The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (147 page)

Mac and Rayford caught each other’s eyes and leaned closer to study the video. Rayford wondered if Fortunato thought he had the power Carpathia possessed, to convince people they had seen something they had not. He couldn’t let it pass.

“That’s not what I see there, Leon.”

Leon looked sharply at him. “What are you saying?”

“The junior guard did the firing.” Fortunato backed up the tape. “See?” Rayford said. “There! He’s firing. The perp is stepping back. The guard wheels back around, and the perp steps forward as the guard appears to slip on his own expelled shell casings. See? He has no footing, so the blow drives his head to the floor.”

Fortunato looked angry. He reran the video a couple more times.

Mac said, “The perp didn’t even attempt to grab the gun.”

“Say what you will, gentlemen, but that impostor murdered the receptionist and the guard.”

“The guard?” Rayford said. “He might have fallen on his head even if he hadn’t been punched.”

“Anyway,” Fortunato continued, “the accomplice pulled Miss Durham through the window and sent her to the getaway car. As soon as the senior guard opened the door, the accomplice fired at him.”

That was not, of course, the way Rayford had heard it. “How did he escape being killed?”

“He nearly
was.
He has a severe wound to his heel.”

“I thought you said he was coming
into
the room when he was fired upon?”

“Correct.”

“He was running
out
of the room if he got shot in the heel.”

The computer beeped, and Fortunato asked an aide for help. “Another message is coming in,” he said. “Bring it up for me.”

The aide hit a few buttons, and a new message flashed from the senior guard. It read, “Foot being treated. Surgery required. Accomplice was second janitor in first scene on tape. Real janitor found with wad of cash. Says accomplice forced on him to appear like bribe. Says accomplice held knife to throat until he got information.”

Fortunato’s aide backed the video all the way to where the two janitors entered the hallway and walked toward the camera. Rayford, who had never met Ritz, guessed which one he was only by his incomplete janitorial outfit. The only thing resembling a uniform was the cap he had apparently borrowed from the janitor. He carried a broom, but his clothing was western.

“He could be from that area,” Fortunato said.

“Good call,” Rayford said.

“Well, it doesn’t take a trained eye to identify regional clothing.”

“Still, Commander, that’s an insightful catch.”

“I don’t see a knife,” Mac said, as the figures neared the camera. Ritz’s cap was pulled low over his eyes. Rayford held his breath as he reached for the bill of his cap. He lifted it and reset it on his head, showing his face more clearly. Rayford and Mac looked at each other behind Fortunato.

“After they passed that camera,” Fortunato said, “the accomplice got the information he needed and ran the janitor off. He absconded with Miss Durham and opened fire on our guard. And those guards were there only to protect Miss Durham.”

The guard had conveniently left out details that would have made him appear an idiot. Until someone could thoroughly investigate the scene, the Global Community had not a shred of evidence implicating Rayford.

“She will contact you,” Fortunato said. “She always does. You had better not have had anything to do with this. His Excellency would consider that high treason and punishable by death.”

“You suspect
m
e
?”

“I have come to no conclusions.”

“Am I returning to New Babylon as a suspect or as a pilot?”

“A pilot, of course.”

“You want me at the controls of the Condor 216?”

“Of course. You can’t kill us without killing yourself, and I don’t gauge you suicidal. Yet.”

Buck spent more than three weeks working on the Internet version of
Global Community Weekly.
He was in touch with Carpathia nearly every day. Nothing was said about Hattie Durham, but Carpathia often reminded Buck that their mutual “friend,” Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah, would be protected by the Global Community anytime he chose to return to the Holy Land. Buck did not tell Tsion. He merely kept alive his promise that the rabbi could return to Israel within the month.

Donny Moore’s duplex proved more ideal every day. Nothing else in the neighborhood had survived. Virtually no traffic came by.

Ken Ritz, now fully on the mend, moved out of the tiny sliver of the Quonset hut he had been allotted at Palwaukee and commuted between Wheeling and Waukegan from his new digs in the basement of the safe house. Dr. Charles visited every few days, and every chance they got, the Tribulation Force met together and sat under Tsion’s teaching.

It was no accident that they met around the kitchen table with Hattie not eight feet away on her sickbed. Often she rolled onto her side with her back to them, pretending to sleep, but Buck was convinced she heard every word.

They were careful not to say anything that might incriminate them with Carpathia, having no idea what the future held for Nicolae and Hattie. But they cried together, prayed together, laughed, sang, studied, and shared their stories. Dr. Charles was often present.

Tsion rehearsed the entire plan of salvation in nearly every meeting. It might come in the form of one of their stories or his simply expositing a Scripture passage. Hattie had lots of questions, but she asked them only of Chloe later.

The Tribulation Force wanted Dr. Charles to become a full-fledged member, but he declined, fearful that more frequent daily trips to the house might lead the wrong people there. Ritz spent many days tinkering in the underground shelter, getting it into shape in case any or all of them needed complete seclusion. They hoped it would not come to that.

The flight from Dallas to New Babylon, with several stops to pick up Carpathia’s regional ambassadors, had been a harrowing one for Rayford. He and Mac both worried that Fortunato might enlist Mac to eliminate him. Rayford felt vulnerable, assuming Fortunato believed he was involved in the rescue of Hattie Durham.

The device that allowed Rayford to hear what was going on in the main cabin yielded fascinating listening throughout the trip. One of the strategically placed transmitters was near the seat usually occupied by Nicolae Carpathia himself. Of course, Leon had appropriated that one, which was propitious for Rayford. He found Leon an incredible master of deceit, second only to Nicolae.

Each ambassador came aboard with attendant fanfare, and Fortunato immediately ingratiated himself. He ordered the cabin crew to wait on them, whispered to them, flattered them, took them into his confidence. Each heard Fortunato’s tale of having been raised from the dead by Carpathia. It sounded to Rayford as if each was either truly impressed or put on a good front. “I assume you know that you’re among His Excellency’s favorite two regional potentates,” Fortunato privately told each king.

Their responses were variations of “I didn’t know for sure, but I can’t say it surprises me. I am most supportive of His Excellency’s regime.”

“That has not gone unnoticed,” Fortunato would say. “He appreciates very much your suggesting the ocean harvesting operation. His Excellency believes this will result in huge profits to the entire world. He’s asking that your region split the income equally with his Global Community administration, and he will then redistribute the GC share to the less fortunate regions.”

If that made a king blanch, Fortunato went into overdrive. “Of course, His Excellency realizes the burden this puts on you. But, you know the old saying: ‘To whom much is given, much is required.’ The potentate believes you have governed with such brilliance and vigor that you can be counted on as one of the globe’s great benefactors. In exchange, he has given me the liberty to show you this list and these plans for your personal encouragement and comfort.” As Fortunato would unroll papers—which Rayford assumed were elaborate architectural drawings and lists of perquisites—he would say, “His Excellency himself pleaded with me to assure you that he does not in any way believe this is anything but appropriate for a person of your stature and station. While it may appear opulent to the point of ostentation, he asked that I personally convey that he believes you are worthy of such accommodations. While your new domicile, which will be constructed and equipped within the next six months, may appear to elevate you even beyond where he is, he insists that you not reject his plans.”

Whatever Fortunato showed them seemed to impress. “Well,” they would say, “I would never ask this for myself, but if His Excellency insists . . .”

Fortunato saved his slimiest approach. Just before his official conversation with each king was finished, he added: “Now, sir, His Excellency asked that I broach with you a delicate matter that must remain confidential. May I count on you?”

“Certainly!”

“Thank you. He is gathering sensitive data on the workings of the Enigma Babylon One World Faith. Being careful not to prejudice you, but also not wanting to act without your insight, he is curious. How do you feel about Pontifex Maximus Peter Mathews’s self-serving—no, that is pejorative—let me state it another way. Again, being careful not to sway you, do you share His Excellency’s, shall we say, hesitation over the pontiff’s independence from the rest of the Global Community administration?”

To a man, every king expressed outrage over Mathews’s machinations. Each considered him a threat. One said, “We do our share. We pay the taxes. We are loyal to His Excellency. With Mathews, it’s just take, take, take. It’s never enough. I, for one, and you may express this to His Excellency, would love to see Mathews out of office.”

“Then let me broach a yet more sensitive issue, if I may.”

“Absolutely.”

“If it came to taking an extreme course of action against the very person of the pontiff, would you be one upon whom His Excellency could depend?”

“You mean . . . ?”

“You understand.”

“You may count on me.”

The day before the Condor 216 was to deliver the dignitaries to New Babylon, Mac received word from Albie. “Your delivery is early and ready for pickup.”

Rayford spent nearly an hour scheduling his and Mac’s time in the cockpit and in the sleeping quarters so both would feel as fresh as possible at the end of the trip. Rayford penciled himself in for the last block of piloting. Mac would sleep and then be available to make the chopper run to make the pickup and pay off Albie. Meanwhile, Rayford would sleep in his quarters at the shelter. Come nightfall, Rayford and Mac would slip away and helicopter to the Tigris.

It worked almost as planned. Rayford had not anticipated David Hassid’s eagerness to debrief him on everything that had happened in his absence. “Carpathia actually has missiles pointing into outer space, anticipating judgmental meteors.”

Rayford flinched. “He believes the prophecies that God will pour out more judgments?”

“He would never admit that,” David said. “But it sure sounds like he’s afraid of it.”

Rayford thanked David and finally told him he needed rest. On his way out, Hassid shared one more bit of news, and it was all Rayford could do to stay off the Internet. “Carpathia has been manic the last several days,” David said. “He discovered that Web site where you can tap into a live camera shot of the Wailing Wall. He spent days carrying his laptop everywhere he went, watching and listening to the two preachers at the wall. He’s convinced they’re speaking directly to him, and of course they are. Oh, he’s mad. Twice I heard him scream, ‘I want them dead! And soon!’”

“That won’t happen before the due time,” Rayford said.

“You don’t have to tell me,” David said. “I’m reading Tsion Ben-Judah’s messages every chance I get.”

Rayford posted coded notes on bulletin boards all over the Net, trying to locate Amanda. He may have been too obscure, but he didn’t dare make it more obvious. He believed she was alive, and so unless it was proven otherwise, to him she was. All he knew was that if she could communicate with him, she would. As for the charges that she was working for Carpathia, there were moments he actually wished that were true. That would mean she was alive for sure. But if she had been a traitor—no, he would not allow himself to run with that logic. He believed the only reason he had not heard from her was that she did not have the means to contact him.