by Tim LaHaye
There was silence as Chang sensed the regional potentates were considering the ramifications.
Finally Carpathia spoke. “With one notable exception,” he said.
“Well, of course, Excellency,” Leon said. “You need not take your own mark of loyalty!”
“Oh, Reverend!” Carpathia said, clearly disappointed. “You were doing so well!”
“Forgive me, Your Worship. The exception?”
“The Jew! The Jew, Reverend Fortunato!”
“Of course!” Leon said. “As the potentate himself has clarified, the blade is too good for the Jew.”
Chang finished his letter to his mother with the following:
Assuming that you and Father have yet to take the mark of loyalty, ask Father how he would feel about a ruling that said he must take it immediately or die. What does that do in the heart and mind of someone who would otherwise be a loyalist? Does it rob him of any satisfaction he might get out of pledging allegiance to a leader?
That is what is coming, Mother, and you and he may hear it soon after receiving this. As soon as the regional potentate for the United Asian States returns from New Babylon, you may expect just that ruling. The time has never been riper for seeking another object of one’s devotion. It may seem riskier at present, but in the end it will make the difference between eternal life and death.
CHAPTER 21
Rayford had never doubted Zeke’s brilliance or artistry, but the young man outdid himself over the next several days. Around the Strong Building, various members of the Tribulation Force and members of The Place shot double takes at the soon-to-leave crew as their looks changed daily. Rayford caught himself studying his own visage in the mirror, wondering how such a transformation was possible.
“Your young brother keeps going with this, Captain Steele,” Enoch said, “and you’ll find out what it’s like to be a black man.”
As the people from The Place moved in on another floor in stages, the two groups began to share meals and prayer times. Enoch promised that his people would pray for the Trib Force entourage every minute they were gone. “And then some of us want in on one of your trips. We wouldn’t even have to be disguised. Nobody’s expecting to see us.”
The day before the flight overseas, the Global Community News Network announced a special appearance of Carpathianism’s Most High Reverend Father Leon Fortunato. He had a message for the entire world, and it would be broadcast live over television, radio, and the Internet at noon Palace Time and every hour on the hour for twenty-four hours so all the peoples of the world would be able to see it.
At three in the morning in Chicago, per Rayford’s invitation, everyone in the Strong Building, except the babies, padded out and gathered in the commons near the elevator, where they watched television. The announcement would have proved anticlimactic, because it only reiterated what had been announced regionally anyway, save for what happened—which would be blamed, unfairly in this case, on the ubiquitous but elusive palace mole.
“We go live now to the sanctuary of the beautiful Church of Carpathia off the palace court here in New Babylon and the Reverend Fortunato.”
Leon had assembled a massive choir behind him, and as he stepped into the pulpit, clearly standing on a small riser to make himself look taller, he was in his finery. He had added to the purple and gray and gold busyness of the robe and tassels. On his pate perched an Islamic-looking, flattop, head-hugging cap. It seemed to try to incorporate the sacred symbol of every historical religion Leon could remember, but the effect made him look like an exploding ringmaster.
He stood there feigning solemnity and dignity while the choir sang “Hail Carpathia”; then he spread his notes before him.
“Fellow citizens of the Global Community and parishioners of the worldwide church of our risen lord, His Excellency, Supreme Potentate Nicolae Carpathia . . . I come to you this hour under the authority of our object of worship and with power imbued directly from him to bring to you a sacred proclamation.
“The time has expired on any grace period related to every citizen receiving and displaying the mark of loyalty to Nicolae Carpathia. Loyalty mark application centers remain open twenty-four hours a day for anyone who for any reason has not had the opportunity to get this accomplished. Effective immediately, anyone seen without the mark will be taken directly to a center for application or the alternative, the enforcement facilitator.
“Furthermore, all citizens are required to worship the image of Carpathia three times a day, as outlined by your regional potentate, also under threat of capital punishment for failing to do so.
“I know you share my love for and dedication to our deity and will enthusiastically participate in every opportunity to bring him praise. Thank you for your cooperation and attention, and may Lord Nicolae Carpathia bless you and bless the Global Community.”
Fortunato tried to finish with a half wave, half salute, but suddenly the lights went out in the church. They came back on just in time for everyone to see the choir stumbling over each other to flee and Fortunato falling off his little platform, trying to get up, and having to billow out the skirt of his robe to do it. All eyes seemed to be on something in the ceiling, but as the camera panned that way, something happened to the camera operator, and the picture shook and wobbled.
Text rolled across the bottom of the screen: “Please stand by. We have temporarily lost picture and sound.” Yet the interior of the church was in plain sight. And while the camera seemed to be at a cockeyed angle, showing only the empty platform and choir loft, the sound of people stampeding out the doors was clear as well.
Suddenly superimposed over the screen was a face so bright it lit the room from the television. The voice was so loud that a woman sitting near Enoch reached up and turned the volume off. Yet the voice could still be heard.
“If anyone worships the beast and his image and receives his mark on his forehead or on his hand, he himself shall also drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out full strength into the cup of his indignation. He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb.
“And the smoke of their torment ascends forever and ever; and they have no rest day or night, who worship the beast and his image, and whoever receives the mark of his name.
“Here is the patience of the saints; here are those who keep the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”
The scene changed to the GCNN anchor desk in New Babylon, where a woman said, “We apologize for that malfunction, which should be ignored. We will now show again Reverend Fortunato’s message in its entirety.”
This time, as soon as the video rolled, the message from the bright visage overwhelmed it. Again the error message flashed but could not overcome the angelic announcement. Back at the GCNN desk the anchorwoman said the network would be off the air until further notice. But the instant the screen went dark, it came back on again with the message. Script from the network announced technical difficulties, but nothing could eradicate the shining face and the loud pronouncement.
Chang checked his computer, and there too the message played and played. He went outside into the hot sun, and there in the sky was the overpowering image of the angel of God. Chang dropped hard to his knees, panting, astounded that anyone anywhere in the world could doubt that Carpathia was the enemy of the one true God, and after this, they could doubt it only out of stubborn rebellion. He ran back in to e-mail his parents, only to discover they had already written him.
Your father says we will risk our lives, live in hiding, or face the death machines before we will take the mark. He is nearly suicidal over forcing you. I tell him you already sealed by God, and so is Ming. I will connect to Ben-Judah Web site. We will be worshipers of God and fugitives. Pray.
Rayford knew it was folly to expect his people to rest during the day in anticipation of an early-evening flight from Chicago to
Cyprus, then to Jordan. But they tried. Having their new friends from The Place in and out all day—singing, praying, and having church—was like a prelude to heaven. Before they piled into the Humvee, in which Buck would deliver them to the aircraft, the whole group huddled in a huge circle on their knees, praying.
George Sebastian’s training was out the window by now. The resolve, the meditation techniques, the strength of character had been scraped away, replaced by hunger, thirst, loneliness, and, yes, fear. His silence had brought blows, none enough to do permanent damage, he knew, at least not yet. But his forehead and the back of his head had been butted enough times by the stock of a rifle that pain echoed through his skull.
George had been laced across the shoulders and shoulder blades repeatedly by what felt to him like the chain off a bicycle or motorcycle. Finally a fist struck him in the cheek and the jaw so many times that he knew he would never look the same. He tried and tried to time the swings and punches from his captors so that he could move with the blow. Finally he got the idea to do the opposite. When he sensed a fist was coming, heard the inhale of the assailant, felt the air movement, he lifted his chin and took it square. Just before he hit the floor and lost consciousness, he knew he had succeeded. Sleep, in any form, had to cover his body’s ravaging need for food and water.
They had not been able to get to him with talk of his family. He knew better than to think his family would be any safer if he talked. If they really knew where his wife and child were, they could easily already be dead. He had despaired of his own life by now too. As long as he would wake up in heaven, there was no sense in giving up a thing.
The power to maintain silence had not come from within, but from without. He had, at long last, surrendered to God even whatever resources he thought he had. He came to on the cold floor in a corner with no idea of the passage of time, only that his middle was racked with hunger, his throat desiccated.
His captors argued. “Do you want him dead? You get us killed if we lose him. Give him some water. Enough to keep him alive anyway.”
A few drops on his lips felt like a fresh spring, but he forced himself not to drink it in for fear they would think it was enough to satisfy him. He let most of it dribble until they quit being stingy with the bottle. He grasped the neck of it with his teeth and sucked as hard as he could, filling himself with enough to refresh him before they twisted it away. Then they pulled him back to the chair and resumed.
Abdullah landed at what was left of the airport at Larnaca on Cyprus midmorning. Albie’s contact had recommended it as one of the least patrolled airstrips in the United Carpathian States. He proved dead-on. And he was waiting with a craft, appropriated by Chang’s computer magic, that Mac would fly to Greece and land at an abandoned strip Chang had located some eighty miles west of Ptolemaïs. He had forged an order to a local GC operative, requiring him to deliver six Peacekeeper vehicles to an earthquake-damaged vacant lot a half mile from there. The memo came back to the bogus New Babylon commander: “You’re out of your mind. Best I can do is one.”
“Watch your tone,” Chang’s imaginary brass had answered. “One will do for now.”
Rayford had not begun to seriously worry until he saw the stress on Chloe’s face as they parted in Cyprus. Of course, it wouldn’t have been natural if she wasn’t scared. He wanted her on edge. But the open-endedness of their mission concerned him most. She and Hannah and Mac would fly in there, drive toward Ptolemaïs, and what? Start asking around and trust their GC identities? It sounded like suicide, but there was no way they would abandon George Sebastian as long as there was a chance he was still alive.
Rayford embraced her fiercely before she disembarked, wondering, his throat constricted, whether he would see her again. Chloe held on the way she had with Buck and Kenny in Chicago, and when finally she turned to go, Rayford feared he had not said enough. In fact, he had said nothing.
Toward Amman, Albie’s friend took over the flying. As far as anyone knew, he was alone. Once he was in and down and hangared, Tsion, Rayford, and Abdullah would emerge from the plane and walk across the runway to the tarmac, as if appearing from nowhere. When accosted, as they would surely be, Tsion would ask to talk directly with Carpathia, offering hope for an end to the blood in the oceans if he and his two anonymous companions could borrow a helicopter for the trip to Petra.
All Rayford could think of was that the last non-Israeli he had sent into Petra had not come out. And yet he and his Operation Eagle forces had proved invulnerable to the attack of Carpathia’s army. Whether it had to do with timing or location, he could not know. He just didn’t want to jeopardize Abdullah’s life, or his own, if he could help it. But he couldn’t. The risk was there, and they were going.
Chang furtively monitored Suhail Akbar’s and Nicolae’s offices as he sat at his terminal. With the heat turned up and security forces combing the place for a mole, he had to be more careful than ever. He kept an eye on Figueroa’s office and constantly covered his tracks. Finally pay dirt.
Director Akbar’s secretary informed him that GC Security in Amman was calling, ostensibly with Tsion Ben-Judah on the line for Carpathia. “Put them on,” Suhail said. When they were patched through, he insisted on talking with Ben-Judah personally. “How do I know it’s really you?”
“You do not, sir,” Tsion said. “Except that your own people are telling you it is I. I have a request of Carpathia and will ask it only of him.”
“You would be wise to address him appropriately and formally, Dr. Ben-Judah.”
“And then he will overlook the fact that I refer to him daily to a billion people as Antichrist, the enemy of God, and to Fortunato as his False Prophet?”
“Hold on.”
Suhail told his secretary to give him time to get to Carpathia’s office and to then transfer the call there. Two minutes later, Akbar sat panting in Nicolae’s office when he hit the speaker button.
“Dr. Ben-Judah!” Nicolae began, as if to an old friend.
“I am requesting helicopter transport to Petra for myself and two associates without interference, in exchange for considering asking God to withdraw the plague of the seas having turned to blood.”
“And why should I contemplate this?”
“You do not need me to tell you that. Surely your people are telling you that there has never been a time of greater resistance to you around the world. Renaming all of the oceans the Red Sea could not be in your best interest.”
“If I have someone ferry you to Petra, the seas will return to water?”
“I do not speak on God’s behalf. I said I would consider asking him.”
“You would only consider it?”
“I will ask. He will consider it.”
“Granted.”
“But we need only the aircraft. Not a pilot.”
“Real-ly. Granted.”
Tsion hung up. Carpathia said, “You are welcome. Suhail, how long to Petra from Amman by helicopter?”
“I will see to it that they are issued one that will get them there in no more than an hour.”
“And everything else is in place?”
“Of course.”
“I want the area leveled within minutes after his arrival and the missile to make sure within moments after that.”
“I will merely give my fighter-bombers time to get out of the way. They will make visual confirmation that he is there, drop their payloads, clear the area, and we will launch.”
“From?”
“Ironically enough, Amman.”
“Excellent. And the planes are equipped with recording devices?”
“Of course, but not only that.”
“Something more?”
“We have arranged for you to watch live.”
“Do not tease.”
“A monitor will be in your office.”
“Ooh! Oh, Suhail! Something to enjoy.”
Had Rayford not been petrified, he might have enjoyed that Tsion looked the same in the Jordan su
n as he did around the Strong Building. It was Abdullah and Rayford who looked like Middle Easterners in their robes. Tsion looked more like a rumpled professor.
“Who is your pilot?” a GC guard asked.
Tsion nodded to Abdullah, and they were led to a chopper. Once in the air, Rayford called Chloe. “Where are you?” he said.
“We’re on the road, Dad, but something’s not right. Mac had to hot-wire this vehicle.”
“Chang didn’t tell the guy to leave the keys?”
“Apparently not. And of course you know Mac. He’s going to hop out and thumb a ride with some other GC while we drive merrily into town, trying to pass ourselves off as assignees from New Babylon to check on the Judah-ite raids.”
“You ready?”
“Am I ready? Why didn’t you make me stay in Chicago with my family? What kind of a father are you?”
He knew she was kidding, but he couldn’t muster a chuckle. “Don’t make me wish I had.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. We’re not coming out of here without Sebastian.”
When Abdullah came within sight of Petra, Chaim was in the high place with a quarter million people inside and another three-quarter million round about the place, waving to the helicopter. A large flat spot had been prepared, but the people covered their faces when the craft kicked up a cloud of dust. The shutting down of the engine and the dissipating of the dust were met with applause and a cheer as Tsion stepped out and waved shyly.
Chaim announced, “Dr. Tsion Ben-Judah, our teacher and mentor and man of God!”
Rayford and Abdullah climbed down unnoticed and sat on a nearby ledge. Tsion quieted the crowd and began: “My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, our Messiah and Savior and Lord. Allow me to first fulfill a promise made to friends and scatter here the ashes of a martyr for the faith.”