The Rapture: In The Twinkling Of An Eye (5 page)

Knowing it would take a moment for the securitate to get the president from the vehicle to his favorite booth, Leon leaped out as soon as they stopped and rushed in, asking the manager if he was aware Vasile was coming.

“Of course. We are prepared.”

“I will be joining him,” Leon said, pressing a large bill in the man’s palm. “What is the president’s favorite drink?”

“A Russian vodka.”

“Clear?”

“Yes.”

“Make mine water, regardless of what I say. Cuprinde?”

“I understand.”

Within minutes Fortunato and Vasile were jammed into tiny quarters and the public was kept away, though passersby stared.

When the vodka was brought to the table, along with two glasses, Fortunato panicked. “Scuza,” he whispered, waving for the manager. “A head of state should not be expected to pour his own drinks!”

“Nonsense,” Gheorghe Vasile said.

But Fortunato insisted, and the manager, bowing and apologizing, took the bottle and glasses away, then returned with the glasses full. He winked at Fortunato, and Leon was grateful to discover that his was water.

“The impudence!” Leon whispered.

“Ach! They know me here. I often pour for myself.”

“You should not. Never. You preside over this country. That is due some deference.”

“But in here, in a bar, I’m just a man.”

“May it never be so.” Leon could tell he was making an impression on the man. He wondered if Vasile’s chief of staff ever treated him this way. He did not know a leader whose ego did not crave such regard.

When Fortunato opened his mouth to speak, Vasile held up a hand for silence as he downed one glass and held it up for another pour.

Leon waved for the manager, who handled the task. Leon had barely sipped his water.

“Excellent,” Vasile said.

“Eh? You see? That is how you should be treated.”

“I see.” Vasile knocked back the second glass and set it down loudly.

“Another?” Leon said.

“Later,” Vasile said. “Talk to me. What are you saying?”

Fortunato had long loved the directness of the powerful. They did not have the time for pleasantries and small talk, and that, naturally, was not what Leon was here for anyway.

“I am saying that your fortune, the one the public believes is appropriately tied up in trusts during the tenure of your presidency, is being managed by not only Jonathan Stonagal but also Nicolae Carpathia.”

Vasile stared, glowering. “And what are the ramifications of this?”

“The ramifications? Need you ask? Surely you would not expect the Romanian people to believe your presidential salary alone finances your wife’s annual stipend, your son’s palatial estate that people think is funded by his lucrative stallion-breeding operation—but which you and I both know is a house of cards—your own storehouses of precious metals, American stocks and bonds, Asian securities, European land holdings. Were word to get out that you, sir, fund all this with income wholly criminally gained, why, it would all be in jeopardy.”

Vasile squinted and leaned forward. “Carpathia is aware of all this?”

“How do you think I know?”

“And is he not also vulnerable, if he has such information and has not reported it?”

Fortunato sat back, still speaking softly. “No one can determine when this information came to him. But you well know that knowledge is power. He has both. He has no wish to humbly, reluctantly, sadly come forward and announce his abject disappointment in a worthy opponent he has long admired, despite political disagreements.”

“But he would, would he not?”

“Of course he would.” Fortunato was warm in the smoky, crowded place, and he wriggled out of his overcoat.

The president, flushed and sweaty, not only left his on but also left it buttoned to his neck. He folded his arms and lowered his chin, appearing sad. He stared at Leon and then at the table. “So, this is stoarcere?”

“It is indeed extortion, Mr. President.”

Vasile rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms against his generous cheeks. He sighed, inhaled as if to speak, then appeared to rethink himself. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he said, “I suppose you are prepared to tell me what the man wants.”

“Of course I am,” Leon said.

So this was why Irene had been buttering up Rayford. She had him in a good mood, wasn’t on his case about anything. She gave him eye contact. She listened. She encouraged. In short, she was pleasant.

But then Irene sweetly lowered the boom. “May I talk with you about something without your being offended or getting upset?”

He smirked. “What’d I do now?”

“Oh no, nothing. It’s just that I want to talk with you about something Pastor Billings is preaching about, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“And what would the wrong idea be?”

“Well, for instance, your thinking that I’m trying to change you or get you to come to church or criticize you.”

“And you’re not trying to do any of that?”

“No. I mean, you know how I feel about all that, so I’m not interested in starting anything. You’re an adult and can make up your own mind, but Pastor Billings has been speaking on something so incredible that I would sincerely like your opinion about it.”

Rayford was in a bind. She had pushed him into a corner, overwhelming him with pleasantness so that he was in a lose-lose situation. If he begged off this discussion, he would seem as unreasonable as she was. If he acceded, and he didn’t seem to have a choice, he would have to endure yet another come-to-Jesus meeting.

“You know something?” he said, brightening.

“What?” Irene said flatly, clearly on guard against another lame excuse to delay the conversation.

“That stuff I promised Raymie is in, and I have to go pick it up.”

“Can’t that wait a day? Anyway, Rafe, stuff is not going to make up for your absence. He doesn’t want stuff. He wants you.”

“Three new toys all at once? And, may I say, big-boy toys? We’re talking a four-wheeler, a snowmobile, and a bike for when the snow clears.”

“You’re trying to buy him.”

Rayford snorted. “See how you are? See what you do?”

“I’m sorry, Rayford. Truly, I am. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you meant it. And you know better. I’ve just been so busy.”

“Order that kind of stuff online and spend the time you used to shop for it just being with your son.”

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“How much?” Gheorghe Vasile said.

“How much}” Fortunato parroted. “Surely you don’t think you can buy off a man like Nicolae Carpathia.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nicolae Carpathia does not want your money. He wants your job.”

A laugh escaped Vasile. “Never. I’d die first.”

Fortunato loved this more than life. With the authority vested in him by the most powerful man he had ever known, he leaned forward until his nose was six inches from Vasile’s and told the president of the Republic of Romania, “That too can be arranged.”

“I could have you executed for even hinting at such a thing.”

“But you won’t. If anything happens to me, the same thing would happen that would occur if you do not comply with Dr. Carpathia’s wishes.”

“Pray tell.”

“I can tell you this, Mr. President: it will not be anything so pedestrian as taking the truth to the press, though the international media community would enjoy this. No, I believe the plan is to start with your son’s operation. Maybe a barn burns, a few horses are lost. Harbingers of what could happen to your grandchildren.”

Vasile flushed, obviously smoldering. He narrowed his eyes and pointed a sausagelike finger. “You leave them out of this. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, this would be on you, sir. Not on me. Not on Carpathia. Not on Stonagal. The ramifications of your response are wholly up to you. You’ve had a good reign and you enjoy a fortune. Retire. Enjoy. Kick back.”

“Romania is my life.”

“The presidency will be your death. Give it up. You’ll be a statesman. The people will continue to revere you, provided they are not made aware of your finances.”

Vasile seemed to fade from red to gray. “So, what, I announce I will not run for reelection, and you think that paves the way for Carpathia?”

“Oh no, it’s not quite that simple.”

“Why did I not assume so?”

“You must resign within one week and engineer Carpathia’s succession.”

“Without an election? Impossible. There is the matter of protocol and many in place behind me—”

“That is why this must come from you.”

“No one would buy it! No, Carpathia and I have not been bitter rivals, but everyone knows we disagree on something so fundamental as arms. Who would ever believe that I am stepping aside so a peacenik can assume the presidency?”

“I do not know, Mr. President. But that is your task. Your chore. Your price.”

Yasmine Ababneh, the delicate and fair and soon-to-be-divorcee of Abdullah, left a message for him at the air base. She wanted a face-to-face, but she needed his pledge of civility. He called her immediately. “You have my solemn promise,” he said.

Abdullah showered and shaved and dressed in his recently laundered uniform, topped with a clean turban. He was as nervous as a schoolboy on his first date. For all his bitterness and hatred--even considering murder-- he wanted Yasmine back so badly that he was willing to concede almost anything. How he wished she would bring the children. His son and daughter would soften the meeting, make them all realize what they missed by not being a family.

But she arrived alone, as she had said she would. And Yasmine was so lovely Abdullah could barely breathe. He moved to embrace her, but she did not respond. “I love you,” he said. “I miss you, and I’ll forgive you if you will forgive me.”

“For what are we forgiving each other, Abdullah?”

“You are forgiving me for being unkind. I am forgiving you for causing that by your religious infidelity.”

“And your unkindness,” she said, exhibiting a maddening sense of self, of purpose, of independence. “Are you confessing what that entailed, speaking of infidelity?”

“Yes, I have sinned. I was unfaithful to you. I took to drink. I became slothful. But Allah has forgiven me and I am on the path to spirituality now, praying at the prescribed times and remaining pure.”

Yasmine’s countenance seemed to soften, and Abdullah was encouraged. “Thank you for being honest and forthright with me, Abdullah. And if what you say is true, I am encouraged. Because though I believe you will stay entrapped should you remain loyal to Islam, seeing you try to live morally makes me feel better about allowing the children to see you occasionally.”

“Occasionally? Why can we not reunite, Wife?”

“They are doing well. They miss you, naturally, but they miss the father they knew—the disciplined, decorated pilot. Not the man who has wasted his days.”

“I told you! I am a new man. I am newly devout. We must restore our marriage. Why do you ignore my pleas?”

Yasmine sat back and crossed her legs, smoothing the flowing colorful thob that covered both her elbows and knees and yet favored her dark skin. “Because you have offered to forgive me of something for which I am not prepared to repent.”

Abdullah stood quickly and paced. “You remain resolutely an infidel to god?”

“Not to my God,” she said. “Abdullah, I could no more turn my back on the Christ than I could abandon my children.”

“Our children! And you are abandoning me! You are turning your back on Islam and on Allah.”

She leaned forward. “I do not mean to be unkind. And of course you are free to choose whom you will serve. But as for me and the children, we will serve the one true God and His Son, Jesus.”

Abdullah covered his face and rubbed his eyes, shuddering. “And you do not fear the wrath of Allah.”

“I fear nothing and no one, Abdullah. Not even you. If God be for me, who can be against me?”

Abdullah turned his back to her and stared out onto the empty tarmac, still shimmering in the late-afternoon heat. He lowered his voice and tried to sound reasonable, though he chose harsh, threatening words. “You know there is still enough Islamic influence in our government that I could likely regain custody.” He heard her rise behind him, but he did not turn.

“Oh, Abdullah, listen to yourself. The world has passed you by. We live in an age of tolerance. Yes, we Christian believers remain in the minority here, and yes, I will be vilified by many. But there has not been official religious persecution here for more than a decade. And you do not want to force me to rehearse your own weaknesses in such a tribunal, even if one were to be staged.”

Now he whirled to face her. “No! I don’t! And the truth is I am hardly more devout today than I was a month ago. There is nothing for me in religion, mine or yours! I pray! I pray Allah will return my children to me, will soften your heart, change your mind, make you see your error. But he does not listen.”

“Do me this favor,” Yasmine said softly, and he was impressed that indeed she did not seem to fear approaching him. “While you are pondering all this, reread my letters. Consider my God. And in the meantime, maintain your personal discipline for your own sake, even when God seems far from you.”

Abdullah was speechless. How could he argue with this woman? She made him so angry! He waved her off with the back of his hand.

“What?” she said. “You are dismissing me?”

He scowled at her and snapped off another wave, as if he could not stand the sight of her another second.

“You have nothing more to say to me?” she said, not seeming disappointed for herself but as if perhaps she was pleasantly surprised.

Abdullah turned away and marched toward the door to the corridor that led to his quarters.

“Very well,” he heard her whisper. “I shall pray for you.”

That made him slam the door, but he also had the feeling that he had seen her for the last time. And when he reached his cot, he collapsed in tears.

Predictably, Rayford’s altruistic errand—rounding up expensive toys for Raymie—took much longer than necessary. With the crowds, the forms to fill out, the upselling by each salesperson, and the time it took to load the stuff onto a borrowed trailer, by the time he returned home Raymie had long been asleep.