The Regime: Evil Advances (Before They Were Left Behind Book 2) Page 3

  "Not that I am aware of," Nicolae said. "Do you consider that an obstacle?"

  "No, sir," Planchette said. "A challenge, of course."

  "Good. Then that shall be your assignment. Make it happen. If I have to donate a weapon of war or two, so be it."

  "May I know your ultimate purpose, Nicolae?" Planchette said. "Just so we're all on the same page?"

  Carpathia gazed at Planchette, closed his eyes, and sighed. "Surely you are assuming my plan has an overarching aim."

  "Of course."

  "Then listen and you will learn."

  By the time the Steele family got home from church, Rayford was already wavering on the commitments he'd made to God during his crisis. If he could just drag himself out of bed on Sunday mornings and sit through church, fine. But to endure Irene and her higher-than-a-kite response to everything--that he wasn't so sure he could deal with.

  "Reverend Bohrer is a wonderful person, no doubt," she said, sitting at the dinner table. "But did you really listen, Rafe?"

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  "I tried to, but the wind gusts alone from the turning of those big Bible pages drowned out half his words."

  "Very funny. But that's just it. He was proof texting. Know what that means?"

  "I went to college too, Irene."

  "He used only two verses, but rather than tell us what they meant based on his own careful study, he worked at making them fit his point, which wasn't that profound."

  "So we're going to have roast pastor for dinner?"

  "I'm not saying a thing to you I wouldn't say to him," Irene said. "In fact, maybe we should invite him and his wife to Sunday dinner next week so I can get into this with him."

  Rayford let his chin fall to his chest. "I'd rather be drawn and quartered."

  "You don't want to talk about this stuff?"

  "I don't even want to think about it. I thought his talk was fine today, hon. I felt uplifted, encouraged."

  "Really?"

  "Yes!"

  "Refresh me. What was his point?"

  "His point?"

  "That should be easy, Rafe. It uplifted and encouraged you."

  Rayford shrugged and shook his head. "Be nice to everyone and live in peace. Bottom line."

  "Profound."

  "Does he have to be profound every week? What do you expect?"

  "You could have delivered that message, Rayford.

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  So could I. Is it wrong for me to expect some meat from a pastor, something from the Bible I wouldn't otherwise understand? Jackie says her pastor studied the original biblical languages in seminary, and while he doesn't overwhelm people with it, he tries to explain what things mean in the Hebrew or Greek."

  "Sounds like a barrel of laughs."

  "I don't want to just be made to feel good, Rayford. I want to be challenged, taught. I want to grow in my faith."

  Rayford bit his tongue.

  "What, Rafe? What's on your mind?"

  He finished a bite and slid his chair back. "I just don't want to be this much into it, Irene. Can't you leave the rah-rah part to the professionals, the ministers, the full-timers? We go to church to worship and fellowship and get re-centered. I'm not going to be a missionary, a zealot, or an evangelist. And, I hope, neither are you."

  "While I am studying warfare," Nicolae said, "I want to expand the business."

  "Expand?" Planchette said, and Viv looked surprised too. "How much bigger can we ... er ... you get?"

  "Oh, much!" Nicolae said. "We should never feel we have arrived. This business should grow by at least 20 percent a year or be considered a failure."

  "But we're profitable, and will be even if we have flat growth for two or three years."

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  "Flat growth is an oxymoron, Reiche," Nicolae said. "And how can you say that with inflation the way it is? The markets in the West have reopened, and the only way to take advantage of that is to borrow a hundred million and start trading."

  "A hundred million?" Viv said.

  "You have to think big," Nicolae said. "If I did not believe I could parlay that into a gain of at least 20 percent, I would not dream of it."

  "Mr. Stonagal has been most supportive," Planchette said. "But a hundred million?"

  "I do not propose we go to Stonagal for any of this. I would put up a portion of the company as collateral and do it through a European bank."

  Carpathia could not help but notice the skepticism on the faces of his entire team. But he wasn't worried. That was merely fuel. He enjoyed surprising and impressing them as much as he did convincing them. They would be bowing and scraping a year from now.

  "My political advisers tell me that the fastest route to the Chamber of Deputies would be through the Social Democratic Party. The Greater Party or the Liberal Party is less attractive, and the Hungarian Democrats are out of the question. I, however, would insist on running as an independent."

  "Independents don't win, as a rule," Viv said. "Are you sure that's the best route to the Adunarea Deputatilor?"

  "I will run as a pacifist."

  That had the desired effect. The staff looked at each other, scowling, then back at him.

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  "A pacifist," Planchette said. "Then why the military training?"

  "To be a dichotomy, a conundrum; to have to explain myself. The more people wonder about you, the more press time you get. I will be a military expert who has decided war is futile and hopeless. The wave of the future is peace. What could be more popular than that?"

  "You realize that your major benefactor is huge into armaments."

  "Do you assume I work for or cater to Mr. Stonagal? What do I have to do to disabuse you of that notion?"

  "I believe you just did," Planchette said.

  "Jackie has been inviting me to weekly meetings, Bible studies," Irene said. "Maybe that would give me what I need."

  "That's a rather transparent way to get you thinking about switching churches," Rayford said.

  "Oh, I don't think Jackie has ulterior motives," she said.

  Rayford stood and began clearing the table. "Well, I do," he said. "If going to little meetings like that will keep you from complaining about our church, feel free. But let me go on record right now: I'm not switching. I like where we are, and I said I would keep going, so I will. But nowhere else, and no extra meetings."

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  FOUR

  Carpathian International Trading's purse strings were tended by a swarthy little man who went by merely Ion. On their way to the Intercontinental Bank in Bucharest, it appeared to Nicolae that Ion had never been in a Bentley before.

  With his briefcase in his lap and files that wouldn't fit inside stacked precariously on top, Ion looked everywhere but at his boss. His ill-fitting suit was buttoned all the way up.

  "You are certain that I need to be along, Ion?"

  "Oh yes, sir," he said. "It would be easy for them to turn me down. But having to face you in person, well, I believe they will be impressed."

  "You can prove my business is more than good collateral?"

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  "Of course. In fact, you will likely need to put up only a portion of it."

  "Do you speak English, Ion?"

  "Not so much, no, sir."

  "You know, in English your name is not pronounced E-on. It is pronounced Eye-on. An atomic term. And when the American wants something watched over, he 'keeps an eye on' it, which sounds the same. That is the role you will serve today. Once we secure the financing, of course."

  It was clear the play on words was lost on Ion. "I was named after the Romanian playwright Ionesco." He busied himself peeking at file summaries he said he had finalized late the night before.

  When they reached the bank and Ion opened his door, he knocked it into the bodyguard who was trying to open it for him. Then he didn't seem to know whether to wait for Nicolae or simply to hurry into the bank and ask for the officer with whom he had made the appointment.

  Nicolae caught up to him, and it became clear that their meeting was with several of the brass.

  After pleasantries, the senior lending officer said, "Mr. Carpathia, we have your prospectus, of course, but perhaps you would care to personally walk us through your plans, should we see our way clear to front your company one hundred million."

  Jackie and Irene sat at the park, watching their kids while chatting. To Irene it seemed Jackie could barely contain herself. "If you've received Christ, Irene," she

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  said, "you must get into a Bible-believing, Bible-teaching church that will help you grow."

  "I know. And yours sounds wonderful. But Rayford is dead set against it. I'm tempted to go anyway."

  "I don't recommend that," Jackie said. "No sense alienating him. How about one of our weekly Bible studies?"

  "He says that's okay if it keeps me from switching churches, but I know it will annoy him."

  "I've got it!" Jackie said. "One day a week you bring Raymie to my house at nap time, and I'll put Brianna down at the same time. Then I could mentor you through a simple formula our church uses one-on-one and in small groups all the time."

  Irene smiled. "Would there be homework?"

  "You bet there would." Jackie outlined a plan that called for Irene to read at least one chapter from the New Testament each day and keep a daily journal of what she learned. She was also to read one of the very short New Testament books each day--like 1 John or Philippians. "You also make a list of ten people you're concerned about and pray for them. Then we'll get together every week and debrief."

  Irene could only imagine how that would all sound to Rayford. Maybe she wouldn't tell him until the time was right. To her, it sounded perfect.

  Nicolae was glad to have the floor at th
e bank. "I want to take advantage of globalism," he said. "I want to buy

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  and sell and trade at the touch of a button. I am particularly intrigued by the new electronic technology originating in the United States and want to contract to bring oral-cellular communications to Europe. Have you heard of it?"

  "Where they implant sensors in your teeth?" an officer said.

  "Exactly. You hear the vibrations and tones directly in your mouth and inner ear, and no one else can hear them. It is sweeping the States, and I aim to corner the market on it here. Ion can show you in a matter of minutes that my company is worth well more than what I am seeking."

  It turned out to be almost too easy. Ion was nervous but thorough. The bank agreed that time was of the essence. They prepared documents outlining the schedule of payouts and paybacks on the money, and Nicolae left with assurances that the first fifth of the amount would be in his business account by the close of the next day.

  Twenty-one-year-old Cameron Williams lounged in ancient Nassau Hall on the campus of Princeton University in New Jersey, idly leafing through Global Weekly magazine while waiting for his date. She lived in student housing a few blocks south but insisted on meeting him here. His own dorm was to the north.

  Cameron read Global Weekly every chance he got.

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  His dream was to win an internship there before leaving Princeton, his ultimate goal working for the magazine. Time or Newsweek would be all right too, but he considered GW the ultimate.

  A short piece in the People section caught his eye. A Pan-Con Airlines pilot was being lauded for averting a crash in Los Angeles, certainly saving the lives of hundreds aboard both his and a US Air craft on the ground. Captain Rayford Steele had gone from being suspected of procedural improprieties to hero status when the airlines and the National Transportation Safety Board concluded their investigations. Apparently the craft had been deemed sound before takeoff, a minor issue having been taken care of, and the captain had followed protocol. But after losing an engine and facing limited visibility, he'd had to manhandle the plane to safety.

  Cameron glanced at his watch and tossed the magazine on a table. He stood and checked his longish blond hair in a mirror. He missed Tucson, but the Ivy League was the place to be if he wanted a career in frontline journalism. Sure, Princeton was known for its emphasis on architecture, engineering, and science, but its preceptorial approach, fostering self-study and individualism, fit Cameron perfectly. The journalism track in liberal arts should prove to be a stepping-stone to the career he wanted.

  Cameron Williams didn't want to just read about heroes. He didn't even care to be one. He just wanted to write about them.

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  Something was happening with Rayford, and he couldn't make sense of it. After three consecutive weeks when he was coincidentally off work on Sundays and able to attend church with Irene and the kids, he found himself restless, uncomfortable.

  He was too young for a midlife crisis, and yet this had all the earmarks. It was as if he had settled into the life he had dreamed of and was now wondering if this was all there was. He had an attractive, even vivacious wife, a perky blonde daughter who reminded him of himself, and a young son, on whom he pinned many dreams. They had a nice home and two cars they shouldn't have stretched to afford.

  Rayford had even enjoyed a brief season of celebrity. His heroics at LAX--though they had hardly seemed so at the time; desperate measures were more like it--had earned him a squib in all three major newsweeklies, appearances on two Chicago TV news shows, a spot on one of the network morning shows, and a summons to Washington for him and his boss, Earl Halliday. They gained an audience with none other than the president of Pan-Con himself, Leonard Gustafson.

  In truth, Rayford had thought Earl's secretary was kidding when she called to tell him of the invite. "Yeah, Francine, and I'm the Easter bunny."

  But it had been true, and he enjoyed the ride with Earl, as first-class passengers, and the privilege of meeting the legendary Gustafson. He proved shorter than Rayford-- most men were--and even thinner than the wispy Earl,

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  but being ex-military, Gustafson had that bearing that commanded respect.

  Rayford had always been a bit of a Boy Scout--formal, courteous, moderate in his appetites. So it hit him strange that both Gustafson and Halliday thought nothing of having a stiff shot of scotch in Gustafson's office in the middle of the afternoon. On the other hand, he didn't want to seem rude by rejecting the offered drink.

  "You can imagine," the president said at last, "that I can't have a sit-down with every pilot who does what he's been trained to do."

  "Yes, frankly, I was wondering what all the fuss was about," said Rayford.

  "Well, that's just it," Gustafson said. "Had you reveled in the attention, I would have let that be the extent of it. That would have been your reward; know what I mean? But Pan-Con looks for examples, men and women we are proud to have wearing our wings. Your feat was extraordinary. Not unique, but special nonetheless. But how you've handled it has been exemplary. You didn't make it into something it wasn't. And what you said on the Today show about it being the thing that any trained pilot would have to try, that was spot-on. So congratulations, thanks, and be aware that I have put your name on the short list as a substitute on Air Force One and Air Force Two."

  "Sir?"

  "As you know, occasionally we get asked for referrals if there is ever a need for backup for the president or the vice president. Such opportunities are rare, because the

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  full-time job always goes to a military pilot, and there are several pilots ahead of you on the sub list. But a lot goes into a recommendation. Even a man's looks. How he wears the uniform, carries himself, deals with the press. There might be a hundred men more qualified than you on our team across the country, but your little brush with notoriety made you visible. So, good for you."

  Rayford was flattered, of course. He didn't expect anything to materialize from the Air Force One thing, given that substituting was mostly honorary and there were several ahead of him. But it did get him thinking about whether a big honor like that should be a career goal. He'd not had a dream higher than where he sat every few days--in the cockpit of a 747. And yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something had been nagging him. Had he peaked too soon, achieved his goals, realized his dreams?

  On the flight back, since he had already had a couple of belts in Gustafson's office, Rayford surprised himself and wondered if he noticed a double take on Halliday's part when he accepted a couple more hard drinks.

  "Glad you're just a passenger," Earl said.

  Rayford laughed a little too loudly. "Don't worry," he said. "You know me."

  "Thought I did."

  "C'mon, Earl. We're celebrating, aren't we?"

  In truth, Rayford had never been a problem drinker. He rarely got drunk, even on the golf course, sipping beers for four or five hours at a time on Saturdays and as soon as he could get away from home after church on Sundays.

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  Maybe that was his problem. He felt guilty leaving Irene with the kids for the better part of the weekends he was home. And yet he told himself--and her when she mentioned it--that he deserved his own time. He worked hard. His job was high stress.

  So many shots of the good stuff in one afternoon was unusual enough for Rayford that they knocked him out and he slept soundly, even through dinner--normally pretty good in first class.

  "That's quite all right," Halliday said later. "I needed your butter and your dessert anyway."

  "Not like me," Rayford said. "I usually sleep light enough that smells wake me, especially hot food right under my nose."

  Still logy, Rayford was long enough from his last drink to trust himself to drive home. But this was the day Irene had her meeting with Jackie. Well, the women saw each other almost every day, but this was the official one, the study one, their own little mentoring-and-accountability group. Deep down Rayford wished he had a friend like Irene did. But still he dreaded her rambling accounts of all that had gone on.