Assassins: Assignment: Jerusalem, Target: Antichrist (10 page)

The others nodded. Rayford’s phone beeped. It was Buck. Rayford laughed aloud as Buck recounted the strange news report. “Turn on the TV, T,” he said. GC commentators mournfully discussed the tragedy, though names had not been revealed outside New Babylon and so far nothing but papers and belongings had been found. Rayford shook his head. “Someday Fortunato, or whoever tried to take advantage of this, is going to embarrass himself beyond repair.”

Chloe tugged at his sleeve and whispered. “At least we can be pretty sure Hattie’s all right for now.”

“The question,” he said as the meeting broke up, “is where she is. She’s not smart enough to get any thinking person to believe she went down in that plane. Could she still surprise Carpathia?”

When the churchmen were gone, Rayford, Chloe, and T jogged upstairs to quiz the tower man about the 11:30 flight the night before. He was fat and balding, reading a science fiction book.

“Sounded southern to me on the radio, though I never saw him,” the man said. “Bo signed off on the landing and takeoff.”

“He was here?” T said.

“No, he called me about eight to preapprove it.”

“I didn’t see the plane’s numbers on the computer.”

“I wrote ‘em down. I can still enter ‘em.” He rummaged under a pile of papers. “Oh-seven-oh-eight,” he said. “And I guess you know it was a Quantum.”

“Can we find out who that’s registered to?” Rayford said.

“Sure can,” the man said. He banged away at his computer keyboard and drummed his knee as the information was retrieved. “Hm,” he said, reading. “Samuel Hanson out of Baton Rouge. He’s got to be related to Bo, doesn’t he? Isn’t Bo from Louisiana?”

Reuniting withAbdullah Smith warmed Mac. In his earliest days as first officer to Captain Rayford Steele, Mac had met the former fighter pilot from Jordan. Abdullah had lost his job when Carpathia confiscated international weaponry, but he quickly became one of Rayford’s leading black market suppliers.

Abdullah had been disgraced four years before the Rapture when his wife had become a Christian. He divorced her and fought for custody of their two small children, a boy and a girl. When he could not get relief from months of travel at a time for the Jordanian air force, he was denied custody and took up full-time residence at the military base.

A man of few words, Abdullah had once revealed to Mac and Rayford that he was heartsick to the point of suicide. “I still loved my wife,” he said with his thick accent. “She and the children were my world. But imagine your wife taking up a religion from some mysterious, faraway country. We wrote long letters to each other, hut neither could be dissuaded. To my shame, I was not devout in my own religion and fell into loose morals. My wife said she prayed for me every day that I would find Jesus Christ before it was too late. I cursed her in my letters. One sentence pleaded with her to renounce the myths and return to the man who loved her. The next accused her of treachery and called her despicable names. Her next letter told me she still loved me and reminded me that it was I who had initiated the divorce. Again, in my anger, I lashed out at her.

“I still have the letters in which she warned me that I might die before finding the one true God, or that Jesus could return for those who loved him, and I would be left behind. I was enraged. Just to get back at her I often refused to visit my children, but now I realize I hurt only them and myself. I feel so guilty that they might not know how much I loved them.”

Mac recalled Rayford’s telling Abdullah, “You will be able to tell them one day.” Abdullah had merely nodded, his dark eyes moist and distant.

Abdullah became a believer because he saved his wife’s letters. She had meticulously explained the plan of salvation, writing out Bible verses and telling him how she had prayed to receive Christ. “Many times I crumpled up the letters and threw them across the room,” Abdullah said. “But something kept me from tearing them or burning them or throwing them away.”

When Abdullah heard that his wife and children had disappeared, he had lain prostrate on the floor in his quarters in Amman, his wife’s letters spread before him. “It had happened as she said it would,” he said. “I cried out to God. I had no choice but to believe.”

Because of his Middle Eastern look and his fondness for a turban and a blowsy, off-white top over camouflage trousers and aviator boots, the diminutive Jordanian was the last person anyone suspected of being a Christian. Until the conversion of the 144,000 Jewish witnesses from all over the world and their millions of converts of every nationality, most assumed they could identify a Christian. Now, of course, only true believers knew each other on sight, due to the mark visible only to them.

Abdullah, thin and dark with large, expressive features, was as quiet as Mac remembered him. He was also extremely formal in front of others, not giving away that he and Mac were both spiritual brothers and old friends. He didn’t pretend they had not met, for Mac had concocted a former military connection. But they did not embrace until they were alone in Mac’s office.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Mac said, calling Annie from her office. She knocked and entered, breaking into a smile.

“You must be the infamous Abdullah Smith,” she said. “You have a custom mark reserved for Jordanians.”

Abdullah gave Mac a puzzled look, then stared at Annie’s forehead. “I cannot see mine,” he said. “Is it not like yours?”

“I’m teasing you,” she said. “Yours merely works better with your coloring.”

“I see,” he said, as if he really did.

“Go easy on the American humor,” Mac said.

“Canadian humor,” Annie said. She spread her arms to hug Abdullah, which seemed to embarrass him. He thrust out his hand, and she shook it. “Welcome to the family,” she said.

Again Abdullah looked questioningly at Mac.

“Actually, she’s the newest member of the family,” Mac said. “She’s just welcoming you to this chapter of the Tribulation Force.”

Abdullah left some of his stuff in his small office behind Mac’s, then two laborers from Operations helped take the rest to his new quarters. As he and Abdullah followed the men, Mac said, “Once you get unpacked you can get your feet wet by plotting our course to Botswana Friday. We’ll leave here at 0800, and they’re an hour earlier, so―”

“Johannesburg, I assume,” Abdullah said.

“No, north of there. We’re seeing Mwangati Ngumo in Gaborone on the old border of Botswana and South Af―”

“Oh, pardon me, Captain, but you must not have been there recently. Only helicopters can get in and out of Gaborone. The airport was destroyed in the great earthquake.”

“But surely the old military base―”

“The same,” Abdullah said.

“Carpathia’s reconstruction program has not reached Botswana?”

“No, but with the . . . the, pardon me, regional potentate of the United States of Africa residing in Johannesburg in a palace not much smaller than this one, the new airport there is spectacular.”

Mac thanked the helpers and unlocked Abdullah’s apartment. The Jordanian’s eyes widened as he surveyed the rooms. “All of this for me?” he said.

“You’ll grow to hate it,” Mac said.

With the door shut, Abdullah looked at the bare walls and whispered, “Can we talk here?”

“David assures me we can.”

“I look forward to meeting him. Oh, Captain, I nearly referred to the African potentate as the king! I must be so careful.”

“Well, we know he’s one of the kings, but those two wouldn’t have had a clue. I thought Potentate Rehoboth―what’s his first name―?”

“Bindura.”

“Right―was going to move his capital more central, like back up to his homeland. Chad, was it?”

“Sudan. That was what he had said, but apparently he found Johannesburg preferable. He lives in such opulence, you could not believe it.”

“All the kings do.”

“What do you make of that, Captain?” Abdullah was whispering. “Has Carpathia bought their cooperation?”

Mac shrugged and shook his head. “Wasn’t there some sort of controversy between Rehoboth and Ngumo?”

“Oh, yes! When Ngumo was secretary-general of the U.N., Rehoboth put tremendous pressure on him to get favors for Africa, particularly Sudan. And when Ngumo was replaced by Carpathia, Rehoboth publicly praised the change.”

“And now he’s his neighbor.”

“And Rehoboth is his king,” Abdullah said.

Late Thursday night in Illinois, Rayford finally found himself alone in the kitchen with Leah Rose. She sat at the table with a cup of coffee. He poured himself one.

“Settling in?” he said.

She cocked her head. “I never know what you’re implying.”

He pointed to a chair. “May I?”

“Sure.”

He sat. “What would I be implying?”

“That I shouldn’t get too comfortable.”

“We voted you in! It was unanimous. Even the chair voted, and I didn’t have to.”

“Had it been a tie otherwise, how would the chair have voted?”

Rayford sat back, his cup in both hands. “We got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I’m sure it was my fault.”

“You ignored my question,” she said.

“Stop it. Voting in a new sister would never result in a tie. Hattie was here for months, and she’s not even a believer.”

“So is this our truce chat, or are you just being polite?”

“You want a truce?” he said.

“Do you?”

“I asked you first,” he said.

She smiled. “Truth is, I want more than a truce. We can’t live in the same house just being cordial. We’ve got to be friends.”

Rayford wasn’t so sure, but he said, “I’m game.”

“So all that stuff you said …”

He raised his chin. “... that exposed me for the crank I am?”

She nodded. “Consider this an all-inclusive pardon.”

He hadn’t asked forgiveness.

“And for me?” she pressed.

“What?”

“I need a pardon too.”

“No you don’t,” he said, sounding more magnanimous than he felt. “Anything you said was because of what I―”

Leah put a hand on his arm. “I didn’t even recognize myself,” she said. “I can’t put that all on you. Now, come on. If we’re going to start over, we have to be even. Clean slates.”

“Granted,” he said.

“I’ve got money,” she said.

“You always switch subjects so fast?”

“Cash. We’d have to go get it. It’s in a safe in my garage. I am not going to be a freeloader. I want things to do, and I want to pay my way.”

“How about we give you room and board in exchange for medical care and expertise?”

“I’m more about care than expertise. I’m no replacement for Floyd.”

“We’re grateful to have you.”

“But you need money, too. When can we get it?”

Rayford pointed to her cup. She shook her head. “How much are we talking about?” he said.

When she told him, he gasped.

“In what denominations?”

“Twenties.”

“All in one safe?”

“I couldn’t fit another bill in there,” she said.

“You think it’s still there? The GC must have torn the place apart looking for you.”

“The safe is so well hidden we had to remind ourselves where it was.”

Rayford rinsed out the cups. “Sleepy?” he said.

“No.”

“Want to go now?”

Mac and Abdullah met with David Friday morning. Once introductions were out of the way, David asked if either had an idea where the 144 computers in the Condor cargo hold could be put to use for the cause.

“I can think of lots of places,” Mac said. “But not one on the way to Africa.”

“I can,” Abdullah said. “There is a huge body of underground believers in Hawalli. Many professionals, and they could―”

“Hawalli?” David said. “In Kuwait?”

“Yes. I have a contact in cargo―”

“That’s east. You’re flying southwest.”

“Only slightly east,” Abdullah said. “We just need a reason to stop there.”

“Virtually right after takeoff,” Mac said. “That’ll arouse suspicion.” They sat in silence a moment. “Unless . . . ,” he said.

David and Abdullah looked at him.

“How far is our flight?”

“Here to Kuwait?” Abdullah asked, pulling out his charts.

“No, to Africa.”

“More than four thousand miles.”

“Then we need a full fuel load to go nonstop. We want to save the GC money, so we’re going to make a quick detour for fuel at a good price.”

“Excellent,” David said. “I’ll negotiate it right now. All I need is a few cents’ break per pound of fuel and it’ll be worth the detour.”

“What will my contact need to get the cargo?” Abdullah said.

“Big forklift. Big truck.”

“Why’d you leave a note?” Leah asked Rayford as he pulled the Land Rover away from the house toward Palatine. “Surely we’ll be back before anyone wakes up.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, “if someone was peeking at the note already. We hear everything in that house. In the dead of night we hear sounds in the walls, sounds from outside. We’ve been fortunate so far. We only hope for some warning so we can hide out below before we’re found out. We always tell each other where we go. Buck didn’t the other day when he rushed Floyd to see you, but that was an emergency. It upset everybody.”

Rayford spent the next forty minutes maneuvering around debris and seeking the smoothest man-made route. He wondered when Carpathia’s vaunted reconstruction efforts would reach past the major cities and into the suburbs.

Leah was full of questions about each member of the Trib Force, how they had met, become believers, got together. “That’s way too much loss in too short a time,” she said after he had brought her to the present. “With all that stress, it’s a wonder you’re all fully functioning.”

“We try not to think about it. We know it’s going to get worse. It sounds like a cliché, but you have to look ahead rather than back. If you let it accumulate, you’ll never make it.”

Leah ran a hand through her hair. “Sometimes I don’t know why I want to survive until the Glorious Appearing. Then my survival instinct kicks in.”

“Speaking of which . . . ,” Rayford said.

“What?”

“More traffic than I’m used to is all.”