Chapter One
BUCK braced himself with his elbow crooked around a
scaffolding pole. Thousands of panicked people fleeing
the scene had, like him, started and involuntarily turned
away from the deafening gunshot. It had come from perhaps
a hundred feet to Buck's right and was so loud he
would not have been surprised if even those at the back
of the throng of some two million had heard it plainly.
He was no expert, but to Buck it had sounded like a
high-powered rifle. The only weapon smaller that had
emitted such a report was the ugly handgun Carpathia
had used to destroy the skulls of Moishe and Eli three
days before. Actually, the sounds were eerily similar.
Had Carpathia's own weapon been fired? Might someone
on his own staff have targeted him?
The lectern had shattered loudly as well, like a tree
branch split by lightning. And that gigantic backdrop sailing
into the distance .
Buck wanted to bolt with the rest of the crowd, but he
worried about Chaim. Had he been hit? And where was
Jacov? Just ten minutes before, Jacov had waited below
stage left where Buck could see him. No way Chaim's
friend and aide would abandon him during a crisis.
As people stampeded by, some went under the scaffold,
most went around it, and some jostled both Buck
and the support poles, making the structure sway. Buck
held tight and looked to where giant speakers three stories
up leaned this way and that, threatening their flimsy
plywood supports.
Buck could choose his poison: step into the surging
crowd and risk being trampled or step up a few feet on the
angled crossbar. He stepped up and immediately felt the
fluidity of the structure. It bounced and seemed to want to
spin as Buck looked toward the platform over the tops of a
thousand streaking heads. He had heard Carpathia's
lament and Fortunato's keening, but suddenly the
sound—at least in the speakers above him—went dead.
Buck glanced up just in time to see a ten-foot-square
speaker box tumble from the top. "Look out!" he
shrieked to the crowd, but no one heard or noticed. He
looked up again to be sure he was out of the way. The
box snapped its umbilicals like string, which redirected
its path some fifteen feet away from the tower. Buck
watched in horror as a woman was crushed beneath it
and several other men and women were staggered. A
man tried to drag the victim from beneath the speaker,
but the crowd behind him never slowed. Suddenly the
running mass became a cauldron of humanity, trampling
each other in their desperation to get free of the carnage.
Buck could not help. The entire scaffolding was pivoting,
and he felt himself swing left. He hung on, not daring
to drop into the torrent of screaming bodies. He
caught sight of Jacov at last, trying to make his way up
the side steps to the platform where Carpathia's security
detail brandished Uzis.
A helicopter attempted to land near the stage but had
to wait until the crowd cleared. Chaim sat motionless in
his chair, facing to Buck's right, away from Carpathia
and Fortunato. He appeared stiff, his head cocked and
rigid, as if unable to move. If he had not been shot, Buck
wondered if he'd had another stroke, or worse, a heart
attack. He knew if Jacov could get to him, he would protect
Chaim and get him somewhere safe.
Buck tried to keep an eye on Jacov while Fortunato
waved at the helicopters, pleading with one to land and
get Carpathia out of there. Jacov finally broke free and
sprinted up the steps, only to be dealt a blow from the
butt end of an Uzi that knocked him off his feet and into
the crowd.
The impact snapped Jacov's head back so violently
that Buck was certain he was unconscious and unable to
protect himself from trampling. Buck leaped off the scaffold
and into the fray, fighting his way toward Jacov. He
moved around the fallen speaker box and felt the sticky
blood underfoot.
As Buck neared where he thought Jacov should be he
took one more look at the platform before the angle
would obscure his view. Chaim's chair was moving! He
was headed full speed toward the back of the platform.
Had he leaned against the joystick? Was he out of control?
If he didn't stop or turn, he would pitch twelve feet
to the pavement and certain death. His head was still
cocked, his body stiff.
Buck reached Jacov, who lay splayed, his head awkwardly
flopped to one side, eyes staring, limbs limp. A
sob worked its way to Buck's throat as he elbowed stragglers
out of the way and knelt to put a thumb and forefinger
to Jacov's throat. No pulse.
Buck wanted to drag the body from the scene but
feared he would be recognized despite his extensive facial
scars. There was nothing he could do for Jacov. But
what about Chaim?
Buck sprinted left around the platform and skidded to
a stop at the back corner, from where he could see
Chaim's wheelchair crumpled on the ground, backstage
center. The heavy batteries had broken open and lay
twenty feet from the chair, which had one wheel bent
almost in half, seat pad missing, and a footrest broken
off. Was Buck about to find another friend dead?
He loped to the mangled chair and searched the area,
including under the platform. Besides splinters from
what he was sure had been the lectern, he found nothing.
How could Chaim have survived this? Many of the
world rulers had scrambled off the back of the stage, certainly
having to turn and hang from the edge first to
avoid serious injury. Even then, many would have had to
have suffered sprained or broken ankles. But an elderly
stroke victim riding in a metal chair twelve feet to concrete?
Buck feared Chaim could not have survived. But
who would have carried him off?
A chopper landed on the other side of the platform,
and medical personnel rushed the stage. The security
detail fanned out and began descending the stairs to clear
the area.
Four emergency medical technicians crowded around
Carpathia and Fortunato while others attended the trampled
and the crushed, including the woman beneath the
speaker box. Jacov was lifted into a body bag. Buck
nearly wept at having to leave his brother that way, yet
he knew Jacov was in heaven. He ran to catch up with
the crowd now spilling into the streets.
Buck knew Jacov was dead. From the wound at the back
of Carpathia's head, he assumed Nicolae was dead or soon
would be. And he had to assume Chaim was dead too.
Buck longed for the end of all this and the glorious
appearing of Christ. But that was still another three and
a half years off.
* * *
Rayford felt a fool, running with the crowd, the hem of
his robe in his hands to keep from tripping. He had
dropped the Saber and its box and wanted to use his
arms for more speed. But he had to run like a woman in
a long skirt. Adrenaline carried him, because he felt fast
as ever, regardless. Rayford really wanted to shed the
robe and turban, but the last thing he needed just then
was to look like a Westerner.
Had he murdered Carpathia? He had tried to,
intended to, but couldn't pull the trigger. Then, when he
was bumped and the gun went off, he couldn't imagine
he'd been lucky enough to find his target. Could the bullet
have ricocheted off the lectern and into Carpathia?
Could it also have passed through him and taken out the
backdrop? It didn't seem possible.
If he had killed the potentate, there was certainly no
satisfaction in it, no relief or sense of accomplishment.
As he hurried along, the screams and moans of
Carpathia's faithful all around him, Rayford felt he was
running from a prison of his own making.
He was sucking wind by the time the crowd thinned
and began to disperse, and when he stopped to bend at
the waist, hands on his hips, to catch his breath, a couple
hurrying past said, "Isn't it awful? They think he's dead!"
"It's awful," Rayford gasped, not looking at them.
Assuming TV cameras had caught everything, especially
him with the gun raised, it wouldn't be long before
he would be sought. As soon as he was away from the
busy streets, he shed the garb and stuffed it in a trash
barrel. He found his car, eager to get to Tel Aviv and out
of Israel before it became impossible.
* * *
Mac stood near the back of the throng, far enough from
the gun that the report didn't reach his ears until after the
massive crowd began to move. While others near him
shrieked and gasped and pleaded to know what was going
on, he kept his eyes on the stage, relief washing over him.
So, he would not have to sacrifice himself and Abdullah to
be sure Carpathia was dead. From the commotion down
front and from his view of the platform via jumbo screens
nearby, it was clear to Mac that Nicolae had suffered the
massive head wound believers knew was coming.
Ever the professional, Mac knew what would be
expected of him. He slid his cell phone from his jacket
and dialed the Tel Aviv tower. "You got a jockey certified
to shuttle the 216 to Jerusalem?"
"Already looking, sir. This is a tragedy."
"Yeah."
Mac dialed Abdullah. From the limited noise in the
background, he could tell his first officer was not at the
Gala. "You hear, Ab?"
"I heard. Shall I go get the Phoenix?"
"Hang loose; they're trying to get it here. I saw you
leave the hotel. Where are you?"
"Doctor Pita's. I suppose I'll look suspicious finishing
my meal when the big boss is dying and everyone else
has run into the streets looking for a TV."
"Stick it in your pocket, and if you don't hear from
me, meet me at Jerusalem Airport in an hour."
Mac made his way to the front of the plaza as the
place emptied in a frenzy. He flashed his ID when necessary,
and by the time he reached the platform, it was
clear Carpathia was in the final throes of life. His wrists
were drawn up under his chin, eyes shut tight and bleeding,
blood trickling also from his ears and mouth, and
his legs shook violently, toes pointed, knees locked.
"Oh, he's gone! He's gone!" Leon wailed. "Someone
do something."
The four emergency medical technicians, portable monitors
beeping, knelt over Carpathia. They cleared his
mouth so they could administer oxygen, studied a blood
pressure gauge, pumped his chest, cradled his head, and
tried to stanch the flow from a wound that left them
kneeling in more blood than it seemed a body could hold.
Mac peeked past the panicky Fortunato to see
Carpathia's normally tanned hands and face already
pale. No one could survive this, and Mac wondered if
the bodily movements were merely posthumous reflexes.
"There is a hospital nearby, Commander," one of the
EMTs said, which threw Fortunato into a rage. He had
just made eye contact with Mac and seemed about to say
something when he turned on the EMT.
"Are you crazy? These—these people are not qualified!
We must get him to New Babylon."
He turned to Mac. "Is the 216 ready?"
"On its way from Tel Aviv. Should be able to lift off in
an hour."
"An hour?! Should we helicopter him straight to Tel
Aviv?"
"Jerusalem Airport will be faster," Mac said.
"There's no room to stabilize him in a chopper, sir,"
the EMT said.
"We have no choice!" Fortunato said. "An ambulance
would be too slow."
"But an ambulance has equipment that might—"
"Just get him into the chopper!" Fortunato said.
But as the EMT turned away looking disgusted, a
female colleague looked up at him. Carpathia was still.
"No vitals," she said. "He's flat lined."
"No!" Leon bellowed, bullying his way between them
and kneeling in Nicolae's blood. Again he leaned over
the body, but rather than holding Carpathia to him, he
buried his face in the lifeless chest and sobbed aloud.
Security Chief Walter Moon dismissed the EMTs with
a nod, and as they gathered up their equipment and went
for the gurney, he gently pulled Leon away from
Carpathia. "Don't drape the body," he said. "Let's load
'im up now. Say nothing about his condition until we're
back home."
"Who did this, Walter?" Fortunato whined. "Did we
catch him?"
Moon shrugged and shook his head.
* * *
Buck ran toward the hostel. He dialed Chaim's number
again, as he had all along the way. Still busy. The people
in Chaim's house—Stefan the valet, Jacov's wife,
Hannelore, and Hannelore's mother—had to have been
watching on TV and were likely calling anyone they
knew for news of their loved ones.
Finally, Hannelore answered. "Jacov!" she shouted.
"No, Hannelore, this is Greg North."
"Buck!" she wailed. "What happened? Where—"
"Hannelore!" Buck said. "Your phone is not secure!"
"I don't care anymore, Buck! If we die, we die! Where
is Jacov? What happened to Chaim?"
"I need to meet you somewhere, Hannelore. If Chaim
shows up there—"
"Chaim is all right?"
"I don't know. I didn't see him after—"
"Did you see Jacov?"
"Meet me, Hannelore. Call me from another phone
and—"
"Buck, you tell me right now! Did you see him?"
"I saw him."
"Is he alive?"
"Hannelore—"
"Buck, is he dead?"
"I'm sorry. Yes."
She began to wail, and in the background Buck heard a
scream. Hannelore's mother? Had she deduced the news?
"Buck, they're here!"
"What? Who?"
He heard a door smashing, a yell, another scream.
"GC!" she whispered fiercely. And the phone went dead.
* * *
Onboard the Phoenix 216, Nicolae Carpathia's personal
physician examined him and pronounced him dead.
"Where were you?" Leon demanded. "You could have
done something."
"Where I was supposed to be, Commander," the doctor
said, "in the auxiliary trailer a hundred yards behind
the platform. Security would not let me out, fearing more
gunfire."
As the 216 taxied toward the runway, Leon came to
the cockpit and told Abdullah, "Patch me through to
Director Hassid at the palace, secure line."
Abdullah nodded and glanced at Mac as Fortunato
backed out. The first officer made the connection and
informed Leon over the intercom. With creative switch
flipping, Abdullah allowed Mac to listen in, while muting
the input button to keep out noise from the cockpit.
"You're aware of the awful news, David?" Leon said.
"I heard, yes, sir," David said. "How is the potentate?"
"He's dead, David ."
"Oh."
" . but this is top secret by order of Chief Moon
until further notice."
"I understand."
"Oh, David, what will we do?"
"We'll look to you, sir."
"Well, thank you for those kind words at such a time,
but I need something from you."
"Yes, sir."
"Scramble the satellites to make it impossible for those
who did this to communicate with each other by phone.
Can you do that?"
A long pause. "Scrambling the satellites" was not the
exact terminology, but David could produce Fortunato's
desired result. "Yes," he said slowly. "It's possible, of
course. You realize the ramifications ."
Mac whispered to Abdullah. "Call Buck, call Rayford,
call the safe house. Leon's going to shut down communications.
If they need to talk to each other, it has to be now."
"Tell me," Leon said.
"We're all served by the same system," David said.
"It's the reason we've never been able to shut down the
Judah-ites' Internet transmissions."
"So if they're shut down, we're shut down?"
"Exactly."
"Do it anyway. The landlines in New Babylon would
still be operable, would they not?"
"They would, and this would not affect television
transmission, but your long distance is all satellite
dependent."
"So those of us in New Babylon would be able to
communicate only with each other."
"Right."
"We'll get by. I'll let you know when to unscramble."
Two minutes later Leon called David again. "How
long does this take?" he said. "I should not be able to
reach you!"
"Three minutes," David said.
"I'll check back in four."
"You'll not reach me, sir."
"I should hope not!"
But four minutes later Leon was preoccupied with the
doctor. "I want an autopsy," he said, "but zero leaks
about cause of death." Through the reverse intercom
bug, Mac heard Leon's voice catch. "And I want this
man prepared for viewing and for burial by the finest
mortuary technician in the world. Is that understood?"
"Of course, Commander. As you wish."
"I don't want the staff butcher in the palace, so whom
would you suggest?"
"One who could use the business, frankly."
"How crass! This would be a service to the Global
Community!"
"But surely you're prepared to reimburse—"
"Of course, but not if money is the primary concern"
"It's not, Commander. I simply know that Dr.
Eikenberry's mortuary has been decimated. She's lost
more than half her staff and has had to reorganize her
business."
"And she's local?"
"Baghdad."
"I do not want Nicolae shipped to Baghdad. Can she
come to the palace morgue?"
"I'm sure she'd be more than happy ."
"Happy?"
"Willing, sir."
"I hope she can work miracles."
"Fortunately his face was not affected."
"Still," Leon said, his voice husky again, "how do you
hide the, the . awful injury?"
"I'm sure it can be done."
"He must look perfect, dignified. The whole world
will mourn him."
"I'll call her now."
"Yes, please try. I'd like to know whether you're able
to get through."
But he was not able. Global telephone communications
were off the air. And Abdullah too had failed to
reach anyone.
Mac was about to shut off the intercom bug when he
heard Leon take a huge breath and let it out. "Doctor?"
he said. "Can your mortician, ah—"
"Dr. Eikenberry."
"Right. Can she do a cast of the potentate's body?"
"A cast?"
"You know, some sort of plaster or plastic or something
that would preserve his exact dimensions and features?"
The doctor hesitated. "Well," he said finally, "death
masks are nothing new. A whole corpse would be quite
an undertaking, pardon the expression."
"But it could be done?"
Another pause. "I should think the body would have
to be dipped. The palace morgue has a large enough
tank."
"It could be done then?"
"Anything can be done, Excellency. I'm sorry, I mean
Commander."
Fortunato cleared his throat. "Yes, please, Doctor.
Don't call me Excellency. At least not yet. And do
arrange for a cast of the potentate's body."
Continues.
