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 temper 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.”

“Not by me, sir.”

“No, not by you, but I remember once I told you something and then said it was off the record and you gave me that cockamamie stuff about when it is and when it isn’t off the record legally.”

“As I recall, sir, I cut you some slack on that.”

“So you said.”

“Technically, you can’t say something’s off the record after the fact. Only before you say it.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve learned that a few times. So, we’re clear this is all off the record from the git-go, right?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Williams, I want to know what in blazes is going on with Carpathia. You’ve spent some time with him. You’ve interviewed him. Word is he’s trying to hire you. You know the man?”

“Not well, sir.”

“I’m getting pretty steamed by him, to tell you the truth, but he’s the most popular guy in the world since Jesus himself, so who am I to squawk?”

Buck was staggered by the truth of that statement. “I thought you were a big supporter of his, sir—America showing the way, and all that.”

“Well, I am! I mean, I was. I invited him to the White House! He spoke to the joint session. I like his ideas. I wasn’t a pacifist till I heard him talk about it, and by George I think he can pull this off. But the polls say he would double me in a run for the presidency right now! Only he doesn’t want that. He wants me to stay in office and be my boss!”

“He told you that?”

“Don’t be naive, Williams. I wouldn’t have brought you in here if I thought you were going to take everything literally. But look, he weasels me out of Air Force One, and now have you seen the thing? He’s got Global Community One painted on it and is issuing a statement this afternoon thanking the citizens of the United States for giving it to him. I’ve got a mind to call him a liar to his face and try to turn some of his good press around.”

“It would never work, sir,” the obsequious Rob interjected. “I mean, I know you didn’t ask, but the statement going out makes it appear he tried to refuse, you insisted, and he reluctantly agreed.”

The president turned back to Buck. “There you go, Williams, you see? You see what he does? Now am I getting myself in hotter water by sharing this stuff with you? Are you already on his payroll and going to blow the whistle on me?”

Buck wanted to tell him what he had seen, what he really knew about Carpathia, who the Bible proved he was. “I can’t say I’m a Carpathia fan,” Buck said.

“Well, are you a Fitzhugh fan? I’m not going to ask you how you voted—”

“I don’t mind telling you. The first time you ran, I voted for your opponent. The second time I voted for you.”

“Won you over, did I?”

“You did.”

“So what’s your problem with Carpathia? He’s so smooth, so persuasive, so believable. I think he’s got almost all of the people fooled most of the time.”

“I guess that’s one of my problems,” Buck said. “I’m not sure what he’s using for leverage, but it seems to work. He gets what he wants when he wants it, and he looks like a reluctant hero.”

“That’s it!” the president said, slapping Buck’s knee hard enough to make it sting. “That’s what gets me too!” He swore. And then he swore again. Soon he was lacing every sentence with profanity. Buck was afraid the man would burst a blood vessel.

“I’ve got to put a stop to it,” he raged. “This is really ticking me off. He’s going to come off sacrosanct today, making me look like an overgrown wuss. I mean, it’s one thing for the United States to model leadership to the world, but what we look like now is one of his puppets. I’m a strong guy, a strong leader, decisive. And somehow he’s succeeded in making me look like his sycophant.” He took a deep breath. “Williams, do you know the trouble we’ve got with the militia?”

“I can only imagine.”

“I’ll tell you, they’ve got a point, and I can’t argue with them! Our intelligence is telling us they’re starting to hoard and hide some major weaponry, because they’re so against my plan to join this destroy-90-give-10-to-the-U.N. or Global Community or whatever he’s calling it this week. I’d like to believe his motives are pure and that this is the last step toward true peace, but it’s the little things that make me wonder. Like this airplane deal.

“We got the new plane, we needed a new pilot. I don’t care who flies the thing as long as he’s qualified. We get a list from people we trust, but all of a sudden there’s only one name on that list acceptable to the Grand Potentate of the World, and he’s going to get the job. Now I should care even less, because I guess I’ve given the plane and the crew to Carpathia!” And he swore some more.

“Well, sir, I don’t know what to tell you, but it is a pity you’re not getting the services of the new pilot. I know him and he’s tops.”

“Well, great. Wouldn’t you think I’d get the best pilot in my own country? No! And I wasn’t exaggerating about that new title for Carpathia. There’s some resolution in the U.N., excuse me, Global Community, and the Security Council is supposed to vote on it soon. It calls for a ‘more appropriate title’ for the secretary-general, given that he will soon become the commander in chief of the world’s remaining military power and the chief financial officer of the global bank. The worst part is, that resolution came from our own ambassador, and I didn’t know a thing about it until it went to committee. The only recourse I have is to insist he vote against his own proposal, withdraw it, or resign. How would that make me look, firing a guy because he wants to give the head of the Global Community, whom the whole world loves, a better title?”

The president wasn’t giving Buck an opportunity to respond, which was all right with him, because he had no idea what to say.

Fitzhugh leaned forward and whispered, “And this media thing! We agreed with him that our conflict of interest laws were a little restrictive, along with those of most of the rest of the world. We didn’t want to keep the U.N. or whatever from having the right to publish more widely when they were so close to world peace. So we make a little loophole for him and now look what we’ve got. He’ll have bought up all the newspapers and magazines and radio and TV networks before we can change our minds!

“Where’s he getting the money, Williams? Can you tell me that?”

Cameron had a crisis of conscience. He had implied to Carpathia that he would not tell about the inheritance from Stonagal. And yet were promises made to devils required to be kept? Wouldn’t that be on the same order as lying to an intruder when he asks where your loved ones are?

“I couldn’t tell you,” Buck said. He felt no loyalty to Carpathia, but he couldn’t afford having it get back to Carpathia that he had broken a confidence as significant as this. He had to hold on to his own ability to function—for as long as he could.

“You know what our intelligence people are telling us?” Fitzhugh continued. “That the eventual plan is for the heads of countries represented by the ten members of the Security Council to actually report as subordinates to their ambassadors. That would make those ten ambassadors kings of the world under Carpathia’s rule.”

Buck scowled. “In other words, you and the Mexican president and the Canadian prime minister would report to the U.N. ambassador of North America?”

“That’s it, Williams. But you’ve got to forget the United Nations. It’s the Global Community now.”

“My mistake.”

“Well, it’s a mistake all right, but it’s not yours.”

“Sir, is there something I can do to help?”

President Fitzhugh looked to the ceiling and wiped his sweaty face with his hand. “I don’t know. I just wanted to unload, I guess, and I thought maybe you had some insight. Anything we can get on this guy to slow him down a little. There’s got to be a chink in his armor somewhere.”

“I wish I could be of more help,” Buck said, suddenly realizing what an understatement that was. What he wouldn’t give to expose Nicolae Carpathia as a lying murderer, the hypnotic Antichrist! And though Buck would oppose him, anyone without Christ would never understand or agree. Besides, Scripture didn’t seem to indicate that even Christ’s followers would be able to do more than simply bear up against him. The Antichrist was on a course foretold centuries before, and the drama would be played out to the end.

Nicolae Carpathia was going to swallow up the president of the United States and everyone else in his path. He would gain ultimate power, and then the true battle would begin, the war between heaven and hell. The ultimate cold war would become a battle to the death. Buck took comfort in the assurance that the end had been known from the beginning . . . even if he had known it for only a few weeks.

The aide who had announced Buck to President Fitzhugh politely interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but the secretary-general is asking for five minutes before the ceremony.”

Fitzhugh swore again. “I guess we’re through, Williams. I appreciate the ear anyway, and I’m grateful for your confidence.”

“Certainly, sir. Ah, it would be really good if Carpathia did not see me in here. He will ask what this was about.”

“Yeah, OK, listen, Rob. Go out there and tell Carpathia’s people that this room is not conducive and that we’ll meet him anywhere else he says in one minute. And get me Pudge.”

Pudge was apparently the nickname of the agent who had accompanied Buck in the first place. The moniker didn’t fit the trim young man. “Pudge, get Williams out of here without Carpathia’s people seeing him.”

The president knotted his tie and buttoned his coat, then was escorted to another room for his meeting with Carpathia. Buck was shielded by Pudge, the Secret Service agent, until the coast was clear. Then he made his way to the staging area, where he would be introduced as part of the American delegation.

Rayford’s credentials gave him a seat near the front with the American dignitaries. He was one of few people who knew that the witnesses at the Wailing Wall were right—that this was the celebration of an unholy alliance. He knew, but he felt helpless. No one could stem the tide of history.

Bruce Barnes had taught him that much.

Rayford missed Bruce already. He had begun to enjoy the nightly meetings and all the insight he was gaining. And Bruce’s intuition was right. The Holy Land was the place to be right now. If this was where the first of 144,000 Jewish converts would come from, Bruce would want to be here.

According to what Bruce had taught Rayford and Chloe and Buck from the Scriptures, the converts would come from every part of the globe and would reap an incredible harvest—perhaps a billion souls. The 144,000 would be Jews, 12,000 from each of the original twelve tribes, but they would be gathered from all over the world, a restoration of the dispersion of Jews throughout history. Imagine, Rayford thought, Jews ministering in their own lands and their own tongues, drawing millions to Jesus the Messiah.

Despite all the mayhem and heartache to come, there would be many mighty victories, and Rayford looked forward to them. But he was not excited about the breaking up and dispersing of the Tribulation Force. Who knew where Buck would land if Carpathia really bought up all the media? If the relationship between Buck and Chloe blossomed, they might end up together somewhere far away.

He turned in his chair and surveyed the crowd. Hundreds were filing into their seats. Security was heavy and tight. At the top of the hour he saw the red lights on the TV cameras come on. Music swelled, news reporters whispered into their microphones, and the crowd hushed. Rayford sat tall and straight, his cap in his lap, wondering if Chloe could see him from their home in suburban Chicago. It was the middle of the night there, and she would not be looking for him as much as for Buck. Buck would be easy to spot. He had a position on the dais directly behind the chair of one of the signers, Dr. Chaim Rosenzweig.

To polite applause, the dignitaries were announced—veteran members of the Knesset, ambassadors from around the world, American statesmen and former presidents, Israeli leaders.

Finally came the second tier, those who would stand behind the chairs. Buck was introduced as “Mr. Cameron ‘Buck’ Williams, former senior staff writer and current Midwest bureau writer for Global Weekly, of the United States of America.” Rayford smiled as Buck did at the lukewarm response. Obviously everybody wondered who he was and why he was considered a dignitary.

The loudest applause was reserved for the last five men: the chief rabbi of Israel, the Nobel Prize–winning botanist Chaim Rosenzweig of Israel, the prime minister of Israel, the president of the United States, and the secretary-general of the Global Community.

By the time Carpathia was announced and entered with his trademark shy confidence, the audience was standing. Rayford rose reluctantly and clapped without making a sound, his cap tucked under his arm. He found it difficult to reconcile the appearance of applauding the enemy of Christ.

Chaim Rosenzweig turned to beam at Buck, who smiled at him. Buck wished he could rescue his friend from this debacle, but the time was not right. All he could do was let the man enjoy the moment, for he would not have too many more to enjoy.

“This is a great day, Cameron,” he whispered, reaching for Buck’s hand with both of his. He patted Buck’s hand as if Buck were his son.

For a fleeting instant, Buck almost wished God couldn’t see him. Flash units were erupting all over, recording for posterity the dignitaries lending their support to this historic covenant. And Buck was the only one in the picture who knew who Carpathia was, who knew that the signing of the treaty would officially usher in the Tribulation.

Suddenly Buck remembered the Velcro-backed Global Weekly patch in his side pocket. As he pulled it out to apply it to his breast pocket, the Velcro caught the flap over the side pocket and held fast. As Buck lifted, his entire jacket pulled up over his belt, and when he let go, the hem stayed up by his shirt. By the time he smoothed out his jacket and used both hands to yank the patch free, he had been photographed a dozen times looking like a contortionist.

When the applause died and the crowd resumed their seats, Carpathia stood, microphone in hand. “This is an historic day,” he began with a smile. “While all this has come about in record time, it has been nonetheless a herculean effort to pull together all the resources necessary to make it happen. Today we honor many individuals. First, my beloved friend and mentor, a father figure to me, the brilliant Dr. Chaim Rosenzweig of Israel!”

The crowd responded with enthusiasm, and Chaim rose unsteadily, waving his little wave and smiling like a small boy. Buck wanted to pat him on the back, to congratulate him for his accomplishments, but he grieved for his friend. Rosenzweig was being used. He was a small part of a devious plot that would make the world unsafe for him and his loved ones.

Carpathia sang the praises of the chief rabbi, of the Israeli prime minister, and finally of “the Honorable Gerald Fitzhugh, president of the United States of America, the greatest friend Israel has ever had.”

More thunderous applause. Fitzhugh rose a few inches from his chair to acknowledge the response, and just when it was about to die down, Carpathia himself kept it going, tucking the microphone under his arm and stepping back to applaud loudly himself.

Fitzhugh appeared embarrassed, almost flustered, and looked to Carpathia as if wondering what to do. Carpathia beamed, as if thrilled for his friend the president. He shrugged and offered the microphone to Fitzhugh. At first the president didn’t react, then he seemed to wave it off. Finally he accepted it to the roar of the audience.

Buck was amazed at Carpathia’s ability to control the crowd. Clearly this was something he had choreographed. But what would Fitzhugh do now? Surely the only appropriate reaction would be to thank the people and toss a few bouquets at his good friends the Israelis. And despite Fitzhugh’s dawning awareness of the devious agenda of Nicolae Carpathia, he would have to acknowledge Nicolae’s role in the peace process.

Fitzhugh’s chair scraped noisily as he stood, pushing back awkwardly against his own secretary of state. He had to wait for the crowd to quiet, and the process seemed to take forever. Carpathia rushed to Fitzhugh and thrust his hand aloft, the way a referee does with the winning boxer, and the Israeli crowd cheered all the more.

Finally, Carpathia stepped into the background and President Fitzhugh stood in the center of the dais, obligated to say a few words. As soon as Fitzhugh began to speak, Buck knew Carpathia was at work. And while he didn’t expect to witness a murder, as he had in New York, Buck became immediately convinced that Carpathia had somehow caused something every bit as sinister. For the Gerald Fitzhugh speaking to the enthusiastic throng was anything but the frustrated president Buck had met with just minutes before.

Buck felt his neck grow warm and his knees weaken as Fitzhugh spoke. He leaned forward and gripped the back of Rosenzweig’s chair, trying in vain to keep from trembling. Buck felt the clear presence of evil, and nausea nearly overtook him.

“The last thing I want to do at a moment like this,” President Fitzhugh said, “is to detract in any way from the occasion at hand. However, with your kind indulgence and that of our great leader of the aptly renamed Global Community, I would like to make a couple of brief points.

“First, it has been a privilege to see what Nicolae Carpathia has done in just a few short weeks. I am certain we all agree that the world is a more loving, peaceful place because of him.”

Carpathia made an effort to take back the microphone, but President Fitzhugh resisted. “Now I have the floor, sir, if you don’t mind!” This brought a peal of laughter. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the secretary-general’s idea for global disarmament is a stroke of genius. I support it without reservation and am proud to lead the way to the rapid destruction of 90 percent of our weapons and the donation of the other 10 percent to Global Community, under Mr. Carpathia’s direction.”

Buck’s head swam and he fought to keep his equilibrium.

“As a tangible expression of my personal support and that of our nation as a whole, we have also gifted Global Community with the brand-new Air Force One. We have financed its repainting and titling, and it can be viewed at Ben Gurion International.

“Now I surrender the microphone to the man of destiny, the leader whose current title does not do justice to the extent of his influence, to my personal friend and compatriot, Nicolae Carpathia!”

Nicolae appeared to accept the microphone reluctantly and seemed embarrassed by all the attention. He looked bemused, as if helpless to know what to do with such a recalcitrant U.S. president who didn’t know when enough was enough.

When the applause finally died down, Carpathia affected his humblest tone and said, “I apologize for my overexuberant friend, who has been too kind and too generous, and to whom the Global Community owes a tremendous debt.”

Rayford kept a close eye on Buck. The man did not look well. Buck had seemed to nearly topple, and Rayford wondered if it was the heat or merely the nauseating mutual-admiration-society speeches that were turning Buck green around the gills.

The Israeli dignitaries, except Rosenzweig of course, looked vaguely uncomfortable with all the talk of destroying weapons and disarming. A strong military had been their best defense for decades, and without the covenant with Global Community, they would have been loath to agree to Carpathia’s disarmament plan.

The rest of the ceremony was anticlimactic to the rousing—and, in Rayford’s mind, disturbing—speech of the president. Fitzhugh seemed more enamored of Carpathia every time they were together. But his view only mirrored that of most of the populace of the world. Unless one was a student of Bible prophecy and read between the lines, one would easily believe that Nicolae Carpathia was a gift from God at the most crucial moment in world history.

Buck recovered control as other leaders made innocuous speeches and rattled on about the importance and historicity of the document they were about to sign. Several decorative pens were produced as television, film, digital video, and still cameras zeroed in on the signers. The pens were passed back and forth, the poses struck, and the signatures applied. With handshakes, embraces, and kisses on both cheeks all around, the treaty was inaugurated.

And the signers of this treaty—all except one—were ignorant of its consequences, unaware they had been party to an unholy alliance.

A covenant had been struck. God’s chosen people, who planned to rebuild the temple and reinstitute the system of sacrifices until the coming of their Messiah, had signed a deal with the devil.

Only two men on the dais knew this pact signaled the beginning of the end of time. One was maniacally hopeful; the other trembled at what was to come.

At the famed Wall, the two witnesses wailed the truth. At the tops of their voices, the sound carrying to the far reaches of the Temple Mount and beyond, they called out the news: “Thus begins the last terrible week of the Lord!”

The seven-year “week” had begun.

The Tribulation.