Left Behind Page 33

  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.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Nicolae Carpathia stepped out from his place at the table and went to each person individually. He greeted each by name, asking him to stand, shaking his hand, and kissing him on both cheeks. He skipped Hattie and started with the new British ambassador.

  “Mr. Todd-Cothran,” he said, “you shall be introduced as the ambassador of the Great States of Britain, which now include much of Western and Eastern Europe. I welcome you to the team and confer upon you all the rights and privileges that go with your new station. May you display to me and to those in your charge the consistency and wisdom that have brought you to this position.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Todd-Cothran said, and sat down as Carpathia moved on. Todd-Cothran appeared shocked, as did several others, when Nicolae repeated the same sentiment, including precisely the same title—ambassador of the Great States of Britain—to the British financier next to him. Todd-Cothran smiled tolerantly. Obviously, Carpathia had merely misspoken and should have referred to the man as one of his financial advisers. Yet Buck had never seen Carpathia make such a slip.

  All around the four-sided table configuration Carpathia went, one by one, saying exactly the same words to every ambassador, but customizing the litany to include the appropriate name and title. The recitation changed only slightly for his personal aides and advisers.

  When Carpathia got to Buck he seemed to hesitate. Buck was slow on the draw, as if he wasn’t sure he was to be included in this. Carpathia’s warm smile welcomed him to stand. Buck was slightly off balance, trying to hold pen and notebook while shaking hands with the dramatic Carpathia. Nicolae’s grip was firm and strong, and he maintained it throughout his recitation. He looked directly into Buck’s eyes and spoke with quiet authority.

  “Mr. Williams,” he said, “I welcome you to the team and confer upon you all the rights and privileges that go with your station. . . .”

  What was this? It was not what Buck expected, but it was so affirming, so flattering. He was not part of any team, and no rights or privileges should be conferred upon him! He shook his head slightly to signal that Carpathia was again confused, that he had apparently mistaken Buck for someone else. But Nicolae nodded slightly and smiled all the more, looking more deeply into Buck’s eyes. He knew what he was doing.

  “May you display to me and to those in your charge the consistency and wisdom that have brought you to this position.”

  Buck wanted to stand taller, to thank his mentor, his leader, the bestower of this honor. But no! It wasn’t right! He didn’t work for Carpathia. He was an independent journalist, not a supporter, not a follower, and certainly not an employee. His spirit resisted the temptation to say, “Thank you, sir,” as everyone else had. He sensed and read the evil of the man and it was all he could do to keep from pointing at him and calling him the Antichrist. He could almost hear himself screaming it at Carpathia.

  Nicolae still stared, still smiled, still gripped his hand. After an awkward silence, Buck heard chuckles, and Carpathia said, “You are most welcome, my slightly overcome and tongue-tied friend.” The others laughed and applauded as Carpathia kissed him, but Buck did not smile. Neither did he thank the secretary-general. Bile rose in his throat.

  As Carpathia moved on, Buck realized what he had endured. Had he not belonged to God he would have been swept into the web of this man of deceit. He could see it in the others’ faces. They were honored beyond measure to be elevated to this tier of power and confidence, even Chaim Rosenzweig. Hattie seemed to melt in Carpathia’s presence.

  Bruce Barnes had pleaded with Buck not to attend this meeting, and now Buck knew why. Had he come in unprepared, had he not been prayed for by Bruce and Chloe and probably Captain Steele, who knows whether he would have made his decision and his commitment to Christ in time to have the power to resist the lure of acceptance and power?

  Carpathia went through the ceremony with Steve, who gushed with pride. Nicolae eventually covered everyone in the room except the security guard, Hattie, and Jonathan Stonagal. He returned to his place and turned first to Hattie.

  “Ms. Durham,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “you shall be introduced as my personal assistant, having turned your back on a stellar career in the aviation industry. I welcome you to the team and confer upon you all the rights and privileges that go with your new station. May you display to me and to those in your charge the consistency and wisdom that have brought you to this position.”

  Buck tried to catch Hattie’s eye and shake his head, but she was zeroed in on her new boss. Was this Buck’s fault? He had introduced her to Carpathia in the first place. Was she still reachable? Would he have access? He glanced around the room. Everyone stared with beatific smiles as Hattie breathed her heartfelt thanks and sat down again.

  Carpathia dramatically turned to Jonathan Stonagal. The latter smiled a knowing smile and stood regally. “Where do I begin, Jonathan, my friend?” Carpathia said. Stonagal dropped his head gratefully and others murmured their agreement that this indeed was the man among men in the room. Carpathia took Stonagal’s hand and began formally, “Mr. Stonagal, you have meant more to me than anyone on earth.” Stonagal looked up and smiled, locking eyes with Carpathia.

  “I welcome you to the team,” Carpathia said, “and confer upon you all the rights and privileges that go with your new station.”

  Stonagal flinched, clearly not interested in being considered a part of the team, to be welcomed by the very man he had maneuvered into the presidency of Romania and now the secretary-generalship of the United Nations. His smile froze, then disappeared as Carpathia continued, “May you display to me and to those in your charge the consistency and wisdom that have brought you to this position.”

  Rather than thanking Carpathia, Stonagal wrenched his hand away and glared at the younger man. Carpathia continued to gaze directly at him and spoke in quieter, warmer tones, “Mr. Stonagal, you may be seated.”

  “I will not!” Stonagal said.

  “Sir, I have been having a bit of sport at your expense because I knew you would understand.”

  Stonagal reddened, clearly chagrined that he had overreacted. “I beg your pardon, Nicolae,” Stonagal said, forcing a smile but obviously insulted at having been pushed into this shocking display.

  “Please, my friend,” Carpathia said. “Please be seated. Gentlemen, and lady, we have only a few minutes before we meet the media.”

  Buck’s eyes were still on Stonagal, who was seething.

  “I would like to present to you all just a bit of an object lesson in leadership, followership, and may I say, chain of command. Mr. Scott M. Otterness, would you approach me, please?” The guard in the corner jerked in surprise and hurried to Carpathia. “One of my leadership techniques is my power of observation, combined with a prodigious memory,” Carpathia said.

  Buck couldn’t take his eyes off Stonagal, who appeared to be considering revenge for having been embarrassed. He seemed ready to stand at any second and put Carpathia in his place.

  “Mr. Otterness here was surprised because we had not been introduced, had we, sir?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Carpathia, sir, we had not.”

  “And yet I knew your name.”

  The aging guard smiled and nodded.

  “I can also tell you the make and model and caliber of the weapon you carry on your hip. I will not look as you remove it and di
splay it to this group.”

  Buck watched in horror as Mr. Otterness unsnapped the leather strap holding the huge gun in his holster. He fumbled for it and held it with two hands so everyone but Carpathia, who had averted his eyes, could see it. Stonagal, still red-faced, appeared to be hyperventilating.

  “I observed, sir, that you were issued a thirty-eight-caliber police special with a four-inch barrel, loaded with high-velocity hollow-point shells.”

  “You are correct,” Otterness said gleefully.

  “May I hold it, please?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Thank you. You may return to your post, guarding Mr. Williams’s bag, which contains a digital recorder, a cell phone, and a computer. Am I correct, Cameron?”

  Buck stared at him, refusing to answer. He heard Stonagal grumble about “some sort of a parlor trick.” Carpathia continued to look at Buck. Neither spoke. “What is this?” Stonagal whispered. “You’re acting like a child.”

  “I would like to tell you all what you are about to see,” Carpathia said, and Buck felt anew the wash of evil in the room. He wanted more than anything to rub the gooseflesh from his arms and run for his life. But he was frozen where he sat. The others seemed transfixed but not troubled, as he and Stonagal were.

  “I am going to ask Mr. Stonagal to rise once more,” Carpathia said, the large ugly weapon safely at his side. “Jonathan, if you please.”

  Stonagal sat staring at him. Carpathia smiled. “Jonathan, you know you can trust me. I love you for all you have meant to me, and I humbly ask you to assist me in this demonstration. I see part of my role as a teacher. You have said that yourself, and you have been my teacher for years.”