by Tim LaHaye
“And then?”
“What do you do, Hut? With a dead victim at your feet, nine rounds in or through the body, surely you do not leave the carcass in the street.”
“No, I’d have him hauled off.”
“To the guillotine!”
“Sir? Potentate?”
“The price of disloyalty is the head, Hut!”
“But they are—”
“Already dead, of course. But the world is clear on the choice and the consequence, friend. Dead or not, a disloyal citizen sacrifices his head.”
“All right.”
“Did you know, Hut, that when a live victim is beheaded, the heart can continue to beat for more than half an hour?”
Apparently Hut was stunned to silence.
“It is true. That is a medical fact. Well, we would not be able to test it with a victim you riddled with bullets, would we?”
“No.”
“But one day we will get the chance. I look forward to it. Do you?”
“No.”
“You do not? I hope you are not too timid for your job, son.”
“I’m not. I’ll shoot your bad guys and chop their heads off, but I don’t need to check the other victims to see if their—”
“Do you not? I do! This is life and death, Hut! Nothing is purer! I have come to give life! But to the one who chooses to place his loyalty elsewhere? Well, he has chosen death. What could be so stark, so clear, so black-and-white?”
“I understand, Potentate.”
“Do you?”
“I think so.”
“You will.”
“Yes.”
“Now go. Big week ahead. Be prepared.”
David, chilled and disgusted, scribbled himself a note. It would be just like Carpathia to milk this for days.
He heard Carpathia tell Moon to see Akbar and Hut out and to leave him alone with Fortunato. “Excuse us for a moment, would you?” he said to others apparently attending to them in the cabin. After a beat, “Leon, do you not agree that fear is a form of worship?”
“In your case, certainly, Excellency. The fear of our god is the beginning of wisdom.”
“I like that. Biblical, is it not?”
“Yes, Lordship.”
“Sit, Leon, please!”
“I’d like to, but—well, all right.”
Leon let out a tiny cry as he settled.
“What is it, my friend? Food disagreeing with you?”
“No, excuse me, but—”
Carpathia snickered. “A true friend feels free to scratch himself in front of his risen potentate.”
“I am so sorry, Excellency.”
“Think nothing of it. You are in such discomfort because your hip itches?”
“I’m afraid it’s more than that, sir. But I’d rather not—”
“Bring me up-to-date on your assignments, then.”
“The animal is in place.”
“You may feel free to call it what it is, Leon.”
“The pig.”
“Oh, I hear it is much more than a pig. A hog! A sow! A huge, ugly, snorting, smelly beast.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I cannot wait to see it.”
“Anytime you wish.”
“Well, I am due aboard her not long from now, am I not?”
“Yes, sir. But you would have slipped off.”
“Would have?”
“I had a saddle made for you, Excellency.”
“Leon! You do not say! A saddle for a pig?”
“And the biggest pig I’ve ever seen.”
“I should hope so! How did you do it?”
“People are happy to serve you, Potentate.”
“It must be wide.”
“I worry you will feel as if you are doing the splits.”
“You look as if you would like to, Leon. Stand if you must. There you go! And yes! Scratch if you must!”
“I’m so sorry, Excellency.”
“Why, you are wriggling like a schoolboy at his first dance!”
“Forgive me, I’d better head back to the—”
“Go then, by all means. What is it? A bite? An itch can be terribly annoying.”
“I wish that’s all it was, Excellency. It’s quite painful too. When I scratch it, it hurts worse. I am miserable.”
“You must have been bitten.”
“Perhaps. Excuse me.”
“Go!”
“I wanted to tell you about the image.”
“And I want to hear it, but I cannot stand to see you in such agony.”
“I will return before you must leave and tell you about it.”
David sat shaking his head. How he wished he could see what was going on. But the theater of the mind was that much better anyway. Carpathia called someone to fetch Walter Moon, and then he had Moon “bring me that costume.”
Moon told him the caravan to Pilate’s court would be leaving inside ten minutes. “Did Reverend Fortunato run down the sites for you?”
“No. He seems to be in considerable discomfort.”
“Still? Well, we go from Pilate’s court to the street. A ways down we have Viv Ivins in place to meet with you as a stand-in for your mother.” David heard the rustle of paper—a map, he assumed. “Here’s where we have a young woman come out and wipe your face; then two stops later you exhort the women of Jerusalem. And then, after Golgotha, you see Viv again, playing your mother. Then it’s on to the Garden Tomb.”
Someone seemed to be making a sound through his teeth, and David couldn’t imagine Moon doing that in front of Carpathia. Finally Nicolae said, “All right, cut out half of these. This part, and that one with Viv, and this, and the one with the young woman and the speech to the women, this one, and the last one with Viv.”
“May I ask—”
“The point is reenacting, Walter. Half of these never happened.”
“We don’t know that. They’re tradi—”
“They never happened. Believe me. I know.”
“You’ll want to change clothes now?”
“As soon as Leon is finished in the—ah, Leon! Feeling better?”
“Sadly, no.”
“So what is it?”
“I’d rather not talk about this with you, sir.”
“Nonsense! So is it a bite?”
“I don’t think so, sir. But it’s large and painful and infected.”
“And it is right there?”
“Yes.” Leon sounded miserable.
“Poor man! A sore on your left—”
“Yes. On my, uh—on my behind.”
Carpathia seemed to be stifling a giggle. “You must tell me about the image.”
“On the way, sir. I was hoping you’d notice.”
“Notice?”
“My mark.”
“Let me see! On your hand! Striking! Two-one-six! Excellent. Thank you, my friend. Does it hurt?”
“I wouldn’t know. Because of the, uh—”
“Yes, well . . .”
“Anyway, I’ll show you the chosen image. It’s life-size and gold and beautiful. And when I had taken the mark of loyalty, I fell before it and worshiped.”
“Bless you, Leon. And may you heal quickly.”
CHAPTER 3
Hattie knelt in her hotel room in Tel Aviv, thanking God for all she had learned from Tsion Ben-Judah in such a short time. She thanked him for Leah and for Chaim and especially for Buck, whom she had met even before he became a believer. She thanked God for Rayford, who first told her about Christ. She thanked him for Albie who, for some reason, cared so much for her.
As she prayed, she became aware of someone standing in her room. Here she was, one who always checked everywhere before locking herself in. No one else could have been there. Yet the sound of his words made her lower her face to the floor as if in a deep sleep. Suddenly a hand touched her, which made her tremble. And a voice said, “O daughter, you are greatly beloved of God. Understand the words I speak to you, and stand uprig
ht, for I have been sent to you.”
Hattie had read Dr. Ben-Judah’s story of being spoken to in a dream, and she stood, shaking. The voice said, “Do not fear, for from the first day you humbled yourself before your God, your words were heard. I have come because of your words.”
“May I know who speaks to me?” Hattie managed.
“I am Michael.”
Hattie was too terrified to say anything eloquent. She said, “What are you supposed to tell me?”
He said, “I have come to make you understand what will happen in these latter days.” Hattie felt so privileged she couldn’t say anything. And Michael added, “O daughter greatly beloved, fear not! Peace be to you; be strong, yes, be strong! Accept not the blasphemy of the evil one and his false prophet. If you are wise, you shall shine like the brightness of the firmament. Those who turn many to righteousness shall shine like the stars forever and ever. Many shall be purified, and made white and refined, but the wicked shall do wickedly; and none of the wicked shall understand, but the wise shall understand.”
Hattie sat panting. She took the message to mean she was to speak out against the lies of Antichrist. She prayed that God would give her the courage, because she could only imagine what would happen. She couldn’t sleep and asked God if she was deluded. “Why me?” she said. “There are so many older in the faith and better equipped to do such a thing.”
Hattie went to her computer and e-mailed Dr. Tsion Ben-Judah, relaying the entire incident. She set the message to be delivered to him after she would have a chance to confront Carpathia the next day, along the Via Dolorosa, she assumed. She concluded,
Perhaps I should have consulted you rather than scheduling this to be sent to you after the fact, but I feel directed to exercise faith and believe God. I look at what I’ve written and I don’t even sound like myself. I know I don’t deserve this any more than I deserved God’s love and forgiveness.
Maybe this is all silly and will not happen. If I chicken out, it will not have been of God and I will intercept this before it gets to you. But if you receive it, I assume I will not see you until you are in heaven. I love you and all the others, in Christ.
Your sister,
Hattie Durham
Rayford gathered the troops at the airstrip. He introduced the Fatal Four and explained their roles. “Deputy Commander Elbaz,” he said, referring to Albie, “will ferry Mr. Hassid to Petra, where he will begin setting up the communications center. Jewish by blood, Mr. Hassid plans to stay with the displaced believers.”
A hand went up, an African’s. “Is Hassid the one we have to thank for being able to stand here today?”
“Among many,” Rayford said. “But it’s safe to say that without the GC thinking this is their own operation, we’d be getting strafed right now.”
Someone else asked, “How realistic is it that this can last?”
“We’re in no-man’s-land,” Rayford said. “Once the fleeing Israelis are followed here, it will be obvious what we are doing. As you know, the healthy will walk. But it is quite a journey, and the GC should quickly overtake them. We believe God will protect them. The elderly, the toddlers, and the infirm will need rides. You will recognize them by the mark of the believer and probably also by the fear on their faces. Anyone arriving here in any manner should be transported immediately to Petra by helicopter. Some of these birds have huge capacities, so fill ’em up. Petra is about fifty miles southeast of here. You all have the flight plans.”
“It sounds like a death flight,” someone called out.
“By any human standard, it is,” Rayford said. “But we are the wings of the eagle.”
“The co-op didn’t call for food or clothing,” someone said. “How will these people survive?”
“Anyone want to address that?” Rayford said, and several talked over each other, explaining that God would provide manna and water and that clothes would not wear out.
Finally Rayford raised a hand. “One thing we don’t know is timing. Carpathia is on schedule to begin down the Via Dolorosa at 1100 hours. That will end at the Garden Tomb. Whether he will speak from there or head for the temple, we don’t know. We’ve heard that the winning image of the potentate has been chosen and moved to the Temple Mount, where people are already gathering to worship it and take the mark of loyalty.”
“Of the beast, you mean!”
“Of course. And many want to do that with Carpathia present. When he learns the crowds are waiting for him, he’ll want to be there.”
“Are your people in place, Captain Steele?”
“As far as we know. The only one we have not heard from is not crucial to the operation, unless she has been compromised.”
“When will Carpathia be opposed?”
“Our man may debate him before he enters the temple. Who knows? The crowd may oppose him—at their peril, of course. You must remember, it is not just Jewish and Gentile believers and unbelievers in Jerusalem. There are also Orthodox Jews who do not embrace Jesus as their Messiah but who have never accepted Carpathia as deity either. They could very well oppose him and refuse to take the mark. Then, of course, there are many undecided.”
“They’ll decide soon, won’t they?”
“Likely,” Rayford said. “And many will decide the wrong way. Without Christ, they will succumb to fear, especially when they see the consequences of opposing Carpathia. Okay, it’s time for transportation troops to head toward Israel. When the time comes, help anyone who needs it.”
“And if we are stopped?”
“You’re on your own,” Rayford said.
“I’m going to tell them I’m on my way to get the mark of loyalty.”
“That’s lying,” someone else shouted.
“I have no problem lying to Carpathia’s people!”
“I do!”
Rayford held up a hand again. “Do what God tells you to do,” he said. “We’re depending on him to protect his chosen people and those who are here to help them.”
Buck found a perch overlooking Pilate’s court behind several thousand cheering supplicants. The elderly Rosenzweig appeared to gasp for breath without making a sound. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and Buck thought it a credit to Zeke that it did not affect the old man’s phony color. This was more than makeup.
Still, Chaim had not spoken since they left the hotel, even when Buck merely asked how he was doing. He only shrugged or nodded. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if there was a problem?”
Chaim nodded miserably, looking away.
“God will be with you.”
He nodded slightly again. But Buck noticed he was trembling. Was it possible they had chosen the wrong Moses? Could Tsion have miscalculated? Tsion himself would have been so much better, having spoken in public for so many years as a rabbi and a scholar. Chaim was brilliant and fluent in his own field, but to expect this ancient, tiny, quaking man with the weak—and perhaps now nonexistent—voice to call down the Antichrist, to rally the very remnant of Israel, to stand against the forces of Satan? Buck wondered if he himself would have been a better choice. Despite Chaim’s almost comical getup, he appeared not even to be noticed by the crowd. How could he command an audience?
Buck had worried what he would say or do if GC Peacekeeping forces or Morale Monitors checked for his mark of loyalty. But loudspeaker trucks threaded their way through the streets, announcing that all citizens “are expected to display the mark of loyalty to the risen potentate. Why not take care of this painless and thrilling obligation while His Excellency is here?”
Many in the crowd already had the mark, of course, but others talked among themselves about where the nearest loyalty administration center was. “I’m taking mine at the Temple Mount today,” a woman said, and several agreed.
Buck was amazed at the number of men and women who carried toddlers waving real and fake palm branches. Someone passed out sheets with the lyrics to “Hail Carpathia,” and when people spontaneously broke into song, others assumed Ca
rpathia had appeared and began a rousing ovation.
Finally Buck spotted a motorcade, led and followed by GC tanks topped with revolving blue and red and orange lights. Between the tanks were three oversized black vehicles. When the convoy stopped, a deafening cheer rose. The first vehicle disgorged local and regional dignitaries, then Most High Reverend Father Leon Fortunato in full clerical regalia. Buck stared as the man straightened his robe, front and back, and slowly continued smoothing it in back. Finally he kept his left hand just below his hip as he walked, clearly trying to hide it but unable to keep from massaging an apparently tender spot.
The second vehicle produced GC brass, including Akbar and Moon, and then, to a renewed burst of applause and aving, Viv Ivins. From more than a hundred yards away, she stood out among the dark-suited men. Her white hair and pale face appeared supported by a column of sky blue, a natty suit tailored to her short, matronly frame. She carried her head high and moved directly to a small lectern and microphone, where she held both hands aloft for silence.
All eyes had been on the third vehicle, its doors still closed, though the driver stood guard at the rear left and Akbar at the rear right, hand on the handle. Buck noticed that while the attention refocused on Viv Ivins, Leon went to work on his backside, riffling his fingers over the area. He couldn’t stop, even when Ms. Ivins introduced him as “our spiritual leader of international Carpathianism, the Reverend Fortunato!”
He muted the applause with his free hand, then asked everyone to join him in singing. He began directing with both hands, but Buck wondered if anyone in the crowd missed it when he kept directing with the right hand and scratching with the left.
Hail Carpathia, our lord and risen king;
Hail Carpathia, rules o’er everything.
We’ll worship him until we die;
He’s our beloved Nicolae.
Hail Carpathia, our lord and risen king.