FOUR

BUCK sat in the pew behind Rayford and Chloe Steele and glanced at his watch. More than an hour had flown by since he had last checked. His stomach told him he was hungry, or at least that he could eat. His mind told him he could sit there all day, listening to Bruce Barnes explain from the Bible what was happening today and what would happen tomorrow. His heart told him he was on a precipice. He knew where Bruce was going with this teaching, with this imagery from the book of Revelation. Not only did he know who the rider of the white horse was, Buck knew the rider personally. He had experienced the power of the Antichrist.

Buck had spent enough time with Bruce and the Steeles, poring over the passages, to know beyond doubt that Nicolae Carpathia embodied the enemy of God. And yet he could not jump to his feet and corroborate Bruce's message with his own account. Neither could Bruce reveal that he knew precisely who the Antichrist was, or that someone in this very church had met him. For years Buck had been an inveterate name-dropper. He had run in high circles for so long that it was not uncommon for him to be able to say, "Met him," "Interviewed her," "Know him," "Was with her in Paris," "Stayed in their home."

But that self-centeredness had been swept away by the disappearances and his experiences on the front lines of supernatural events. The old Buck Williams would have welcomed the prospect of letting on that he was a personal acquaintance of not only the leading personality in the world, but also the very

Antichrist foretold in Scripture. Now he simply sat riveted as his friend preached on.

"Let me clarify," Bruce was saying, "that I don't believe it is God's intent to convey individual personality through the imagery of these horsemen, but rather world conditions. They don't all refer to specific people, because, for instance, the fourth horseman is called Death. "Ah, but the first horseman! Notice that it is the Lamb who opens the first seal and reveals that horseman. The Lamb is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who died for our sins, was resurrected, and recently raptured his church.

"In Scripture the first in a succession is always important-the firstborn, the first day of the week, the first commandment. The first rider, the first of the four horses of the first seven judgments, is important! He sets the tone. He is the key to understanding the rest of the horsemen, the rest of the Seal judgments, indeed, the rest of all of the judgments. "Who is this first horseman? Clearly he represents the Antichrist and his kingdom. His purpose is 'conquering and to conquer.' He has a bow in his hand, a symbol of aggressive warfare, and yet there is no mention of an arrow. So how will he conquer? Other passages indicate that he is a 'willful king' and that he will triumph through diplomacy. He will usher in a false peace, promising world unity. Will he be victorious? Yes! He has a crown."

In one way, this was all new to Rayford, and he knew it was to Chloe as well. But they had been so immersed in this teaching with Bruce since they had come to faith in Christ that Rayford anticipated every detail. It seemed he was becoming an instant expert, and he could not recall having ever picked up on a subject so quickly. He had always been a good student, especially in science and math. He had been a quick study in aviation. But this was cosmic. This was life. This was the real world. It explained what had happened to his wife and son, what he and his daughter would endure, and what would happen tomorrow and for the next several years. Rayford admired Bruce. The young man had instantly realized that his phony brand of Christianity had failed him at the most pivotal point in human history. He had immediately repented and dedicated himself to the task of rescuing everyone possible. Bruce Barnes had surrendered himself to the cause. Under other circumstances, Rayford might have worried about Bruce, fearing he was wearing himself out, stretching himself too thin. But Bruce seemed energized, fulfilled. He would need more sleep, sure, but for now he was brimming with the truth and eager to share it. And if the others were like Rayford, they could think of nothing they would rather do than sit here under that instruction. "We'll talk next week and following about the next three horsemen of the Apocalypse," Bruce was saying, "but let me just leave you with something to watch for. The rider of the white horse is the Antichrist, who comes as a deceiver promising peace and uniting the world. The Old Testament book of Daniel-chapter 9, verses 24 through 27-says he will sign a treaty with Israel. "He will appear to be their friend and protector, but in the end he will be their conqueror and destroyer. I must close for this week, but we'll talk more about why this happens and what will come of it. Let me close by telling you how you can be sure I am not the Antichrist." That got people's attention, including Rayford's. There was embarrassed laughter.

"I'm not implying that you suspect me," Bruce said, to more laughs. "But we may get to the point where every leader is suspect. Remember, however, that you will never hear peace promised from this pulpit. The Bible is clear that we will have perhaps a year and a half of peace following the pact with Israel. But in the long run, I predict the opposite of peace. The other three horsemen are coming, and they bring war, famine, plagues, and death. That is not a popular message, not a warm fuzzy you can cling to this week. Our only hope is in Christ, and even in him we will likely suffer. See you next week." Rayford sensed a restlessness in the crowd as Bruce closed in prayer, as if others felt the same way he did. He wanted to hear more, and he had a million questions. Usually the organist began playing near the end of Bruce's prayer and Bruce immediately headed to the back of the church where he shook hands with people as they left. But today Bruce didn't get as far as the aisle before he was stopped by people who embraced him, thanked him, and began asking questions. Rayford and Chloe were in one of the rows closest to the front, and though Rayford was aware that Buck was talking to Chloe, he also heard what people were asking Bruce. "Are you saying that Nicolae Carpathia is the Antichrist?" one asked. "Did you hear me say that?" Bruce said. "No, but it was pretty clear. They're already talking on the news about his plans and some sort of deal with Israel."

"Keep reading and studying," Bruce said. "But it can't be Carpathia, can it? Does he strike you as a liar?" "How does he strike you?" Bruce said. "As a savior."

"Almost like a messiah?" Bruce pressed. "Yeah!"

"There is only one Savior, one Messiah." "I know, spiritually, but politically I mean. Don't tell me Carpathia's not what he seems to be." "I'll tell you only what Scripture says," Bruce said, "and I will urge you to listen carefully to the news. We must be wise as serpents and gentle as doves." "That's how I would have described Carpathia," a woman said. "Be careful," Bruce said, "about ascribing Christlike attributes to anyone who doesn't align himself with Christ."

As the service ended, Buck took Chloe's arm, but she seemed less responsive than he might have hoped. She turned slowly to see what he wanted, and her expression bore no sign of that expectant look she'd had Friday night. Clearly, he had somehow wounded her. "I'm sure you're wondering what I was calling about," he began.

"I figured you'd tell me eventually." "I just wondered if you wanted to see my new place." He told her where it was. "Maybe you could drop over late tomorrow morning and see it, and then we could get some lunch." "I don't know," Chloe said. "I don't think I can do lunch, but if I'm over that way maybe I'll stop by." "OK." Buck was deflated. Apparently it wasn't going to be difficult to let her down gently. It certainly wasn't going to break her heart.

As Chloe slipped into the crowd, Rayford reached to shake Buck's hand. "So how are you, my friend?"

"I'm doing all right," Buck said. "Getting settled in." A question gnawed at Rayford. He looked at the ceiling and then back at Buck. In his peripheral vision he saw hundreds of people milling about, wanting their individual moments with Bruce Barnes. "Buck, let me ask you something. Do you ever regret introducing Hattie Durham to Carpathia?" Buck pressed his lips together and shut his eyes, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. "Every day," he whispered. "I was just talking to Bruce about that." Rayford nodded and knelt on the pew seat, facing Buck. Buck sat. "I wondered," Rayford said. "I have a lot of regrets about her. We were friends, you know. Coworkers, but friends, too." "I gathered," Buck said.

"We never had a relationship or anything like that," Rayford assured him. "But I find myself caring about what happens to her."

"I hear she's taken a thirty-day leave of absence from Pan-Con." "Yeah," Rayford said, "but that's just window dressing. You know Carpathia's going to want to keep her around, and he'll find the money to pay her more than she's making with us." "No doubt."

"She's got to be enamored of the job, not to mention him. And who knows where that relationship might go?"

"Like Bruce says, I don't think he hired her for her brain," Buck said. Rayford nodded. So they agreed. Hattie Durham was going to become one of Carpathia's diversions. If there had ever been hope for her soul, it would be remote as long as she was in his orbit every day. "I worry about her," Rayford continued, "and yet because of our friendship I don't feel I'm in a position to warn her. She was one of the first people I tried to tell about Christ. She was not receptive.

Before that I had implied more of an interest in her than I had a right to have, and naturally she's not real positive about me just now."

Buck leaned forward. "Maybe I'll get a chance to talk to Hattie sometime soon." "But what will you say?" Rayford asked. "For all we know they may already be intimate. She'll tell him everything she knows. If she tells him you've become a believer and that you're trying to rescue her, he'll know he had no impact on your mind when he was brainwashing everyone else." Buck nodded. "I've thought about that. But I feel responsible for her being there. I am responsible for her being there. We can pray for her, but I'm going to feel pretty useless if I can't do something concrete to get her out of there. We've got to get her back here where she can learn the truth." "I wonder if she's already moved to New York," Rayford said. "Maybe we'll find a reason for Chloe to call her apartment in Des Plaines."

As they separated and made their way out of the church, Rayford began wondering how much he should encourage the relationship between Chloe and Buck. He liked Buck a lot, what little he knew of him. He believed him, trusted him, considered him a brother. He was bright and insightful for a young guy. But the idea that his daughter might date or even fall in love with a man on speaking terms with the Antichrist . . . it was too much to fathom. He would have to be frank with them both about it, if it appeared their relationship was going anywhere. But once he joined Chloe in the car he realized that was not something he needed to fret about just yet.

"Don't tell me you've invited Buck to join us for lunch," she said. "Didn't even think of it. Why?"

"He's treating me like a sister, and yet he wants me to drop in and see his place tomorrow." Rayford wanted to say "So what?" and ask her if she didn't think she was reading too much into the words and actions of a man she barely knew. For all she knew, Buck could be madly in love with her and not know how to broach it. Rayford said nothing. "You're right," she said. "I'm obsessing." "I didn't say a word."

"I can read your mind," she said. "Anyway, I'm mad at myself. I come away from a message like that one, and all I can think about is a guy I've somehow let slip away. It's not important. Who cares?" "You do, apparently."

"But I shouldn't. Old things are passed away and all things have become new," she said. "Worrying about guys should definitely be an old thing. There's no time for trivia now." "Suit yourself."

"That's just what I don't want to do. If I suited myself I'd see Buck this afternoon and find out where we stand."

"But you're not going to?"

She shook her head.

"Then would you do me a favor? Would you try to reach Hattie Durham for me?" "Why?"

"Actually, I'm just curious to know whether she's already moved to New York." "Why wouldn't she have? Carpathia's hired her, hasn't he?" "I don't know. She's on a thirty-day leave. Just call her apartment. If she's got a machine running, then she's not made up her mind yet."

"Why don't you call her?"

"I think I've intruded enough in her life." __________

Buck stopped for Chinese carryout on the way home and sat eating alone, staring out the window. He turned on a ball game but ignored it, keeping the sound low. His mind was full of conflict. His story was ready to be transmitted to New York, and he would be eager for a reaction from Stanton Bailey. He also looked forward to getting his office machines and files, which should arrive at the Chicago bureau office in the morning. It would be good to pick those up and get organized. He couldn't shake Bruce's message, either. It wasn't so much the content as Bruce's passion. He needed to get to know Bruce better. Maybe that would be a cure for his loneliness-and Bruce's. If Buck himself were this lonely, it had to be much worse for a man who had had a wife and children. Buck was used to a solitary life, but he'd had a network of friends in New York. Here, unless he heard from the office or someone else in the Tribulation Force, the phone was not going to ring. He certainly wasn't handling the Chloe situation well. When he had been demoted, Buck had considered the relocation from New York to Chicago a positive turn-he would get to see more of her, he'd be in a good church, get good training, have a core of friends. But he also felt he had been on the right track when he began to slow his pursuit of her. The timing was bad. Who pursues a relationship during the end of the world?

Buck knew-or at least believed-that Chloe was not toying with him. She wasn't playing hard to get just to keep him interested. But whether she was doing it on purpose or not, it was working, and he felt foolish to be dwelling on it.

Whatever had happened, however she was acting, and for whatever reason, he owed it to her to have it out. He might regret the let's-be-friends routine, but he didn't see that he had any other choice. He owed it to her and to himself to just pursue the friendship and see what came of it. For all he knew, she wouldn't be interested in more than that anyway.

He reached for the phone, but when he put it to his ear, he heard a strange tone, and then a recorded voice. "You have a message. Please push star two to hear it." A message? I never ordered voice mail. He pushed the buttons. It was Steve Plank. "Buck, where the devil are you, man? If you're not going to answer your voice mail, I'm going to quit leaving messages there. I know you're unlisted there, but if you think Nicolae Carpathia is someone to trifle with, ask yourself how I got your phone number. You'll wish you had these resources as a journalist. Now, Buck, friend to friend, I know you check your messages often, and you know Carpathia wants to talk to you. Why didn't you call me? You're making me look bad. I told him I'd track you down and that you'd come and see him. I told him I didn't understand your not accepting his invitation to the installation meeting, but that I know you like a brother and you wouldn't stand him up again. "Now he wants to see you. I don't know what it's all about or even whether I'll sit in on it. I don't know if it's on the record, but you can certainly ask him for a few quotes for your article. Just get here. You can hand deliver your article to the Weekly, say hi to your old friend Miss Durham, and find out what Nicolae wants. There's a first-class ticket waiting for you at O'Hare under the name of McGillicuddy for a nine o'clock flight tomorrow morning. A limo will meet your plane, and you'll have lunch with Carpathia. Just do it, Buck. Maybe he wants to thank you for introducing him to Hattie. They seem to be hitting it off.

"Now, Buck, if I don't hear from you, I'm going to assume you'll be here. Don't disappoint me." __________

"What's the scoop?" Rayford asked.

Chloe imitated the recorded voice. " 'The number you have dialed has been disconnected. The new number is...' "

"Is what?"

She handed him a scrap of paper. The area code was for New York City. Rayford sighed. "Do you have Buck's new number?"

"It's on the wall by the phone."

__________

Buck called Bruce Barnes. "I hate to ask you this, Bruce," he said. "But could we get together tonight?"

"I'm about to take a nap," Bruce said. "You should sleep through. We can do it another time."

"No, I'm not going to sleep through. You want the four of us to meet, or just you and me?"

"Just us."

"How about I come to your place then? I'm getting tired of the office and the empty house." They agreed on seven o'clock, and Buck decided he would take his phone off the hook after one more call. He didn't want to risk talking to Plank, or worse, Carpathia, until he had talked over and prayed about his plans with Bruce. Steve had said he would assume Buck was coming unless he heard back, but it would be just like Steve to check in with him again. And Carpathia was totally unpredictable. Buck called Alice, the Chicago bureau secretary. "I need a favor," he said. "Anything," she said.

He told her he might be flying to New York in the morning but he didn't want Verna Zee knowing about it. "I also don't want to wait any longer for my stuff, so I'd like to bring you my extra key before I head for the airport. If you wouldn't mind bringing that stuff over here for me and locking back up, I'd really appreciate it."

"No problem. I have to be going that way late morning anyway. I'm picking up my fiance at the airport. Verna doesn't have to know I'm delivering your stuff on the way." __________

"You want to go to Dallas with me tomorrow morning, Chlo'?" Rayford asked. "I don't think so. You're going to be in 757s all day anyway, right?" Rayford nodded.

"I'll stay around here. Maybe I'll take Buck up on his offer to see his place." Rayford shook his head. "I can't keep up with you," he said. "Now you want to go over there and see the guy who treats you like a sister?"

"I wouldn't be going to see him," she said. "I'd be going to see his place." "Ah," Rayford said. "My mistake."

__________

"You hungry?" Buck asked before Bruce had even gotten in the door that evening. "I could eat," Bruce said.

"Let's go out," Buck suggested. "You can see the place when we get back."

They settled into a booth in a dark corner of a noisy pizza place, and Buck filled Bruce in on the latest from Steve Plank. "You thinking about going?" Bruce asked. "I don't know what to think, and if you knew me better, you'd know that's pretty bizarre for me. My instincts as a journalist say yes, of course-go, no question. Who wouldn't? But I know who this guy is, and the last time I saw him he put a bullet through two men." "I'd sure like to get Rayford's and Chloe's input on this." "I thought you might," Buck said. "But I'd like to ask you to hold off on that. If I go, I'd rather they not know."

"Buck, if you go, you're going to want all the prayer support you can get." "Well, you can tell them after I'm gone or something. I should be having lunch with Carpathia around noon or a little after, New York time. You can just tell them I'm on an important trip." "If that's what you want. But you have to realize, this is not how I see the core group." "I know, and I agree. But they both might see this as pretty reckless, and maybe it is. If I do it, I don't want to disappoint them until I've had a chance to debrief them and explain myself." "Why not do that in advance?"

Buck cocked his head and shrugged. "Because I haven't sorted it out myself yet." "It sounds to me like you've already made up your mind to go." "I suppose I have."

"Do you want me to talk you out of it?" "Not really. Do you want to?"

"I'm as much at a loss as you are, Buck. I can't see anything positive coming from it. He's a dangerous man and a murderer. He could wipe you out and get away with it. He did it before with a roomful of witnesses. On the other hand, how long can you dodge him? He gets access to your unlisted phone number two days after you move in. He can find you, and if you avoid him you'll certainly make him mad."

"I know. This way I can just tell him I was busy moving in and getting settled-" "Which you were."

"-Which I was, and then I'm there on time, on his ticket, wondering what he wants." "He'll be trying to read you, to find out how much you remember about what he did." "I don't know what I'll say. I didn't know what I'd do at the installation meeting either. I sensed the evil in that room, but I also knew God was with me. I didn't know what to say or how to react, but as I look back on it, God led me perfectly just to be silent and let Carpathia come to whatever conclusion he wanted to."

"You can depend on God this time, too, Buck. But you should have some sort of plan, go over in your mind what you might say or not say, that sort of thing." "In other words, instead of sleeping tonight?" Bruce smiled. "I don't suppose there's much prospect of that." "I don't suppose."

By the time Buck gave Bruce the quick tour of his place, Buck had decided to go to New York in the morning.

"Why don't you just call your friend . . . ," Bruce began. "Plank?"

"Yeah, Plank, and tell him you're coming. Then you can quit dreading his call and leave your phone open for me or whoever else might want to talk to you." Buck nodded. "Good idea."

But after leaving a message for Steve, Buck got no more calls that night. He thought about calling Chloe to tell her not to come by the next morning, but he didn't want to have to tell her why or make up something, and he was convinced she wasn't coming anyway. She certainly hadn't sounded interested that morning.

__________

Buck slept fitfully. Fortunately, the next morning he didn't see Verna until after he had dropped off his key to Alice and was driving out of the lot. Verna was driving in, and she did not see him. Buck had no identification with the name McGillicuddy on it. At O'Hare he picked up an envelope under the phony name and realized that not even the young woman at the counter would have known a ticket was inside.

At the gate he checked in about half an hour before boarding was to begin. "Mr. McGillicuddy," the middle-aged man at the counter said, "you are free to preboard if you wish." "Thanks," Buck said.

He knew that first-class passengers, frequent flyers, the elderly, and people with small children boarded first. But as Buck went to sit in the waiting area, the man asked, "You don't wish to board right away?"

"I'm sorry?" Buck said. "Now?"

"Yes, sir."

Buck looked around, wondering if he had missed something. Few people were even in line yet, let alone preboarding.

"You have the exclusive privilege of boarding at your leisure, but of course it's not required. Your choice."

Buck shrugged. "Sure, I'll board now." Only one flight attendant was on the plane. The coach section was still being cleaned. Nevertheless, the flight attendant offered him champagne, juice, or a soft drink and allowed him to look at a breakfast menu.

Buck had never been a drinker, so he declined the champagne, and he was too keyed up to eat. The flight attendant said, "Are you sure? An entire bottle has been set aside for you." She looked at her clipboard. " 'Compliments of N. C.' "

"Thanks anyway." Buck shook his head. Was there no end to what Carpathia could-or would-do? "You don't want to take it with you?" "No, ma'am. Thanks. Would you like it?" The attendant gave him a stunned look. "Are you kidding? It's Dom P rignon!" "Feel free."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"Well, would you sign that you accepted it so I don't get in trouble for taking it?" Buck signed the clipboard. What next?

"Um, sir?" the attendant said. "What is your name?" "I'm sorry," Buck said. "I wasn't thinking." He took the clipboard, crossed out his own name, and signed "B. McGillicuddy."

Normally coach passengers would steal glances at those in first class, but now even the other first-class passengers checked Buck out. He had tried not to be showy, but clearly he was getting preferential treatment. He was waiting on board when they arrived, and during the flight the attendants hovered felicitously around him, topping off his drink and asking if he wanted anything else. Whom had Carpathia paid for this treatment, and how much? At Kennedy International, Buck did not have to look for someone holding a placard with his name on it. A uniformed driver strode directly to him as he appeared at the end of the jetway, reached for his carry-on, and asked if he had checked any bags.

"No."

"Very good, sir. Follow me to the car, please." Buck was a world traveler and had been treated like both a king and a pauper over the years. Yet even he found this routine unsettling. He followed the driver meekly through the airport to a black stretch limo at the curb. The driver opened the door, and Buck stepped from the sun into the dark interior. He had not told the driver his name and had not been asked. He assumed this was all part of Carpathia's hospitality. But what if he had been mistaken for someone else? What if this was just a colossal blunder?

As his eyes adjusted to the low light and the tinted windows, Buck noticed a man in a dark suit sitting with his back to the driver, staring at him. "You with the U. N.," Buck asked, "or do you work directly for Mr. Carpathia?"

The man did not respond. Nor did he move. Buck leaned forward. "Excuse me!" he said. "Do you-" The man put a finger to his lips. Fair enough, Buck thought. I don't need to know. He was curious, though, whether he was meeting Carpathia at the U. N. or at a restaurant. And it would have been nice to know whether Steve Plank would be there. "You mind if I talk to the driver?" Buck said. No reaction. "Excuse me, driver?" But there was Plexiglas between the front seat and the rest of the chassis. The man who looked like a bodyguard still sat staring, and Buck wondered if this would be his last ride. Strangely, he didn't experience the dread that had overwhelmed him that last time. He didn't know if this was from God, or if he was just naive. For all he knew, he could be on his way to his own execution. The only record of his trip was a mistaken signature on the flight attendant's clipboard, and he had crossed that out. __________

Rayford Steele sat in the cockpit of a Boeing 757 on the military runway in the shadow of Dallas-Fort Worth. A certifying examiner in the first officer's seat had already clarified that he was there only to take notes. Rayford was to run through the proper preflight checklist, communicate to the tower, wait for clearance, take off, follow tower instructions for the proper flight path, enter a holding pattern, and land. He was not told how many times he might have to repeat that entire sequence, or whether anything else would be required.

"Remember," the examiner said, "I'm not here to teach you a thing or to bail you out. I answer no questions, and I touch no controls."

The preflight check went off without a hitch. Taxiing the 757 was different from the huge, bulky feel of the 747, but Rayford managed. When he received clearance, he throttled up and felt the unusually responsive thrust from the aerodynamic wonder. As the plane hurtled down the runway like a racehorse eager to run, Rayford said to the examiner, "This is like the Porsche of airplanes, isn't it?" The examiner didn't even look at him, let alone answer.

The takeoff was powerful and true, and Rayford was reminded of flying the powerful but much smaller fighter planes from his military days. "More like a Jaguar?" he asked the examiner, and that at least elicited a tiny smile and a slight nod. Rayford's landing was picture-perfect. The examiner waited until he had taxied back into position and shut down the engines. Then he said, "Let's do that two more times and get you on your way." __________

Buck Williams' limo was soon stuck in traffic. Buck wished he'd brought something to read. Why did this have to be so mysterious? He didn't understand the point of his treatment on both ends of the plane ride. The only other time someone had suggested he use an alias was when a competing magazine was making an offer they hoped he couldn't refuse, and they didn't want Global Weekly to get wind he was even considering it.

Buck could see the United Nations headquarters in the distance, but he still didn't know whether that was his destination until the driver swept past the appropriate exit. He hoped they were headed somewhere nice for lunch. Besides the fact that he had skipped breakfast, he also liked the prospect of eating more than that of dying.

__________

As Rayford was escorted to the Pan-Con courtesy van for his ride to DFW airport, his examiner handed him a business-size envelope. "So did I pass?" Rayford said lightly. "You won't know that for about a week," the man said. Then what's this? Rayford wondered, entering the van and tearing open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of United Nations stationery, already embossed with Hattie Durbam, Personal Assistant to the SecretaryGeneral. The handwritten message read simply:

Captain Steele, I assume you know that the brand-new Air Force One is a 757. Your friend, Hattie Durham FIVE

Buck began to feel more confident that he wasn't in mortal danger. Too many people had been involved in getting him from Chicago to New York and now to midtown. On the other hand, if Nicolae Carpathia could get away with murder in front of more than a dozen eyewitnesses, he could certainly eliminate one magazine writer.

The limo eventually wound its way to the docks, where it stopped on the circle drive in front of the exclusive Manhattan Harbor Yacht Club. As the doorman approached, the chauffeur lowered the front passenger window and waved a finger at him, as if warning him to stay away from the car. Then the bodyguard got out, holding the car door, and Buck stepped into the sunshine. "Follow, please," the bodyguard said.

Buck would have felt right at home in the Yacht Club except that he was walking with a suited man who conspicuously guided him past a long line of patrons waiting for tables. The maRtre d' glanced up and nodded as Buck followed his escort to the edge of the dining room. There the man stopped and whispered, "You will dine with the gentleman in the booth by the window." Buck looked. Someone waved vigorously at him, drawing stares. Because the sun was to the man's back, Buck saw only the silhouette of a smallish, stooped man with wild wisps of hair. "I will be back for you at one-thirty sharp," the bodyguard said. "Don't leave the dining room without me." "But-"

The bodyguard slipped away, and Buck glanced at the maRtre d', who ignored him. Still self-conscious, Buck made his way through the crowd of tables to the booth by the window, where he was exuberantly greeted by his old friend Chaim Rosenzweig. The man knew enough to whisper in public, but his enthusiasm was boundless. "Cameron!" the Israeli exulted in his thick accent. "How good to see you! Sit down, sit down! This a lovely place, no? Only the best for friends of the secretary-general." "Will he be joining us, sir?"

Rosenzweig looked surprised. "No, no! Much too busy. Hardly ever able to get away. Entertaining heads of state, ambassadors, everyone wants a piece of him. I hardly see him more than five minutes a day myself!"

"How long will you be in town?" Buck asked, accepting a menu and allowing the waiter to drape a linen napkin on his lap.

"Not much longer. By the end of this week Nicolae and I are to finish preparations for his visit to Israel. What a glorious day it will be!" "Tell me about it, Doctor."

"I will! I will! But first we must catch up!" The old man suddenly grew serious and spoke in a somber voice. He reached across the table and covered Buck's hand with both of his. "Cameron, I am your friend. You must tell me straight out. How could you have missed such an important meeting? I am a scientist, yes, but I also consider myself somewhat of a diplomat. I worked hard behind the scenes with Nicolae and with your friend, Mr. Plank, to be sure you were invited. I don't understand."

"I don't understand either," Buck said. What else could he say? Rosenzweig, creator of a formula that made the Israeli deserts bloom like a greenhouse, had been his friend ever since Buck profiled him as Global Weekly's Newsmaker of the Year more than a year before. Rosenzweig was the one who had first mentioned the name Nicolae Carpathia to Buck. Carpathia had been a low-level politico from Romania who had asked for a private audience with Rosenzweig after the formula had become famous. Heads of state from all over the world had tried to curry favor with Israel to get access to the formula. Many countries sent diplomats to sweet-talk Rosenzweig himself when they got nowhere with the Israeli prime minister. Oddly, Carpathia was the one who most impressed Rosenzweig. He had arranged the visit himself and come on his own, and at the time he seemed to have no power to make any deals, even if Rosenzweig had been open to one. All Carpathia had sought from Rosenzweig was his good will. And he got it. Now, Buck realized, it was paying off. "Where were you?" Dr. Rosenzweig asked. "That's the question of the ages," Buck said. "Where are any of us?" Rosenzweig's eyes twinkled, though Buck felt like a fool. He was talking gibberish, but he didn't know what else to say. He couldn't tell the man, I was there! I saw the same thing you saw, but you were brainwashed by Carpathia because he's the Antichrist! Rosenzweig was a bright, quick man with a love for intrigue. "So, you don't want to tell me. All right. Not being there was your loss. Of course, you were spared the horror it turned into, but what a historic meeting nonetheless. Get the salmon. You'll love it." Buck had always, always made it a habit to ignore recommendations in restaurants. It probably was one of the reasons for his nickname. He realized how rattled he was when he ordered what Rosenzweig suggested. And he loved it.

"Let me ask you something now, Dr. Rosenzweig." "Please! Please, Chaim."

"I can't call you Chaim, sir. A Nobel Prize winner?" "Please, you will honor me. Please!" "All right, Chaim," Buck said, barely able to get the name out. "Why am I here? What is this all about?"

The old man pulled the napkin from his lap, wiped his whole bearded face with it, balled it up, and plopped it onto his plate. He pushed the plate aside, sat back, and crossed his legs. Buck had seen people warm to a subject before, but never with as much relish as Chaim Rosenzweig. "So, the journalist in you comes out, eh? Let me begin by telling you that this is your lucky day. Nicolae has in mind for you an honor that is such a privilege I cannot tell you." "But you will tell me, won't you, sir?" "I will tell you what I have been instructed to tell you, and no more. The rest will come from Nicolae himself." Rosenzweig glanced at his watch, a plastic-banded twenty-dollar toy that seemed incongruous with his international status. "Good. We have time. He has allotted thirty minutes for your visit, so please keep that in mind. I know you are friends and you may want to apologize for missing his meeting, but just remember that he has a lot to offer you and not much time to do it. He flies to Washington late this afternoon for a meeting with the president. By the way, the president offered to meet in New York, if you can imagine, but Nicolae, humble as he is, would hear nothing of it." "You find Carpathia humble?"

"Probably as humble as any leader I have ever met, Cameron. Of course, I know many public servants and private people who are humble and have a right to be! But most politicians, heads of state, world leaders, they are full of themselves. Many of them have much to be proud of and in many ways it is their egos that allow them to accomplish what they accomplish. But never have I seen a man like this." "He's pretty impressive," Buck admitted. "That's not the half of it," Dr. Rosenzweig insisted. "Think about it, Cameron. He has not sought these positions. He rose from a low position in the Romanian government to become president of that nation when an election was not even scheduled. He resisted it!" I'll bet, Buck thought.

"And when he was invited to speak at the United Nations not a month ago, he was so intimidated and felt so unworthy, he almost declined. But you were there! You heard the speech. I would have nominated him for prime minister of Israel if I thought he would have taken it! Almost immediately the secretary-general stepped down and insisted Nicolae replace him. And he was elected unanimously, enthusiastically, and he has been endorsed by nearly every head of state around the world. "Cameron, he has ideas upon ideas! He is the consummate diplomat. He speaks so many languages that he hardly ever needs an interpreter, even for the chiefs of some of the remote tribes in South America and Africa! The other day he shared a few phrases understood only by an Australian Aborigine!"

"Let me just stop you for a second, Chaim," Buck said. "You know, of course, that in exchange for stepping down from the secretary-generalship of the U. N., Mwangati Ngumo was promised access to your formula for use in Botswana. It wasn't quite so selfless and altruistic as it seemed, and-" "Of course, Nicolae has told me all about that. But it was not part of any agreement. It was a gesture of his personal gratitude for what President Ngumo has done for the United Nations over the years." "But how can he show his personal gratitude by giving away your formula, sir? No one else anywhere has access to it, and-"

"I was more than happy to offer it." "You were?" Buck's mind reeled. Was there no limit to Carpathia's persuasive power? The old man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Cameron, it all ties together. This is part of why you're here. The agreement with the former secretary-general was an experiment, a model."

"I'm listening, Doctor."

"It's too early to tell, of course, but if the formula works as well as it has in Israel, Botswana will immediately become one of the most fertile countries in all of Africa, if not the world. Already President Ngumo has seen his stature rise within his own nation. Everyone agrees he was distracted from his duties at the U. N. and that the world is better now for the new leadership." Buck shrugged, but apparently Rosenzweig didn't notice. "And so Carpathia plans to do more of this, brokering your formula for favors?"

"No, no! You're missing the point. Yes, I have persuaded the Israeli government to license use of the formula to the secretary-general of the United Nations." "Oh, Chaim! For what? Billions of dollars that Israel no longer needs? It makes no sense! Having the formula made you the richest nation on earth for its size and solved myriad problems, but it was the exclusivity that made it work! Why do you think the Russians attacked you? They don't need your land! There's no oil to be found! They wanted the formula! Imagine if all the vast reaches of that nation were fertile!"

Dr. Rosenzweig held up a hand. "I understand that, Cameron. But money has nothing to do with this. I need no money. Israel needs no money." "Then what could Carpathia offer that is worthy of the trade?" "What has Israel prayed for since the beginning of her existence, Cameron? And I am not talking about her rebirth in 1948. From the beginning of time as the chosen people of God, what have we prayed for?"

Buck's blood ran cold, and he could only sit there and nod resignedly. Rosenzweig answered his own question. "Shalom. Peace. 'Pray for the peace of Israel.' We are a fragile, vulnerable land. We know God Almighty supernaturally protected us from the onslaught of the Russians. Do you know that there was so much death among their troops that the bodies had to be buried in a common grave, a crater gouged from our precious soil by one of their bombs, which God rendered harmless? We had to burn some of their bodies and bones. And the debris from their weapons of destruction was so massive that we have used it as a raw resource and are refabricating it into marketable goods. Cameron," he added ominously, "so many of their planes crashed-well, all of them, of course. They still had burnable fuel, enough that we estimate we will be able to use it for five to eight more years. Can you see why peace is so attractive to us?"

"Chaim, you said yourself that God Almighty protected you. There could be no other explanation for what happened the night of that invasion. With God on your side, why do you need to barter with Carpathia for protection?"

"Cameron, Cameron," Rosenzweig said wearily, "history has shown our God to be capricious when it comes to our welfare. From the children of Israel wandering forty years in the desert to the Six-Day War to the Russian invasion to now, we do not understand him. He lends us his favor when it suits his eternal plan, which we cannot comprehend. We pray, we seek him, we try to curry his favor. But in the meantime we believe that God helps those who help themselves. You know, of course, that this is why you are here."

"I know nothing," Buck said.

"Well, it's part of why you're here. You understand that such an agreement takes a lot of homework-"

"What agreement are we talking about?" "I'm sorry, Cameron, I thought you were following. You do not think it was easy even for me, despite my stature within my own country, to persuade the powers to release a license to the formula even to a man as attractive as Nicolae."

"Of course not."

"And you are right. Some of the meetings went long into the night, and every time I felt I had convinced someone, another was brought in. Every new ear had to be convinced. Many times I nearly gave up in despair. But finally, finally, with many conditions, I was empowered to hammer out an arrangement with the United Nations."

"With Carpathia, you mean."

"Of course. Make no mistake. He is the United Nations now." "You got that right," Buck said.

"Part of the agreement is that I become part of his senior staff, an adviser. I will cochair the committee that decides where the formula will be licensed." "And no money changes hands?"

"None."

"And Israel gets protection from her neighbors from the United Nations?" "Oh, it is much more complex than that, Cameron. You see, the formula is now tied into Nicolae's global disarmament policy. Any nation even suspected of resisting the destruction of 90 percent of its weapons and the surrender of the remaining 10 percent to Nicolae-or I should say to the U. N.-will never be allowed to even be considered as an applicant for a license. Nicolae has pledged that he-and I will be there to ensure this, of course-will be more than judicious in licensing our nearest neighbors and most dangerous enemies."

"There has to be more than that."

"Oh, there is, but the crux of it is this, Cameron. Once the world has been disarmed, Israel should not have to worry about protecting her borders." "That's naive."

"Not as naive as it might appear, because if there is one thing Nicolae Carpathia is not, it is naive. Knowing full well that some nations may hoard or hide weapons or produce new ones, the full agreement between the sovereign state of Israel and Security Council of the United Nations-with the personal signature of Nicolae Carpathia-makes a solemn promise. Any nation that threatens Israel will suffer immediate extinction, using the full complement of weaponry available to the U. N. With every country donating 10 percent, you can imagine the firepower."

"What I cannot imagine, Chaim, is an avowed pacifist, a rabid global-disarmament proponent for his entire political career, threatening to blow countries off the face of the earth." "It's only semantics, Cameron," Rosenzweig said. "Nicolae is a pragmatist. There is a good bit of the idealist in him, of course, but he knows that the best way to keep the peace is to have the wherewithal to enforce it."

"And this agreement lasts for-?"

"As long as we want it. We offered ten years, but Nicolae said he would not require the freedom to license the formula for that long. He said he would ask for only seven years, and then the full rights to the formula return to us. Most generous. And if we want to renew the agreement every seven years, we are free to do that, too."

You won't have any need for a peace treaty in seven years, Buck thought. "So, what does this have to do with me?" he asked.

"That's the best part," Rosenzweig said. "At least for me, because it honors you. It is no secret that Nicolae is aware of your status as the most accomplished journalist in the world. And to prove that he bears no ill will for your snub of his last invitation, he is going to ask you to come to Israel for the signing of the treaty."

Buck shook his head.

"I know it is overwhelming," Rosenzweig said. __________

Rayford's plane hit the ground at O'Hare at one o'clock Chicago time. He called home and got the answering machine. "Yeah, Chloe," he said, "I'm back earlier than I thought. Just wanted you to know I'll be there within the hour and-"

Chloe grabbed the phone. She sounded awful. "Hi, Dad," she mumbled. "You under the weather?"

"No. Just upset. Dad, did you know that Buck Williams is living with someone?" "What!?"

"It's true. And they're engaged! I saw her. She was carrying boxes into his condo. A skinny little spikehaired girl in a short skirt."

"Maybe you had the wrong place."

"It was the right place."

"You're jumping to conclusions."

"Dad, listen to me. I was so mad I just drove around a while, then sat in a parking lot and cried. Then around noon I went to see him at the Global Weekly office, and there she was, getting out of her car. I said, 'Do you work here?' and she said, 'Yes, may I help you?' and I said, 'I think I saw you earlier today,' and she said, 'You might have. I was with my fianc . Is there someone here you need to see?' I just turned and left, Dad."

"You didn't talk to Buck then?"

"Are you kidding? I may never talk to him again. Just a minute. Someone's at the door." A minute later Chloe came back on. "I can't believe it. If he thinks this makes any difference . . ." "What?"

"Flowers! And of course they're anonymous. He had to have seen me driving by and knew how I'd feel. Unless you want these, you'll find them in the trash when you get home." __________

At a few minutes after two in New York, Buck waited with Chaim Rosenzweig in the opulent waiting room outside the office of the secretary-general of the United Nations. Chaim was merrily going on about something, and Buck pretended to pay attention. He was praying silently, not knowing if his foreboding sense of evil was psychological because he knew Nicolae Carpathia was nearby, or if the man truly emitted some sort of demonic aura detectable to followers of Christ. Buck was warmed by the knowledge that Bruce was praying for him right then, and he was having second thoughts about not informing Rayford and Chloe of his trip. His return ticket was for the 5 P. M. flight, so he knew he'd be back in time for the first of the 8 P. M. study sessions Bruce had planned. Buck looked forward to it already. He might even see if Chloe wanted to have a late dinner, just the two of them, before the meeting. "So what do you think about that?" Dr. Rosenzweig said. "I'm so sorry, Doctor," Buck said. "My mind was elsewhere." "Cameron, don't be nervous. Nicolae was upset, yes, but he has only good things in store for you." Buck shrugged and nodded.

"Anyway, I was saying. My dear friend Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah has finished his three-year study, and it wouldn't surprise me if he wins a Nobel Prize for it." "His three-year study?"

"You weren't listening at all, were you, my friend?" "I'm sorry."

"You must do better when you are with Nicolae, promise me." "I will. Forgive me."

"It's all right. But listen, Rabbi Ben-Judah was commissioned by the Hebrew Institute of Biblical Research to do a three-year study."

"A study of what?"

"Something about the prophecies relating to Messiah so we Jews will recognize him when he comes." Buck was stunned. The Messiah had come, and the Jews left behind had missed him. When he had come the first time most did not recognize him. What should Buck say to his friend? If he declared himself a "Tribulation saint," as Bruce liked to refer to new believers since the Rapture, what might he be doing to himself? Rosenzweig was a confidant of Carpathia's. Buck wanted to say that a legitimate study of messianic prophecies could lead only to Jesus. But he said only, "What are the major prophecies pointing to the Messiah?"

"To tell you the truth," Dr. Rosenzweig said, "I don't know. I was not a religious Jew until God destroyed the Russian Air Force, and I can't say I'm devout now. I always took the messianic prophecies the way I took the rest of the Torah. Symbolic. The rabbi at the temple I attended occasionally in Tel Aviv said himself that it was not important whether we believed that God was a literal being or just a concept. That fit with my humanist view of the world. Religious people, Jewish or otherwise, seldom impressed me any more than the atheist with a good heart. "Dr. Ben-Judah was a student of mine twenty-five years ago. He was always an unabashed religious Jew, Orthodox but short of a fundamentalist. Of course he became a rabbi, but certainly not because of anything I taught him. I liked him and always have. He recently told me he had finished the study and that it was the most fulfilling and rewarding work he has ever done." Rosenzweig paused. "I suppose you are wondering why I tell you this."

"Frankly, yes."

"I'm lobbying for Rabbi Ben-Judah's inclusion on Nicolae Carpathia's staff." "As?"

"Spiritual adviser."

"He's looking for one?"

"Not that he knows of!" Rosenzweig said, roaring with laughter and slapping his knee. "But so far he has trusted my judgment. That's why you're here." Buck lifted an eyebrow. "I thought it was because Carpathia thinks I'm the best journalist in the world."

Dr. Rosenzweig leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "And why do you think he believes that?"

__________

Rayford had had trouble reaching Chloe from his car phone, but he finally got through. "Wondered if you wanted to go out with your old man tonight," he suggested, thinking she needed to be cheered up. "I don't know," she said. "I appreciate it, Dad, but we're going to Bruce's eight o'clock meeting, aren't we?"

"I'd like to," Rayford said.

"Let's stay in. I'm all right. I was just on the phone with Bruce. I wanted to know if he knew whether Buck was coming tonight."

"And?"

"He wasn't entirely sure. He hoped so. I hope not." "Chloe!"

"I'm just afraid of what I'll say, Dad. No wonder he's been cool toward me with that, that, whatever-you-call-her in his life. But the flowers! What was that all about?" "You don't even know they were from him." "Oh, Dad! Unless they were from you, they were from Buck." Rayford laughed. "I wish I'd thought of it." "So do I."

__________

Hattie Durham approached Buck and Chaim Rosenzweig, and they both stood. "Mr. Williams!" she said, embracing him. "I haven't seen you since I took this job." Yes, you have, Buck thought. You just don't remember. "The secretary-general and Mr. Plank will see you now," she told Buck. She turned to Dr. Rosenzweig. "Doctor, the secretary-general asks that you be prepared to join the meeting in about twenty-five minutes."

"Certainly," the old man said. He winked at Buck and squeezed his shoulder. Buck followed Hattie past several desks and down a mahogany-appointed hallway, and he realized he had never seen her out of uniform. Today she wore a tailored suit that made her look like a classy, wealthy, sophisticated woman. The look only enhanced her stunning beauty. Even her speech seemed more cultured than he remembered. Her exposure to Nicolae Carpathia seemed to have improved her presence.

Hattie tapped lightly on the office door and poked her head in. "Mr. Secretary-General and Mr. Plank, Cameron Williams of Global Weekly." Hattie pushed the door open and slipped away as Nicolae

Carpathia advanced, reaching for Buck's hand with both of his. Buck seemed strangely calmed by the man and his smile. "Buck!" he said. "May I call you Buck?" "You always have," Buck said.

"Come! Come! Sit! You and Steve know each other, of course." Buck was more struck with Steve's appearance than with Carpathia's. Nicolae had always dressed formally, with perfectly coordinated accessories, suit coat buttoned, everything in place. But Steve, despite his position as executive editor of one of the most prestigious magazines in the world, had not always dressed the way you might expect a journalist to dress. He had always worn the obligatory suspenders and long-sleeved shirts, of course, but he was usually seen with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, looking like a middle-aged yuppie or an Ivy League student. Today, however, Steve looked like a clone of Carpathia. He carried a thin, black-leather portfolio and from head to toe looked as if he had come off the cover of a Fortune 500 edition of GQ. Even his hairstyle had a European flair-razor cut, blow-dried, styled, and moussed. He wore new, designer-frame glasses, a charcoal suit just this side of pitchblack, a white shirt with a collar pin and tie that probably cost what he used to pay for a sports coat. The shoes were soft leather and looked Italian, and if Buck wasn't mistaken, there was a new diamond ring on Steve's right hand. Carpathia pulled an extra chair from his conference table, added it to the two before his desk, and sat with Buck and Steve. Rigbt out of a management book, Buck thought. Break down the barrier between the superior and the subordinate.

Yet despite the attempt at an equal playing field, it was clear the intent of the meeting was to impress Buck. And he was impressed. Hattie and Steve had already changed enough to be nearly unrecognizable. And every time Buck looked at Carpathia's strong, angular features and quick, seemingly genuine disarming smile, he wished with everything in him that the man was who he appeared to be and not who Buck knew him to be.

He never forgot, never lost sight of the fact that he was in the presence of the slickest, most conniving personality in history. He only wished he knew someone as charming as Carpathia who was real. Buck felt for Steve, and yet he had not been consulted before Steve had left Global Weekly for Carpathia's staff. Now, much as Buck wanted to tell him about his newfound faith, he could trust no one. Unless Carpathia had the supernatural ability to know everything, Buck hoped and prayed he would not detect that Buck was an enemy agent within his camp. "Let me begin with a humorous idiom," Carpathia said, "and then we will excuse Steve and have a heart-to-heart, just you and me, hmm?" Buck nodded.

"Something I have heard only since coming to this country is the phrase 'the elephant in the room.' Have you heard that phrase, Buck?"

"You mean about people who get together and don't talk about the obvious, like the fact that one of them has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness?" "Exactly. So, let us talk about the elephant in the room and be done with it, and then we can move on. All right?

Buck nodded again, his pulse increasing.

"I confess I was confused and a little hurt that you did not attend the private meeting where I installed the new ambassadors. However, as it turned out, it would have been as traumatic for you as it was for the rest of us."

It was all Buck could do to keep from being sarcastic. One thing he could not and would not do was apologize. How could he say he was sorry for missing a meeting he had not missed? "I wanted to be there and wouldn't have missed it for anything," Buck said. Carpathia seemed to look right through him and sat as if waiting for the rest of the thought. "Frankly," Buck added, "that whole day seems a blur to me now." A blur with vivid details he would never forget. Carpathia seemed to loosen up. His formal pose melted and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked from Buck to Steve and back. He looked peeved. "So, all right," he said, "apparently there is no excuse, no apology, no explanation."

Buck glanced at Steve, who seemed to be trying to communicate with his eyes and a slight nod, as if to say, Say something, Buck! Apologize! Explain! "What can I say?" Buck said. "I feel badly about that day." That was as close as he would come to saying what they wanted him to say. Buck knew Steve was innocent. Steve truly believed Buck had not been there. Carpathia, of course, had masterminded and choreographed the whole charade. Acting upset that he wasn't getting an apology or an explanation was the perfect move, Buck thought. Clearly, Carpathia was fishing for some evidence that Buck knew what had happened. All Buck could do was play dumb and be evasive and pray that God would somehow blind Carpathia to the truth that Buck was a believer and that he had been protected from susceptibility to Carpathia's power. "All right," Carpathia said, sitting back and composing himself again. "We all feel bad, do we not? I grieve the loss of two compatriots, one a dear friend for many years." Buck felt his stomach turn. "Now, Buck, I want to talk to you as a journalist, and we will excuse our friend Mr. Plank." Steve stood and patted Buck on the shoulder, leaving quietly. Buck became painfully aware that now it was just him and God sitting knee-to-knee with Nicolae Carpathia. But it wasn't knee-to-knee for long. Nicolae suddenly rose and went back around his desk to the executive chair behind it. Just before he sat, he touched the intercom button, and Buck heard the door open behind him.

Hattie Durham whispered, "Excuse me," took the extra chair from in front of the desk, and put it back at the conference table. As she was leaving, she adjusted and straightened the chair Steve had used. Just as quietly, she slipped out. Buck thought that very strange, this seemingly scripted arrangement of the entire meeting, from the formal announcement of his presence, to the staging of who would be there and where they would sit. With the office now back to the way it was when Buck entered and Carpathia ensconced behind his massive desk, all pretense of equalizing the power base was gone. Yet Carpathia still had the charm turned all the way up. He intertwined his fingers and stared at Buck, smiling. "Cameron Williams," he said slowly. "How does it feel to be the most celebrated journalist of your time?"

What kind of a question was that? It was precisely because Buck didn't ask such questions that he was a respected journalist. "Right now I'm just a demoted hack," he said.

"And humble besides," Carpathia said, grinning. "In a moment I am going to make clear to you that even though your stock may have fallen at Global Weekly, it has not fallen in the eyes of the rest of the world, and certainly not with me. I should have been more upset by your missing my meeting than your publisher was, and yet he overreacted. We can put these things behind us and move on. One mistake does not negate a lifetime of achievement." Carpathia paused as if he expected Buck to respond. Buck was becoming more and more fond of silence. It seemed to be the right choice with Carpathia, and it certainly was the way God had led him during the murderous meeting when Carpathia had polled everyone to assess what they had seen. Buck believed silence had saved his life.

"By the way," Carpathia said when it was clear Buck had nothing to say, "do you have with you your cover story on the theories behind the vanishings?" Buck couldn't hide his surprise. "As a matter of fact, I do." Carpathia shrugged. "Steve told me about it. I would love to see it." "I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to show it to anyone until the Weekly gets the final draft." "Surely they have seen your working copy." "Of course."

"Steve said you might want a quote or two from me." "Frankly, unless you have something new, I think your views have already been so widely broadcast that they would be old to our readers."

Carpathia looked hurt.

"I mean," Buck said, "you still hold to the nuclear reaction with natural forces idea, right? That lightning may have triggered some spontaneous interaction between all the stockpiled nuclear weapons, and-" "You know your friend Dr. Rosenzweig also subscribes to that theory." "I understand that, yes sir."

"But it will not be represented in your article?" "Sure it will. I thought the question was whether I needed a fresh quote from you. Unless your view has changed, I do not."

Carpathia looked at his watch. "As you know, I am on a tight schedule. Your trip was all right? Accommodations acceptable? A good lunch? Dr. Rosenzweig filled you in some?" Buck nodded to every question.

"Assuming he told you about the U. N. treaty with Israel and that the signing will be a week from today in Jerusalem, let me extend a personal invitation to you to be there."

"I doubt the Weekly would send a Chicago staff writer to an international event of that magnitude." "I am not asking that you join the press corps of thousands from around the world who will be seeking credentials as soon as the announcement is made. I am inviting you to be part of my delegation, to sit at the table with me. It will be a privilege no other media person in the world will have." "Global Weekly has a policy that its journalists are not to accept any favors that might-" "Buck, Buck," Carpathia said. "I am sorry to interrupt, but I will be very surprised if you are still an employee of Global Weekly a week from today. Very surprised." Buck raised his eyebrows and looked skeptically at Carpathia. "Do you know something I don't know?" And as soon as it was out of his mouth, Buck realized he had unintentionally asked the core question of this meeting.

Carpathia laughed. "I know of no plans to fire you, no. I think the punishment for your blown assignment has already been meted out. And though you turned down an offer of employment from me before, I truly believe I have an opportunity for you that will change your mind." Don't count on it, Buck thought. But he said, "I'm listening."