The four gathered around the computer, and Leah showed how she had found a program that helped her consolidate everything coming into or going out from the safe house. With a little thought and a few keystrokes, she then transmitted to everyone what the others had communicated. “This way we’ll never wonder who’s in the loop, who knows what, and who doesn’t. If Mac or David writes up an incident that everyone should know about, I see that everyone gets it.”
As they hurtled toward the midpoint of the Tribulation, Buck sensed they were as prepared as they could be.
Rayford had to give Dwayne his due. He may have been a loudmouth, but he had come up with the best plan for spiriting Rayford out of Le Havre. “We didn’t get to use my ideas for ditchin’ Hattie’s boyfriend,” he said, “so this is only fair.”
It was clear Trudy was proud of what she had accomplished that morning, but she was also still shaken and wanted no responsibility for another caper on their way out of the country.
She and her husband preceded Rayford to the airport by fifteen minutes to drop off their rental and get the plane ready for takeoff. Rayford would follow and drop off his car, then casually move to the back side of the lot where a fence separated the cars from the terminal. Dwayne had noticed that the area behind the fence led around the end of the terminal building and directly out to the runway. “You can either hop that fence and run to the plane—once you’ve heard it screamin’ and know we’re ready to go—or I can bring the plane close to that fence and make it easier for you.”
“Pros and cons?” Rayford said.
“It could be a long run to the plane, and you’ve been gimpy on that knee. On the other hand, if I bring the Super J to the fence, that’ll draw a lot of eyes and maybe even some freaked-out officials trying to keep me out of that area.”
They finally decided that Dwayne would get the plane into takeoff position and then ask permission to taxi out of the sun near the terminal to check out something underneath. That would put him closer to where Rayford could vault the fence. “I’ll tell ’em I heard a squeak in a wheel bearing and see if I can’t get ’em to poke around under there with me while you’re slipping aboard.”
All went well until Rayford pulled into the rental lot. The Super J was on the runway, engines whining. The rental attendant asked him something in French, then translated into English. “Are you keeping it on the charge card?”
Rayford nodded as the young man printed the receipt and kept looking from the handheld machine to Rayford’s eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, turning his back to Rayford and talking into his walkie-talkie. Rayford didn’t understand much of the French, but he was certain the man was asking a coworker something about “Agee, Thomas.”
The receipt was printing as the man spoke, but when he tore it off he didn’t hand it to Rayford. “No did go through,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Rayford said. “It’s right there.”
“Please to wait and I try again.”
“I’m late,” Rayford said, backing away and aware of movement near the terminal. “Send me a bill.”
“No, must you wait. Need new card.”
“Bill me,” Rayford said, looking over his shoulder to see the Super J slowly taxiing his direction. Three men ran from the terminal toward the rental lot. Rayford sprinted toward the fence, and the agent yelled for help.
Rayford guessed the fence was four and a half feet high and the Super J more than a hundred yards away, moving slowly. If Dwayne had succeeded, an inspector would likely walk out to meet the plane. The men racing into the lot were a hundred feet behind Rayford. They all looked young and athletic.
Rayford tried to scissor-kick his way over the fence but caught his lead heel on the top. That caused him to slow enough that gravity brought his seat down on the middle of the fence, and his momentum took him over. He grabbed the top to keep from slamming to the ground, but until he extricated his heel he hung upside down for a few seconds. He wiggled free and landed hard on his shoulder, jumped up, and lit out for the plane.
A look back revealed his pursuers clearing the fence with ease. If Dwayne didn’t increase his speed, Rayford would never outrun them. Rayford heard the acceleration of rpm’s and saw a man with a clipboard waving at Dwayne to slow. Fortunately he didn’t comply, and Trudy lowered the steps as Rayford headed for the door.
The men behind yelled at him to halt, and as Trudy leaned out, reaching, he heard their footsteps. Just as he left the ground to leap for the steps the fastest of the men dove and slapped Rayford’s trailing foot. He was thrown off balance and nearly flipped off the side of the stairs, but Trudy proved stronger than she looked. Rayford grabbed her wrist and was afraid he would pull her out the door with him, but as his weight dragged her to the floor, she turned lengthwise, her shoulders on one side of the opening and her knees on the other. He vaulted over her, Dwayne throttled up, and Rayford helped Trudy shut the door.
“That’s twice today you’ve saved my bacon,” Rayford said.
She smiled, shaking as she collapsed into a seat. “It’s the last time, too. I just retired.”
Dwayne whooped and hollered like a rodeo cowboy as the Super J shot into the sky. “She’s somethin’, ain’t she? Whoo boy!”
“Quite a machine,” Rayford said, dreading what he was going to feel like the next morning.
Dwayne gave him a puzzled look. “I wudd’n talkin’ about the Super J, pardner. I was talkin’ about the little woman.”
Trudy leaned forward and wrapped both arms around her husband’s neck. “Maybe you’ll quit calling me that now.”
“Darlin’,” he said, “I’ll call you anything your little ol’ heart desires. Whoo boy!”
“You heading west?” Rayford said suddenly.
“I can head any direction you want, Rafe. Say the word.”
“East.”
“East it is, and I’ll stay below the radar level awhile so they can forget about tracking us. Buckle up and hang on.”
He wasn’t kidding. Dwayne made the Super J change direction so fast, Rayford’s head was pinned to the chair.
“Like a roller coaster, eh? You gotta love this!”
Rayford muttered to himself.
“How’s that, Cap?” Dwayne said.
“I said you need to work up a little enthusiasm.”
Dwayne laughed until tears rolled.
Late in the day David received a private e-mail message from Annie, reporting that the head of her department and a couple of the other higher-ups had met briefly in Fortunato’s office. David wrote back, “I’d love you with all my heart even if you weren’t the most valuable mole in the place.”
While he skipped around his hard drive trying to retrieve the audio of the meeting in question, his status bar told him he had another message. Again it was from Annie. “I never dreamed of so lofty a compliment from the love of my life. Thank you from the bottom of my moley little heart. Love and kisses, AC.”
When David found the recording, he recognized the voice of his peer, the head of Annie’s department. He rambled through the obligatory kissing up, then turned the floor over to his intelligence analysis chief. Jim Hickman was brilliant but self-possessed and clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.
“These cultists,” Hickman began, “are what I like to call literalists. They believe ancient writings, particularly the Jewish Torah and the Christian New Testament, and they make no distinction between historical records—many of which have proved accurate—and figurative, symbolic languages of the so-called prophetic passages. For instance, anyone—myself included—with even a cursory background in the history of ancient civilizations knows that much of the so-called prophetic books of the Bible are not prophetic at all. Oh, after the fact of some strange natural phenomenon one could make some of the imaginative and descriptive language fit the event. For instance, the current rash of death by fire, smoke, and sulfur—which is clearly poison-vapor warfare, probably by this very group—becomes the fulfillment
of what they believe is a prophecy that includes monstrous horses with lions’ heads, ridden by 200 million men.”
“Are we going somewhere with this, Jim?” Fortunato said. “His Excellency is looking for specifics.”
“Oh, yes, Commander. All that to say this: as these people take these writings literally, they attribute to these two crazy preachers—”
“The potentate calls them the Jerusalem Twosome!” Fortunato said.
“Yes!” Hickman cried. “I love that! Anyway, the Ben-Judah-ites believe that these old coots are the so-called witnesses of the eleventh chapter of the book of Revelation. In their precious old King James translation the operative verse reads like this: ‘And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth.’”
“So that’s why those two dress in those burlap bags,” Fortunato said. “They’re trying to make us think they’re these—what did it say?—witnesses.”
Hickman dripped with condescension. “Exactly, Commander. And Ben-Judah has always held that this period began the day the one-world government entered into a peace agreement with Israel. You count exactly twelve hundred and sixty days from then, and you must have what the preachers themselves call the ‘due time.’”
Fortunato asked the others if they minded leaving him alone with Hickman for a moment. David heard the sliding of chairs, the door, people moving about. Then, “Jim, I need to confide something that’s troubling me. You’re a smart guy—”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And you and I both know there are things in those ancient writings that would be hard to fake.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Turning water to blood is being perpetrated by the same people who are killing us with germ warfare. It’s a trick, something planted in the water supply.”
“But at Kollek Stadium it seemed to happen to water already in bottles.”
“I’ve seen magicians do the same thing. Something in the mix responds to weather conditions—maybe when the temperature drops at a certain time in the evening. If you have an idea when that is, you can make it look like you caused the phenomenon.”
“But what about keeping it from raining for so long?”
“Coincidence! I’ve seen Israel go months without rain. What is new? It’s easy to claim you’re keeping it from raining when there is no rain. What will they say when the rain comes, that they decided to give us a break?”
“People who try to kill them wind up incinerated.”
“Someone said the two conceal a flamethrower they produce when the crowd has been distracted. Really, Commander, you’re not suggesting these two breathe fire.”
Fortunato was silent. Then, “Well, if they are not who they claim to be, how do we know they will be vulnerable at the prescribed moment?”
“We don’t. But either they are vulnerable or they are not who they say they are. Either way, we win. They lose.”
David would transmit the information to Tsion, but first he wanted to eavesdrop on Fortunato when he reported to Carpathia. He checked Fortunato’s and Margaret’s phones. Nothing. Fortunato’s office was quiet. He hit the mother lode when he tapped into Carpathia’s office. Fortunato had just summarized his conversation with Hickman.
“Twelve hundred and sixty days since the treaty,” Carpathia repeated. “We had already decided on a pageant. Now we know precisely when to stage it. You have your work cut out for you, Leon. You must turn the regional potentates against Peter the Second—not that they are not against him already, but it must result in his demise. I will leave it to you. Leave to me the so-called witnesses. The world, especially Israel, has long since looked forward to their end. For months I have believed it beneath me to personally rid the world of those two. I wondered about the public-relations fallout and considered merely sanctioning and ordering their killing by GC troops. But they will have so alienated even their own followers by then that doing it personally will be considered my crowning achievement so far.”
“If you’re certain.”
“You do not agree?”
“It would be so easy, Excellency. We could have it done without your being implicated. You could even decry the deed publicly, restating that you encourage freedom of speech and thought.”
“But not freedom to torment the world with plagues and judgments, Leon!”
“But doesn’t that imply that these men are who they say they are?”
“It makes no difference, do you not see? I want responsibility, credit, points for standing up to these impostors.”
“Of course, as always, Excellency, you know best.”
The Super J sat at the end of the runway at Al Basrah. Upon arrival, several airport workers had run barefoot to the plane, gawking at the sleek lines and the British flag. Where Dwayne’s Aussie alter ego “Dart” had “Fair Dinkum” emblazoned on the side, the decal now read “Black Angus.”
Rayford was impressed with how the British accent affected Dwayne’s posture and bearing and even his vocal volume. “Very good then, gents,” he said. “Ian Hill, proprietor, and the wife, Elva. Thanks so much for looking after the refueling.”
Rayford introduced himself as Jesse Gonder, and one of the workers gave him an envelope with keys and a note enclosed. “You remember the truck. Take it to this address and I will be along. Al B.”
Rayford found Albie’s ancient vehicle, and they chugged into town and a crowded marketplace. He and Dwayne and Trudy sat awaiting Albie in a bustling, stone-hewn café under a cloth roof.
Dwayne apparently knew enough to keep his voice down in public, especially while losing the British accent. The three sipped warm cans of soda as they—at least Rayford and Dwayne—spoke guardedly about the Tribulation Force. Trudy seemed to nap between sips. “I’m sorry,” she slurred. “Too much excitement for one day.”
“She’s a trooper,” Dwayne whispered, eyeing patrons at nearby tables who likely couldn’t understand anyway. “But I don’t guess she’s been this scared in her life.”
Trudy shook her head, then nodded, and her head bobbed again.
“That daughter of yours is smart as a whip, I don’t mind tellin’ ya, Rafe. I know you all must pitch in with ideas and such, but she’s got this co-op organized and coming along like nobody’s business. You know I’ve had a thing for bein’ bold about my beliefs.”
“I heard.”
“I’m gonna hafta put the kibosh on that as soon as the mark is required for buying and selling. It’ll be obvious enough where I stand, and the way I get it, at least from Pastor Ben-Judah’s messages, eventually I could lose my head. We all could.”
Rayford allowed a tired smile. His mind had been on Hattie and how foolishly she had allowed herself to be imprisoned. But he had never heard Tsion referred to as Pastor Ben-Judah, and he liked it. It fit. He was more than the pastor of the Trib Force. He was anybody’s pastor who chose to engage his daily cyberpulpit.
As Dwayne carried on about the honor of his and Trudy’s being the key southwest operatives of the Commodity Co-op, Rayford’s mind wandered to Leah’s suggestion. She was right; she was free of family obligations. Maybe she could be mobile. She was a small-time fugitive compared with the rest in the safe house. Her face wouldn’t be recognized by more than the local GC. With makeup, contact lenses, and hair dye, she could travel anywhere.
Even to Brussels.
She could pose as a relative of Hattie’s. Someone had to share the bad news of Hattie’s sister. Rayford hoped the GC would keep Hattie alive until she became a believer, but he didn’t mind their keeping her incarcerated until after the midpoint of the Tribulation. If she was free, she would try to get herself in position to kill Nicolae. Rayford had to admit to himself that he coveted that role. Though he knew it was ludicrous, his doing the deed wouldn’t be any more disastrous than Hattie’s doing it. Whoever did it was not going to get away with it. He prayed silently, “Lord, search my motives. I want what you want. I want Hattie sav
ed before she does something to get herself killed.”
“I’d like to meet that Greek you told me about,” Dwayne was saying. “Harvesting the ocean out of the Bering Strait, shipping grain from the southwest, and bartering produce in Greece is just part of what Miz Williams has ready to roll. It’s gonna be something, Rafe.”
A truck creakier than the dilapidated junker Albie lent them squealed to a stop in the narrow street and Albie hopped out. He smacked the truck on the side panel, and it roared off. Rayford stood to welcome him, but Albie—carrying a rolled-up brown paper bag—motioned that he should stay seated. Albie bowed to Trudy, but she was asleep, her chin in her hand.
“One of my people reports strangers about,” he whispered as he pulled up a chair.
“You can trust us, Mr. Albie,” Dwayne said.
“I trust by referral, sir,” Albie said. “You’re with him. Him I trust, you I trust.”
“Strangers where?” Rayford said, not eager to engage the GC again. “Here?”
“You would never see them here,” Albie said. “That doesn’t mean they are not here. They have learned to blend.”
“Where then?”
“At the airport.”
“We have to have access to that plane, Albie.”
“Don’t worry. I had someone slap a GC quarantine sign on the door, warning of sulfur vapors on board. No one will dare go near it. And as far as I know, for now no GC craft are at the airstrip. If you can get up and away and stay below radar awhile, you can escape.”
“But are they looking for us?”
Albie shrugged. “I am an entrepreneur, not a spy. You would know better than I. Come, let me show you your merchandise. Do you want your friends to see it too?”