The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (206 page)

“Well, OK. I know that with someone of your ability and savvy here, nobody needs me worrying about security or public relations—”

“We should all worry about those things all the time.”

“It just seemed to me that the report of her death looked suspicious. I mean, maybe I’ve read too many mystery novels, but wasn’t it a little too convenient? Was any wreckage ever found, any bodies? Just enough of her stuff to make it look like she died?”

“David, sit down. Now I insist. That’s good thinking. The truth is that Miss Durham’s so-called fatal plane crash never happened. I put our intelligence enforcement chief on it as soon as word came in, and the fact is that Miss Durham, her amateur pilot, and the plane were quickly traced. The pilot unwisely put up a fight when our people asked to interrogate Miss Durham, and he was unfortunately killed in an exchange of gunfire. You understand that for reasons of security and morale, not all such incidents are covered in the press.”

“Of course.”

“Miss Durham is in custody.”

“Custody?”

“She’s in a comfortable but secure facility in Brussels, charged with the false report of a death. She really is no threat to the Global Community, but we’re hoping to lure her compatriots to her original hiding place. She will be released once they have been dealt with.”

“Her compatriots?”

“Former GC employees and Ben-Judah sympathizers had provided her asylum when her presence was required in New Babylon. They are much more of a threat than she is.”

“So she became bait, and it was her own fault.”

“Precisely.”

“And this trap, it was your idea?”

“Well, we work as a team here, David.”

“But it was, wasn’t it? It’s how you think. It’s the street smarts.”

Fortunato cocked his head. “We surround ourselves with good people, and when no one cares who gets the credit, much can be accomplished.”

“But luring the compatriots, that was yours.”

“I believe it may have been.”

“And did it work?”

“It may yet. No one knows of the death of the pilot. We sent word to his brother, whom we know to have been an accomplice, that he was in hiding and would not hear from him for several months.”

“Brilliant!”

Fortunato nodded as if he couldn’t argue.

“I won’t take any more of your time, Commander, and I don’t guess I’ll let this kind of stuff bother me anymore either, knowing you and your people are on top of everything.”

“Well, don’t feel bad about a good hunch there, and never hesitate to ask if something’s not clear to you. We put a lot of confidence in a person at your level and with your scope of responsibilities. Not everyone has this kind of access or information, of course, so—”

“Say no more, sir,” David said, rising. “I appreciate it more than I can say.”

Rayford had handled a huge chunk of the flying across the Atlantic, but that hadn’t slowed Dwayne’s oral output. Rayford enjoyed it, actually, though he would have appreciated getting to know Trudy as well. When it was finally time to turn the controls back to Dwayne, Rayford decided to place his call to Albie (shortened from Al B., which in turn had been shortened from Al Basrah).

Albie was the chief air traffic controller at Al Basrah, a city on the southern end of the Tigris near the Persian Gulf. He was almost totally unknown far and wide as the best black marketer in the business. Mac had introduced him to Rayford, and it had been Albie who supplied the scuba equipment for Rayford’s forage to the wreckage in the Tigris.

Albie, a devout Muslim, hated the Carpathia regime passionately and was one of few Gentile non-Christians who also steadfastly resisted Enigma Babylon One World Faith. His business was simple. To people he trusted with his life, he could provide anything for a price. That was double retail plus expenses, and if you were caught with contraband, he had never heard of you.

Dwayne was, for the moment, uncharacteristically quiet, and Trudy was dozing. Rayford dug through his bag and used his ultimate phone—Mac’s term for David’s hybrid because it could do anything from anywhere.

The number was ringing when Dwayne noticed the equipment. “Now that there is what I call a phone! Uh-
huh!
Yes, sir, that is a phone and a half. I’ll bet that’s got whistles and bells I’ve never even heard of and—”

Rayford held up a finger and said, “I’ll let you take a look at it in a minute.”

“I’ll be countin’ the seconds, pardner. I sure will.”

“Al Basrah tower, Albie speaking.”

“Albie, Rayford Steele. Can you talk?”

“From east at four knots. Your situation?”

“I want to meet with you about a purchase.”

“Affirmative. Sorry for negative previous endeavor. First officer?”

“Mac is recovering. I’m sure you heard about—”

“Affirmative. Hold please.” Albie covered the phone and Rayford heard him speaking in his own tongue. He came back on. “I’m alone now, Mr. Steele. I was so sorry to hear of your wife.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve also been very worried about Mac. I have heard nothing from him for a while. Of course, as captain now he doesn’t need my services as much. What can I do for you?”

“I need a weapon, concealable but powerful.”

“In other words you want it to do what it is intended to do.”

“You’re reading loud and clear, Albie.”

“Very difficult. The potentate being a pacifist—”

“Means you’re the only reliable source.”

“Very difficult.”

“But not impossible for you, right?”

“Very difficult,” Albie said.

“Expensive, in other words?”

“Now you’re reading
me
loud and clear.”

“If money were not an issue, does something come to mind?”

“How concealable are we talking about? You want one that’ll hide from a metal detector?”

“That’s possible?”

“Made of wood and plastic. Can fire two rounds, three tops, before it disintegrates. Limited range, of course. No kill power past twenty feet.”

“This has to do the job from thirty yards. One shot.”

“Mr. Steele, I have access to just the weapon. It is roughly the size of your hand. Heavy, thus accurate. Weight is due to firing mechanism, which is normally used in oversized high-powered rifles.”

“What kind of action?”

“Unique. It employs both fuel injection and hydraulic vacuum.”

“Sounds like an engine. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Who has? It propels a projectile at two thousand miles an hour.”

“Ammunition?”

“Forty-eight caliber, high speed—naturally, soft tip, hollow point.”

“In a handgun?”

“Mr. Steele, the air displacement caused by the spinning of the bullet alone has been known to sever human tissue from two inches away.”

“I don’t follow.”

“A man was fired at with one of these pistols from approximately thirty feet away. The shot tore through his skin and damaged subcutaneous tissue in his upper arm. Doctors later determined that there were zero traces of metal in the tissue. The damage had been done by the speed with which the air around the spinning bullet was displaced.”

“Oh, my. You know what I need to hear. Hundreds?”

“Thousands.”

“Thousand?”

“Thous
ands
plural, my friend.”

“How many?”

“Depends on where you take delivery, whether we meet—which I prefer.”

David was frustrated. He had sprinted back to his quarters and called Rayford, whose phone went to voice mail. That phone had everything, but if Rayford chose to stay on another call rather than pick up, there was nothing David could do about it.

He dialed again. Still nothing.

“I didn’t intend to listen in there, Cap, but that sounds like quite a piece of hardware you’re orderin’. I like that you don’t care if it’s illegal. It’s not like we’re subject to the laws of the Antichrist.”

“That’s my view. You wanted to see the phone?”

“Yeah, thanks. Take over here, will ya?”

Dwayne turned the phone over and over, hefting it in his palm. “Heavy sucker. Probably does everything but cook your breakfast, am I right?”

“It’ll even do that, unless you want scrambled.”

“Ha! Tru, d’you hear that?! Oh!” He put his hand over his mouth when he saw his wife was sleeping. Then he whispered. “Is this one of them that’ll send or receive from anywhere, all that?”

Rayford nodded. “Best part is it’s secure. It uses four different channels a second, so it’s untraceable, untappable. Lots of goodies.”

“You keep it in your bag?” Dwayne said.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Dwayne switched it off and reached behind Rayford to set it in his flight bag. On second thought, he pulled it back out and turned the main power toggle off as well to save the battery.

“I’ll take ’er now,” Dwayne said, resuming control of the plane. “And if I’m not bein’ too much of a nosy Nellie, can you tell me what you’re gonna use such a powerful handgun for?”

Rayford thought a moment. He’d made it a practice to be open with fellow believers, even about Tribulation Force matters. He might not reveal the location of the safe house or tell someone’s phony ID name, just so the hearer wouldn’t have to suffer for something he didn’t need to know. But the gun was personal, which stabbed at Rayford because he knew well where the big money was coming from. At the moment he couldn’t imagine following through with his plan.

“The Global Community may be pacifistic and weaponless by law,” he said. “But we lost a pilot to gunfire, and almost every one of us has been shot at, at least once, and a few hit. Buck and Tsion were shot at—Buck was hit—escaping Israel through Egypt. Buck was shot at helping Hattie escape a GC facility in Colorado. Our newest member and I were shot at recently. And you know what happened to Mac and Abdullah.”

“I hear you, bro. You’ll get no argument from me. Sounds like it would be pretty expensive to issue one of those babies to everybody though.”

“I’ll personally test it first,” Rayford said.

“Good idea. ’Course, the two you just mentioned would never be able to carry weapons in their jobs. You’d almost have to plant theirs on board.”

“We did that when I was captain of
Global Community One.
Had a couple of pistols secured in the cargo hold. Would have been awful hard to get to, but they were a last resort. Of course, now they’re gone forever.”

“By the way, Rafe,” Dwayne said, pointing to the horizon, “that would be what we in the aviation trade refer to as the sun. Our ETA is forty minutes. Customs in Le Havre is pretty much by the book, if you haven’t been there. You got the British visa stamp?”

Rayford nodded.

“Did I ask you who you are today and why I ferried you across the channel from England?”

Rayford pulled out his passport and flipped it open. “Thomas Agee. Import/export. And you are?”

Dwayne smiled and affected a dead-on British accent. He handed Rayford two United States of Britain passports. “At your service, sir.”

Rayford read aloud, “Ian Hill. And the wife’s . . . Elva. Nice to meet you both.”