by Tim LaHaye
Buck was amazed that the deputy was apparently unfazed by catcalls and whistles. Suddenly Buck was overcome with a chill that made gooseflesh stand on his arms. As Ms. D’Angelo stood at the lectern, Carpathia rose and the crowd—rather than exult—fell deathly silent. Buck felt as if he were the only one able to look anywhere but at Carpathia. The potentates looked at him from where they sat, and Fortunato too turned toward him.
Carpathia spoke in the haunting, hypnotic voice Buck had heard only one time. Three and a half years before, Nicolae had committed a double murder after having told everyone in the room what they would remember and what they would not. Buck, as a brand-new believer, had been the only one protected from that mind control. Later, no one else even remembered Buck had been in the room.
Now the potentate spoke, yet his voice was not projected over the loudspeakers. Buck, as far from the stage as anyone could get, heard him plain as day, as if standing next to him.
“You will not remember that I have interrupted,” Nicolae said.
“Oh, God,” Buck prayed silently, “protect me! Don’t let me be swayed.”
“You are about to hear of a death that will surprise you,” Carpathia said, and no one moved. “It will strike you as old news. You will not care.”
Carpathia sat down and the crowd buzz picked up where it left off. Ms. D’Angelo said, “Before I pray to the great one-gender deity in whom we all rest and who also rests in all of us, I have an announcement. Pontifex Maximus Peter the Second died suddenly earlier today. He was overtaken by a highly contagious virus that made it necessary that he be cremated. Our condolences to his loved ones. A memorial service will be held tomorrow morning at this site. Now let us pray.”
Tomorrow morning? Buck thought. The Gala program called for a “debate” between Carpathia and “the Jerusalem Twosome” at 10 a.m. Tuesday, followed by a “noon to midnight party” in the hedonist district. Buck looked into the faces of delegates around him. They seemed unfazed. Buck was shaken. So Nicolae was capable of controlling the minds of two million at once.
The crowd applauded the prayer—which seemed to pay homage to every living cell. They cheered the introduction of each subpotentate, especially the newest, Mr. Litwala from Africa. The delegates seemed equally impressed with each potentate’s samish speech, which praised Carpathia in every other sentence. Finally the moment came for the man of the hour.
“And now,” Fortunato began, and the assembled sent up a roar that drowned out the rest of his introduction, except that Buck was standing under one of the speaker towers. “The man God chose to lead the world from war and bloodshed to a single utopian community of harmony, your supreme potentate and mine, His Excellency, Nicolae Carpathia!”
The rest of the VIPs—save Fortunato—humbly left the platform, leaving Carpathia waving with both hands and smiling, striding back and forth behind the sober security team. Leon, leading the ovation, stood behind Nicolae in front of a chair to the right of the throne.
CHAPTER 22
If anything, Buck decided, the speaking gift Nicolae Carpathia had first demonstrated at the United Nations three and a half years before had only improved with time. Back then he had used his prodigious memory, grasp of facts and history, and mastery of several languages to wow even the press. Who could remember when the working media had risen as one to endorse a rousing speaker?
Of course, that first internationally publicized speech had come within days of the disappearance from the earth of millions of people, including all babies and most children. Carpathia had appeared the perfect man for the perfect moment, and a terrified world—including at first Buck—embraced him. The globe seemed as one to look to Carpathia as a voice of peace, harmony, and reason. He was young, handsome, dynamic, charismatic, articulate, brilliant, decisive, and—incongruously—humble. It appeared he reluctantly accepted the mantle of leadership thrust upon him by an adoring populace.
Nicolae had reinvented the world, dividing it into ten regions, each with its own potentate. In the midst of increasing strife that impacted the globe even worse than the loss of millions at the Rapture, he stood as the paternal voice of comfort and encouragement. Through World War 3, famine, the great wrath of the Lamb earthquake, meteor strikes, maritime disasters, contamination of waterways, global darkening and cooling, swarms of scorpion locusts, and more recently the plagues of fire, smoke, and sulfur that had taken yet another third of the population, still Carpathia held firm control.
There were rumors of insurrection on the parts of at least three subpotentates, but nothing had yet come of that. Grieving, desperate people often railed about the new world and why it seemed to get worse, only to have Nicolae calm them over the airwaves with promises, sympathy, and pledges of tireless effort.
They believed him, especially those whose lives were dedicated to personal freedom at all cost. While the Global Community rebuilt cities and airports and roadways and communications systems, murder, theft, sorcery, idol worship, and sexual sin were on the rise. These latter three were actually applauded by Carpathia and by all who called bad good and good bad.
The only chink in Carpathia’s armor was that he seemed impotent before the two witnesses in Jerusalem. That he would schedule his Global Gala to usher in “the first day of the rest of utopia” in the city where the two had held sway for so long appeared the height of cheek. If Nicolae was again humiliated by his inability to control them, if they could not be stopped from turning the water to blood and withholding rain, the fabric of his leadership might finally begin to fray.
Yet here he was, facing cameras that broadcast his image to international TV and the Internet. Now thirty-six, confident and charming as ever, he strode back and forth across the stage behind his security team. Not content to stay at the lectern, he kept moving, making sure his wave and smile reached every segment of the live audience that seemed unable to get enough of him.
Finally, finally he raised his hands and received undivided attention. Without notes, without pause, without a misspeak, Carpathia performed for forty-five minutes. He was interrupted by enthusiastic applause with nearly every phrase, and if he was animated at the beginning, he seemed even more energized by the end.
He acknowledged the hardships, the grief and sadness that came with individual loss, and the work that still needed to be done. He allowed a tear in his voice as he spoke of so many of “you beloved compatriots who have suffered bereavement.”
As Carpathia surged toward his dramatic, flourishing conclusion, he spoke louder, more directly, even more confidently. To Buck it seemed the crowd was ready to burst with love. They trusted him, believed in him, worshiped him, counted on him for sustenance.
Nicolae took one dramatic interlude where he strode back to the side of the lectern, leaned against it with one hand, crossed his feet at the ankles, and put his other fist on his hip. His look, on the giant screens throughout the plaza, was cocky and arrogant and pregnant with promise. With an are-you-ready-for-this smirk that created murmurs of excitement, laughter, whistles, and applause, plainly he was ready to make some bold pronouncement.
Carpathia let the tension build, then stepped purposefully behind the lectern and gripped it with both hands. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “as you can see on your program, we will reassemble near the Temple Mount. There we shall establish the authority of the Global Community over ev-er-y geographic location.” Cheers and more cheers. “Regardless who is proclaiming this or warning that or taking credit for all manner of insidious attacks on this city, this area, this state . . . I will personally put an end to the religious terrorism perpetrated by two murderous imposters. I, for one, am tired of superstitious oppression, tired of drought, tired of bloody water. I am tired of pompous so-called prophecies, of gloom and doom, and of pie in the sky by and by!
“If the Jerusalem Twosome does not cease and desist tomorrow, I shall not rest until I have personally dealt with them. And once that is accomplished, we shall dance in the streets!”
He shouted over the din, “Have fun tonight! Indulge yourselves! But sleep well so tomorrow we can enjoy the party that shall have no end!”
As the helicopters reappeared and people were cleared from the landing area, Carpathia waved and smiled as he headed toward the steps. Leon followed quickly and knelt, thrusting out his arms and waving in gestures of unworthiness. To Buck’s amazement, most of the crowd followed suit. Tens of thousands dropped to their knees and worshiped Carpathia as they would an athlete or a performer . . . or a god.
Rayford was beside himself. To keep from being conspicuous in his refusal to kneel, he kept moving. Each step brought him closer to the front, and inside his robe he pulled the Saber from its block. The heavy, solid, lethal feel both invigorated and scared him. He felt as if he were dreaming, watching himself from afar. Had it come to this? Had he become this crazy man who had won out over the pragmatist? Unless he could somehow be sure this was God’s plan, he didn’t dare inject himself into history. Whoever was the assassin, he would never again be free, that was sure. The perpetrator would be identified on tape and wouldn’t get far.
Rayford was within fifty feet of the stage when Carpathia gave a final wave, ducked, and disappeared aboard the helicopter. The chopper lifted off directly over Rayford’s head, and he could have shot it from the sky. He gritted his teeth and slammed the Saber back into the block. He replaced it in the big inside pocket, pushed his hands back out through the armholes. Clenched teeth made his temples throb.
As the crowd flooded out to play, Rayford determinedly marched the miles back to his car, jaw still set, hands hidden by the billowy sleeves. Unless God made him, he would not do anything rash.
Buck missed his family. The spectacle at the Gala plaza left him sad. He sleepwalked the streets, idly following the crowd but making sure he was headed back toward his hostel. He called home, talked to Chloe, talked to Kenny, talked to Tsion. Called New Babylon, talked to David, “met” Annie. He hated to beg off after having talked to her for the first time, but a beep told him he had another call, and the readout showed it was Leah.
“Sorry to bother you, Buck,” she said, “but I had a disconcerting day at Buffer and wanted to tell someone.”
“No problem, but you’re supposed to be briefing Rayford, aren’t you?”
“I’m not supposed to even call him until Friday.”
“What?”
She told him of Rayford’s instructions.
“And if there’s trouble?”
“I guess I’m to call you.”
“What can I do? Rent a car and drive to France?”
“No, I know.”
“Did you see Hattie?”
“They’re considering my request and will let me know.”
“Doesn’t sound good.”
“Seems fishy, Buck. I don’t know whether to bolt or play it out.”
“Let me call Rayford and find out what the deal is.”
“Would you?”
Buck stopped under a streetlight within blocks of the Wailing Wall and called Rayford’s cell phone. Rayford answered. “This had better be important, Buck.”
“I’d say hanging one of our own out to dry is important. How can you strand her like that?”
Rayford sounded bored. “What’s her problem? She get herself in trouble?”
Buck brought him up to date.
“Tell her to stay with the plan and not to call you or me until Friday.”
“What’ve you got going, Ray?”
“Buck, listen. When I told Leah I didn’t want her to call me till Friday, I didn’t expect her to run to you. I need you to trust me.”
Buck sighed and reluctantly agreed. He decided not to tell Chloe that he and her dad might eventually have to have it out. He didn’t know what the problem was.
Buck climbed a tree so he could see the Wailing Wall, and there were Eli and Moishe. They still stood shoulder to shoulder, staring, unmoving, in the same position as he had last seen them. Crowds taunted.
He called Jacov for a report on Chaim. “Good news and bad news,” Jacov said. “The tests are positive.”
“What can be bad?”
“The doctor can’t determine the cause of the paralysis or the speech loss. It looks and acts like a stroke, but there doesn’t seem to have been one.”
The next morning Rayford rose and got an early start toward the Wailing Wall. The path was wet in spots, and from more than dew. He was stunned to find the crowds huge two hours before the vaunted confrontation. Rumors flew that the memorial service for Pontifex Maximus Peter the Second had been cancelled due to lack of interest and that Ms. D’Angelo had already been defrocked. Apparently Enigma Babylon would die with its founder. No room even for pagan religion in Carpathia’s orbit.
With his Saber inside his robe, Rayford elbowed his way to the middle of the bustling crowd. He had not slept well, praying most of the night, and now he wished he could sit. But he endured. The witnesses stood like statues, as people said they had for hours. Surely they would become animated when Carpathia arrived to challenge them.
A block away loud bands rehearsed for the all day/all night party.
Buck tried to climb the same tree he had the night before, but GC Security shooed him away. He found a spot on a rocky ledge with a clear view over the crowd. He was saddened by the silence of the witnesses, wishing that when Carpathia arrived they would at least go down swinging. But the due time was upon them; this was the 1261st day. The Bible said they would be overcome.
At a minute to ten the sky came alive with helicopter rotors. As at the Gala site, three choppers brought the potentates, Fortunato, no Enigma Babylon rep this time, and finally Carpathia. It marked the first time Buck had seen him without a tie. He wore expensive shoes and slacks, an open-collar shirt, and a cashmere sport coat with what looked like a Bible protruding from one of the pockets.
The potentates and Fortunato stepped behind a barrier that separated them from the crowd. Lights beamed, cameras locked in, and Carpathia swept to the fence. His shirt was equipped with a wireless mike, and he stopped for a dab of powder from a makeup artist. He smiled to the noisy crowd and approached the witnesses, who stood still, only their chests moving with their breathing.
Carpathia, like a magician, whipped off his sport coat and hung it from the top of a pointed bar in the fence. Whatever was in the pocket made the coat sag to that side. When Nicolae rolled up his sleeves as if to fight, the crowd went wild.
“And what do you gentlemen have to say for yourselves this morning?” he said, looking first to the witnesses and then to the crowd. Buck prayed they would be eloquent, challenging, forceful.
In Illinois it was the wee hours of the morning. Tsion sat before the television in his pajamas and robe and slippers. Chloe sat in a chair.
“The baby sleeping?” Tsion said.
Chloe nodded. “I pray he sleeps through this.”
When Carpathia began with the challenging question, Chloe said quietly, “Give it to ’im, Eli. C’mon, Moishe.”
But they did not respond.
“Oh, God,” Tsion prayed. “Oh, God, oh, God. They are oppressed and they are afflicted, yet they open not their mouths; they are led as lambs to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so they open not their mouths.”
For a second Buck wished he had a weapon. He had a clear sight path to Carpathia. What arrogance! What ego! How he would love to pop Nicolae between the eyes, even with a slingshot. He shook his head. He was a journalist, an observer. He didn’t claim to be objective. His heart was with the witnesses. But neither was he a participant.
Rayford could hardly keep still. He bit his tongue to keep from shouting at Carpathia. He slipped his arms inside his robe and held the box in both hands. If Nicolae was going to make fools of the witnesses, maybe he would wind up the fool, lying in his own blood.
&n
bsp; Carpathia was in his glory. “Cat got your tongues?” he said, pacing before the silent saints, peeking at the crowd for encouragement. “The water in Jerusalem tastes cold and refreshing today! Run out of poison? Coconspirators run away? Lose access to the water supply?”
The people cheered and mocked. “Throw them out!” someone yelled.
“Arrest them!”
“Jail them!”
“Kill them!”
Rayford wanted to shout, “Shut up!” but would have been drowned out by the bloodthirsty mob anyway. And Carpathia played them.
“Was that rain on my window this morning? What happened to the drought? Say, does anyone see locusts? Horsemen? Smoke? Gentlemen! You are impotent!”
The crowd ate it up. Rayford seethed.
“I proclaimed this area off-limits to you two years ago!” Carpathia said, his back to the crowd but the microphone allowing him to be heard everywhere, including on TV. “Why are you still here? You must leave or be arrested! In fact, did I not say that if you were seen in public anywhere after the meeting of the cultists that you would be executed?”
Carpathia turned to the crowd. “I did say that, did I not?”
“Yes! Yes! Execute them!”
“I have been remiss! I have not carried out my duties! How can I stand before the citizens who have charged me with upholding the dictates of my office when I have allowed this crime to go unpunished? I do not want to be shamed before my people! I do not want to be embarrassed at their party today!
“Come! Come out from behind that fence and face me! Challenge me! Answer me! Climb over, fly over, transport yourselves if you are able! Do not make me open the gate!”
Carpathia turned to the crowd again. “Should I fear their very breath? Will these dragons incinerate and slay even me?”
The crowd was not as loud now, laughing nervously. The witnesses did not move.