The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (35 page)

Buck felt more alone than ever on the flight home. He was in coach on a full plane, but he knew no one. He read several sections from the Bible Bruce had given him and had marked for him, prompting the woman next to him to ask questions. He answered in such a way that she could tell he was not in the mood for conversation. He didn’t want to be rude, but neither did he want to mislead anyone with his limited knowledge.

Sleep was no easier for him that night, though he refused to allow himself to pace. He was going into a meeting in the morning that he had been warned to stay away from. Bruce Barnes had sounded convinced that if Nicolae Carpathia were the Antichrist, Buck ran the danger of being mentally overcome, brainwashed, hypnotized, or worse.

As he wearily showered and dressed in the morning, Buck concluded he had come a long way from thinking that the religious angle was on the fringe. He had gone from bemused puzzlement at people thinking their loved ones had flown to heaven to believing that much of what was happening had been foretold in the Bible. He was no longer wondering or doubting, he told himself. There was no other explanation for the two witnesses in Jerusalem. Nor for the disappearances.

And the furthest stretch of all, this business of an Antichrist who deceives so many . . . well, in Buck’s mind it was no longer an issue of whether it was literal or true. He was long past that. He had already progressed to trying to decide who the Antichrist was: Carpathia or Stonagal. Buck still leaned toward Stonagal.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, tempted to take the gun from his bedside table but knowing he would never get it through the metal detectors. Anyway, he sensed, that was not the kind of protection he needed. What he needed was safekeeping for his mind and for his spirit.

All the way to the United Nations he agonized.
Do I pray?
he asked himself.
Do I “pray the prayer” as so many of those people said yesterday morning? Would I be doing it just to protect myself from the voodoo or the heebie-jeebies?
He decided that becoming a believer could not be for the purpose of having a good luck charm. That would cheapen it. Surely God didn’t work that way. And if Bruce Barnes could be believed, there was no more protection for believers now, during this period, than there was for anyone else. Huge numbers of people were going to die in the next seven years, Christian or not. The question was,
then
where would they be?

There was only one reason to make the transaction, he decided—if he truly believed he could be forgiven and become one of God’s people. God had become more than a force of nature or even a miracle worker to Buck, as God had been in the skies of Israel that night. It only made sense that if God made people, he would want to communicate with them, to connect with them.

Buck entered the U.N. through hordes of reporters already setting up for the press conference. Limousines disgorged VIPs and crowds waited behind police barriers. Buck saw Stanton Bailey in a crowd near the door. “What are you doing here?” Buck said, realizing that in five years at
Global
he had never seen Bailey outside the building.

“Just taking advantage of my position so I can be at this press conference. Proud you’re going to be in the preliminary meeting. Be sure to remember everything. Thanks for transmitting your first draft of the theory piece. I know you’ve got a lot to do yet, but it’s a terrific start. Gonna be a winner.”

“Thanks,” Buck said, and Bailey gave him a thumbs-up. Buck realized that if that had happened a month before, he would have had to stifle a laugh at the corny old guy and would have told his colleagues what an idiot he worked for. Now he was strangely grateful for the encouragement. Bailey could have no hint what Buck was going through.

Chloe Steele told her father of her plans to finally look into Internet classes that Monday. “And I was thinking,” she said, “about trying to get together with Hattie for lunch.”

“I thought you didn’t care for her,” Rayford said.

“I don’t, but that’s no excuse. She doesn’t even know what’s happened to me. She’s not answering her phone. Any idea what her schedule is?”

“No, but I have to check my own. I’ll see if she’s flying today.”

Rayford was told that not only was Hattie not scheduled that day but also that she had requested a thirty-day leave of absence. “That’s odd,” he told Chloe. “Maybe she’s got family troubles out West.”

“Maybe she’s just taking some time off,” Chloe said. “I’ll call her later when I’m out. What are you doing today?”

“I promised Bruce I’d come over and watch that Carpathia press conference later this morning.”

“What time’s that?”

“Ten our time, I think.”

“Well, if Hattie’s not around for lunch, maybe I’ll come by there.”

“Call us either way, hon, and we’ll wait for you.”

Buck’s credentials were waiting for him at an information desk in the U.N. lobby. He was directed up to a private conference room off the suite of offices into which Nicolae Carpathia had already moved. Buck was at least twenty minutes early, but as he emerged from the elevator he felt alone in a crowd. He saw no one he recognized as he began the long walk down a corridor of glass and steel leading to the room where he was to join Steve, the ten designated ambassadors representing the permanent members of the new Security Council, several aides and advisers to the new secretary-general (including Rosenzweig, Stonagal, and various other members of his international brotherhood of financial wizards), and of course, Carpathia himself.

Buck had always been energetic and confident. Others had noticed his purposeful stride on assignment. Now his gait was slow and unsure, and with every step his dread increased. The lights seemed to grow dimmer, the walls close in. His pulse increased and he had a sense of foreboding.

The gripping fear reminded him of Israel, when he believed he was going to die. Was he about to die? He couldn’t imagine physical danger, yet clearly people who got in Carpathia’s way, or in the way of Stonagal’s plans for Carpathia, were now dead. Would he be just another in a line that stretched from Carpathia’s business rival in Romania years before, through Dirk Burton and Alan Tompkins, to Eric Miller?

No, what he feared, he knew, was not mortal danger. At least not now, not here. The closer he got to the conference room, the more he was repelled by a sense of evil, as if personified in that place. Almost without thinking, Buck found himself silently praying,
God, be with me. Protect me.

He felt no sense of relief. If anything, his thoughts of God made his recognition of evil more intense. He stopped ten feet from the open door, and though he heard laughter and banter, he was nearly paralyzed by the atmosphere of blackness. He wanted to be anywhere but there, and yet he knew he could not retreat. This was the room in which the new leaders of the world congregated, and any sane person would have given anything to be there.

Buck realized that what he really wanted was to have been there. He wished it were over, that he had seen this welcoming of new people, this brief speech of commitment or whatever it was to be, and was already writing about it.

He tried to force himself toward the door, his thoughts deafening. Again he cried out to God, and he felt a coward—just like everyone else, praying in the foxhole. He had ignored God for most of his life, and now when he felt the darkest anguish of his soul, he was figuratively on his knees.

Yet he did not belong to God. Not yet. He knew that. God had answered Chloe’s prayer for a sign before she had actually made the spiritual transaction. Why couldn’t he have answered Buck’s plea for calm and peace?

Buck could not move until Steve Plank noticed him. “Buck! We’re almost ready to begin. Come on in.”

But Buck felt terrible, panicky. “Steve, I need to run to the washroom. Do I have a minute?”

Steve glanced at his watch. “You’ve got five,” he said. “And when you get back, you’ll be right over there.”

Steve pointed to a chair at one corner of a square block of tables. The journalist in Buck liked it. The perfect vantage point. His eyes darted to the nameplates in front of each spot. He would face the main table, where Carpathia had placed himself directly next to Stonagal . . . or had Stonagal been in charge of the seating? Next to Carpathia on the other side was a hastily hand-lettered nameplate with “Personal Assistant” written on it. “Is that you?” Buck said.

“Nope.” Steve pointed at the corner opposite Buck’s chair.

“Is Todd-Cothran here?” Buck said.

“Of course. Right there in the light gray.”

The Brit looked insignificant enough. But just beyond him were both Stonagal—in charcoal—and Carpathia, looking perfect in a black suit, white shirt, electric-blue tie, and a gold stickpin. Buck shuddered at the sight of him, but Carpathia flashed a smile and waved him over. Buck signaled that he would be a minute. “Now you’ve got only four minutes,” Steve said. “Get going.”

Buck put his bag in a corner next to a heavyset, white-haired security guard, waved at his old friend Chaim Rosenzweig, and jogged to the washroom. He placed a janitor’s bucket outside and locked the door. Buck backed up against the door, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and dropped his chin to his chest, remembering Bruce’s advice that he could talk to God the same way he talked to a friend. “God,” he said, “I need you, and not just for this meeting.”

And as he prayed he believed. This was no experiment, no halfhearted attempt. He wasn’t just hoping or trying something out. Buck knew he was talking to God himself. He admitted he needed God, that he knew he was as lost and as sinful as anyone. He didn’t specifically pray the prayer he had heard others talk about, but when he finished he had covered the same territory and the deal was done. Buck was not the type to go into anything lightly. As well as he knew anything, he knew there would be no turning back.

Buck headed to the conference room, more quickly this time but strangely with no more confidence. He hadn’t prayed for courage or peace this time. This prayer had been for his own soul. He hadn’t known what he would feel, but he didn’t expect this continued sense of dread.

He didn’t hesitate, however. When he walked in, everyone was in place—Carpathia, Stonagal, Todd-Cothran, Rosenzweig, Steve, and the financial powers and ambassadors. And one person Buck never expected—Hattie Durham. He stared, dumbfounded, as she took her place as Nicolae Carpathia’s personal assistant. She winked at him, but he did not acknowledge her. He hurried to his bag, nodded his thanks to the armed guard, and took only a notebook to his seat.

While no special feeling had come with Buck’s decision, he had a heightened sensitivity that something was happening here. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the Antichrist of the Bible was in this room. And despite all he knew about Stonagal and what the man had engineered in England and despite the ill feeling that came over him as he observed his smugness, Buck sensed the truest, deepest, darkest spirit of evil as he watched Carpathia take his place. Nicolae waited till everyone was seated, then rose with pseudodignity.

“Gentlemen . . . and lady,” he began, “this is an important moment. In a few minutes we will greet the press and introduce those of you who shall be entrusted to lead the new world order into a golden era. The global village has become united, and we face the greatest task and the greatest opportunity ever bestowed upon humankind.”