The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (51 page)

Having thanked Earl Halliday for his confidence and promising not to declare himself just yet—though Rayford could not imagine taking the job—he stood in the terminal at an otherwise deserted bank of pay phones. Francine, Earl’s secretary, had confirmed that there was no Jean Garfield working for Pan-Con. And while there were no fewer than six James Longs, four of them were baggage handlers and the other two were midlevel bureaucrats. None worked in Dallas, none was an examiner, and none had a secretary.

“Who’s out to get you?” Earl had asked.

“I can’t imagine.”

Francine reported that the call she took that morning had been traced to New York. “It’ll take them a few hours to get an exact phone number,” she said, but Rayford knew in a flash who it was. He couldn’t be sure
why
she would do it, but only Hattie Durham would pull a stunt like that. Only she would have access to Pan-Con people who would know where he was and what he was doing that morning. And what was that business about
Air Force One
?

He called information and got the number for the United Nations. After reaching the switchboard and then the administrative offices, he finally got Hattie, the fourth person to pick up the phone.

“Rayford Steele here,” he said flatly.

“Oh, hi, Captain Steele!” The brightness in her voice made him cringe.

“I give up,” Rayford said. “Whatever you’re doing, you win.”

“I don’t follow.”

“C’mon, Hattie, don’t play dumb.”

“Oh! My note! I just thought it was funny, because I was talking to a friend in Pan-Con traffic the other day, and she mentioned that my old friend was recerting on the 777 this morning in Dallas. Wasn’t it funny that I had mail waiting for you? Wasn’t that just the funniest?”

“Yeah, hilarious. What does it mean?”

“The message? Oh, nothing. Surely you knew that, right? Everybody knows the new
Air Force One
is going to be a ’seventy-seven, don’t they?”

“Yeah, so why remind me?”

“It was a joke, Rayford. I was kidding you about recertifying as if you were going to be the president’s new pilot. Don’t you get it?”

Was it possible? Could she be that naive and innocent? Could she have done something that vapid and have been so coincidentally lucky? He wanted to ask how she knew he would be offered the job, but if she didn’t know it, he certainly did not want to tell her.

“I get it. Very funny. So what was the phony complaint all about?”

“The phony complaint?”

“Don’t waste my time, Hattie. You’re the only person who knew where I was and what I was doing, and I come back to some bogus charge about religious harassment.”

“Oh, that!” she laughed. “That was just a wild guess. You had an examiner, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I didn’t—”

“And you had to give him the big pitch, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Come now, Rayford. You gave it to me, to your own daughter, to Cameron Williams, to Earl Halliday, to just about everybody you’ve worked with since. Really? You didn’t preach to the examiner?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”

“Well, OK, so I guessed wrong. But it’s still funny, don’t you think? And the odds were with me. What would you have thought if you
had
come on strong with him and then came back to a complaint? You would have apologized to him, and he would have denied it. I love practical jokes! C’mon, give me some credit.”

“Hattie, if you’re trying to get back at me for how I treated you, I suppose I deserve it.”

“No, Rayford, it’s not that! I’m over it. I’m over you. If we’d had a relationship, I would never be where I am today, and believe me, I never want to be anywhere else. But this wasn’t revenge. It was just supposed to be funny. If it doesn’t amuse you, I’m sorry.”

“It got me into trouble.”

“Oh, come on! How long would it take to check out a story like that?”

“All right, you win. Any more surprises for me?”

“Don’t think so, but stay on your toes.”

Rayford didn’t buy a word of it. Carpathia had to know about the White House offer. Hattie’s note and that offer, and what her little joke almost did to scotch the deal, were too coincidental to be her lame attempt at a practical joke. Rayford was not in a good mood when he returned to the parking garage. He only hoped Chloe was not still upset. If she was, maybe both of them could cool down before the meeting that night.

Chaim Rosenzweig put a gnarled hand on Buck’s knee. “I urge you to accept this most prestigious position. If you do not accept it, someone else will, and it will not be as good a paper.”

Buck was not about to argue with Chaim. “Thank you,” he said. “I have a lot to think about.” But accepting the offer was not something he was going to consider. How he longed to talk about this, first to Chloe and then to Bruce and Rayford.

When Hattie Durham interrupted apologetically and moved to the desk to speak quietly with Carpathia, Steve began to whisper something to Buck. But Buck was blessed with the ability to discern what was worth listening to and what was worthy of ignoring. Right now he decided it would be more profitable to eavesdrop on Hattie and Nicolae than to pay attention to Steve. He leaned toward Steve, pretending to listen.

Buck knew Steve would be trying to sell him on the job, to assure him that it was Steve himself who lobbied for it, to admit that as a journalist it sounded crazy at first, but that this was a new world, blah, blah, blah. And so Buck nodded and maintained some eye contact, but he was listening to Hattie Durham and Carpathia.

“I just took a call from the target,” she said.

“Yes? And?”

“It didn’t take him long to figure it out.”

“And
Air Force One
?”

“I don’t think he has a clue.”

“Good work. And the other?”

“No response yet.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The target.
That didn’t sound good. The rest of it he assumed had something to do with Carpathia’s ride that afternoon on the president’s plane.

Carpathia turned his attention back to his guest. “At the very least, Buck, talk this over with the people who care about you. And if you think of more specific dreams you would accomplish if resources were no object, remember that you are in the driver’s seat right now. You are in a seller’s market. I am the buyer, and I will get the man I want.”

“You make me want to turn you down, just to show I cannot be bought.”

“And as I have said so many times, that is the very reason you are the man for the job. Do not make the mistake of passing up the opportunity of a lifetime just to prove a small point.”

Buck felt caught. On one side of him was a man he had admired and worked with for years, a journalist with principle. On the other was a man he loved like a father, a brilliant scientist who was in many ways naive enough to be the perfect foil, one of the pawns in an end-of-the-world chess game. Outside the door was an acquaintance he had met on an airplane when God had invaded the world. He had introduced her to Nicolae Carpathia just to show off, and look where they were now.

Directly in front of him, smiling that handsome, disarming smile, was Carpathia himself. Of the four people Buck was dealing with that afternoon, Carpathia was the one he understood the most. He also understood that Carpathia was the one with whom he had the least influence. Was it too late to plead with Steve, to warn him of what he had gotten into? Too late to rescue Hattie from the stupidity of his introduction? Was Chaim too enamored with the geopolitical possibilities to listen to reason and truth?

And if he did confide in any of them, would that be the end of any hope that he could keep the truth from Carpathia—that Buck himself was protected from his power by God?

Buck couldn’t wait to get back to Chicago. His condo was brand-new and didn’t seem familiar. His friends were new too, but there was no one in the world he trusted more. Bruce would listen and study and pray and offer counsel. Rayford, with that scientific, analytical, pragmatic mind, would make suggestions, never forcing opinions.

But it was Chloe he missed the most. Was this of God? Had God impressed her upon Buck’s mind at his most vulnerable moment with Carpathia? Buck hardly knew the woman. Woman? She was barely more than a girl, but she seemed . . . what? Mature? More than mature. Magnetic. When she listened to him, her eyes seemed to drink him in. She understood, empathized. She could give advice and feedback without saying a word.

There was a comfort zone with her, a feeling of safety. He had barely touched her twice. Once to wipe from her mouth a dab of chocolate from a cookie, and in church the morning before, just to get her attention. And yet now, a two-hour plane ride from her, he felt an overwhelming need to embrace her.

He couldn’t do that, of course. He scarcely knew her and didn’t want to scare her away. And yet in his mind he looked forward to the day when they felt comfortable enough to hold hands or draw close to each other. He imagined them sitting somewhere, just enjoying each other’s company, her head on his chest, his arm around her.

And he realized how desperately lonely he had become.

Rayford found Chloe miserable. He had decided not to tell her yet of the events of his day. It had been too weird, and she had apparently had a doozy of a day herself. He held her and she wept. Rayford noticed a huge bouquet of flowers sticking out of a wastebasket.

“Those made it worse, Dad. At least my reaction showed me something—how much I cared for Buck.”

“That sounds pretty analytical for you,” Rayford said, regretting it as soon as it was out of his mouth.

“I can’t be analytical because I’m a woman, is that it?”

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have said it.”

“I’m sitting here crying, so my whole response to this is emotional, right? Don’t forget, Dad, five semesters on the dean’s list. That’s not emotional; that’s analytical. I’m more like you than like Mom, remember?”

“Don’t I know it. And because we are the way we are, we’re still here.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve got each other. At least I was until you accused me of being a typical woman.”

“I never said that.”

“It’s what you were thinking.”

“Now you’re a mind reader, too?”

“Yeah, I’m an emotional fortune-teller.”

“I surrender,” Rayford said.

“Oh, come on, Dad. Don’t give up so soon. Nobody likes an easy loser.”