The Rapture: In The Twinkling Of An Eye (4 page)

“No guys?”

“Are you kidding? What fun you’d be, seeing someone while sniffling over your old boyfriend. I mean, are you available already? Really?”

“No.”

“Then write off guys for a while. You’re never going to go long without one. I see the way they look at you.”

“You do not!”

“Course I do! I pretend they’re looking at me. Don’t tell me you don’t notice, Chloe. Don’t even try that with me.”

“I notice a little.”

“Anyway, think about it. It’d be so cool to know someone who conquered this place.”

“Academically? No one really does that.”

“Then be the first.”

Abdullah Ababneh—such a lover of Western culture, particularly the United States, that he had become known within the Royal Jordanian Air Force as Abdullah Smith, or Smitty—had hit the skids.

His wife, Yasmine, had become an infidel to Islam, a Christian. He had forbade it, they had fought, and she had left with the children. That had catapulted him into a descent into alcohol and adultery that exposed his own phony allegiance to Allah, and now he was living in a small barracks at the Amman air station.

Abdullah had long been a star pilot. Young and articulate and even dashing, he had been admired by his superiors and mates. But now he sensed their pity, their sideward glances. How he had fallen! It was all he could do to drag himself off his cot every morning and pretend to be praying. He carried out his duties like an automaton, never smiling, rarely conversing. His immediate superior officer told Abdullah he was worried about him, but Abdullah assured him he was just depressed, out of sorts.

“It will work itself out,” he said. “I still believe the passage of time will help, provided Yasmine lets me see the children.”

“You cannot win her back? She was so good for you.”

Abdullah did not have the heart to tell the man that his wife had virtually died. She must be considered dead to him; that was certain. At times he believed that Allah would forgive him if he murdered her. In fact, perhaps that was Allah’s will.

But Abdullah could not, for in spite of himself and all that he knew, he still loved Yasmine with his whole being. He would sooner kill himself than lay a hand on her. Perhaps she would repent of her blasphemy and come back to Islam and to him.

Yet he knew better. Though he had ripped to pieces many of her letters, still he kept several. He did not understand everything in them, but one thing was clear: she was devout in her new faith. And she pleaded with him to consider it for himself. Yasmine Ababneh was not about to be dissuaded.

Things that had always endeared Irene to Rayford now irritated him. Her fastidiousness, for one thing. He knew he was being irrational. What else would account for such a good trait making him so crazy? Rayford was growing suspicious of Irene, of all things. This church switch had not made her more obnoxious, as he had feared. If anything, she was sweeter, easier to get along with. The sudden encouraging of his Sunday activities had to be some sort of ruse, but she acted genuinely interested, laid out his clothes, helped him get ready. All this while getting herself and Raymie ready for church.

Weekday mornings, especially Rayford’s off days, were the same. He was an early riser even when he didn’t have a flight, but he was rarely up before she was. The aroma of her special coffee blend, set on automatic timer to start heating up at six, roused him early. And though he tried, he only rarely succeeded in getting out of bed and into his workout clothes by the time her radio, tuned to the irrepressibly cheerful host of the local Christian station, came on at six-thirty.

Irene had taken to setting out Rayford’s clothes, tuning the workout-room TV to
ESPN
, and being sure the bathroom was all his when he was ready to shower. By the time he descended the stairs, Irene had opened the drapes at the front and back of the house, and sunlight bathed the place. She had become a dream come true, and somehow he hated it.

It wasn’t that she had become some perfect little Goody Two-Shoes. No, he could tell when he had frustrated her, angered her, made her want to attack. But somehow she restrained herself. She might stomp off, even slam a door, but when she had gathered herself, she was cheerful and helpful and even loving again. She was forgiving him without his asking, and it was driving him crazy.

Rayford had grown tired of the nagging and resultant bickering, mostly over church, his use of time, and his not spending enough time with Raymie. But now, this way, all those things were like the elephants in the room. He knew they were at the forefront of his wife’s mind, and in some ways he’d rather have argued about them than pretend they didn’t exist. On the other hand, if she was going to let these things slide, he could get used to that.

As Rayford pumped away on his stationary bike or rower or free weights, trying to concentrate on the sports news, he couldn’t deny that he knew what was really causing his discomfort with Irene. She was pushing forty. In many ways he was proud of her. She worked out too, kept in shape, and he’d never had even a twinge of hesitation in introducing her as his wife. She had never been a classic beauty, a head turner, but she retained a youthful cuteness, and she could be described as vivacious. She had personality. People liked her.

So what was the problem?

Hattie Durham.

Rayford couldn’t quit thinking about her. Young, tall, curvy, blonde, gorgeous. And while Rayford had never bought into the old saws about blondes being dumb-- in fact, he knew many intelligent ones--it was true that Hattie was not the sharpest blade of grass on the lawn. It wasn’t that she was dense; she had to be somewhat on

the ball to already be so close to becoming a senior flight attendant, still shy of her twenty-seventh birthday. But she was a very young twenty-six, despite traveling the world. She was not well-read, not up on the news, and seemed to have no worldview other than her own interests.

But she was sure fun to look at. And be around. And it was clear she was enamored with Rayford, which is what made him so disciplined in his daily workouts. Was he actually hoping something might come of Hattie’s flirtations? He knew better than to risk his marriage and family and reputation on a midlife fling.

If Irene were a shrew, liberal-minded people might understand some dalliance with a younger woman. No one he knew would question his taste, even if they questioned his judgment. Rayford believed Irene had been edging toward driving him away with her badgering and cajoling. That had made him look forward to flights with Hattie even more. There was a spring in his step when he knew she was on the schedule.

But now, suddenly, Irene was acting like they were courting again. She was putting her best foot forward for some reason. Killing him with kindness? Trying to prove that her newfound religion had really changed her? This was worse than if she’d banged him on the head with her Bible every day.

Despite his mental turmoil, at least the cessation of fighting gave him some peace. Trouble was, Irene would have had the right to stay on his case about Raymie.

Rayford had slid into simply slothful parenting. After having done fairly well scheduling time for the kids-- especially when Chloe, his distaff image--was home, he was now failing with Raymie.

Buck was as alarmed as anyone at the increase in war around the globe and a seemingly corresponding escalation of natural disasters. The months since the attempted Russian invasion of Israel had seen records set in the United States for tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, and forest fires. President Gerald Fitzhugh had declared so many disaster areas that the novelty seemed to wear off. Charities began advertising aggressively, competing for funds, claiming some sites were worse off than others, when the truth was that any locale slammed by some force of nature had been left destitute.

And war. South America reeled under revolutions in several nations at once. The U.S. announced newer, tougher sanctions on Cuba for human-rights violations, and a new cold war settled over U.S.-Russian relations. Northern Ireland had erupted again. The Arab-Israeli conflict reached new heights. North Korea threatened her entire hemisphere.

Every day brought more devastating news of conflict and disaster, and even Buck had to agree that there seemed to be almost a palpable hum in the air. He had drawn comfort from daily e-mails to and from Lucinda Washington. “Nobody in New York is interested in my take on this,” she transmitted one morning, “but you know we’re heading toward something, Cameron. Things can’t just keep getting worse without something having to give.”

How could he argue with that? Doomsdayers predicted the end of the world as he knew it, but what did that mean? The whole place blows up? A pandemic takes more than half the lives on the planet? World War
III
breaks out? What?

Buck actually found himself curious to know what his sister-in-law thought about what was going on. Sharon was the religious one in the family, nearly alienating her husband—Buck’s brother, Jeff—and his dad in the process.

But the invitations to come home had ended with his mother’s death. Buck did not feel wanted. And while he knew Sharon would happily engage in the very conversation that intrigued him, he knew better than to seek real story content from relatives.

Countless experts abounded on both sides of the issue of the future and where society was headed. Thing was, he was not being assigned stories on that subject. His beat was hard international news, geopolitical stuff. He would leave the other to the religion editor, personally intriguing as it might be.

Leon Fortunato was struck that Romanian president Gheorghe Vasile appeared to be an older copy of himself. They were of the same blocky height and build, though the president was much more jowly and his hair was gray. In his late sixties, Vasile was a humorless politico in private, gregarious and smiling in public. He had told the people he had one more term in his old body, and early polls showed him a huge favorite over several potential candidates.

But the polls did not reflect any public opinion over how he would fare against the much-younger Nicolae Carpathia. No one had ever reached the presidency directly from the lower house. However, everyone was, of course, familiar with the charismatic peacenik who had proved so eloquent and articulate, endearing himself to fellow party members and ingratiating himself with the opposition.

Vasile seemed bemused as he read Leon’s card. “I am meeting with you, Mr. Fortunato, not because I have time or interest but because Mr. Carpathia begged my indulgence. And you serve him as chief of staff?”

“I serve him in many roles,” Leon said, earnestness oozing from every pore. “But, yes, in his role as a member of the house, I am his chief of staff.”

President Vasile had come out from around his enormous ebony desk that appeared as if it had grown where it stood and had rested there for centuries. He sat across from Fortunato at a small round table, the shape a recurring motif of the men themselves.

“I was unaware,” Vasile said, “that members of the lower house had echipi, let alone chiefs of the same.”

Fortunato smiled, trying to soften the bite of his words. “You well know that Dr. Carpathia is much more than a politician. Indeed his influence is wide and varied.”

“Dr. Carpathia? Oh yes, the adjunct professorships. I am quite aware of the fellows outside interests and influence.”

“He is anything but a lad, Mr. President, despite his youth.”

“So you say.”

“Have you ever experienced Dr. Carpathia’s opposition to one of your initiatives?” Fortunato said, writing on his small notepad all the while, clearly piquing Vasile’s interest.

“Of course I have. What do you mean? He has spoken often and loudly in opposition to our defense initiatives, despite his connections with the military schools. His associations with them and then his insipid pandering to the public with his peacemongering make garish his aim to unseat me someday.”

“Someday?” Fortunato said dismissively, still writing. By now Vasile was leaning to see what he had written. But when Fortunato finished, he turned the paper upright and slid it across to the president.

Are you aware that Dr. Carpathia is a partner of Jonathan btonaqai’s? He has been aware of and signed off on every transaction. Every transaction.

Fortunato fought to suppress a grin when Vasile blanched and cleared his throat. The older man checked his watch, stood, and buttoned his suit coat. “What is your schedule like, Mr. Fortunato? I would like to treat you to my favorite bduturd alcoolicd.”

Fortunato, resolutely ignoring protocol by remaining seated though the president was standing, said, “I am not big on liquor, sir, but I will sample a taste if you insist. I assume, if it is your favorite, that you have a selection here.”

Vasile glared at him. “I have a special place I like to go.”

“Oh, I am fine right here,” Leon said, which caused Vasile to grab his pen and scribble on the paper:

IN5TALATIE ELECTKICA! PRIVATE!

Fortunato had known, of course, that the wiring in the presidential offices was bugged and that any serious discussion of this nature would have to take place elsewhere. “Very well,” he said, rising and donning his overcoat.

Vasile told his secretary to cancel his appointments and have the securitie bring a car around and reserve a table at Cdruta§. He added that he wanted to be left alone with Fortunato, which Leon took to mean that the securitate would remain close but not close enough to listen in.

Interesting choice, The Waggoner. Leon, who had lied about his impartiality toward liquor, knew the place well. It was a hole in the wall less than two miles from the capitol, and the patrons had been trained to leave the president to his cups, should they see him there.

Leon loved the pomp and circumstance that surrounded a brief jaunt by car with the president. Citizens milled about on the street, hoping for such an occurrence and a glimpse of the man they had seen on state television for years. When they crowded the vehicle, the secret police held them back, and soon Vasile and Fortunato were on their way to the cafenea.