by Tim LaHaye
“But I have so many questions,” Buck said.
“No more,” they said in unison, neither opening his mouth. “We wish you God’s blessing, the peace of Jesus Christ, and the presence of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Buck’s knees went weak as the men backed away. As he and the rabbi stared, Eli and Moishe merely moved against the building and sat, leaning back against the wall. “Good-bye and thank you,” Buck said, feeling foolish.
Rabbi Ben-Judah sang a beautiful chant, a blessing of some sort that Buck did not understand. Eli and Moishe appeared to be praying, and then it seemed they slept where they sat.
Buck was speechless. He followed as Ben-Judah turned and walked toward a low chain fence. He stepped over it and moved away from the Temple Mount and across the road to a small grove of trees. Buck wondered if perhaps the rabbi wished to be alone, but his body language indicated he wanted Buck to stay with him.
When they reached the edge of the trees, the rabbi simply stood gazing into the sky. He covered his face with his hands and wept, his crying becoming great sobs. Buck, too, was overcome and could not stop the tears. They had been on holy ground, he knew. What he did not know was how the rabbi interpreted all this. Could he have missed the message of the conversation between Nicodemus and Jesus when he had read it from the Scriptures, and again now when he had been part of its re-creation?
Buck certainly hadn’t missed it. The Tribulation Force would not be able to believe his privilege. He would not hoard it, would not be jealous of it. In fact, he wished they could have all been there with him.
As if sensing that Buck wanted to talk, Ben-Judah precluded him. “We must not debase the experience by reducing it to words,” he said. “Until tomorrow, my friend.”
The rabbi turned, and there at the roadside was his car and driver. He moved to the front passenger door and opened it for Buck. Buck slid in and whispered his thanks. The rabbi went around the front of the car and whispered to the driver, who pulled away, leaving Ben-Judah at the side of the road.
“What’s up?” Buck said, craning to watch the black suit fade into the night. “Is he finding his own way back?”
The driver said nothing.
“I hope I haven’t offended him.”
The driver looked to Buck apologetically and shrugged. “No Englees,” he said, and drove Buck back to the King David Hotel.
The man at the counter handed Buck a message from Rayford, but since it was not marked urgent, he decided not to call him until morning. If he didn’t reach Rayford, he would look for him at the signing of the covenant.
Buck left the light off in his room and stepped out the glass door to the tiny balcony in the trees. Through the branches he saw the full moon in a cloudless sky. The wind was still, but the night had grown colder. He raised his collar and gazed at the beauty of the night. He felt as privileged as any man on earth. Besides his charmed professional life and the gift he had honed, he had been eyewitness to some of the most astounding works of God in the history of the world.
He had been in Israel when the Russians attacked less than a year and a half before. God had clearly destroyed the threat to his chosen people. Buck had been in the air when the Rapture had occurred, in a plane flown by a man he had never met, served by a senior flight attendant whose future now seemed his responsibility. And the daughter of that pilot? He believed he was in love with her, if he knew what love was.
Buck hunched his shoulders and let his sleeves cover his hands, then folded his arms. He had been spared a car bombing in London, had received Christ on the cusp of the end of the world, and had been supernaturally protected while witnessing two murders by the Antichrist himself. This very day he had seen Scripture fulfilled when a would-be killer was thwarted by fire from the throat of one of the two witnesses.
And then, to have heard these two recite Jesus’ words to Nicodemus! Buck wanted to humble himself, to communicate to his Creator and his Savior how unworthy he felt, how grateful he was. “All I can do,” he whispered huskily into the night air, “is to give you all of me for as long as I have left. I will do what you want, go where you send me, obey you regardless.”
He pulled from his pocket the tape recorder and rewound it. When he played the conversation he had witnessed that evening, he was stunned to hear no English. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, he realized. It had been typical of the day. But he heard at least three languages. He recognized Hebrew, though he didn’t understand it. He recognized Greek, but didn’t understand that either. The other language, which he was sure he had never heard before, was used when the witnesses had directly quoted Jesus. That had to be Aramaic.
At the end of the recording, Buck heard Dr. Ben-Judah ask something in Hebrew, which he remembered having heard in English as “Will you speak with us no more?” But he heard no response.
Then he heard himself say, “But I have so many questions.” And then after a pause, “Good-bye and thank you.” What the men had spoken to his heart had not been recorded.
Buck tapped in a code, making it impossible to record over his priceless interview.
The only thing that could make this even more perfect would be to share it with Chloe. He looked at his watch. It was just after midnight in Israel, making it around six in Chicago. But when Buck reached Chloe, he could barely speak. He managed to work out the story of the evening between his tears, and Chloe wept with him.
“Buck,” she concluded at last, “we wasted so many years without Christ. I’ll pray for the rabbi.”
A few minutes later, Rayford was awakened by his phone. He was certain it would be Buck and hoped he had not heard the news of Carpathia’s media plans from someone else.
“Daddy, it’s Chloe,” she said. “I just talked to Buck, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the media stuff. Have you heard?”
Rayford told her he had and asked if she was sure Buck didn’t know. She related everything Buck had told her about his evening. “I’ll try to reach him in the morning,” Rayford said. “He’s sure to hear it from someone else if I don’t get to him first.”
“He was so overcome, Dad. It wasn’t the time to give him that news. I didn’t know how he’d react. What do you think will happen to him?”
“Buck will survive. He’ll have to swallow a lot of pride, having to work for Carpathia wherever he goes. But he’ll be all right. Knowing him, he’ll find a way to get the truth to the masses, either by camouflaging it in Carpathia’s own publications or by operating some sort of bootleg production that is sold under the counter.”
“It sounds like Carpathia is going to control everyhing.”
“It sure does.”
Rayford called Buck’s cell at six-thirty the next morning. No answer. He called the hotel, and they couldn’t raise him either.
It had been ages since Buck had seen Steve Plank so harried. “This job was fun and interesting until today,” Steve said as the entourage at his hotel began assembling for the short trip to the Old City. “Carpathia’s got a burr in his saddle, and I’m the one who takes the heat.”
“What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing special. We just have to have everything perfect, that’s all.”
“And you’re trying to talk me into working for him? I don’t think so.”
“Well, that’ll be a moot question in a couple of weeks anyway, won’t it?”
“It sure will.” Buck smiled to himself. He had decided to turn the Tribune offer down flat and stay with Global Weekly.
“You’re going with us to Baghdad, right?”
“I’m trying to find a way there, but not with you, no.”
“Buck, there aren’t going to be too many ways to get there. We’ve got the room, and for all practical purposes, you work for Carpathia anyway. Just come along. You’ll love what he has in mind for New Babylon, and if the reports can be believed, it’s already coming along nicely.”
“I work for Carpathia? I thought we were pretty clear on that.”
> “It’s just a matter of time, my boy.”
“Dream on,” Buck said, but wondered about Plank’s puzzled look. Buck found Jim Borland organizing his notes. “Hey, Jim,” he said. Borland hardly looked up. “Interview Carpathia yet?”
“Yep,” Borland said. “No big deal. Right now all he’s concerned about is moving the signing.”
“Moving it?”
“He’s afraid of those weirdos at the Wailing Wall. The soldiers can keep the place clear of tourists, but the guys at the Wall will have an audience of the covenant-signing crowd.”
“Pretty big crowd,” Buck said.
“No kidding. I don’t know why they don’t just keep those two homeless guys away.”
“You don’t?”
“What, Buck? You think those old coots are going to breathe their fire on the army? Get serious. You believe that fire story?”
“I saw the guy, Jimmy. He was toast.”
“A million-to-one he set himself on fire.”
“This was no immolation, Jim. He hit the ground, and one of those two incinerated him.”
“With fire from his mouth.”
“That’s what I saw.”
“It’s a good thing you’re off the cover story, Buck. You’re losing it. So did you also get an exclusive interview with them?”
“Not entirely exclusive and not exactly an interview.”
“In other words, no, you struck out, right?”
“No. I was with them late last night. I did not get into a give-and-take, that’s all I’ll say.”
“I’d say if you’re going to write fiction, you ought to get a novel deal and go for it. You’d still wind up publishing with Carpathia, but you might have a little more latitude.”
“I wouldn’t work for Carpathia,” Buck said.
“Then you won’t be in communications.”
“What are you talking about?”
Borland told him of the announcement.
Buck blanched. “Global Weekly’s included?”
“Included? If you ask me, it’s one of the plums.”
Buck shook his head. So he was writing his stories for Carpathia after all. “No wonder everybody looks shell-shocked. So, if the signing isn’t near the Wall, where will it be?”
“The Knesset.”
“Inside?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Is the outside conducive?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Listen, Jimmy, are you going to watch Rabbi Ben-Judah this afternoon?”
“If they show it on the plane to Baghdad.”
“You got a flight?”
“I’m going on Global Community One.”
“You’ve sold out?”
“You can’t sell out to your boss, Buck.”
“He’s not your boss yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time, pal.”
Chaim Rosenzweig came scurrying by and slid to a stop. “Cameron!” he said. “Come, come!” Buck followed the stooped old man to a corner. “Stay with me, please! Nicolae is not happy this morning. We’re moving to the Knesset, everything is in an uproar, he wants everybody to go to Babylon, and some are resisting. To tell you the truth, I think he would kill those two at the Wailing Wall himself if he had the opportunity. All morning they have been howling about the injustice of the signing, about how the covenant signals an unholy alliance between a people who missed their Messiah the first time and a leader who denies the existence of God. But, Cameron, Nicolae is not an atheist. An agnostic at best—but so am I!”
“You’re not an agnostic since the Russian invasion!”
“Well, maybe not, but those are strong words against Nicolae.”
“I thought no one was allowed into the area in front of the Wall this morning. Who are they saying this to?”
“The press is there with their long-range directional microphones, and those men have lungs! Nicolae has been on the phone to CNN all morning, insisting that they give the two no more coverage today of all days. CNN has resisted, of course. But when he owns them, they will do what he says. That will be a relief.”
“Chaim! You want that kind of leadership? Control of the media?”
“I am so tired of most of the press, Cameron. You must know that I hold you in the highest regard. You are one of few I trust. The rest are so biased, so critical, so negative. We must pull the world together once and for all, and a credible, state-run news organization will finally get it right.”
“That’s scary,” Buck said. And quietly he grieved for his old friend who had seen so much and was now willing to surrender so much to a man he should not trust.
CHAPTER 16
Rayford’s day—and, he felt, his future—were both set. He would attend the gala festivities, then get a cab back to Ben Gurion International Airport at Lod, nine miles southeast of Tel Aviv. By the time he arrived, the crew should have the 777 shipshape, and he would begin preflight safety checklists. The schedule called for an afternoon flight to Baghdad and then a nonstop to New York. By flying west at that time of day, he would go against conventional schedules and wisdom, but for this trip, and maybe for the rest of Rayford’s career, Carpathia was the boss.
Rayford would spend the night in New York before heading back home to decide whether it was really feasible to do this job from Chicago. Maybe he and Chloe would move to New York. Clearly the piloting of Air Force One for the president was a ruse. His job was ferrying Nicolae Carpathia wherever he wanted to go, and for some reason, Rayford felt compelled to sublimate his wishes, his desires, his will, and his logic. God had laid this in his lap for some reason, and as long as he didn’t have to live a lie, at least for now he would do it.
What he had been learning from Bruce and his own study of prophecy indicated that the day would come when the Antichrist would no longer be a deceiver. He would show his colors and rule the world with an iron fist. He would smash his enemies and kill anyone disloyal to his regime. That would put every follower of Christ at risk of martyrdom. Rayford foresaw the day when he would have to leave Carpathia’s employ and become a fugitive, merely to survive and help other believers do the same.
Buck saw an American Secret Service agent making a beeline toward him. “Cameron Williams?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Secret Service, and you know it. Can I see some ID please?”
“I’ve been cleared a hundred times over.” Buck reached for his credentials.
“I know that.” The agent peered at Buck’s identification. “Fitz wants to see you, and I’ve got to be sure I bring him the right guy.”
“The president wants to see me?”
The agent snapped Buck’s wallet shut and handed it back, nodding. “Follow me.”
In a small office at the back of the Knesset Building, more than two dozen members of the press fought for position by the door, waiting to pounce on President Gerald Fitzhugh the moment he headed for the ceremonies. Two more agents—lapel pins showing, earpieces in place, hands clasped in front—stood guarding the door.
“When can we expect him?” they were asked.
But the agents didn’t respond. The media were not their responsibility, except to keep them away when necessary. The agents knew better than the press secretary when the president would move from one location to another, but that was certainly nobody else’s business.
Buck looked forward to seeing the president again. It had been a few years since he had done the Newsmaker of the Year story on Fitzhugh, the year Fitz had been reelected and also the second time the man had won Global Weekly’s honor. Buck seemed to have hit it off with the president, who was a younger version of Lyndon Johnson. Fitzhugh had been just fifty-two when elected the first time and was now pushing fifty-nine. He was robust and youthful, an exuberant, earthy man. He used profanity liberally, and though Buck had never been in his presence when Fitz was angry, his outbursts were legendary among staffers.
Buck’s lack of exposure to the presidential tem
per ended that Monday morning.
As Buck’s escort maneuvered him through the throng before the door, the agents recognized their colleague and stepped aside so Buck could enter. American members of the press corps expressed their displeasure with Buck’s easy access.
“How does he do that?”
“It never fails!”
“It’s not what you know or how much you hustle! It’s who you know!”
“The rich get richer!”
Buck only wished they were right. He wished he had somehow talked his way into a scoop, an exclusive with the president. But he was as much in the dark as they were about what he was doing there.
Buck’s Secret Service escort handed him off to a presidential aide, who grasped his sleeve and dragged him to a corner of the room where the president sat on the edge of a huge side chair. His suit jacket was open, his tie loose, and he was whispering with a couple of advisers. “Mr. President, Cameron Williams of Global Weekly,” the aide announced.
“Give me a minute,” Fitzhugh said, and the aide and the two advisers began to move away. The president grabbed one of the advisers. “Not you, Rob! How long do you have to work for me before you catch on? I need you here. When I say to give me a minute, I don’t mean you.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“And quit apologizing.”
“Sorry.”
As soon as he had said that, Rob realized he shouldn’t have apologized for apologizing. “Sorry, well, sorry. OK.”
Fitzhugh rolled his eyes. “Somebody get Williams a chair, will ya? For crying out loud, let’s get with it here. We’ve only got a few minutes.”
“Eleven,” Rob said apologetically.
“Fine. Eleven it is.”
Buck stuck out his hand. “Mr. President,” he said. Fitzhugh gave his hand a perfunctory squeeze, not making eye contact.
“Sit down here, Williams.” Fitzhugh’s face was red, and sweat had begun to bead on his forehead. “First off, this is totally off the record, all right?”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
“No, not whatever I say! I’ve heard that before and been burned.”