The Last Judgment (3 page)

“I was asked to present the Award for Distinguished Service in the Field of Religious Liberties and Human Rights,” Will said from the podium, still scanning the room for his old friend. “And this year's recipient, as we all know, is Professor Len Redgrove, retired professor of law at the University of Virginia Law School and former visiting professor at Georgetown Law. Professor Redgrove's long list of accomplishments is included in your banquet materials. And it would take me all night to detail each of them. He has not only been a professor of law, a scholar, and a trial advocate around the world in issues of human rights and religious freedom, he also possesses theological degrees. He has authored books on comparative religion. And he was an adjunct professor, teaching jurisprudence as well as ‘The Christian Roots of Law' at the Blue Ridge Bible Seminary.”

Will fingered the inscribed brass plaque honoring his mentor, which lay on the podium. And then he continued.

“And as a side note, I have the daunting responsibility, when I am not practicing law, of succeeding Professor Redgrove in that same position, in that same seminary. Now that I am teaching his classes, I am finding out exactly how immense his shoes really were, and how poorly they fit me.”

A few chuckles swept over the audience.

Then Will looked to the back of the room, where a familiar figure swung open the doors of the banquet hall and then waved in his direction.

Will glanced down at Fiona, who was nodding in the direction of the back of the hall and smiling.

Will nodded back with relief.

“And I see our honored guest has just arrived…so let me be brief. I know of no other human being who deserves this award more than Professor Len Redgrove. Nor do I know of any other person who has so influenced my perspective on the law and the pursuit of justice. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in giving
a warm appreciation to this year's recipient of the Institute for Freedom Award—Professor Len Redgrove.”

The audience broke into spontaneous and enthusiastic applause as they rose to their feet.

Redgrove made his way around the perimeter of the room and strode up to the podium. He was wearing a worn tweed jacket, khaki pants, a pair of tennis shoes, and no tie. He paused at the podium, extended both of his hands, and clasped Will's hands firmly.

The younger man turned to walk back to his table, but Redgrove reached out and touched his arm. “No, Will, don't bother going back to your seat. This won't take long.”

It was then that Will noticed that his old mentor had what appeared to be a newspaper clipping grasped in his right hand between thumb and forefinger.

Redgrove adjusted the microphone and then spoke.

“Thank you for this award. There is nothing I can say to express my appreciation. But I must say, I will be brief…uncharacteristically brief.”

He quickly glanced over at Will, and then down at Fiona at the table in the front row. Then he continued.

“My friends, the long night is coming. It's almost upon us. And the days are filled with evil—the son of perdition wants to sit…be enthroned in the temple. That is the focus of all my research and energy now, and the core of my concern. And I would suggest that it be yours as well. Events in the Middle East…and elsewhere around the world…make the conclusion absolutely unavoidable. So, we must redeem the time…redeem it for heaven's sake! May God grant us the grace to overcome—to be faithful to the end. And remember that the light will expose and make manifest the deeds that are done in darkness…”

The audience gave a hesitant and confused smattering of applause. Redgrove then walked over to Will.

“Sorry. Have to run,” the professor said. “Give my love to Fiona. I would have liked to stay and talk…”

Then he began walking away toward the side door of the banquet hall.

Will followed. “Len, why don't you let me take you home—”

“No need. No need,” Redgrove snapped. “I drove myself here. I can certainly take care of myself.”

Will dashed up to the podium for the brass plaque, returned, and handed it to his old friend.

“Here's your award, Len. Don't forget that.”

As Redgrove reached out to take the award, Will caught a glimpse of the headline of the news clipping that was still grasped in the other man's right hand: “FUROR OVER DEUTERONOMY FRAGMENT.”

Turning away, Redgrove caught himself and turned back again.

“Oh, almost forgot—there's a nice couple I know…they'll be coming up to talk to you. A new case. I told them you might be able to help. God bless.”

And with that, Redgrove stepped quickly over to the side exit and disappeared. As the master of ceremonies passed by Will, giving him a searching and troubled look, the attorney took his seat next to Fiona.

Suddenly Will was aware that a man had approached him from the side and was kneeling next to him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Chambers. I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Bill Collingwood. I'm here with my wife. Our son has gotten himself into some trouble. He has to appear in criminal court…he told us to contact Professor Redgrove. I guess he heard Professor Redgrove speak once. Professor Redgrove then suggested we talk to you.”

Will fished in his pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to the man.

“I'd be glad to talk to you about it. If you'd like to call my office, we'll make an appointment.”

The man took the card, smiled, shook Will's hand, and quickly walked back to his table.

While the master of ceremonies wrapped up the evening. Fiona reached out and took Will's hand.

“What do you think about Len's comments?” Fiona whispered with a quizzical look.

Will shook his head.

There was a thought somewhere in his mind. Len's comments had a familiar ring. Will knew that as soon as he and Fiona had gotten home he would have to do some reading and check it out. He needed to satisfy his curiosity as to the source of Redgrove's cryptic comments. But beyond that, perhaps he just wanted to assure himself that the mind of his old friend and professional mentor was not unraveling because of old age, or grief, or even something else.

3

T
HERE WERE ONLY THREE MEN
in the room. But their combined net worth could fund a small country.

The youngest of the three, the CEO of a multinational software and telecommunications conglomerate, was dressed in a golf shirt, casual pants, and sandals. He was twirling a complimentary pen from the El Dorado Hotel between his fingers.

Another, a middle-aged titan of international investment banking with a major share in several commercial airlines and three shipping lines, was pouring coffee for himself at the polished silver tea and coffee service at the end of the small room.

The third, a sixty-two-year-old media magnate who controlled two international cable news services, a dozen major newspapers, and three times as many radio and television stations—all in key markets—was finishing a conversation on his cell phone and furiously scribbling notes.

These three commercial giants knew exactly how extraordinary this meeting was. It was unique, in fact, since their personal assistants had been required to stay outside in the hallway.

The software CEO glanced at his watch and bobbed his foot nervously.

“Are we getting a late start here?” he asked. “When's the satellite broadcast going to start?”

The media magnate snapped his cell phone shut, tossed his notepad onto the burnished walnut table, and then glanced at his own gold, platinum, and diamond-studded watch.

“Three minutes and twenty seconds,” he said. “Then Mullburn goes live on the bird…”

“I'm not sure if we've ever really addressed my question,” the investment banker noted diplomatically as he carried his cup and saucer back to his button-tufted leather chair. “None of us refused to meet with Warren Mullburn personally in his little island kingdom. I was willing to take the time and make the flight—so were you two. So, why this satellite conference? I thought Mullburn was fanatical about secrecy.”

“I don't see this satellite connection as a big deal. I really don't,” the media magnate replied. “Time is money. This way Mullburn can say his piece, make his pitch, and in twenty minutes, forty-five minutes maybe, sixty minutes tops, he's in and out and done. Otherwise, we fly in—you know the routine—he's going to feel he has to wine us and dine us, show us around his Caribbean republic he's bought for himself.”

“Yeah—Maretas. I had my assistant pull it up on a map. It's a chain of four—what—five islands? In the Caribbean,” the software CEO added.

“The population is only just under a hundred and fifty thousand, even including the transients and tourists,” the media magnate noted.

“Yes, and yet Mullburn's got this puppet president running the republic for him. And with a standing army of fifty thousand. And a private security and intelligence force that's soon going to rival the Mossad in Israel.”

“Getting back to your question,” the other man said, “about why Mullburn, with his history of legal problems and his desire for superconfidentiality, would want a meeting like this with satellite hook-up—maybe the fact is that now that the Justice Department has finally dropped its investigation of him…and Washington is no longer trying to extradite him…and he's got sovereign immunity anyway in his little island republic, especially with his position as Foreign Secretary—well, maybe the
guy's feeling confident enough where he doesn't care about the interception of this broadcast.”

“Well, call me paranoid,” the software CEO retorted, “but I think there's something else going on. Maybe Mullburn wants us to believe he has nothing to hide. Or maybe he's deliberately trying to leak news of this conversation.”

“That does sound a little paranoid,” the other said with a chuckle.

“Well, as for me,” the investment banker said, “I intend to ask Mr. Mullburn about the arrest of the Russian oil tycoon.”

“You talking about Khodorkovsky?”

“Exactly,” the banker replied. “He was on the verge of a major merger between his company, Yukos, and the smaller oil company in Siberia, the Sibneft. That merger would have made Khodorkovsky a major competitor in the world oil market. And his merged companies would have been somewhere around third- or fourth-largest private-sector oil producer in the world. But on the eve of this merger—and this goes all the way back to 2003—suddenly the Kremlin cracks down and arrests him on tax-evasion charges, and the merger falls apart.”

“Well, of course Mullburn's assets are pretty oil-intensive,” the media magnate said, “particularly with his Mexico expansion a few years ago…but what makes you think he's involved with the Russian thing?”

“I've got contacts in Rome,” the banker said, lowering his voice. “A couple of other guys there are saying that there are rumors that Mullburn was pulling the strings to get the Kremlin to crack down on Khodorkovsky, to stop the merger, so that Mullburn's global oil position wouldn't be compromised. It's not rocket science. Seems to me that Mullburn—the world's richest man—is simply trying to get richer…”

“You really think Mullburn's got that kind of clout—that he can pull strings like that?” the media magnate asked.

His question was left unanswered because at that point the satellite video screen lit up with a test pattern. Then a moment later, Warren Mullburn appeared on the screen.

Mullburn was a man in his late seventies but tan, muscular, and possessing a strange form of vitality. Though he was balding, his face carried few wrinkles. He was smiling broadly as he sat in his silk flowered island shirt, comfortably positioned before the camera.

“Gentlemen, I'm very happy to speak with you today. I appreciate also your accommodating me by having this meeting limited to principals only. So, without further ado, let me first ask if any of you have any specific questions about the materials I sent to you regarding the need for these discussions.”

“Well, let me start out,” the software CEO said. “I was somewhat familiar with this United Nations trend. I was concerned initially when the UN unveiled the first document…”

“Yes. The UN called it the Global Compact. 1999. It was announced at the conference at Davos,” Mullburn replied quickly and confidently. “And that was followed up by another document called the United Nations Norms. That was August of 2003. Adopted by the United Nations Subcommission on the Promotion and Protection of Human Rights. And if you look at the Norms, every one of us should be concerned about the implications for global free trade.”

“Yes, I did examine those—and I share your concern, Mr. Mullburn,” the investment banker said cautiously. “I do admit that I am somewhat troubled by the fact that the Norms recommend that the United Nations subject all of our international corporations to regular monitoring.”

“Alright, here's my twenty-five-cents' worth,” the software CEO began.

“I assume that your twenty-five cents reflects the current rate of inflation,” the investment banker remarked wryly.