Assassins: Assignment: Jerusalem, Target: Antichrist (32 page)

“This is just great,” Chloe said. “Do we vote on anything anymore, or do we all just pull a Hattie and run off to wherever we want?”

“This is not really a democracy,” Rayford said, and judging by the look he got from Tsion, realized he was on shaky ground. The baby climbed off him and toddled into the other room. “Leah and I have been talking, and―”

“Leah’s going somewhere too?” Chloe said. “She’s invaluable to me here.”

“I won’t be gone long,” Leah said.

“It’s a foregone conclusion then?”

“This is more announcement than discussion,” Rayford said.

“Clearly. Well, let’s hear it.”

Rayford began carefully, fearing his own motive. In his heart of hearts he wanted to get to Jerusalem with his Saber. But he said, “We need to make contact with Hattie. I feel responsible for her, and I want to know she’s all right, let her know we’re still standing with her, see what we can do for her. Mostly, I want to make sure she’s not given us away.”

Even Chloe did not argue. “She deserves to know about her sister,” she said. “But the GC will be watching for you, Dad.”

“They will be less likely to suspect a woman. We’re thinking of making Leah Hattie’s aunt on her mother’s side, giving her a new look and, of course, a new ID. She’ll say she’s heard a rumor or got word smuggled out somehow that Hattie’s there. If they don’t associate Leah with us, why shouldn’t they allow the contact?”

“But now, Dad? With Buck going?”

“David’s told us now is the best time to travel. It’s going to become nearly impossible soon.”

“That is true,” Tsion said.

Rayford looked up in surprise, and he noticed others did too.

“I’m not supporting this,” Tsion said. “But if that poor child dies in prison apart from God, when we had her under our own roof for so long …” His voice quavered and he paused. “I don’t know why God has given me such a tenderness toward that woman.”

Chloe sat shaking her head, and Rayford knew she was not happy, but through arguing.

“T believes it would be too risky for me to start cruising around in the Super J, so he’s prepping the Gulfstream.”

“It shouldn’t surprise me that this is virtually set,” Chloe said. Rayford sensed a resigned admiration, as if she had conceded that once he got something in his brain, it happened.

“Buck can fly with us to Brussels―that’ll save us a few dollars―and continue commercially to Tel Aviv. I’ll stay out of sight in Belgium and meet up with Leah when she’s ready.”

“Maybe Buck could fly back with you too,” Chloe said. “Depending on how long you want to wait for him in Brussels.”

“Maybe,” Rayford said. “Would you prefer that?”

“Would I prefer he fly home with my dad rather than taking his chances with a commercial system that is half what it used to be? Yes, I would prefer that. Of course, I prefer he not go, but short of that, humor me.”

The mood was festive on the Phoenix 216 when Mac and Abdullah took off Saturday morning for Israel with a full load. It seemed the entire Carpathia administrative team was on board, and Nicolae was in his glory. Mac listened in as Leon clapped for attention and asked people to gather. “Welcome, everyone,” he said. “And to our very special guest, who selflessly bequeathed His Excellency this aircraft at a time of dire need, a special welcome to you, sir.”

There was polite applause, and Mac wished he could see Peter Mathews’s face. “Would you care to say a word before His Excellency addresses us, Pontifex?”

“Oh, why, yes, thank you, Commander. I, we, at Enigma Babylon look forward to the Gala with much anticipation―Israel is, as you know, one of the last areas to acquiesce to our ideals. I believe that we will have the opportunity to put our best face on the one-world faith and that we will come away from this week with many more members. I frankly relish opportunities to challenge dissidents, and with the two preachers and the history of the Judah-ite rallies here, this is the place to do just that. Good to be with you.”

“Thank you, Supreme Pontiff,” Leon said. “Now, Your Excellency …”

Carpathia sounded ecstatic with expectation. “My personal greetings and welcome to you all,” he said. “I believe you will one day look back on this coming week as the beginning of our finest hour. I know we have suffered the way the whole world has with the plagues and death. But the future is clear. We know what we have to do, and we will do it. Enjoy yourselves. It is a festival, a party. Personal, individual freedom has never been more celebrated. And may I say, there are more places in Jerusalem than anywhere to indulge yourselves. Revel in the Epicurean and physical pleasures that appeal to you. Show the rest of the Global Community that they are allowed to pamper the flesh even after times of hardship and chaos. Let us ring in the new world with a festival like no one has ever seen. Many of you have been responsible for arranging entertainment and diversion, and for that I am grateful. I cannot wait to see the spectacle myself.”

Mac and Abdullah enjoyed private rooms next to each other in the palatial King David Hotel, where Carpathia had reserved two entire floors. The rest of the entourage stayed not far away in accommodations no less opulent. The ten regional potentates would be housed at the GC Grand, another quarter mile away.

During the two days before the official opening of the Gala, the cockpit crew was required to conduct tours of the 216 back in Tel Aviv. Early Monday morning they helped arrange transport from Ben Gurion Airport to Jerusalem for the potentates and their extensive entourages. Mac worked with GC Security to off-load the metal detectors David had put into the cargo hold, and these were set up on either side of the gigantic outdoor platform that had been erected not a half mile from the Temple Mount and the Wailing Wall. Everyone who would be on the platform, from entertainers to VIPs, would pass through a metal detector on one side of the platform or the other.

The stage floor was twelve feet off the ground and a hundred feet square. A vast green tarpaulin was canopied atop it to block the sun, and massive scaffolding towers held the speaker systems that would boom the music and speeches to an expected two million revelers. All across the back of the stage, filling a flowing curtain designed to coordinate with the canopy, were various messages in every major language. These welcomed the delegates, announced the dates of the five days of the Global Gala, and featured huge sparkling logos of the Global Community.

The largest statement printed on the backdrop, Mac noticed, read, One World, One Truth: Individual Freedom for All. All around the plaza, on every lamppost, fence, and wall, was the slogan Today Is the First Day of the Rest of Utopia.

As Mac and Abdullah aided with the placement of the metal detectors, several bands and dance troupes rehearsed and sound technicians swarmed the area. Mac pulled Abdullah close and whispered, “I must be seeing things. Who does that girl, second from the left, look like to you?”

“I was trying not to watch,” Abdullah said. “But if you insist. Oh, my, I see the resemblance, of course. But it is not possible. Is it?”

Mac shook his head. Hattie was in Brussels. They knew that. This woman merely stuck out from the other dancers because she looked a bit older. The rest looked barely out of their teens.

The security chief reminded musicians and dancers that none would be allowed on stage beginning with Monday evening’s opening ceremony without proper identification and without passing through a metal detector. “If you’ve got the big buttons or buckles and jewelry, be prepared to take those off and have them checked before you go through.”

At a briefing of the security staff, Mac heard the chief instruct the teams of plainclothes guards who would work in shifts in the front of the stage. “Particularly when the potentate is at the microphone,” he said, “maintain your position. Let the audience move if you’re blocking their vision. You stand in a semicircle, eight at a time, four feet apart, hands clasped at your belt. Eyes forward, no talking, no smiling, no gesturing. If you are summoned through your earpiece, do not respond orally. Just do what you’re told.”

Mac felt a deep sadness as he walked to a shuttle van that was to take him and Abdullah back to the King David. He glanced back at the stage from across a wide expanse of asphalt. Backed by deafening music, the dance troupe ended a lascivious routine.

“This is the new world, Abdullah. This is individual freedom, sanctioned by the international government.”

“Celebrated even,” Abdullah said. Suddenly he stopped and leaned against a fence. “Captain, these are the times when I long for heaven. I don’t want to die, especially the way I have seen others’ lives end. But to survive until the Glorious Appearing will be no easy thing.”

Mac nodded. “What happened to the Turtles was awful,” he said. “But they probably never knew what hit them. They woke up in heaven.”

Abdullah turned his face to the sun and a cloudless sky. “God forgive me if that is what I wish for. Quick and painless.”

Mac could hear Eli and Moishe preaching from half a mile away but couldn’t make out their words. “I’ve heard so much about them,” he said. “I don’t suppose we should risk being seen there.”

“I would love to see them,” Abdullah said. “How about we walk back to the hotel and at least go past there. We do not have to join the crowd, just see what we can see and hear what we can hear.”

“Say no more, Smitty,” Mac said.

All along the way Mac and Abdullah passed bars, strip clubs, massage parlors, brothels, pagan sanctuaries, and fortune-telling establishments. In a city with a history of religion dating back millennia, and where―like in the rest of the world―half the population had been wiped out since the Rapture, these businesses were not hidden. They were not seedy, not relegated to a certain inevitable section of town. Neither were they operating in darkness behind black doors or labyrinthine entrances that saved the “real” treats for those who were there on purpose.

Rather, while the rest of the Holy City seemed to crumble for neglect and lack of manpower, here were gleaming storefronts, well lit and obvious to every eye, proudly exhibiting every perversion and fleshly evil known to man.

Mac quickened his pace despite Abdullah’s pronounced limp, and the two hurried toward the Temple Mount and the two witnesses as if from a sewer to a spring.

As he was sure was true with others in the safe house, Buck could not figure the relationship between his father-in-law and Leah Rose. She seemed a burr to Rayford, and yet surely he had to appreciate what she had brought to the Tribulation Force, besides her fortune.

Rayford was not above squabbling with her, and she held her own. Yet they had seemed to spend more and more time together as the time drew near the halfway point of the Tribulation. The announcement of Rayford’s plan to fly her to Brussels made their new closeness less mysterious to Buck. Rayford apparently needed her to do a job, and she was eager to do it. Maybe there was nothing more to the relationship than that.

Zeke Jr., the tattooed Z for short, dolled up splendid documents for Leah. With bleached-blonde hair, darker contact lenses, and a tiny dental appliance that gave her a not unattractive overbite and slightly bucked teeth, she was transformed. Leah was now Donna Clendenon from California, formerly married to one of Hattie Durham’s mother’s brothers. She carried news of Hattie’s sister Nancy’s demise (which was, unfortunately, true). That, Rayford speculated, would get her visitation privileges at the Global Community lockup in Brussels, which, typically, had been christened the Belgium Facility for Female Rehabilitation. Those familiar with it knew the
BFFR
, or Buffer, as a maximum-security prison. Dissident women went in, but they rarely came out. When they did, they were anything but rehabilitated.

Buck’s hope―which he assumed was also Rayford’s―was that the GC saw enough value in Hattie that they would not simply eliminate her. Carpathia must have seen her, at the very least, as bait to help lure Rayford, Buck, or even Tsion Ben-Judah. Those in the safe house hoped the GC hadn’t lost patience with Hattie in frustration over twice nearly having had Rayford in their grasp.

Buck appreciated that the good-bye was not as bad as it would have been if Chloe had wanted to again vent her feelings. She had told him in private, as well as at the meeting, that she considered his interest in the Gala a reckless obsession. “It’s not that I would deprive you of covering one of the great historical events ever, but you’re willingly walking into an earthquake, and the stakes are greater for you now than ever. You’re more committed to your word to Chaim than to protecting your family.”

But the day she and Tsion and the baby saw the other three off, Chloe had apparently decided she had no more need to make her points. Buck assumed she had resigned herself to his going. She gave him plenty of time with Kenny, then held him tight and promised her prayers and undying love. “And yours had better be undying too,” she said.

“My love will not die, even if I do,” he had said.

“That was not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

He thanked her for letting him go. She punched him on the arm. “Like I had a choice. Didn’t I make your life sufficiently miserable? I’m probably the reason you’re going.”

She seemed to maintain her good spirits, though tears came as Buck and Rayford and Leah pulled away from the house under Tsion’s prayer, blessing, and “Godspeed!”

“Do you believe this?” Mac asked Abdullah as they gawked at the television lights and cables and satellites erected near the Wailing Wall. There seemed nearly as many cameras as at the festival site.

Abdullah, typically brief, merely shook his head.

Mac felt a thrill at seeing Eli and Moishe, even from a distance. They were preaching loudly and evangelistically, and the crowd seemed schizophrenic. Mac had heard that the preachers’ audience was usually quiet, either out of respect or fear. They kept their distance from the strange pair―who had been known to incinerate attackers, leaving charred remains. No one wanted to be mistaken for a threat.