The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (47 page)

“What I cannot imagine, Chaim, is an avowed pacifist, a rabid global-disarmament proponent for his entire political career, threatening to blow countries off the face of the earth.”

“It’s only semantics, Cameron,” Rosenzweig said. “Nicolae is a pragmatist. There is a good bit of the idealist in him, of course, but he knows that the best way to keep the peace is to have the wherewithal to enforce it.”

“And this agreement lasts for—?”

“As long as we want it. We offered ten years, but Nicolae said he would not require the freedom to license the formula for that long. He said he would ask for only seven years, and then the full rights to the formula return to us. Most generous. And if we want to renew the agreement every seven years, we are free to do that, too.”

You won’t have any need for a peace treaty in seven years,
Buck thought. “So, what does this have to do with me?” he asked.

“That’s the best part,” Rosenzweig said. “At least for me, because it honors you. It is no secret that Nicolae is aware of your status as the most accomplished journalist in the world. And to prove that he bears no ill will for your snub of his last invitation, he is going to ask you to come to Israel for the signing of the treaty.”

Buck shook his head.

“I know it is overwhelming,” Rosenzweig said.

Rayford’s plane hit the ground at O’Hare at one o’clock Chicago time. He called Chloe and got her voice mail. “Yeah, Chloe,” he said, “I’m back earlier than I thought. Just wanted you to know I’ll be there within the hour and—”

Suddenly Chloe beeped in. She sounded awful. “Hi, Dad,” she mumbled.

“You under the weather?”

“No. Just upset. Dad, did you know that Buck Williams is living with someone?”

“What!?”

“It’s true. And they’re engaged! I saw her. She was carrying boxes into his condo. A skinny little spike-haired girl in a short skirt.”

“Maybe you had the wrong place.”

“It was the right place.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Dad, listen to me. I was so mad I just drove around a while, then sat in a parking lot and cried. Then around noon I went to see him at the
Global Weekly
office, and there she was, getting out of her car. I said, ‘Do you work here?’ and she said, ‘Yes, may I help you?’ and I said, ‘I think I saw you earlier today,’ and she said, ‘You might have. I was with my fiancé. Is there someone here you need to see?’ I just turned and left, Dad.”

“You didn’t talk to Buck then?”

“Are you kidding? I may never talk to him again. Just a minute. Someone’s at the door.”

A minute later Chloe came back on. “I can’t believe it. If he thinks this makes any difference . . .”

“What?”

“Flowers! And of course they’re anonymous. He had to have seen me driving by and knew how I’d feel. Unless you want these, you’ll find them in the trash when you get home.”

At a few minutes after two in New York, Buck waited with Chaim Rosenzweig in the opulent waiting room outside the office of the secretary-general of the United Nations. Chaim was merrily going on about something, and Buck pretended to pay attention. He was praying silently, not knowing if his foreboding sense of evil was psychological because he knew Nicolae Carpathia was nearby, or if the man truly emitted some sort of demonic aura detectable to followers of Christ. Buck was warmed by the knowledge that Bruce was praying for him right then, and he was having second thoughts about not informing Rayford and Chloe of his trip. His return ticket was for the 5 p.m. flight, so he knew he’d be back in time for the first of the 8 p.m. study sessions Bruce had planned. Buck looked forward to it already. He might even see if Chloe wanted to have a late dinner, just the two of them, before the meeting.

“So what do you think about that?” Dr. Rosenzweig said.

“I’m so sorry, Doctor,” Buck said. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Cameron, don’t be nervous. Nicolae was upset, yes, but he has only good things in store for you.”

Buck shrugged and nodded.

“Anyway, I was saying. My dear friend Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah has finished his three-year study, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he wins a Nobel Prize for it.”

“His three-year study?”

“You weren’t listening at all, were you, my friend?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You must do better when you are with Nicolae, promise me.”

“I will. Forgive me.”

“It’s all right. But listen, Rabbi Ben-Judah was commissioned by the Hebrew Institute of Biblical Research to do a three-year study.”

“A study of what?”

“Something about the prophecies relating to Messiah so we Jews will recognize him when he comes.”

Buck was stunned. The Messiah had come, and the Jews left behind had missed him. When he had come the first time most did not recognize him. What should Buck say to his friend? If he declared himself a “Tribulation saint,” as Bruce liked to refer to new believers since the Rapture, what might he be doing to himself? Rosenzweig was a confidant of Carpathia’s. Buck wanted to say that a legitimate study of messianic prophecies could lead only to Jesus. But he said only, “What
are
the major prophecies pointing to the Messiah?”

“To tell you the truth,” Dr. Rosenzweig said, “I don’t know. I was not a religious Jew until God destroyed the Russian Air Force, and I can’t say I’m devout now. I always took the messianic prophecies the way I took the rest of the Torah. Symbolic. The rabbi at the temple I attended occasionally in Tel Aviv said himself that it was not important whether we believed that God was a literal being or just a concept. That fit with my humanist view of the world. Religious people, Jewish or otherwise, seldom impressed me any more than the atheist with a good heart.

“Dr. Ben-Judah was a student of mine twenty-five years ago. He was always an unabashed religious Jew, Orthodox but short of a fundamentalist. Of course he became a rabbi, but certainly not because of anything I taught him. I liked him and always have. He recently told me he had finished the study and that it was the most fulfilling and rewarding work he has ever done.” Rosenzweig paused. “I suppose you are wondering why I tell you this.”

“Frankly, yes.”

“I’m lobbying for Rabbi Ben-Judah’s inclusion on Nicolae Carpathia’s staff.”

“As?”

“Spiritual adviser.”

“He’s looking for one?”

“Not that he knows of!” Rosenzweig said, roaring with laughter and slapping his knee. “But so far he has trusted my judgment. That’s why you’re here.”

Buck lifted an eyebrow. “I thought it was because Carpathia thinks I’m the best journalist in the world.”

Dr. Rosenzweig leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “And why do you think he believes that?”

Rayford had had trouble reaching Chloe while driving, but he finally got through. “Wondered if you wanted to go out with your old man tonight,” he suggested, thinking she needed to be cheered up.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I appreciate it, Dad, but we’re going to Bruce’s eight o’clock meeting, aren’t we?”

“I’d like to,” Rayford said.

“Let’s stay in. I’m all right. I was just on the phone with Bruce. I wanted to know if he knew whether Buck was coming tonight.”

“And?”

“He wasn’t entirely sure. He hoped so. I hope not.”

“Chloe!”

“I’m just afraid of what I’ll say, Dad. No wonder he’s been cool toward me with that, that, whatever-you-call-her in his life. But the flowers! What was that all about?”

“You don’t even know they were from him.”

“Oh, Dad! Unless they were from you, they were from Buck.”

Rayford laughed. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“So do I.”

Hattie Durham approached Buck and Chaim Rosenzweig, and they both stood. “Mr. Williams!” she said, embracing him. “I haven’t seen you since I took this job.”

Yes, you have,
Buck thought.
You just don’t remember.

“The secretary-general and Mr. Plank will see you now,” she told Buck. She turned to Dr. Rosenzweig. “Doctor, the secretary-general asks that you be prepared to join the meeting in about twenty-five minutes.”

“Certainly,” the old man said. He winked at Buck and squeezed his shoulder.

Buck followed Hattie past several desks and down a mahogany-appointed hallway, and he realized he had never seen her out of uniform. Today she wore a tailored suit that made her look like a classy, wealthy, sophisticated woman. The look only enhanced her stunning beauty. Even her speech seemed more cultured than he remembered. Her exposure to Nicolae Carpathia seemed to have improved her presence.

Hattie tapped lightly on the office door and poked her head in. “Mr. Secretary-General and Mr. Plank, Cameron Williams of
Global Weekly
.” Hattie pushed the door open and slipped away as Nicolae Carpathia advanced, reaching for Buck’s hand with both of his. Buck seemed strangely calmed by the man and his smile. “Buck!” he said. “May I call you Buck?”

“You always have,” Buck said.

“Come! Come! Sit! You and Steve know each other, of course.”

Buck was more struck with Steve’s appearance than with Carpathia’s. Nicolae had always dressed formally, with perfectly coordinated accessories, suit coat buttoned, everything in place. But Steve, despite his position as executive editor of one of the most prestigious magazines in the world, had not always dressed the way you might expect a journalist to dress. He had always worn the obligatory suspenders and long-sleeved shirts, of course, but he was usually seen with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, looking like a middle-aged yuppie or an Ivy League student.

Today, however, Steve looked like a clone of Carpathia. He carried a thin, black-leather portfolio and from head to toe looked as if he had come off the cover of a Fortune 500 edition of
GQ
. Even his hairstyle had a European flair—razor cut, blow-dried, styled, and moussed. He wore new, designer-frame glasses, a charcoal suit just this side of pitch-black, a white shirt with a collar pin and tie that probably cost what he used to pay for a sports coat. The shoes were soft leather and looked Italian, and if Buck wasn’t mistaken, there was a new diamond ring on Steve’s right hand.