His father caught him staring out into space as he walked through the front door.
“Hard at work—that’s my man!” Will said to his son.
“Hi, Dad.”
Then his eyes lit up when he saw the bag.
“All right! Blue Ridge Grub-to-Go! Did you get me the ribs and shrimp?”
“Do I know you, or do I know you?” Will replied with a smile.
Andrew shoved his homework aside and quickly poured drinks for himself and his dad.
After he sat down Will asked him to say grace.
“Mom’s still over at the studio?” Andrew asked as he began athletically separating the barbecued ribs.
“Yeah. I think she’ll be there for a while. She’s working on a new song…”
For a moment there was only the sound of a father and his son noisily licking their fingers and gobbling Blue Ridge Grub-to-Go’s famous spareribs.
Then Andrew broke the silence.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything. Shoot.”
“It’s about the Sunday school lesson we had at church.”
“What was it about?”
“Abraham. Isaac.”
“Which part?”
“How the dad was going to sacrifice Isaac.”
“Oh, that one,” Will said in a quiet voice. “That’s a tough one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
After a few seconds of silence, Andrew continued. “So I’m wondering…”
“Yes?”
“If God told you to sacrifice me…would you?”
Will stopped eating. He glanced over at his son. At his soft, young face. His bright eyes and the swatch of uncombed hair, with a small cowlick in the back.
“So…Dad…would you?”
“I’m going to give you a lawyer’s answer,” Will said with a smile.
“Awww—that’s no fair!” Andrew said, laughing a little.
“All right, here’s the deal,” Will began. “For me…it’s one of the toughest parts of Scripture. Every time I read it—that story—I ask myself that question.”
Andrew’s eyes widened as he listened intently.
“All right,” Will continued. “Here’s my point. You asked me whether, if God ever asked me to sacrifice you, would I do it. But here’s the fact. That story happened in Genesis, and it was between Abraham and his son Isaac for a specific reason. It was the only time ever in Scripture where God asked someone else to offer his own son up on the altar. And God stopped Abraham’s hand at the last moment. And I bet you know why…”
“Yeah,” Andrew answered. “Because God wanted to provide the sacrifice. Because the only time that a son would ever have to be offered by a father was when God gave up His Son, Jesus, for a sacrifice on the cross. Right?”
“Bingo. A-plus-plus-plus.”
“But I still don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Would you or wouldn’t you?”
“God wouldn’t ask me that question. He wouldn’t ask me to do that.”
Will could see that his son was not satisfied with the answer, but he relented and returned to his spareribs and shrimp.
After a few more moments elapsed, Will added something.
“But I will give you one answer.”
“What’s that?” Andrew asked, dipping his last fried shrimp in the cocktail sauce.
“I’ll say this—that if I ever had to, I wouldn’t hesitate to give my life for you.”
Andrew paused before he dropped the last shrimp in his mouth. He looked at his dad and simply said, “Huh.” And then he smiled and gobbled his shrimp down.
After a few more moments, Andrew spoke up.
“Sarah Tompkins got sick at school—she threw up all over her desk. I thought that was so gross.”
“Poor kid. That had to be really embarrassing for her.”
“Yeah. I guess so…” Andrew said thoughtfully.
After he finished his homework, he and Will watched the last few innings of the ball game. Then Andrew went to bed.
His dad showed up in his bedroom to tuck him in. The two talked for a few moments, discussing their schedule for the next day. Then they said prayers together, and Will bent down and gathered his son in his arms, giving him a near bone-crushing hug—so tight that Andrew had to say, “Give,” before he let go. Then Will bent down and kissed his son on the forehead, reminded him that he loved him, and said, “Good night.”
As Will came down the stairs, he looked through the large windows of the great room of their log house, casting his eyes along the ridge leading to the recording studio. The lights were still burning brightly there.
Will settled into one of the leather chairs in front of the immense fieldstone fireplace. He pulled something out of his briefcase. It was a copy of the letter that Gilead had mailed to his parents as he was leaving for Egypt. Bill Collingwood had faxed it to Will after their phone conversation. He had thought that Will ought to see it.
As Will read it, the house was very quiet, except for the mournful evening song of a whip-poor-will somewhere out in the woods. Will studied the letter, and as he did, his mind was troubled.
At the end, Gilead had signed off by writing,
The Spirit of the LORD is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the LORD.
Will Chambers recognized those verses as from the Gospel of Luke, fourth chapter. It was Jesus’ announcement of His Messianic mission at the beginning of His ministry.
Will was haunted by two things about Gilead Amahn.
First, he could no longer ignore his misgivings about what appeared to be Gilead’s apparent delusions of grandeur. It had now gone far beyond mere evangelistic zeal. His headlong rush into theological conflict might be, Will thought, a symptom of a larger problem. Had Gilead assumed a self-appointed role as a martyr? And was that, in some way, connected to his mother’s brutal death?
But there was also a second concern. Will knew what had happened in the latter part of chapter four of the Gospel of Luke, after the proclamation by Jesus in the synagogue.
Will picked up the Bible lying on the end table and flipped it open to verses twenty-eight and twenty-nine of Luke four. The rest of the story was that the people who had heard the proclamation of Jesus
were filled with wrath, and rose up and thrust Him out of the city; and they led Him to the brow of the hill on which their city was built, that they might throw Him down over the cliff.
23
THOUGH IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT, the meeting was still going on.
In an empty second-level store above the corner café, less than a half-block from the Damascus Gate of the Old City section of Jerusalem, several dozen people had crowded into the room. Most were sitting cross-legged on the floor while a thin outer circle of onlookers stood against the walls of the empty room. Most were young—under forty, some as young as eighteen or nineteen. They were there because they had been recruited or solicited quietly in the markets of the Old City, in the bistros and coffee shops, and among the backpacking travelers strolling among the shops and sidewalk cafés of Ben Yehuda Street.
One young man who was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor was debating with Gilead Amahn, who was standing and leaning against the wall.
“So tell me,” the young man sitting on the floor asked, “you talk about the future events. You talk about the fulfillment of the Bible. But on the other hand, you and your religion have been waiting for two thousand years. Nothing has happened.”
“Look around you,” Gilead said. “Where are you now? You’re in the state of Israel. And you don’t think that shows the fulfillment of the events prophesied by God’s
Holy Word?”
“All right,” the young man countered, “maybe yes, maybe no. But the creation of the state of Israel—that’s a political act. The UN. The community of nations getting together and deciding that the nation should be created.”
“The hand of God,” Gilead replied. “We see immediate causes and effects on the stage of current events. But we fail to see God’s providential hand behind the scenery.”
“And how long do you wait?” the man said, persisting. “After two millennia you’re still waiting?”
“With God,” Gilead answered, “a thousand years is like a day—and a day is like a thousand years. If He has delayed it’s because He is giving the world, and each of you, every opportunity to understand the choice you have, and the decision you must make. God is merciful. It is not His will that anybody should perish…”
A young woman with a backpack and long straggly blonde hair, leaning against the wall at the opposite end of the room, raised her hand and began talking energetically.
“I’m not quite sure why I came here. But I heard about it…I was interested because for years my family—they’re Orthodox—they fed me the Torah. We were observant. But now, I just can’t accept that anymore. I respect my parents. I respect their beliefs. But I really don’t care about the Torah. I don’t care about what you’d call the Old Testament. So if I don’t care about the Old Testament of my parents’ religion, then why should I care about both the Old Testament and the New Testament of your religion?”
Gilead smiled and paused a minute. And then he answered.
“If it was a matter of my religion, I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to take on something that seems even more burdensome than the religion that you’ve already rejected. But it’s not my religion. It is either God’s revealed message, shared to you in a written communication that bears the personal autograph of His mercy and love, or it’s not. And it’s not about a burden. Or regulations. It’s about God’s grace. And let me venture an opinion about something else…”
The girl now had her arms crossed in front of her and was tilting her head with a combination of suspicion and curiosity.
“I believe that you’re here tonight because of a reason—not coincidence. You’re here because God moved the circumstances of your life to bring you here. He wanted you to hear the message. He wants you to make a decision. God says now…today is the day of salvation. Not yesterday, which is come and gone—you can do nothing about it. Nor is it tomorrow, because tomorrow may be too late. You do not know what tomorrow holds. But you do know where you are today. And I believe today you are here because God has set eternity in each of our hearts. If that eternal place in our hearts is not filled with God, then it will be a hollow and empty place. It will continue to haunt us—like the sound of the wind whistling through the desert.”
In the corner of the room, by the doorway, Yossin, the Arab leader of the Knights of the Temple Mount, gestured subtly to the blond Frenchman, who was sitting shoulder to shoulder with the crowd on the floor next to him.
Yossin discreetly slipped through the doorway, followed by the Frenchman. They walked down the narrow stairway and exited past a small grove of white plastic tables and chairs where some of the local inhabitants were conversing, drinking tea, and eating dessert.
“What do you think?” the Frenchman asked.
“It is as I had expected,” Yossin answered.
“But I spent time with him in Cairo and on the trip up to Jerusalem,” the Frenchman said. “I didn’t want to press it too much, but we did a lot of talking. I listened to him tonight. It’s the same thing. I’ve described it as…how could I say this…traditional orthodoxy. You know, the same old evangelical or fundamentalist Christian–type theology. So, I just have to ask myself—”
“Whether he is the real al-Hakim?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you doubt my judgment?”
“No, that’s not it,” the Frenchman said, slight irritation in his voice. “It’s just that I think we have to be absolutely sure. So much depends on this…”
“You saw the audience we had today, didn’t you?” Yossin asked calmly. “Secular, nonobservant Jews. Some former members of Greek Orthodox churches. I think there is also a handful of secret Muslims up there. The point is, that I am not surprised at his approach. Remember, my mother was a Jew and my father was an Arab. And they were both practicing members of the Druze religion. There has to be some syncretism—some bringing together of people with diverse backgrounds. All this is expected.”
“And when do we put the question to him…you know, about who he is—who he really is?”
“We don’t. We don’t force the question. I believe he is the one. I’ve told you that. And it will be revealed by him at the perfect time. He will give us the signal. You will see—that’s the mistake the zealots made when they dealt with Jesus. Remember what we’ve studied and read? If the zealots would have worked on Jesus’ timetable, rather than forcing Him to work on their political timetable, the kingdom could have arrived back then. But instead, the world has to wait for the appearing of the Great Caliph al-Hakim. And that time is now.”
“And how about the other things—you know—the preparations we were talking about?”
“Oh, those are continuing. I’ve made several contacts. And we are in the final stages of the great event. I’ll bring you into it when you need to know. Not until then.”
The blond Frenchman nodded, taking in what Yossin had just told him.
“Meanwhile, let’s go upstairs. When the meeting breaks up I’m going to do a follow-up with the girl with the backpack against the wall. I want you to zero in on the young man on the floor who was asking the other questions. I think we should be able to reap a number of good prospects from this group.”
Yossin motioned for them to start back up the stairway.
“Just make sure you report back to me,” Yossin added as they mounted the stairs. “I want names, contact numbers, addresses. Employment background. Family connections. You know what we need. Remember the significance of what we’re doing here. We’re building the new army of light. The righteous ones. The rulers of the new kingdom…”
24
THE CENTER FOR COMPUTER-INTELLIGENCE RESEARCH for the Republic of Maretas had been built specially for Orville Putrie. It was a room with walls lined with lead, and no windows or access to the outside world. Within the gray room, there were two walls filled from floor to ceiling with state-of-the-art computer and satellite equipment.
Putrie was seated before the massive computer console, facing three oversized computer screens. He had set up the menus and was ready for his demonstration. Now all he could do was wait.
He ran his hands through his hair nervously, spun three-hundred-sixty degrees in his console chair, then put his hands on both sides of the keypad and began madly drumming his fingers on the computer desk.
Then he heard a sound at the door.
Outside, Mr. Himlet had inserted the index fingers of both his right and left hand into the fingerprint identification ports. After a second, the screen flashed “Identification Secured,” and the electric door opened slowly. Himlet walked in with, as always, his titanium briefcase. And, as always, he was wearing a black suit, black tie, and white shirt.
And he brought with him, predictably, his usual no-nonsense expression. He adjusted his glasses and pulled a chair up to the computer console.
“Mr. Putrie, I’d like you to begin.”
“Yes, sir. Okay, okay,” the computer expert said. “Here’s my first menu…”
And with a few keystrokes on the keyboard, the screen flashed with a box that read “RCS,” and under that the words “Reflective Cipher System.”
Orville tapped in the address for the site he had already run successfully on his own.
After twenty seconds the screen downloaded a page of text in Hebrew. And at the top of the page, on the right-hand side, there was a replica of the Israeli national f
lag.
He then keyed in his text-translator program, and in a matter of seconds, the Hebrew text disappeared, and English text appeared in its place.
Now, at the top of the page, across from the Israeli national flag, it read, “THE INSTITUTE FOR INTELLIGENCE AND SPECIAL TASKS,” and under that, “MOSSAD.”
Himlet bent forward, his eyes scanning the computer screen.
He turned to Orville and remarked simply, “Good. Very good, Mr. Putrie. Continue.”
Putrie then typed in the key words “INTELLIGENCE BRANCH—TERRORIST ORGANIZATIONS—MONTHLY MONITOR REPORTS—DOMESTIC UNIT.”
Himlet smiled.
Putrie paused for a minute to expand on his own achievement.
“No one understands…” Putrie explained in a nervous titter. “You know, everyone is so interested in breaking quantum encryption…but they don’t understand that first, you have to do a really good…I’m talking, a really sweet hacking job…to even get into the system. And you have to get into the system in a way that you’re not going to be detected. So you don’t send up a lot of flares and warnings, and trip a lot of the traps.”
“Please continue,” Himlet said.
Putrie tapped in the address for the subject index for the intelligence department reports and waited.
“Come to Papa…come to Papa…oh yeah, come to Papa,” he muttered as he waited for the text to emerge.
After fifteen seconds, there it was. Following the instructions given by Himlet, Putrie had broken the quantum encryption record of the Mossad internal intelligence reports. He selected, pursuant to Himlet’s lead, those reports which described the monitoring of known or suspected terrorist organizations.
The English list began with the “A’s”: al-Aqsa Brigade…al-Aqsa Jihad…
Putrie scanned down slowly, glancing nervously at Himlet, who gestured for him to continue scrolling down.
Then they reached the “H’s.” Hamas…Hezbollah…and then the “K’s.”
At the “K’s” a name appeared on the screen, and Himlet reached over and grasped Putrie’s wrist so firmly that he cried out.
The Last Judgment Page 11