Authors: Tim LaHaye
Alvin Leander fidgeted in his chair. “Josh, no disrespect, but could this be about your religious beliefs? Ever since you became a born-again Christian you’ve been looking for bogeymen under the bed.”
Beverly Rose Cortez, sitting across from Leander, cast him a teasing grin. “I don’t know, Alvin. I’ve seen Congress in action and visited the White House. Let me tell you, those folks in power, including our President, really
are
bogeymen …”
After the chuckles died down, John Gallagher raised his hand but didn’t wait to be called on. “No disrespect to any of you folks, but there’s only two guys in this room who’ve ever gotten close to a real bogeyman. One is me, when I worked in counterterrorism. The other is my buddy Cal here, who had his own face-to-face with terror. So Alvin, let’s watch the trash-talking about Joshua and his family. As for the issue on the table, if Josh thinks this is a time-critical deal, then that’s that. Phil, whatever you’ve got to do, you got to do it quickly.”
Abigail put the motion on the floor for a vote. The ayes had it. Phil would use his editorial judgment in making sure that the Belltether story checked out before disseminating it over millions of Allfones and Youfones, but with the caveat that he needed to get the fact-checking done “with blinding speed.”
“Speaking of Washington and the White House,” Phil Rankowitz added, “at some point we need to consider whether we issue a formal endorsement in the current presidential campaign.”
“No brainer,” Rocky Bridger shouted from the screen. “Just think back to before President Corland’s medical problems arose, when he was starting to come around. An amazing reversal. Just plain courageous, if you ask me. Then that stroke — or whatever that was — and what do we get? Vice President Jessica Tulrude … Lady Macbeth in
the flesh gets put into the Oval Office, sells out America to the European markets, dumps the dollar, practically gives away American sovereignty to the U.N., strips our national defense —”
“Been down this road before, Rocky,” Leander said. “We all know that AmeriNews, if it endorses anybody, is going to support Senator Hewbright. So Phil, I hear you saying that the question is whether we should even make endorsements. Right?”
“That’s it,” Phil replied. “AmeriNews is a fledgling news organization, but growing fast. There’s something to be said for not endorsing anyone this time around.”
Ultimately, after much discussion, the issue was tabled. It was agreed the topic would be brought up again at the next meeting.
While Abigail wrapped up the meeting, Cal felt his Allfone buzz. There was an email, with a basic encryption system. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address, so he tapped the code into the permissions key. Then the message appeared.
Dear Cal — we have never met. I am writing for my husband, who, as you know, is in poor health. He needs to speak to you. Although he has never met you, he knows something about your story and, of course, has met your father. He has good days and bad days, so I am not sure how much he will be able to verbalize when you get here. But please come if you can. The address and telephone number of the convalescent center is at the bottom of this email. Please keep this in strictest confidence.
When Cal read who had sent it, he felt as if someone had sucked the air out of his lungs. But just as quickly he recalled the day his father received the Medal of Freedom in a Rose Garden ceremony, all because of an incident involving him. Cal hadn’t attended that White House event. So he wondered why he was being swept into this strange rendezvous.
The email was signed,
Yours truly,
Winnie Corland — on behalf of President Virgil Corland.
Men with a strange-looking legal warrant were still downstairs in the lobby of D&H Smelting Co. They had just served process papers on Bob Dempsky, the sixty-six-year-old president and CEO of the industrial plant, who was now back in his office with no intentions of cooperating — and was telling his lawyer as much on the telephone.
“Look,” his attorney advised him, “this international agency has the authority to seize your company, the plant, and all your assets. You have a right to appeal, of course —”
“But I’ve done everything the EPA ordered me to do, and we haven’t had a single stain on our pollution record for five years —”
“Naw, Bob,” the attorney said, “you don’t get it. U.S. law is irrelevant here, except when it’s time for enforcement; then the World Climate Enforcement Council — WCEC — rounds up federal marshals to make sure you obey the international orders. The United States is part of all of these world climate-change treaties and global-warming protocols. I’ve told you this before. If your company fails to convert to what they call ‘green practices’ —”
But Dempsky was in no mood to listen. He was now crumpling the papers that the foreign official with a French accent, flanked by U.S. marshals, had just delivered to him downstairs.
He shook the ball of documents in the air as he yelled into the phone, “These papers say we put smoke and carbon into the air. Of course we do! We’re a smelting factory! But we’ve complied with every
one of the American regulations. But you’re telling me that doesn’t matter. Okay, so get this … on this form, under ‘miscellaneous violations,’ they’re telling me we don’t use the right kind of light bulbs, we don’t use recycled paper towels in our bathrooms — paper towels, for crying out loud!”
“I told you, Bob,” the lawyer said, trying to smooth things over, “to contact that firm specializing in international law on LaSalle Street. Did you do that?”
Dempsky just shook his head in disgust. “So where do I appeal this?”
“To the Hague.”
“Where?”
“The World Court, in the Hague, the Netherlands.”
“This company was founded by my grandfather. This is America. I’m not going all the way to Holland to protect my family’s company —”
“You’re going to have to —”
“Oh yeah?” Dempsky shouted as he slammed his Allfone down on his desk. Then he buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Peggy, call security …”
“Mr. Dempsky, the marshals and that French gentleman are walking outside to chain the gate to the factory shut —”
“Tell my security team to go out there and stop them!”
“I will sir, but what if the marshals and that French gentleman —”
“Tell my security guys they have my authority to start shooting …” Then he added with some bitter sarcasm, “But only at the Frenchman …”
“Mr. Dempsky, I know you’re not serious —”
“Okay, fine. At least tell them to order them off my property … tell them they’re trespassing. Do something.” Then Dempsky strode over to the big picture window on the third floor that overlooked the factory entrance. His security people in the parking lot were approaching the team of federal marshals and a man in a suit with a briefcase down by the main gatehouse. His guards were gesturing to them. Up in his office Bob Dempsky was alone and began shouting to no one in particular.
“What kind of a country is this anyway?”
Faris D’Hoestra, a billionaire industrialist in his midfifties with a shiny bald head and steel-grey euro-glasses, sat in front of five small web-streaming screens. The monitors were keyed to markets around the world.
All but one. At the top of the menu, that one read: “WCEC Seizures — Service of Process Pending.”
D’Hoestra had noticed a blue flag that had just appeared on that screen. He tapped on the site. His eyes followed the status list until he came to the most recent one. It read: “D&H Smelting — Chicago, IL — Seizure Complete.”
He closed that site on his screen. He pushed his Allfone’s video button and a small screen eased up from the surface of the desk. The face of Brian Forship, his executive director of international acquisitions, appeared.
The face spoke. “Good evening, Mr. D’Hoestra. Working late again, I see …”
“When do I not?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve noticed the Chicago seizure.”
“I did too.”
“How soon can we put this on the block for sale?”
“I have my American Midwest connections on this. They are making sure that that Mr. Dempsky will miss the deadline for appeal.”
“Fine. Then we can put it up for auction. Which of our ghost-companies will you use to buy it?”
“Probably Union Consolidation, Ltd.”
“How many other seizure buy-ups do we have in the works?”
“One hundred and seventy-two internationally. Those are the biggest companies — not including this Chicago company, which isn’t big enough to make our list of prime acquisitions.”
“Get me the timetable and net asset value of those companies on our prime list, will you?”
“Certainly. Two other things. First, we’re still hearing some rumblings about your position as head of the WCEC, which, of course, is in the business of confiscating companies in violation of green standards, while you’ve also maintained control of your Global Industrial Acquisitions, Ltd. A small article appeared in a news service complaining of a conflict of interest.”
“Who did the article?”
“An American news service — AmeriNews. It’s available on Allfone and Youfone by subscription. It’s only a few years old. They even have a picture showing how your United Nations WCEC headquarters is in the building right next to your private company. The photo in the web article is angled to display the WCEC building, and then off in the distance is the sign for GIA, Ltd.”
“Don’t we own enough stock in all the Internet news platforms to shut them down?”
“Not that easy. Somehow they managed to slip through some kind of grandfather clause in the Federal Communications Commission regulations. They apparently can’t be blocked.”
“There’s no such thing,” D’Hoestra shot back. He leaned back in his ostrich-skin executive chair and reflected. “On the other hand, I don’t think this will be a problem. I can show that I kept my ownership in GIA in a blind trust during my U.N. tenure. And with my formal resignation from the WCEC this month, I think it will all blow over.”
“I would hope so,” his director said. “The second thing — did you see the article on you in
World Money
magazine?”
D’Hoestra swiveled in his chair slightly and grabbed the magazine with his face on the cover. “Haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
“Excellent coverage, Mr. D’Hoestra.”
After his assistant signed off, the financier took a closer look at the cover. Under his headshot it read: “Faris D’Hoestra — Ready to Rule the World?”
Under that, the subtitle read, “Acquisitions King Expands his Empire.”
On the platform, the speakers’ table was draped with the blue and white logo of the United Nations — arched olive branches surrounding a globe. In the background was a banner that read: “The One Movement — One Planet, One Cause, One God.” At the podium, Secretary of State Danburg, the American representative from President Tulrude’s administration, was wrapping up his introduction.
Behind him on the dais were a few Muslim muftis, the twenty-three-year-old newly installed Dalai Lama from Tibet, several representatives from the Global Conference of Churches, and a Hindu priest. There were also several heads of state, including the crown prince of Saudi Arabia. Looming in the background was a monolithic office complex, the size of a small city, which was being commemorated that day. Palatial in its intricate stone-carved detail over the windows, doors, and facades, and with blooming gardens and flowering desert plants cascading down from the roof lines, the edifice magnificently captured both the architectural features of ancient Mesopotamia and the modern look of a headquarters of international power.
“We have many people to thank for this moment,” Secretary Danburg addressed the audience from the microphone, “including, of course, our own President Tulrude, who has been a tireless advocate for global peace. But today we are here to recognize the vision of our celebrated guest of honor, Alexander Coliquin — not only the recently installed secretary-general of the United Nations, but a man of incredible vision and talents. Whether we’re talking about his genius in successfully orchestrating the world’s currency, the CReDO, to steady the money markets, or his work in bringing peace and stability right here in war-torn Iraq, so that this project would be possible, or his labors in fighting global warming, Alexander Coliquin — who I consider a friend as well as a colleague — is truly a treasure for our planet. Without further ado — I give you Secretary-General Alexander Coliquin.”
Coliquin shook hands with Danburg and received the huge ceremonial scissors that he would use shortly to cut the blue ribbon stretched across the arched marble gate that lead to the front portico
of the main building. The secretary-general held the scissors in one hand and paused to wave with his other to the crowd that was already on its feet.
“Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes momentarily and nodding to their ovation. Then he began Speaking. “These scissors will soon cut the tape to inaugurate the opening of the new Global Center for Peace and Prosperity — a personal dream of mine and, I know, of you good people as well. But there is something I would rather cut with these giant scissors — the chains of ignorance, oppression, poverty, and injustice that still plague our world. With the help of the international community and with the blessings of sacred and holy God, we will do exactly that.”
As the audience thundered their response, Brian Forship, seated toward the back of the audience, texted a quick message on his Allfone back to Faris D’Hoestra, his boss in Belgium.
Coliquin has just started. Will livestream his comments to you via my Allfone.
A minute later the response came back from Belgium.
I know this man well. Keep your eyes open. Watch for vulnerabilities. Coliquin has them, I assure you. Advise ASAP.
Special Agent Ben Boling stood in the field, staring at the decomposed body in a shallow ditch. There, on the outskirts of Wichita, the FBI agent took one more look at the grisly scene, then made a puffing noise as he exhaled and stepped back. Not a fun day.
When Agent Boling had received the call from the local police, he drove straight through central Kansas, down I-135 to his destination. It was a dismal drive. With the multiple-year drought, the state had dissipated into drifting dust and sweeping winds. Miles of agriculture had been destroyed. The nation’s “breadbasket” had become a near desert of wheat fields, turned a brittle brown by the sun and the unending drought. Their watering systems simply couldn’t keep up.
Many farmers had simply walked away from their foreclosed farms. Several of them, in different parts of the state, had swung a rope over the rafters of their barns, tightened a noose, and hanged themselves. Since the banks couldn’t sell the land, it lay in ruins. Agent Boling had noticed a lot of drifters on the road with backpacks. These were not college-aged hikers getting close to nature or going on a quest to find themselves. Several of them were middle-aged, with worn, sad faces. Some had their worldly possessions piled high on bicycles as they trudged down the highway.
Boling had two thoughts. The first was really a question —
even in bankruptcy, don’t they let you keep one vehicle at least?
But he knew the answer:
Yeah, but you still need money for gas, insurance, repairs …
The second thought was a flashback to the old black-and-white movie he saw as a kid.
This is
The Grapes of Wrath
. Only bigger
.
After Boling had finished examining the corpse, he stepped over to the deputy in charge of the investigation. “You’re sure about the ID?”
“Yep. Perry Tedrich. Local guy. Thirty-five. Divorced. The culprit did a nice job of stripping the body of any identification. Even cut the skin out on the back of his hand where he had his BIDTag laser imprint. But they missed one thing …”
“What’s that?”
“For some reason, the victim kept his gym membership card in his shoe.”
“You sure about his political connections?”
“Absolutely,” the deputy said, “he was the city campaign manager for Wichita’s Hewbright for President Campaign.”
“Coroner been here yet?”
“She showed up an hour before you got here. Doubted if we’re going to get a definitive cause of death, considering the state of the corpse. They’re sending someone to collect the remains so she can do an autopsy, though she might be able to get a fix on an approximate DOD, estimating the month of death at least. That’s what she said anyway.”
Boling flipped his daybook open and scribbled some notes.
“I thought you guys were high-tech and everything,” the deputy said with a smirk. Then he pulled out his electronic Police Data Pad and displayed it. “Everybody in our department’s using these.”
“Sure,” Boling shot back, “real neat way for headquarters to keep tabs on your investigation. I have one of those too. Routine issue for every agent at the Bureau. They log your notes as you write them into the master computer back at headquarters. I don’t use it.”
“How come? They sure work for us.”
“That’s the point. They work too well.”
The deputy screwed up his face for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, we’ll keep you informed.”
“Better than that. If you really like being all digital, then why not email me a data file of everything you have on Perry Tedrich?”
“Sure — we can do that.”
Boling thanked him and trotted back to his car.
As he put his finger to the imprint starter on the steering wheel and the engine started, he flipped his daybook open to what he had just written. He plucked the ballpoint pen from his top pocket and underlined the part that read: “Hewbright for President.”
Abigail Jordan watched as Senator Hank Hewbright shook hands with a group of supporters who had come to the Convention Center to hear his speech. He was standing right outside the door to the greenroom suite assigned to his campaign staff.
From her seat inside the suite, Abigail could see Hewbright through the glass door. She had driven down from Hawk’s Nest to hear him, with the intention of just slipping in and slipping out. But Bob Tripley, a Colorado lawyer and a Hewbright volunteer, recognized her and urged her to meet the senator personally.
Abigail tried to beg off, but the attorney was insistent. Abigail was afraid she’d be too much of a political lightning rod. If the press started snapping photos of her with Hewbright, wouldn’t it be used to smear the candidate?
The senator breezed into the greenroom, followed by Abigail’s lawyer friend and the national campaign manager.
“Senator,” Attorney Tripley said, “this is someone I want you to meet, one of the sharpest lawyers I know.” He opened his arm toward Abigail, who rose to her feet with her visitor tag dangling around her neck. Then he added, “Mrs. Abigail …”
“No need for introductions,” Hewbright said briskly, reaching out his hand. “Mrs. Jordan, it’s a pleasure and an honor. We’ve never met before, but I know about you … your courageous fight for this nation, the risks you’ve taken, and the trouble you’ve been through.” The Colorado lawyer slipped away to talk with some of the staff as Hewbright continued, “And I’ve met your husband, of course. Unfortunately, a pretty formal setting back then. And highly charged. He was testifying on the Hill at our intelligence committee hearing about his RTS system.”
“Yes, I remember. Josh told how fair and evenhanded you were.”
“Thanks. Though confidentially, it looked like Senator Straworth was trying to slice him and dice him.”
“Josh couldn’t tell me details because it was a closed hearing, but it sounded rough.”
Hewbright tossed her a smile that told her more than he could share in words. “On the other hand, Senator Straworth’s bullying backfired. Let me just say that in that hearing Joshua was a tough customer, a tower of strength.”
“That’s my husband!” Abigail said. Then she shared her concern. “Senator, I’m a great admirer of yours and a strong supporter, but I was reluctant to meet with you. I don’t want to hurt your chances. You know, guilt by association. I know this election is going to be vicious.”
“We’re ready for it,” he said with a square-shouldered look that made Abigail smile. It reminded her of Joshua.
Hewbright signaled for her to accompany him to a quieter corner of the greenroom, which was filling up with chattering staffers, volunteers, and high-value campaign donors.
“How is Josh doing?” he asked.
“Holding strong. But we both hate being separated by oceans and continents. So hard …”
“I’ve been briefed on this ridiculous case. It’s an outrage.”
“We still hope to get the whole thing dropped.”
“And this rescue effort in North Korea. Really outstanding. I know the president is avoiding any mention of Josh, but my sources in the Pentagon said he was instrumental.”
“He was in the thick of it. But he’s safe now, thank God.”
“When I’m president,” Hewbright said. “Josh will be getting another medal for valor — from me this time.”
Two women — Abigail assumed they were campaign workers — strode up to Hewbright, Styrofoam cups of coffee in hand. She knew the senator was scheduled to speak that morning at a technology convention in Las Vegas, which probably meant a redeye flight while the staff worked through the night on the plane. They were clearly pushing caffeine to keep up the pace.
The senator turned to introduce the women. “Mrs. Jordan, this is Zeta Milla, one of my foreign-affairs advisors. She may look young, but she’s had lots of experience in the State Department,” he said with a playful wink. “She recently left the State Department to come on board with my campaign. As a young girl she escaped from Cuba. Unfortunately, her parents didn’t make it out alive, but she did — much to the benefit of my campaign. And America. I work closely with her.”
The beautiful Cuban woman smiled warmly and grabbed Abigail’s hand in both of hers and squeezed. “Like you,” Zeta Milla said, “I am a lover of freedom.”
Abigail, an admirer of fine jewelry, noticed the unique red sapphire ring in an unusual silver setting on Milla’s index finger. “That’s a beautiful ring,” Abigail said.
Zeta glanced down at the huge diamond cluster on Abigail’s own hand and nodded at it with a grin. “Thanks.”
Then Hewbright turned to the other woman. “And here is my assistant campaign manager, Katrena Amid, a brilliant strategist and tough as nails.”
Katrena gave Abigail a half nod and a tight-lipped smile. The woman seemed to size up Abigail. She looked uneasy. Then she handed a note to Hewbright. “Senator, here’s that donor I mentioned to you. If you could give him a quick call, I think it would be beneficial.”
“Well,” Hewbright said, “duty calls.”
He excused himself. With Hewbright out of the room, the donors and supporters started to drift out of the suite. Abigail followed.
As she made her way to her car in the parking ramp, Abigail was overcome by an oppressive feeling of dread. She struggled to describe it to herself. She should have been thinking about her flight to Washington, D.C., the following day with Cal or the new lead she would be pursuing in her husband’s case. But she wasn’t. Her mind was somewhere else.
Women’s intuition? Or maybe spiritual discernment?
Whatever it was, Abigail found it hard to shake. She found herself seized by the fear that Senator Hank Hewbright was in danger. It was
palpable. She had an inexplicable feeling of being trapped. As if she had been locked into an airless trunk.
When I get back to Hawk’s Nest
, she thought,
I need to check into something. Maybe it’s nothing … but I can’t take the risk. I can’t ignore this
.