LaHaye, Tim - Left Behind 06 - Assassins

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ASSASSINS
Assignment: Jerusalem, Target: Antichrist
Book 6 of the Left Behind Series
TIM LAHAYE & JERRY B. JENKINS
ONE
Rage.
No other word described it.
Rayford knew he had much to be thankful for. Neither Irene•his wife of twenty-one
years•nor Amanda•his wife of fewer than three months•had to suffer this world any
longer. Raymie was in heaven too. Chloe and baby Kenny were healthy.
That should be enough. Yet the cliché consumed came to life for Rayford. He
stormed out of the safe house in the middle of a crisp May Monday morning,
eschewing a jacket and glad of it. It wasn't anyone in the safe house who had set
him off.
Hattie had been her typical self, whining about her immobility while building her
strength.
“You don't think I'll do it,” she had told him as she raced through another set of sit-
ups. “You way underestimate me.”
“I don't doubt you're crazy enough to try.”
“But you wouldn't fly me over there for any price.”
“Not on your life.”
Rayford stumbled along a path near a row of trees that separated a dusty field from
what was left of the safe house and the piles of what had once been neighboring
homes. He stopped and scanned the horizon. Anger was one thing. Stupidity
another. There was no sense giving away their position just for a moment of fresh
air.
He saw nothing and no one, but still he stayed closer to the trees than to the plain.
What a difference a year and a half made! This whole area, for miles, had once been
sprawling suburbia. Now it was earthquake rubble, abandoned to the fugitive and
the destitute. One Rayford had been for months. The other he was fast becoming.
The murderous fury threatened to devour him. His rational, scientific mind fought
his passion. He knew others•yes, including Hattie•who had as much or more
motive. Yet Rayford pleaded with God to appoint him. He wanted to be the one to
do the deed. He believed it his destiny.
Rayford shook his head and leaned against a tree, letting the bark scratch his back.
Where was the aroma of newly mown grass, the sounds of kids playing in the yard?
Nothing was as it once was. He closed his eyes and ran over the plan one more time.
Steal into the Middle East in disguise. Put himself in the right place at the precise
time. Be God's weapon, the instrument of death. Murder Nicolae Carpathia.
David Hassid assigned himself to accompany the Global Community helicopter that
would take delivery of a gross of computers for the potentate's palace. Half the GC
personnel in his department were to spend the next several weeks ferreting out the
location of Tsion Ben-Judah's daily cyberspace teaching and Buck Williams's
weekly Internet magazine.
The potentate himself wanted to know how quickly the computers could be
installed. “Figure half a day to unload, reload, and truck them here from the
airport,” David had told him. “Then unload again and assume another couple of
days for installation and setup.”
Carpathia had begun snapping his fingers as soon as “half a day” rolled off David's
tongue. “Faster,” he said. “How can we steal some hours?”
“It would be costly, but you could•”
“Cost is not my priority, Mr. Hassid. Speed. Speed.”
“Chopper could snag the whole load and set 'em down outside the freight entrance.”
“That,” Carpathia said. “Yes, that.”
“I'd want to personally supervise pickup and delivery.”
Carpathia was on to something else, dismissing David with a wave. “Of course,
whatever.”
David called Mac McCullum on his secure phone. “It worked,” he said.
“When do we fly?”
“As late as possible. This has to look like a mistake.”
Mac chuckled. “Did you get 'em to deliver to the wrong airstrip?”
“'Course. Told 'em one, paperworked 'em another. They'll go by what they heard. I'll
protect myself from Abbott and Costello with the paperwork.”
“Fortunato still looking over your shoulder?”
“Always, but neither he nor Nicolae suspects. They love you too, Mac.”
“Don't I know it. We've got to ride this train as far as it'll take us.”
Rayford didn't dare discuss his feelings with Tsion. The rabbi was busy enough, and
Rayford knew what he would say: “God has his plan. Let him carry it out.”
But what would be wrong with Rayford's helping? He was willing. He could get it
done. If it cost him his life, so what? He'd reunite with loved ones, and more would
join him later.
Rayford knew it was crazy. He had never been ruled by his feelings before. Maybe
his problem was that he was out of the loop now, away from the action. The fear
and tension of flying Carpathia around for months had been worth it for the
proximity it afforded him and the advantage to the Tribulation Force.
The danger in his present role wasn't the same. He was senior flyer of the
International Commodity Co-op, the one entity that might keep believers alive when
their freedom to trade on the open market would vanish. For now, Rayford was just
meeting contacts, setting up routes, in essence working for his own daughter. He
had to remain anonymous and learn whom to trust. But it wasn't the same. He didn't
feel as necessary to the cause.
But if he could be the one to kill Carpathia!
Who was he kidding? Carpathia's assassin would likely be put to death without trial.
And if Carpathia was indeed the Antichrist•and most people except his followers
thought he was•he wouldn't stay dead anyway. The murder would be all about
Rayford, not Carpathia. Nicolae would come out of it more heroic than ever. But the
fact that it had to be done anyway, and that he himself might be in place to do it,
seemed to give Rayford something to live for. And likely to die for.
His grandson, Kenny Bruce, had stolen his heart, but that very name reminded
Rayford of painful losses. The late Ken Ritz had been a new friend with the
makings of a good one. Bruce Barnes had been Rayford's first mentor and had
taught him so much after supplying him the videotape that had led him to Christ.
That was it! That had to be what had produced such hatred, such rage. Rayford
knew Carpathia was merely a pawn of Satan, really part of God's plan for the ages.
But the man had wreaked such havoc, caused such destruction, fostered such
mourning, that Rayford couldn't help but hate him.
Rayford didn't want to grow numb to the disaster, death, and devastation that had
become commonplace. He wanted to still feel alive, violated, offended. Things were
bad and getting worse, and the chaos multiplied every month. Tsion taught that
things were to come to a head at the halfway point of the seven-year tribulation,
four months from now. And then would come the Great Tribulation.
Rayford longed to survive all seven years to witness the glorious appearing of
Christ to set up his thousand-year reign on earth. But what were the odds? Tsion
taught that, at most, only a quarter of the population left at the Rapture would
survive to the end, and those who did might wish they hadn't.
Rayford tried to pray. Did he think God would answer, give him permission, put the
plot in his mind? He knew better. His scheming was just a way to feel alive, and yet
it ate at him, gave him a reason for breathing.
He had other reasons to live. He loved his daughter and her husband and their baby,
and yet he felt responsible that Chloe had missed the Rapture. The only family he
had left would face the same world he did. What kind of a future was that? He didn't
want to think about it. All he wanted to think about was what weapons he might
have access to and how he could avail himself of them at the right time.
Just after dark in New Babylon, David took a call from his routing manager. “Pilot
wants to know if he's to put down at the strip or at•”
“I told him already! Tell him to do what he's told!”
“Sir, the bill of lading says palace airstrip. But he thought you told him New
Babylon Airport.”
David paused as if angry. “Do you understand what I said?”
“You said airport, but•”
“Thank you! What's his ETA?”
“Thirty minutes to the airport. Forty-five to the strip. Just so I'm clear•”
David hung up and called Mac. Half an hour later they were sitting in the chopper
on the tarmac of the palace airstrip. Of course the computer cargo was not there.
David called the airport. “Tell the pilot where we are!”
“Man,” Mac said, “you've got everybody chasin' their tails.”
“You think I want new computers in front of the world's best techies, all looking to
find the safe house?”
Mac tuned in the airport frequency and heard the instruction for the cargo pilot to
take off and put down at the palace strip. He looked at David. “To the airport,
chopper jockey,” David said.
“We'll pass 'im in the sky.”
“I hope we do.”
They did. David finally had pity on the pilot, assured him he and Mac would stay
put, and instructed him to come back.
A crane helped disgorge the load of computers, and Mac maneuvered the helicopter
into position to hook up to it. The cargo chief attached the cable, assured Mac he
had the size and power to easily transport the load, and instructed him how to lift
off. “You've got an onboard release in case of emergency, sir,” he said, “but you
should have no problem.”
Mac thanked him and caught David's glance. “You wouldn't,” he said, shaking his
head.
“Of course I would. This lever here? I'll be in charge of this.”
TWO
Early after noon, Buck sat at his computer in the vastly enlarged shelter beneath the
safe house. He and his father-in-law and Dr. Charles had done the bulk of the
excavating work. It wasn't that Dr. Ben-Judah had been unwilling or unable. He had
proved remarkably fit for a man with his nose in scholarly works and his eyes on a
computer screen the majority of every day.
But Buck and the others encouraged him to stay at his more important work via the
Internet•teaching the masses of new believers and pleading for converts. It was clear
Tsion felt he was slacking by letting the other men do the manual labor while he
toiled at what he called soft work in an upstairs bedroom. For days all he had
wanted to do was join the others in digging, sacking, and carrying the dirt from the
cellar to the nearby fields. The others had told him they were fine without his help,
that it was too crowded with four men in the cramped space, that his ministry was
too crucial to be postponed by grunt work.
Finally, Buck recalled with a smile, Rayford had told Tsion, “You're the elder, our
pastor, our mentor, our scholar, but I have seniority and authority as ersatz head of
this band, and I'm pulling rank.”
Tsion had straightened in the dank underground and leaned back, mock fear on his
face. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And my assignment?”
“To stay out of our way, old man. You have the soft hands of the educated. Of
course, so do we, but you're in the way.”
Tsion had dragged a sleeve across his forehead. “Oh, Rayford, stop teasing me. I
just want to help.”
Buck and Doc stopped their work and joined, in essence, in ganging up on Tsion.
“Dr. Ben-Judah,” Floyd Charles said, “we all really do feel you're wasting your
time•we're wasting your time•by letting you do this. Please, for our sakes, clear our
consciences and let us finish without you.”
It was Rayford's turn to feign offense. “So much for my authority,” he said. “I just
gave an order, and now Sawbones pleads with him yet again!”
“You gentlemen are serious,” Tsion said, his Israeli accent thick as ever.
Rayford raised both hands. “Finally! The scholar gets it.”
Tsion trundled back upstairs, grumbling that it “still does not make any sense,” but
he had not again tried to insert himself into the excavation team.
Buck was impressed with how the other three had melded. Rayford was the most
technologically astute, Buck himself sometimes too analytical, and Floyd•despite
his medical degree•seemingly content to do what he was told. Buck teased him
about that, telling him he thought doctors assumed they knew everything. Floyd was
not combative, but neither did Buck find him amused. In fact, Floyd seemed to run
out of gas earlier every day, but he never slacked. He just spent a lot of time
catching his breath, running his hands through his hair, and rubbing his eyes.
Rayford mapped out each day's work with a rough sketch amalgamated from two
sources. The first came from the meticulously hen-scratched spiral notebooks of the
original owner of the place, Donny Moore, who had been crushed to death at the
church during the great wrath of the Lamb earthquake nearly eighteen months
before. Buck and Tsion had discovered Donny's wife's body in the demolished
breakfast nook at the back of the house.
Donny had apparently planned for just such a future, somehow assuming that one
day he and his wife would have to live in seclusion. Whether he feared nuclear
fallout or just hiding from Global Community forces, he had crafted an expansive
plan. His layout enlarged the tiny, dank cellar at the back of the house to extend
beneath the entire other side of the duplex and far out into the yard.
The other source Rayford had consulted was the late Ken Ritz's refinement of the
original plan. Ken had honed his image as a clod-kicking blue-collar bush pilot. It
turned out he was a graduate of the London School of Economics, licensed in all
manner of high-speed jets, and•as these schematics showed•a self-taught architect.
Ken had streamlined the excavation process, moved Donny's support beams, and
devised a central communications protocol. When all was in place, the shelter
should be undetectable and the various satellite linkups, cellular receivers and
transmitters, and infrared computer interfaces easy to access and service.
While Buck worked with Doc and Rayford, and Tsion wrote his masterful daily
missives to his global audience, Chloe and Hattie busied themselves with their own
pursuits. Hattie seemed to work out every spare moment, madly building tone and
endurance and adding weight to what had become her emaciated frame. Buck
worried she was up to something. She usually was. No one in the house was certain
she hadn't already compromised their location with her ill-conceived effort to buy
her way to Europe months before. So far no one had come nosing around the place,
but how long could that last?
Chloe spent the bulk of her time with baby Kenny, of course. When she wasn't
sneaking in a nap to try to regain her own strength, she used her free moments to
work via the Net with her growing legion of Commodity Co-op suppliers and
distributors. Already believers were beginning to buy and sell to and from each
other, in anticipation of the dark day when they would be banished from normal
trade.
The pressure of close quarters and lots of work, not to mention dread of the future,
was Buck's constant companion. He was grateful he could do his own writing and
help Rayford and Doc with the shelter while still getting time with Chloe and
Kenny. But somehow his days were as long as ever. The only time he and Chloe
had to themselves was at the end of the day when they were barely awake enough to
talk. Kenny slept in their room, and while he was not the type to bother the rest of
the household, both Buck and Chloe were often up with him in the night.
Buck lay awake one midnight, pleased to hear Chloe's deep rhythmic breathing and
know she was asleep. He was mulling how to improve the efficiency of the Trib
Force, hoping he could contribute as much as the other men seemed to. From the
beginning, when the Force consisted of just the late Bruce Barnes, Rayford, Chloe,
and him, Buck felt he had become part of a pivotal, cosmic effort. Among the
earliest believers following the Rapture, the Tribulation Force was committed to
winning people to Christ, opposing Antichrist, and surviving until the reappearing
of Christ, now just over three and a half years away.
Tsion, whom God had provided to replace Bruce, was a priceless commodity who
needed to be protected above all. His knowledge and passion, along with his ability
to communicate on a layman's level, made him Nicolae Carpathia's number one
enemy. At least number one after the two witnesses at the Wailing Wall, who
continued to torment unbelievers with plagues and judgments.
Chloe astounded him with her ability to run an international company while taking
care of a new baby. Doc was clearly a gift from God, having saved Hattie's life and
keeping the rest of them healthy. Hattie was the only unbeliever and understandably
selfish. She spent most of her time on herself.
But Buck worried most about Rayford. His father-in-law had not been himself
lately. He seemed to seethe, short-tempered with Hattie and often lost in thought,
his face clouded with despair. Rayford also had begun taking breaks from the house,
walking nowhere in the middle of the day. Buck knew Rayford would not be
careless, but he wished someone could help. He asked Tsion to probe, but the rabbi
said, “Captain Steele eventually comes to me when he wants to reveal something. I
do not feel free to pursue private matters with him.”
Buck had asked Doc's opinion. “He's my mentor, not the other way around,” Floyd
said. “I go to him with my problems; I don't expect him to come to me with his.”
Chloe begged off too. “Buck, Daddy is a traditional, almost old-world father. He'll
give me all the unsolicited advice he wishes, but I wouldn't dream of trying to get
him to open up to me.”
“But you see it, don't you?”
“Of course. But what do you expect? We're all crazy by now. Is this any way to
live? Going nowhere in daylight except to Palwaukee once in a while, having to use
aliases and worry constantly about being found out?”
Buck's compatriots all had reasons for not confronting Rayford. Buck would have to
do it. Oh, joy, he thought.
David Hassid sat in the passenger seat of GC Chopper One, watching with Mac
McCullum. The ground crew at New Babylon Airport hooked a thick steel cable
from the helicopter to three bundled skids containing 144 computers. The crew
chief signaled Mac to begin a slow ascent until the cable was taut. Then he gently
lifted off, ostensibly to deliver the cargo to the Global Community palace.
Mac said, “The skids should take care of themselves, provided you keep away from
that release lever. You wouldn't really do that, would you?”
“To delay my own staff from finding Tsion's and Buck's and Chloe's transmission
point? You bet I would, if it was the only way.”
“If?”
“C'mon, Mac. You know me better than that by now. You think I would trash that
many computers? I may be only about a third your age•”
“Hey!”
“All right, a little less than half, but give me some credit. You think the number of
computers we ordered was lost on me?”
Mac held up a finger and depressed his radio transmitter. “GC Chopper One to
palace tower, over.”
“This is tower, One, go.”
“ETA three minutes, over.”
“Roger, out.”
Mac turned to David. “I figured that's why you ordered a gross. One for every
thousand witnesses.”
“Not that it'll parcel out that way, but no, I'm not going to crash them in the desert.”
“But I'm not putting down at the palace either, am I?”
David smiled and shook his head. From their position he had a view of the
sprawling palace complex. Acres and acres of buildings surrounded the great
gleaming castle•what else could he call it•Carpathia had erected in honor of himself.
Every imaginable convenience was included, thousands of employees dedicated to
every Carpathia whim.
David dug his secure phone from his pocket and punched a speed number.
“Corporal A. Christopher,” he said. “Director Hassid calling.” He covered the
phone and told Mac, “Your new cargo chief for the Condor.”
“Do I know him?”
David shrugged and shook his head. “Yes, Corporal Christopher. Is the Condor hold
accessible? .. . Excellent. Be ready for us.... Well, I can't help that, Corporal. You
may feel free to speak with Personnel, but my understanding is that you have no say
in that.”
David held the phone away from his face and turned it off. “Hung up on me,” he
said.
“Nobody likes the cargo job for the two-one-six,” Mac said. “Not enough work.
You trust this guy?”
“No choice,” David said.
Buck had temporarily moved his computer to the kitchen table and was rapping out
a story for The Truth when Rayford returned from his morning walk. “Hey,” Buck
said. Rayford only nodded and stood at the top of the stairs to the cellar.
Buck's resolve nearly left him. “What's the plan today, Ray?”
“Same as always,” Rayford muttered. “We've got to start getting walls up down
here. And then we've got to make the shelter invisible. No apparent access. Where's
Doc?”
“Haven't seen him. Hattie's in the•”
“Other side, of course. Training for a marathon, no doubt. She's going to wind up
getting us all killed.”
“Hey, Dad,” Buck tried, “way to look on the bright side.”
Rayford ignored him. “Where's everybody else?” he said.
“Tsion's upstairs. Chloe's on her computer in the living room. Kenny's napping. I
told you where Hattie is; only Floyd is AWOL. He might be downstairs, but I didn't
notice him go down.”
“Don't say he's AWOL, Buck. That's not funny.”
It was unusual for Rayford to chastise him, and Buck hardly knew how to respond.
“I just mean he's unaccounted for, Ray. Truth is, he hasn't looked well lately and
looked awful yesterday. Wonder if he's sleeping in.”
“Till noon? What was the matter with him?”
“I saw a little yellow in his eyes.”
“I didn't.”
“It's dark down there.”
“Then how'd you see it?”
“Noticed last night, that's all. I even said something to him about it.”
“What'd he say?”
“Some joke about how honkies always think the brothers look strange. I didn't
pursue it.”
“He's the doctor,” Rayford said. “Let him worry about himself.” That, Buck
decided, was a perfect opening. He could tell Rayford that he didn't sound like his
usual compassionate self. But the moment passed when Rayford took the offensive.
“What's your schedule today, Buck? Magazine or shelter work?”
“You're the boss, Ray. You tell me.”
“I could use you downstairs, but suit yourself.”
Buck rose.
Mac delicately lowered the skids onto the pavement at the east side of the hangar
that housed the Condor 216. The hangar door was open, the cavernous cargo hold of
the Condor also agape. David jumped out before the blades stopped whirring and
hurried to unhook the cable from the cargo. Out from the hangar sped a forklift that
quickly engaged the first load, smoothly tilted it back against the truck, then spun in
a circle and shot back into the hangar. By the time Mac joined David and they shut
the hangar door, the forklift operator had shut the Condor cargo hold and was
replacing the forklift in a corner.
“Corporal Christopher!” David shouted, and the corporal whirled to face him from a
hundred feet away. “Your office, now!”
“Doesn't look too pleased,” Mac said as they walked to the glassed-in office within
the hangar. “No salute, no response. Negative body language. Gonna be a
problem?”
“The corporal is my subordinate. I hold all the cards.”
“Just the same, David, you have to give respect to get respect. And we can trust no
one. You don't want one of your key people•”
“Trust me, Mac. It's under control.”
The name on the office door next to Mac's had just been repainted: “CCCCC.”
'“What is that?” Mac said.
“Corporal Christopher, Condor Cargo Chief.”
“Please!” Mac said.
David motioned Mac to follow him into the corporal's office, shut the door, and sat
behind the desk, pointing to a chair for Mac. The older man seemed to sit
reluctantly.
“What?” David said.
“This is how you treat a subordinate?”
David put his feet on the desk and nodded. “Especially a new one. Got to establish
who's boss.”
“I was taught that if you have to use the word boss with an employee, you've
摘要：

ASSASSINSAssignment:Jerusalem,Target:AntichristBook6oftheLeftBehindSeriesTIMLAHAYE&JERRYB.JENKINSONERage.Nootherworddescribedit.Rayfordknewhehadmuchtobethankfulfor.NeitherIrene•hiswifeoftwenty-oneyears•norAmanda•hiswifeoffewerthanthreemonths•hadtosufferthisworldanylonger.Raymiewasinheaventoo.Chloe...

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