by Tim LaHaye
“So what do you think about that?” Dr. Rosenzweig said.
“I’m so sorry, Doctor,” Buck said. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Cameron, don’t be nervous. Nicolae was upset, yes, but he has only good things in store for you.”
Buck shrugged and nodded.
“Anyway, I was saying. My dear friend Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah has finished his three-year study, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he wins a Nobel Prize for it.”
“His three-year study?”
“You weren’t listening at all, were you, my friend?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You must do better when you are with Nicolae, promise me.”
“I will. Forgive me.”
“It’s all right. But listen, Rabbi Ben-Judah was commissioned by the Hebrew Institute of Biblical Research to do a three-year study.”
“A study of what?”
“Something about the prophecies relating to Messiah so we Jews will recognize him when he comes.”
Buck was stunned. The Messiah had come, and the Jews left behind had missed him. When he had come the first time most did not recognize him. What should Buck say to his friend? If he declared himself a “Tribulation saint,” as Bruce liked to refer to new believers since the Rapture, what might he be doing to himself? Rosenzweig was a confidant of Carpathia’s. Buck wanted to say that a legitimate study of messianic prophecies could lead only to Jesus. But he said only, “What are the major prophecies pointing to the Messiah?”
“To tell you the truth,” Dr. Rosenzweig said, “I don’t know. I was not a religious Jew until God destroyed the Russian Air Force, and I can’t say I’m devout now. I always took the messianic prophecies the way I took the rest of the Torah. Symbolic. The rabbi at the temple I attended occasionally in Tel Aviv said himself that it was not important whether we believed that God was a literal being or just a concept. That fit with my humanist view of the world. Religious people, Jewish or otherwise, seldom impressed me any more than the atheist with a good heart.
“Dr. Ben-Judah was a student of mine twenty-five years ago. He was always an unabashed religious Jew, Orthodox but short of a fundamentalist. Of course he became a rabbi, but certainly not because of anything I taught him. I liked him and always have. He recently told me he had finished the study and that it was the most fulfilling and rewarding work he has ever done.” Rosenzweig paused. “I suppose you are wondering why I tell you this.”
“Frankly, yes.”
“I’m lobbying for Rabbi Ben-Judah’s inclusion on Nicolae Carpathia’s staff.”
“As?”
“Spiritual adviser.”
“He’s looking for one?”
“Not that he knows of!” Rosenzweig said, roaring with laughter and slapping his knee. “But so far he has trusted my judgment. That’s why you’re here.”
Buck lifted an eyebrow. “I thought it was because Carpathia thinks I’m the best journalist in the world.”
Dr. Rosenzweig leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “And why do you think he believes that?”
Rayford had had trouble reaching Chloe while driving, but he finally got through. “Wondered if you wanted to go out with your old man tonight,” he suggested, thinking she needed to be cheered up.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I appreciate it, Dad, but we’re going to Bruce’s eight o’clock meeting, aren’t we?”
“I’d like to,” Rayford said.
“Let’s stay in. I’m all right. I was just on the phone with Bruce. I wanted to know if he knew whether Buck was coming tonight.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t entirely sure. He hoped so. I hope not.”
“Chloe!”
“I’m just afraid of what I’ll say, Dad. No wonder he’s been cool toward me with that, that, whatever-you-call-her in his life. But the flowers! What was that all about?”
“You don’t even know they were from him.”
“Oh, Dad! Unless they were from you, they were from Buck.”
Rayford laughed. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
“So do I.”
Hattie Durham approached Buck and Chaim Rosenzweig, and they both stood. “Mr. Williams!” she said, embracing him. “I haven’t seen you since I took this job.”
Yes, you have, Buck thought. You just don’t remember.
“The secretary-general and Mr. Plank will see you now,” she told Buck. She turned to Dr. Rosenzweig. “Doctor, the secretary-general asks that you be prepared to join the meeting in about twenty-five minutes.”
“Certainly,” the old man said. He winked at Buck and squeezed his shoulder.
Buck followed Hattie past several desks and down a mahogany-appointed hallway, and he realized he had never seen her out of uniform. Today she wore a tailored suit that made her look like a classy, wealthy, sophisticated woman. The look only enhanced her stunning beauty. Even her speech seemed more cultured than he remembered. Her exposure to Nicolae Carpathia seemed to have improved her presence.
Hattie tapped lightly on the office door and poked her head in. “Mr. Secretary-General and Mr. Plank, Cameron Williams of Global Weekly.” Hattie pushed the door open and slipped away as Nicolae Carpathia advanced, reaching for Buck’s hand with both of his. Buck seemed strangely calmed by the man and his smile. “Buck!” he said. “May I call you Buck?”
“You always have,” Buck said.
“Come! Come! Sit! You and Steve know each other, of course.”
Buck was more struck with Steve’s appearance than with Carpathia’s. Nicolae had always dressed formally, with perfectly coordinated accessories, suit coat buttoned, everything in place. But Steve, despite his position as executive editor of one of the most prestigious magazines in the world, had not always dressed the way you might expect a journalist to dress. He had always worn the obligatory suspenders and long-sleeved shirts, of course, but he was usually seen with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, looking like a middle-aged yuppie or an Ivy League student.
Today, however, Steve looked like a clone of Carpathia. He carried a thin, black-leather portfolio and from head to toe looked as if he had come off the cover of a Fortune 500 edition of GQ. Even his hairstyle had a European flair—razor cut, blow-dried, styled, and moussed. He wore new, designer-frame glasses, a charcoal suit just this side of pitch-black, a white shirt with a collar pin and tie that probably cost what he used to pay for a sports coat. The shoes were soft leather and looked Italian, and if Buck wasn’t mistaken, there was a new diamond ring on Steve’s right hand.
Carpathia pulled an extra chair from his conference table, added it to the two before his desk, and sat with Buck and Steve. Right out of a management book, Buck thought. Break down the barrier between the superior and the subordinate.
Yet despite the attempt at an equal playing field, it was clear the intent of the meeting was to impress Buck. And he was impressed. Hattie and Steve had already changed enough to be nearly unrecognizable. And every time Buck looked at Carpathia’s strong, angular features and quick, seemingly genuine disarming smile, he wished with everything in him that the man was who he appeared to be and not who Buck knew him to be.
He never forgot, never lost sight of the fact that he was in the presence of the slickest, most conniving personality in history. He only wished he knew someone as charming as Carpathia who was real.
Buck felt for Steve, and yet he had not been consulted before Steve had left Global Weekly for Carpathia’s staff. Now, much as Buck wanted to tell him about his newfound faith, he could trust no one. Unless Carpathia had the supernatural ability to know everything, Buck hoped and prayed he would not detect that Buck was an enemy agent within his camp. “Let me begin with a humorous idiom,” Carpathia said, “and then we will excuse Steve and have a heart-to-heart, just you and me, hmm?”
Buck nodded.
“Something I have heard only since coming to this country is the phrase ‘the elephant in the room.’ Have you heard that phras
e, Buck?”
“You mean about people who get together and don’t talk about the obvious, like the fact that one of them has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness?”
“Exactly. So, let us talk about the elephant in the room and be done with it, and then we can move on. All right?”
Buck nodded again, his pulse increasing.
“I confess I was confused and a little hurt that you did not attend the private meeting where I installed the new ambassadors. However, as it turned out, it would have been as traumatic for you as it was for the rest of us.”
It was all Buck could do to keep from being sarcastic. One thing he could not and would not do was apologize. How could he say he was sorry for missing a meeting he had not missed?
“I wanted to be there and wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” Buck said. Carpathia seemed to look right through him and sat as if waiting for the rest of the thought. “Frankly,” Buck added, “that whole day seems a blur to me now.” A blur with vivid details he would never forget.
Carpathia seemed to loosen up. His formal pose melted and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked from Buck to Steve and back. He looked peeved. “So, all right,” he said, “apparently there is no excuse, no apology, no explanation.”
Buck glanced at Steve, who seemed to be trying to communicate with his eyes and a slight nod, as if to say, Say something, Buck! Apologize! Explain!
“What can I say?” Buck said. “I feel badly about that day.” That was as close as he would come to saying what they wanted him to say. Buck knew Steve was innocent. Steve truly believed Buck had not been there. Carpathia, of course, had masterminded and choreographed the whole charade. Acting upset that he wasn’t getting an apology or an explanation was the perfect move, Buck thought. Clearly, Carpathia was fishing for some evidence that Buck knew what had happened. All Buck could do was play dumb and be evasive and pray that God would somehow blind Carpathia to the truth that Buck was a believer and that he had been protected from susceptibility to Carpathia’s power.
“All right,” Carpathia said, sitting back and composing himself again. “We all feel bad, do we not? I grieve the loss of two compatriots, one a dear friend for many years.” Buck felt his stomach turn. “Now, Buck, I want to talk to you as a journalist, and we will excuse our friend Mr. Plank.”
Steve stood and patted Buck on the shoulder, leaving quietly. Buck became painfully aware that now it was just him and God sitting knee-to-knee with Nicolae Carpathia.
But it wasn’t knee-to-knee for long. Nicolae suddenly rose and went back around his desk to the executive chair behind it. Just before he sat, he touched the intercom button, and Buck heard the door open behind him.
Hattie Durham whispered, “Excuse me,” took the extra chair from in front of the desk, and put it back at the conference table. As she was leaving, she adjusted and straightened the chair Steve had used. Just as quietly, she slipped out. Buck thought that very strange, this seemingly scripted arrangement of the entire meeting, from the formal announcement of his presence, to the staging of who would be there and where they would sit. With the office now back to the way it was when Buck entered and Carpathia ensconced behind his massive desk, all pretense of equalizing the power base was gone.
Yet Carpathia still had the charm turned all the way up. He intertwined his fingers and stared at Buck, smiling. “Cameron Williams,” he said slowly. “How does it feel to be the most celebrated journalist of your time?”
What kind of a question was that? It was precisely because Buck didn’t ask such questions that he was a respected journalist. “Right now I’m just a demoted hack,” he said.
“And humble besides,” Carpathia said, grinning. “In a moment I am going to make clear to you that even though your stock may have fallen at Global Weekly, it has not fallen in the eyes of the rest of the world, and certainly not with me. I should have been more upset by your missing my meeting than your publisher was, and yet he overreacted. We can put these things behind us and move on. One mistake does not negate a lifetime of achievement.”
Carpathia paused as if he expected Buck to respond. Buck was becoming more and more fond of silence. It seemed to be the right choice with Carpathia, and it certainly was the way God had led him during the murderous meeting when Carpathia had polled everyone to assess what they had seen. Buck believed silence had saved his life.
“By the way,” Carpathia said when it was clear Buck had nothing to say, “do you have with you your cover story on the theories behind the vanishings?”
Buck couldn’t hide his surprise. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Carpathia shrugged. “Steve told me about it. I would love to see it.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to show it to anyone until the Weekly gets the final draft.”
“Surely they have seen your working copy.”
“Of course.”
“Steve said you might want a quote or two from me.”
“Frankly, unless you have something new, I think your views have already been so widely broadcast that they would be old to our readers.”
Carpathia looked hurt.
“I mean,” Buck said, “you still hold to the nuclear reaction with natural forces idea, right? That lightning may have triggered some spontaneous interaction between all the stockpiled nuclear weapons, and—”
“You know your friend Dr. Rosenzweig also subscribes to that theory.”
“I understand that, yes sir.”
“But it will not be represented in your article?”
“Sure it will. I thought the question was whether I needed a fresh quote from you. Unless your view has changed, I do not.”
Carpathia looked at his watch. “As you know, I am on a tight schedule. Your trip was all right? Accommodations acceptable? A good lunch? Dr. Rosenzweig filled you in some?”
Buck nodded to every question.
“Assuming he told you about the U.N. treaty with Israel and that the signing will be a week from today in Jerusalem, let me extend a personal invitation to you to be there.”
“I doubt the Weekly would send a Chicago staff writer to an international event of that magnitude.”
“I am not asking that you join the press corps of thousands from around the world who will be seeking credentials as soon as the announcement is made. I am inviting you to be part of my delegation, to sit at the table with me. It will be a privilege no other media person in the world will have.”
“Global Weekly has a policy that its journalists are not to accept any favors that might—”
“Buck, Buck,” Carpathia said. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I will be very surprised if you are still an employee of Global Weekly a week from today. Very surprised.”
Buck raised his eyebrows and looked skeptically at Carpathia. “Do you know something I don’t know?” And as soon as it was out of his mouth, Buck realized he had unintentionally asked the core question of this meeting.
Carpathia laughed. “I know of no plans to fire you, no. I think the punishment for your blown assignment has already been meted out. And though you turned down an offer of employment from me before, I truly believe I have an opportunity for you that will change your mind.”
Don’t count on it, Buck thought. But he said, “I’m listening.”
CHAPTER 6
“Before I get into that,” Carpathia said, stalling, a maddening trait of his that never failed to annoy Buck, “let me just reflect on something. Do you remember when I assured you that I could make a problem go away for you?”
Did Buck remember? Up to the day of the murders, it had been his most chilling look at Carpathia. An informant of Buck’s, a Welshman with whom he had gone to college, had turned up dead after getting too close to an international banking scheme involving his own boss, Joshua Todd-Cothran, head of the London Exchange.
Buck had flown to England to investigate with a Scotland Yard friend, only to be nearly killed himself when the Yard agent died in a ca
r bombing. Buck determined that what had been ruled the suicide of his Welsh friend had actually been a homicide, and Buck had had to escape Britain under a phony name. When he got back to New York, none other than Nicolae Carpathia promised him that if Todd-Cothran had been involved in anything underhanded, Carpathia himself would take care of it. Not long after, Todd-Cothran died before Buck’s eyes at Carpathia’s hand in a double murder that only Buck seemed to recall.
“I remember,” Buck said flatly, the understatement of his life.
“I made clear that I would not tolerate insincerity or deviousness in my administration of the U.N. And the Todd-Cothran situation took care of itself, did it not?”
Took care of itself? Buck remained silent.
“Do you believe in luck, Mr. Williams?”
“No.”
“You do not believe that luck comes to those who do the right things?”
“No.”
“I do. I always have. Oh, the occasional bumbler or even criminal gets lucky once in a while. But usually the better someone does his job, the luckier he seems to be. You follow?”
“No.”
“Let me simplify. You were in dire danger. People around you were dying. I told you I would take care of that, and yet obviously I could have nothing personally to do with it. I confess that when I so boldly assured you that I could make your problems go away, I was not sure how I would effect that. Not being a religious person, I have to say that in this case, good karma was with me. Would you not agree?”
“To be perfectly honest with you, sir, I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“And you wonder why I like you so much?” Carpathia smiled broadly. “You are a person I need! What I am saying is that you and I both had a problem. You were on someone’s hit list, and I had two people in my trust who were involved in serious crimes. By committing suicide and killing Todd-Cothran in the process, my old friend Jonathan Stonagal took care of the problems we both had. That is good karma, if I understand my Eastern friends.”