FORTY

NICOLAE CARPATHIA HAD MORPHED into the consummate politician, diplomat, statesman, and international gadfly. He found reasons to travel, establishing alliances with heads of state who would not have thought to grant an audience to someone from the Romanian lower house, except that he was so persuasive. And he had become known as the most popular man in his home country, admired, respected, lauded by even his opponents.

He was a man of peace. A dove. Into disarmament. That tickled the ears of his colleagues in Europe and most of the world. He had not yet visited the United States, but he was certainly becoming known everywhere else. Carpathia’s mental brilliance, business acumen, and accomplishments seemed somehow known by all, without his having to trumpet himself. And the way he deflected praise made people pour it on all the more. The more he got, the more he needed, and often he nearly passed out from the thrill of it, only to come crashing down on his way from a public appearance.

Nicolae had learned the art of humility. Or at least of appearing humble.

His goal was to bypass the upper house and run for president of Romania when his second term expired. Pundits already called him the favorite.

Irene worried that Raymie, new in and excited about his faith, would not get all he needed unless she could somehow switch to New Hope Church. Rayford remained adamant against that, and Chloe was again making noises about dropping out of church altogether.

Irene took to rewriting everything she was learning from Jackie and putting it in language Raymie could understand. That had the double benefit of not only pouring solid Bible teaching into Raymie but also of solidifying it in her. Anything Irene was unsure about, that she might have glossed over in the past, she now pressed Jackie on. She wanted to understand everything completely so she could teach it.

Heartbreaking was Raymie’s own growing sensitivity to the plight of his father and sister. He prayed for them every day, often asking Irene what it was they didn’t see or get. “It’s so simple,” he said. “All I want is for them to have what we have.”

Cameron “Buck” Williams believed he had nearly won over Juan Ortiz. Oh, he still detected resentment, some irritation, and no question a generational divide. Juan had a family, and while his work ethic seemed good during the normal workday, naturally he found reasons to get home at reasonable hours. Buck didn’t think Juan had ever loved the job as much as he did, which accounted for his constant clucking and head shaking at Buck’s willingness to put in sixteen-hour days.

Traveling internationally was a new experience for Buck, and he also enjoyed getting to the various big-city Global Weekly offices stateside and meeting the bureau chiefs. Among his favorites was Lucinda Washington, a matronly African-American woman who ran the Chicago office. Assigned a story there, Buck spent three days in and out of that office, and he sensed Lucinda took a true interest in him.

“I’ll not be calling you by that awful nickname,” she said. “You need to know that.”

“Really? Why? I’ve come to like it.”

“Buck? Buck? Number one, it’s not a nice word in my community, you understand.”

“Never thought of that. Sorry.”

“And I know where it came from for you. New York types tell me you’re always bucking tradition. Well, let me tell you something: that’s all right with me. If I didn’t buck tradition, I’d still be in the mail room. Stay respectful and do your job and people will listen even when you go against the grain sometimes. The people who get my goat are the ones who always gripe and complain and say they have a better idea, but they don’t work anyway. Do it your own way, but do it; that’s what I say.”

“Me too,” Buck said. “And you can call me whatever you want.”

“I will, Cameron.”

Someday Buck would have to ask Lucinda about all the artifacts in her office. She had a picture of Jesus right between the picture of her and her husband and the pictures of her kids. On her wall a gaudy gold-metal heart read “God Is Love.”

He’d met people of faith, as he had learned to call them, on the job before. But most were pretty laid-back about it, almost secretive. It was as if they knew they were in the minority and didn’t want to look like weirdos. Well, Lucinda Washington was no weirdo, regardless of her religious persuasion or devotion. She had a reputation as a savvy reporter and writer, and now people loved working for her. She fought with New York for her staff and for their space in the magazine, and the brass respected her nonetheless.

Buck liked the way she looked at him, as if she could see into his soul. She saw him as a mother would see a child, he guessed, and her bemusement and look of expectation seemed to bring out the best in him.

When Chloe Steele was a junior in high school she did so well on her college testing that letters began arriving daily for her from universities all over the U.S. She was on her way to a top-five finish in her class with an outside shot at salutatorian.

Irene was thrilled and proud, but her excitement was tempered by the change she saw in her daughter. Chloe had all of Rayford’s best characteristics; that was fine. But she also had his worst, and that would not do.

On the pro side of the ledger she was inquisitive, studious, a hard worker, and—of course—brilliant. She could have slopped her way through her homework on the way to school and earned solid B’s. But Chloe worked at it. She set aside a certain time early every evening to do her homework, and Irene could set her watch by Chloe being at her desk and working.

Chloe rewarded or punished herself by regulating her own fun time. If she finished what she was supposed to do by the time she had prescribed, she went out with friends. If she didn’t, she stayed home and missed out, finishing her work. Irene was grateful she and Rayford had never had another incident with Chloe drinking or even missing curfew. In that way she had become the model child.

But on the negative side Chloe seemed to think the world revolved around her, that she answered to no one, and that she knew better than anyone else anyway—in particular, her mother. She believed only in what she could see and touch. To her God was okay as a concept, but He certainly didn’t really exist, not as a person.

“If you want to treat Him like a real personality, worship Him, live your life for Him, study Him, all that, I say go for it,” Chloe told Irene one night. “But I’m over it. I must insist you treat me like a fully functioning moral agent in this world and stop making me go somewhere and sit there having to be civil when I’m not buying a word of it.”

“You don’t believe in God?”

“I don’t want to say it that way, Mom. At best I’m agnostic. I am honest enough to say I simply don’t know. I lean toward atheism, but I’m not going to fall on my sword over that. But to pretend to worship and study and listen when this has less to do with my life than any other discipline I pursue, well, that’s not intellectually honest.”

“Well, I’d still appreciate it if you would accede to my wishes, and until you go off to college—”

“Mom, don’t start with that again. I am not going to church with you. I mean, I’ll go if Raymie’s in some program or something, but that’s it.”

“Chloe, you’re not at an age where you’re going to tell me what you are or are not going to—”

“Mom, sit and listen to me. Now I mean it.”

Against her better judgment, Irene sat. At least Chloe was being civil.

“The truth is, I am at an age where I am going to tell you what I won’t do. What are you going to do to enforce this if I refuse?”

“I can ask your dad to physically make you go.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s going to carry me bodily to and from the car and into the church?”

“I could ground you, take away your car.”

“Mom, I appreciate the use of the car, but if you take it away I’ll figure out something else.”

“We won’t pay your way to college.”

“Mom! Where have you been? Have you read none of these letters? I’m getting full-ride scholarship offers. And from the places I want to go.”

“You’ll stay in the Midwest, won’t you?”

“Not a chance. I’m leaning toward Stanford.”

“You’re not going off to college two thousand miles away, Chloe.”

“Yes, actually, I think I am.”

“We’ll talk about this when your father gets home.”

“He’s on my side, Mom. Give it up.”

Nicolae noticed one morning that the challenges and tasks of his business magnate life had become routine and, worse, niggling. What used to motivate him, charge him up, spur him on, now made him say, “This again?”

He could have easily withdrawn from the business, let someone else run it at his behest. If Leon wasn’t a chief operating officer, he could certainly find one. But within days of his realization that he was not as enthused as before, Nicolae found the emotion multiplying exponentially. Business bored him. Got in his way. Made him impatient.

He wanted to get on with life. It was time to move, to expand, to take what he believed was rightfully his. He had bowed the knee, worshiped his lord and master in exchange for the kingdoms of the world. Was something more required of him? He was the smartest, most well-read, articulate, multilingual man he was aware of.

It was time for Nicolae Carpathia to emerge.

He spent more than half his day in his office, poring over magazines and watching international news. He knew everything about everything and everybody. If he found himself in the same room with the most obscure emir of a sultanate, Nicolae would be able to converse with the man as if he were his best friend. He would know the man’s wife’s or wives’ name or names, those of the man’s sons and daughters. His cabinet. His advisers. His enemies. His strengths and weaknesses, his dreads and dreams. Nicolae believed he was more of a student of the world than any other man alive.

He and Leon had been discussing strategy to bypass election to the senate and go straight for the top prize—yes, directly from two terms in the House of Deputies. That would be no small feat, and regardless the plans they concocted, nothing really clicked in Nicolae’s mind as a sure bet. He could leave nothing to chance. His move to pacifism had been perfectly timed, and his reputation and approval ratings were at all-time highs. Now if he could just find the pièce de résistance.

Within the space of a year or so, Rayford Steele realized that his life and career had reached both their zenith and their nadir at once. There was nowhere else for him to go within Pan-Con Airlines, unless it was management. And that held no appeal.

He was flying the flagships of the fleet, had his choice of routes, and virtually set his own schedule. Rayford had mediated the latest skirmish between Irene and Chloe, which resulted in Chloe’s dropping out of church and Sunday school altogether. If anything, Irene had grown chillier than ever since then.

Rayford didn’t know what her problem was with Chloe. They could not have asked for a more ideal daughter. She was a gem, a keeper, his friends would say. She had recently inked her intent to accept a full-ride academic scholarship from Stanford, and while he couldn’t imagine her being that far away when it seemed she had been a toddler just a month ago, he was so proud of her that he could hardly stand it.

He had the same high hopes for Raymie, but he worried about the kid. Was he becoming a mama’s boy? There was nothing soft or sissified about him, except that he was so much into Irene’s religion. That couldn’t be good. What other boy that age—and especially older—was still so enamored with church? Something was going to have to change there. Chloe may have been able to talk herself out of having to go to church all the time, but Rayford now had to deal with both Irene’s nagging and Raymie’s begging. Rayford was finding it harder and harder to come up with excuses not to go, let alone promises he could keep to make up for it.

The only interesting thing on Rayford’s horizon remained Hattie Durham. She had finally graduated to international flights and occasionally rode on his trips to England and other points east. Her goal was senior flight attendant and enough seniority that she could choose her routes. She had made it clear she would choose his flights, if that was all right with him.

Rayford had made it clear that this was his wish too.

That was ironic, because for as much of a thrill as it had given him to even say such a thing, it represented way more than had ever gone on between them. In point of fact, Rayford had never touched the woman.

He had been solicitous. He hoped his looks and gestures and tone of voice had made their points. But Hattie was the toucher in this relationship. She would lay a hand gently on his shoulder as she slid past him in the bulkhead. Would rest a hand on his back as she delivered coffee to the cockpit. She touched his hand while talking with him at the occasional dinner or while thanking him for the frequent rides home.

Rayford had never been inside her place, and they rarely saw each other alone. But with his life going the way it was and his midlife crisis kicking up alarmingly, Rayford began allowing himself to think of the possibilities. He told himself that if something broke, if he was tapped to fly Air Force One or Two, or if he was publicly lauded by the CIA or the Defense Department for his clandestine but admittedly limited consulting, that might get him back on track.

He could quit fantasizing about the beautiful young flight attendant and somehow talk himself into robotically walking through his boring married life.