Tribulation Force: The Continuing Drama Of Those Left Behind (9 page)

“Which you were.”

“—Which I was, and then I’m there on time, on his ticket, wondering what he wants.”

“He’ll be trying to read you, to find out how much you remember about what he did.”

“I don’t know what I’ll say. I didn’t know what I’d do at the installation meeting either. I sensed the evil in that room, but I also knew God was with me. I didn’t know what to say or how to react, but as I look back on it, God led me perfectly just to be silent and let Carpathia come to whatever conclusion he wanted to.”

“You can depend on God this time, too, Buck. But you should have some sort of plan, go over in your mind what you might say or not say, that sort of thing.”

“In other words, instead of sleeping tonight?”

Bruce smiled. “I don’t suppose there’s much prospect of that.”

“I don’t suppose.”

By the time Buck gave Bruce the quick tour of his place, Buck had decided to go to New York in the morning.

“Why don’t you just call your friend … ” Bruce began.

“Plank?”

“Yeah, Plank, and tell him you’re coming. Then you can quit dreading his call and leave your phone open for me or whoever else might want to talk to you.”

Buck nodded. “Good idea.”

But after leaving a message for Steve, Buck got no more calls that night. He thought about calling Chloe to tell her not to come by the next morning, but he didn’t want to have to tell her why or make up something, and he was convinced she wasn’t coming anyway. She certainly hadn’t sounded interested that morning.

Buck slept fitfully. Fortunately, the next morning he didn’t see Verna until after he had dropped off his key to Alice and was driving out of the lot. Verna was driving in, and she did not see him.

Buck had no identification with the name [_McGillicuddy _]on it. At O’Hare he picked up an envelope under the phony name and realized that not even the young woman at the counter would have known a ticket was inside.

At the gate he checked in about half an hour before boarding was to begin. “Mr. McGillicuddy,” the middle-aged man at the counter said, “you are free to preboard if you wish.”

“Thanks,” Buck said.

He knew that first-class passengers, frequent flyers, the elderly, and people with small children boarded first. But as Buck went to sit in the waiting area, the man asked, “You don’t wish to board right away?”

“I’m sorry?” Buck said. “Now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Buck looked around, wondering if he had missed something. Few people were even in line yet, let alone preboarding.

“You have the exclusive privilege of boarding at your leisure, but of course it’s not required. Your choice.”

Buck shrugged. “Sure, I’ll board now.”

Only one flight attendant was on the plane. The coach section was still being cleaned. Nevertheless, the flight attendant offered him champagne, juice, or a soft drink and allowed him to look at a breakfast menu.

Buck had never been a drinker, so he declined the champagne, and he was too keyed up to eat. The flight attendant said, “Are you sure? An entire bottle has been set aside for you.” She looked at her clipboard. “‘Compliments of N. C.’”

“Thanks anyway.” Buck shook his head. Was there no end to what Carpathia could—or would—do?

“You don’t want to take it with you?”

“No, ma’am. Thanks. Would you like it?”

The attendant gave him a stunned look. “Are you kidding? It’s Dom Pérignon!”

“Feel free.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Well, would you sign that you accepted it so I don’t get in trouble for taking it?” Buck signed the clipboard. What next?

“Um, sir?” the attendant said. “What is your name?”

“I’m sorry,” Buck said. “I wasn’t thinking.” He took the clipboard, crossed out his own name, and signed “B. McGillicuddy.”

Normally coach passengers would steal glances at those in first class, but now even the other first-class passengers checked Buck out. He had tried not to be showy, but clearly he was getting preferential treatment. He was waiting on board when they arrived, and during the flight the attendants hovered felicitously around him, topping off his drink and asking if he wanted anything else. Whom had Carpathia paid for this treatment, and how much?

At Kennedy International, Buck did not have to look for someone holding a placard with his name on it. A uniformed driver strode directly to him as he appeared at the end of the jetway, reached for his carry-on, and asked if he had checked any bags.

“No.”

“Very good, sir. Follow me to the car, please.”

Buck was a world traveler and had been treated like both a king and a pauper over the years. Yet even he found this routine unsettling. He followed the driver meekly through the airport to a black stretch limo at the curb. The driver opened the door, and Buck stepped from the sun into the dark interior.

He had not told the driver his name and had not been asked. He assumed this was all part of Carpathia’s hospitality. But what if he had been mistaken for someone else? What if this was just a colossal blunder?

As his eyes adjusted to the low light and the tinted windows, Buck noticed a man in a dark suit sitting with his back to the driver, staring at him. “You with the U.N.,” Buck asked, “or do you work directly for Mr. Carpathia?”

The man did not respond. Nor did he move. Buck leaned forward. “Excuse me!” he said. “Do you—”

The man put a finger to his lips.
Fair enough
, Buck thought. [_I don’t need to know. _]He was curious, though, whether he was meeting Carpathia at the U.N. or at a restaurant. And it would have been nice to know whether Steve Plank would be there.

“You mind if I talk to the driver?” Buck said. No reaction. “Excuse me, driver?”

But there was Plexiglas between the front seat and the rest of the chassis. The man who looked like a bodyguard still sat staring, and Buck wondered if this would be his last ride. Strangely, he didn’t experience the dread that had overwhelmed him that last time. He didn’t know if this was from God, or if he was just naive. For all he knew, he could be on his way to his own execution. The only record of his trip was a mistaken signature on the flight attendant’s clipboard, and he had crossed that out.

Rayford Steele sat in the cockpit of a Boeing 757 on the military runway in the shadow of Dallas-Fort Worth. A certifying examiner in the first officer’s seat had already clarified that he was there only to take notes. Rayford was to run through the proper preflight checklist, communicate to the tower, wait for clearance, take off, follow tower instructions for the proper flight path, enter a holding pattern, and land. He was not told how many times he might have to repeat that entire sequence, or whether anything else would be required.

“Remember,” the examiner said, “I’m not here to teach you a thing or to bail you out. I answer no questions, and I touch no controls.”

The preflight check went off without a hitch. Taxiing the 757 was different from the huge, bulky feel of the 747, but Rayford managed. When he received clearance, he throttled up and felt the unusually responsive thrust from the aerodynamic wonder. As the plane hurtled down the runway like a racehorse eager to run, Rayford said to the examiner, “This is like the Porsche of airplanes, isn’t it?”

The examiner didn’t even look at him, let alone answer.

The takeoff was powerful and true, and Rayford was reminded of flying the powerful but much smaller fighter planes from his military days. “More like a Jaguar?” he asked the examiner, and that at least elicited a tiny smile and a slight nod.

Rayford’s landing was picture-perfect. The examiner waited until he had taxied back into position and shut down the engines. Then he said, “Let’s do that two more times and get you on your way.”

Buck Williams’ limo was soon stuck in traffic. Buck wished he’d brought something to read. Why did this have to be so mysterious? He didn’t understand the point of his treatment on both ends of the plane ride. The only other time someone had suggested he use an alias was when a competing magazine was making an offer they hoped he couldn’t refuse, and they didn’t want [_Global Weekly _]to get wind he was even considering it.

Buck could see the United Nations headquarters in the distance, but he still didn’t know whether that was his destination until the driver swept past the appropriate exit. He hoped they were headed somewhere nice for lunch. Besides the fact that he had skipped breakfast, he also liked the prospect of eating more than that of dying.

As Rayford was escorted to the Pan-Con courtesy van for his ride to
DFW
airport, his examiner handed him a business-size envelope. “So did I pass?” Rayford said lightly.

“You won’t know that for about a week,” the man said.

[_Then what’s this? _]Rayford wondered, entering the van and tearing open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of United Nations stationery, already embossed with _Hattie Durbam, Personal Assistant to the SecretaryGeneral. _ The handwritten message read simply:

Captain Steele,

I assume you know that the brand-new Air Force One is a 757.

Your friend,

Hattie Durham.

Buck began to feel more confident that he wasn’t in mortal danger. Too many people had been involved in getting him from Chicago to New York and now to midtown. On the other hand, if Nicolae Carpathia could get away with murder in front of more than a dozen eyewitnesses, he could certainly eliminate one magazine writer.

The limo eventually wound its way to the docks, where it stopped on the circle drive in front of the exclusive Manhattan Harbor Yacht Club. As the doorman approached, the chauffeur lowered the front passenger window and waved a finger at him, as if warning him to stay away from the car. Then the bodyguard got out, holding the car door, and Buck stepped into the sunshine. “Follow, please,” the bodyguard said.

Buck would have felt right at home in the Yacht Club except that he was walking with a suited man who conspicuously guided him past a long line of patrons waiting for tables. The maître d’ glanced up and nodded as Buck followed his escort to the edge of the dining room. There the man stopped and whispered, “You will dine with the gentleman in the booth by the window.”

Buck looked. Someone waved vigorously at him, drawing stares. Because the sun was to the man’s back, Buck saw only the silhouette of a smallish, stooped man with wild wisps of hair. “I will be back for you at one-thirty sharp,” the bodyguard said. “Don’t leave the dining room without me.”

“But—”

The bodyguard slipped away, and Buck glanced at the maître d’, who ignored him. Still self-conscious, Buck made his way through the crowd of tables to the booth by the window, where he was exuberantly greeted by his old friend Chaim Rosenzweig. The man knew enough to whisper in public, but his enthusiasm was boundless.

“Cameron!” the Israeli exulted in his thick accent. “How good to see you! Sit down, sit down! This a lovely place, no? Only the best for friends of the secretary-general.”

“Will he be joining us, sir?”

Rosenzweig looked surprised. “No, no! Much too busy. Hardly ever able to get away. Entertaining heads of state, ambassadors, everyone wants a piece of him. I hardly see him more than five minutes a day myself!”

“How long will you be in town?” Buck asked, accepting a menu and allowing the waiter to drape a linen napkin on his lap.

“Not much longer. By the end of this week Nicolae and I are to finish preparations for his visit to Israel. What a glorious day it will be!”

“Tell me about it, Doctor.”

“I will! I will! But first we must catch up!” The old man suddenly grew serious and spoke in a somber voice. He reached across the table and covered Buck’s hand with both of his. “Cameron, I am your friend. You must tell me straight out. How could you have missed such an important meeting? I am a scientist, yes, but I also consider myself somewhat of a diplomat. I worked hard behind the scenes with Nicolae and with your friend, Mr. Plank, to be sure you were invited. I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand either,” Buck said. What else could he say? Rosenzweig, creator of a formula that made the Israeli deserts bloom like a greenhouse, had been his friend ever since Buck profiled him as
Global Weekly
‘s Newsmaker of the Year more than a year before. Rosenzweig was the one who had first mentioned the name Nicolae Carpathia to Buck. Carpathia had been a low-level politico from Romania who had asked for a private audience with Rosenzweig after the formula had become famous.

Heads of state from all over the world had tried to curry favor with Israel to get access to the formula. Many countries sent diplomats to sweet-talk Rosenzweig himself when they got nowhere with the Israeli prime minister. Oddly, Carpathia was the one who most impressed Rosenzweig. He had arranged the visit himself and come on his own, and at the time he seemed to have no power to make any deals, even if Rosenzweig had been open to one. All Carpathia had sought from Rosenzweig was his good will. And he got it. Now, Buck realized, it was paying off.

“Where were you?” Dr. Rosenzweig asked.

“That’s the question of the ages,” Buck said. “Where are any of us?”

Rosenzweig’s eyes twinkled, though Buck felt like a fool. He was talking gibberish, but he didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t tell the man,
I was there! I saw the same thing you saw, but you were brainwashed by Carpathia because he’s the Antichrist!

Rosenzweig was a bright, quick man with a love for intrigue. “So, you don’t want to tell me. All right. Not being there was your loss. Of course, you were spared the horror it turned into, but what a historic meeting nonetheless. Get the salmon. You’ll love it.”

Buck had always, [_always _]made it a habit to ignore recommendations in restaurants. It probably was one of the reasons for his nickname. He realized how rattled he was when he ordered what Rosenzweig suggested. And he loved it.

“Let me ask
you
something now, Dr. Rosenzweig.”

“Please! Please,
Chaim
.”

“I can’t call you Chaim, sir. A Nobel Prize winner?”