wintry season of his marriage. He prayed silently, thanking God for sparing him from having done something he would have regretted forever. And as soon as Hattie opened her mouth, he was brought back to reality. Her diction and articulation were more refined, but this was still a woman without a clue, and he could hear it in her tone.
“Captain Steele,” she gushed. “How wonderful to see you again! How is everyone else?”
“Everyone else?”
“You know, Chloe and Buck and everybody.”
Chloe and Buck are everybody, he thought, but he didn’t say so.
“Everybody’s fine.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“Is there a private place we can talk?”
She led him to her work area, which was disconcertingly open. No one was around to overhear them, but the ceilings were at least twenty feet high. Her desk and tables and file cabinets were set in a cavernous area, much like a railway station, with no confining walls. Footsteps echoed, and Rayford had the distinct impression that they were a long way from the offices of the secretary-general.
“So, what’s new with you since I saw you last, Captain Steele?”
“Hattie, I don’t want to be unkind, but you can stop with the ‘Captain Steele’ and the pretending to not know what’s new. What’s new is that you and your new boss have invaded my job and my family, and I seem powerless to do anything about it.”
CHAPTER 13
Stanton Bailey gripped the armrests of his big chair and rocked back, studying Buck Williams.
“Cameron,” he said, “I have never been able to figure you. What was that sack lunch business all about?”
“It was just a cookie. I was hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” Bailey roared, “but I don’t eat on TV!”
“I wasn’t sure I could be seen.”
“Well, now you know. And if Carpathia and Plank still let you at the signing table in Jerusalem, no sack lunches.”
“It was a cookie.”
“No cookies either!”
After years as Hattie Durham’s captain, Rayford now felt like her subordinate, sitting across from her impressive desk. Apparently his coming straight to the point had sobered her.
“Rayford, listen,” she said, “I still like you in spite of how you dumped me, all right? I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“Trying to get a complaint about me into my personnel file is not going to hurt me?”
“That was just a joke. You saw right through it.”
“It brought me a lot of grief. And the note waiting for me in Dallas about the new Air Force One being a 777.”
“Same thing, I told you. A joke.”
“Not funny. Too coincidental.”
“Well, Rayford, if you can’t take a little teasing, then fine, I won’t bother. I just thought, friend to friend, a little fun wouldn’t hurt.”
“Come on, Hattie. You think I’m buying this? This is not your style. You don’t pull practical jokes on your friends. It’s just not you.”
“OK, I’m sorry.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Well, excuse me, but I don’t answer to you anymore.”
Somehow Hattie Durham had the capacity to rattle Rayford more than anyone else did. He took a deep breath and fought for composure. “Hattie, I want you to tell me about the flowers and candy.”
Hattie was the worst bluffer in the world. “Flowers and candy?” she repeated after a guilty pause.
“Stop with the games,” Rayford said. “Just accept that I know it was you and tell me why.”
“I only do what I’m told, Rayford.”
“See? This is beyond me. I should be asking the most powerful man in the world why he sent my daughter, someone he has never met, flowers and candy? Is he pursuing her? And if he is, why doesn’t he sign his name?”
“He’s not pursuing her, Rayford! He’s seeing someone.”
“What does that mean?”
“He has a relationship.”
“Anybody we know?” Rayford gave her a disgusted look.
Hattie seemed to be fighting a grin. “It’s safe to say we’re an item, but the press doesn’t know, so we’d appreciate it—”
“I’ll make a deal with you. You quit with the anonymous gifts to Chloe, tell me what the point was, and I’ll keep your little secret—how’s that?”
Hattie leaned forward conspiratorially. “OK,” she said, “here’s what I think, all right? I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I just do what I’m told. But that’s one brilliant mind in there.”
Rayford didn’t doubt that. He just wondered why Nicolae Carpathia was spending time on such trivia.
“Go on.”
“He really wants you as his pilot.”
“OK,” Rayford said tentatively.
“You’ll do it?”
“Do what? I’m just saying I follow you, though I’m not sure I really do. He wants me as his pilot, and so . . . ?”
“But he knows you’re happy where you are.”
“Still with you, I think.”
“He wants to provide not just a job that might lure you away, but also something on your end that might push you from where you are.”
“My daughter being pursued by him would push me toward him?”
“No, silly. You weren’t supposed to find out who it was!”
“I see. I would be worried that it was someone from Chicago, so I would be inclined to move and take another job.”
“There you go.”
“I’ve got lots of questions, Hattie.”
/> “Shoot.”
“Why would someone pursuing my daughter make me want to run? She’s almost twenty-one. It’s time she was pursued.”
“But we did it anonymously. That should have seemed a little dangerous, a little upsetting.”
“It was.”
“Then we did our job.”
“Hattie, did you think I wouldn’t put two and two together when you sent Chloe’s favorite mints, available only at Holman Meadows in New York?”
“Hmph,” she said, “maybe that wasn’t too swift.”
“OK, let’s say it worked. I think my daughter’s being stalked or pursued by someone who seems sinister. As close as Carpathia is to the president, doesn’t he know they’re after me to pilot Air Force One?”
“Rayford! Duh! That’s the job he wants you to take.”
Rayford slumped and sighed. “Hattie, for the love of all things sacred, just tell me what’s going on. I get hints from the White House and Pan-Con that it’s Carpathia who wants me in there. I’m approved sight unseen to fly the U.N. delegation to Israel. Carpathia wants me as his pilot but first he wants me to be the captain of Air Force One?”
Maddeningly, Hattie turned a tolerant and condescending smile on him. “Rayford Steele,” she said in a schoolmarmish tone, “you just don’t get it yet, do you? You don’t really know who Nicolae Carpathia is.”
Rayford was stunned for a second. He knew better than she did who Nicolae Carpathia really was. The question was whether she had any inkling. “Tell me,” he said. “Help me understand.”
Hattie looked behind her, as if expecting Carpathia at any moment. Rayford knew no one could sneak up on them in this echoing, marble-floored edifice. “Nicolae is not going to give back the plane.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. It’s already been flown to New York. You’re going to see it today. It’s being painted.”
“Painted?”
“You’ll see.”
Rayford’s mind reeled. The plane would have been painted in Seattle before being flown to D.C. Why would it be painted again?