Belltether’s hands were trembling.
Another memory came to his mind. His mother used to walk him as a boy to Sunday school every week. She would quiz him when it was over: “Okay, Curty boy, what did you learn about the Lord Jesus today?”
He was clever enough to spout back what she wanted to hear. But what had he really learned? Then the years of ruthless, hard-boiled cynicism followed, and a life that had taken some rough turns. But he had never forgotten them, those Bible lessons as a child. Maybe he needed to be a boy again to figure this all out.
He dropped down to the ground, onto his knees. Curtis Belltether had some unfinished business from thirty years before. He started praying.
“God, it’s me, Belltether. We haven’t talked since I was a schoolboy and my mom made me go to church camp and Sunday school. That was a long time ago. I remember looking at that picture in the Bible, of Jesus on the Sea of Galilee stopping the storm and stilling the waves. I somehow knew back then it was all true, but I walked away anyway — don’t know why — and I’ve been walking ever since. Going nowhere fast. But I’m back. You’re too big for me to ignore anymore. I want Your Son Jesus Christ to take over now. I should have done it long ago, but I’m doing it now. I believe in Him, and I need You to save me.
When Belltether was done, he stood up. He had to smile. He thought of something. Too bad Mom’s dead. She’d be so happy.
Then he snatched the package off the coffee table, blew out of his hotel room, and took the elevator to the lobby. He asked the desk attendant to mail the big envelope for him. Then he added, “This has to go out immediately.”
Belltether took the elevator back up to his floor. As he did he couldn’t avoid the eerie, unmistakable feeling of completion. Finality.
He walked back to his hotel room. He was going to take his room key out to unlock the door, but it was already slightly ajar. Wow, he thought, I guess I really was in a hurry to get that package mailed.
When he walked into the room something wasn’t right. His notes, his tape recorder, and the copy of his completed article — all of them had been on the coffee table. They were missing.
Belltether whirled around just in time to see the barrel end of the handgun fitted with a silencer pointed at his forehead. There was a surprised look on Belltether’s face, but there wasn’t the usual look of hopeless panic or fear that the gunman’s victims usually had. The man holding the gun, Tomasso, the bodyguard of Caesar Demas, thought that was strange.
Belltether didn’t have the chance to say a word, but he had already done his praying. Any attempt to talk Tomasso out of killing him would have been useless.
Tomasso didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger, and Belltether dropped backward. The gunman had to take one last look at his dead victim on the floor as he puzzled over Belltether’s final reaction.
The killer had already coldly collected all of Belltether’s notes, tapes, and finished article and stuffed them into his small briefcase. He tucked the gun away, and with briefcase in hand he quickly slipped out of the room, down the elevator, and out of the hotel.
SIXTY-SEVEN
In a Television studio in Los Angeles
The cameras were rolling, but the conversation had just stopped. The production director in the control booth was squirming and muttering to himself, “Come on, say something …”
The host of the television program, Bernie Bellows, was seated in the middle of his famous round table on the studio set. On his left, Dr. Nigel Huntington, the Oxford philosopher and usually bellicose atheist, was looking more passive than usual and taking a long, languid drink of water. Across the table from him, Christian theologian Dr. Maxwell Thompson was waiting for an answer to his question.
Bellows smiled and was about to interject something, just to fill the dead air. But Dr. Thompson hopped in first. “Dr. Huntington, what I’m asking is whether you are familiar with the mathematical odds worked out by a Nobel Prize – winning mathematician at your own university, at Oxford? The odds that those long-extinct volcanoes and attending earthquakes in the Middle East would explode precisely and exactly, as if on cue, just as the coalition armies and navy were about to invade Israel. Bernie, I think you have the graphic; can you put it on the screen?”
With that, Bellows clicked a button, and his set backdrop became an illuminated screen. There was an outline of the nation of Israel, with little red flame symbols designating each volcanic eruption and a lightning bolt representing major earthquake activity. An arrow represented each attempted enemy army or navy advance. On the graphic, at each exact attempted invasion point, there were symbols for volcanic eruptions and earthquakes.
Thompson couldn’t help but laugh. “Dr. Huntington, look at this. Down in the Sinai, the armies of Libya and Sudan advancing toward Israel from the south, see the arrow? Notice how the arrow is cut off by the lightning bolt of a major earthquake and two volcanic eruptions. Then over at the Jordanian border with Israel, the armies of the coalition are stopped right at the border of Israel by the same thing. Total destruction. The armies trying to cross over through the Golan Heights from Syria, stopped in their tracks by eruptions, earthquakes — incinerated. Same story …”
Huntington had both his hands in the air, waving them. “Don’t bother. We all know the story. We’ve seen the news so you don’t have to bore us.”
“Then,” Thompson continued, “up in the north of Israel, the big army push from the Russian coalition — earthquakes, volcanic ash and lava, hurtling boulders blown out of the volcanoes. Wiping them out, just at the perfect time, as if directed in perfect military precision. And what the earthquakes and volcanic fireballs didn’t accomplish along Israel’s borders, the giant hailstones falling from the sky did. Now, your Oxford mathematician, working jointly with a geologist, computed the odds of all of this happening the way it did to be eight hundred trillion to one. Conservatively speaking. But that’s just the start — ”
“Let me talk about odds — ”
“Please, Dr. Huntington, let me finish. Those odds don’t even take into account the fact that these events were predicted twenty-five hundred years ago in Ezekiel chapters thirty-eight and thirty-nine of the Bible. That additional factor was loaded into the world’s fastest computer several days ago at Cray, Inc. up in Seattle. That computer can do ten quadrillion operations per second. It is still working the question, trying to come up with a number large enough to indicate how infinitesimally small the chances are that such a prediction could have come true purely as a matter of random chance.”
Huntington was trying to look unimpressed. “Statistics, odds — they’re valid in themselves from a mathematical standpoint, certainly, but you’re missing the point … the earth was started with just those kinds of odds — ”
“Exactly! Which means that it takes more of a leap of faith to believe that life started on this planet randomly than it does to believe it was set in motion by a Creator God. More relevant to our discussion, it takes more wild speculation to swallow the idea that the rescue of Israel that we have witnessed was just by chance, than to believe the truth — that God Himself orchestrated this victory for Israel so that the world would see that He is God. It is God’s most spectacular evidence of Himself to date. You have to ask yourself, if this proof of God doesn’t do it, if it doesn’t satisfy you, then exactly what manner of proof would? That’s a question you refuse to answer, Dr. Huntington. So, my prayer for you is that you take this opportunity to get right with God, pull down your wall of philosophical obstructionism and admit the truth. God is there. That when it comes to dramatic miracles of biblical proportions, God has broken His silence, and He is calling you to believe that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to earth, according to the Scriptures — and that He is coming again.”
Bernie Bellows broke in. “Our time is up. But we clearly have to admit that something extraordinary has happened as a result of these events in Israel. Churches in America have tripled in attendance. Reports of spontaneous
Gospel revivals breaking out — right here in Los Angles, Seattle, Las Vegas of all places, Denver, Omaha — stories of divorced couples coming back together …”
The credits started rolling across the screen, but Bellows wasn’t done. He kept reading from his notes while he shook his head in disbelief. “Despite the devastation here at home in New Jersey from a nuclear attack — thousands of lives lost — and the fear from these massive geopolitical events and the major outbreak of war across the ocean, people seem to be responding to some kind of movement of the spirit. Revivals in St. Louis, drug rehab centers emptying, criminals turning themselves in after confessing, more revivals in New Orleans, Boston, New York City, Albuquerque, reports of gangs in the projects of Chicago coming to Christian faith, more revivals in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, Milwaukee, Columbus, Akron, Indianapolis …”
In a Villa Outside of Rome
Caesar Demas had locked himself inside his sprawling estate off the Villa Salaria. He had spent the day on the phone, frantically trying to connect with the Russian prime minister, but he couldn’t get through. He was allowed only a minute on the phone with the deputy prime minister, Lexes Demitrov, who said simply, “Our losses have been exaggerated by the Western media. We are regrouping our coalition. No need to worry, Caesar. Our plans for global dominance are still on track.”
Despite several attempts, Demas never got through to Gallen Abdulla, the president of Turkey. Demas was beginning to wonder whether the press reports about Abdulla’s committing suicide might be true, or the other reports that hinted that he may have been assassinated.
For Demas, it was never a matter of hitting bottom. He believed in his own almost supernatural ability to keep himself aloft, to manipulate, to conquer. He was already contemplating a new global coalition that he could head up. It was already in discussion. All he had to do was to make sure that some of the international upstarts, like Alexander Coliquin and a few others, didn’t get there first. Demas hadn’t come this far to settle merely for being one of the world’s richest men. He was convinced that his destiny lay far beyond that.
He decided he needed a drink. He walked out of his library and headed toward his paneled bar.
His wife was seated in her wheelchair just outside of the library. Demas was about to brush right past her when she said something. “Caesar …”
He stopped. Momentarily he wondered why she had a blanket on her lap on such a warm day. She pulled her Allfone from beneath it. It had a photo on it. She shoved it in his direction.
Demas snatched it and looked at the photo on the little screen.
It showed Demas in a passionate embrace with Andrea Portleva, the pretty Russian ambassador.
“You take me for a fool,” his wife said.
“No,” he responded unruffled, “I take you for a crippled fool.” Then, offhandedly he added, “Why would you believe this anyway? Anyone can Photoshop this kind of trash. Who gave this to you?”
He didn’t notice that she had slipped her hand back under the blanket and had pulled out a handgun. But as soon as he saw it, she had his full attention. He knew he had to start sweet-talking her, as he had done so often before, so he could get within range, grab the gun, and slap her silly.
But there was no chance for that.
With both hands on the gun, his wife aimed for the upper-left quadrant of his chest and squeezed the trigger. The blast startled her. Caesar Demas was knocked a half step backward as he grabbed aimlessly for his heart, where the blood was now pumping out through his shirt. A half second later he was on the floor. He didn’t move.
In her wheelchair, his wife laid the gun in her lap. With a sneer, she answered the last question Caesar Demas had on his lips before he died.
“I got the photo from your own bodyguard, Caesar. I got it from Tomasso.”
On a private island near Bora Bora, Alexander Coliquin too had been working the phones. The events in the Middle East had spurned wild speculation. The whole balance of geopolitical power seemed to have been knocked off-kilter.
But Coliquin had calmly kept his course straight. He was unflustered. This most recent war and the defeat of the Russian-Islamic coalition only looked like a historic game changer. But Coliquin knew better. While the attention of the world was obsessing on this supposed “miracle” for Israel, he was going for a much longer-term change for the world.
His Allfone rang. It was Henry, the deputy climatologist for his global religious coalition for climate change.
“Mr. Coliquin. This business over in Israel. Still trying to figure this out.”
“What exactly are you trying to figure out?”
“Well, sir, the effect on public perception. The media is all over this business about volcanic activity along Israel’s borders. The earthquakes. A massive anomaly. Sure I admit that … but it distracts from the fact that we are on the tipping point of a global catastrophe because of climate change. People are going to forget …”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then there’s rumors about Dr. Robert Hamilton’s findings.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s got cancer. Won’t last long. And he’s been discredited, hasn’t he?”
“Sure. Yes. He’s a crackpot. But the problem is that his theory about climate change being due more to volcanic particles than to carbon emissions — that’s technically correct. I mean it is true that when volcanic aerosols get shot straight up miles and miles they can affect the ozone by altering chlorine and nitrogen chemicals in the stratosphere.”
“So?”
Henry paused. “Well, it seems obvious doesn’t it? If global temperatures are increasing because of natural factors like volcanic eruptions, then it takes the emphasis off of what we are saying about controlling global industry and everything else so we can shut down all carbon emissions.”
“Look, Henry,” Coliquin replied slowly, “roll with this. So volcanic eruptions can cause global temperatures to rise. That’s actually good for us. Talk that up. The point is that we continue telling the world it’s heading for a cosmic environmental crisis. That’s the point we have to sell. Then after a while, the public will get tired of talking about this volcanic episode in Israel, as the public always does. And when that happens, then we return to the original argument that global warming is caused by carbon emissions, and we go back to beating that drum. Don’t fret so much.”
“Well, then there’s this Belltether story …”
“Oh?”
“You know, Belltether, the Internet snooper, the guy who leaks all this stuff on his own website. Word has it he’s interviewed Hamilton, and even worse, he’s about to do some exposé about the federal climate agencies trying to censor him from letting his findings get out to the public, and then trying to cover that up.”
“You forget your history …”
“Like what?”
“Back in 2009. The whole climategate scandal. The leaked emails of climate experts, which exposed some of their scientific biases about the cause of global temperature increase and their total disdain for any alternate theories. But then a couple of well-publicized investigations were mounted in the years after that to exonerate them. And after a while, the thing went away.”
“So, you’re saying don’t worry about it?”
“What I’m saying is that when it comes to Mr. Belltether’s supposed Internet article, I would definitely not worry about it. Leave that to the conspiracy theorists. Let’s keep the ball rolling forward. So how are we coming with my meeting at the Vatican next week, and with the Greek Orthodox leaders after that?”
“I should have the dates locked in by tomorrow.”
“Excellent. And the new Dalai Lama?”
“He’s all over it. Very excited. No problem.”
When Coliquin was done with his phone call he was buzzed that he had a visitor. When his secretary identified who it was, Coliquin said he wanted to see him rig
ht away.
In a few minutes, the visitor was standing in front of Coliquin’s bamboo desk. Behind Coliquin was an open lanai leading out to swaying palm trees and the blue ocean beyond that.
“Nice place to work,” the man said with a smile.
“For the time being,” Coliquin remarked. “While the world is expounding on the Israel thing, I’m staying out of the public eye, getting some real work done.” Then Coliquin got to the point of their meeting. “So, what about Caesar Demas?”
“Seems his wife shot him to death, after seeing pictures of his cavorting with another woman.”
“You don’t say,” Coliquin replied with mock surprise. “Well, so much for his plans to run for king of the world. It’s actually better for him this way. Divorce would have been simpler for poor Caesar, but probably more painful.”
They laughed.
“And Belltether?”
“Done.”
Then Tomasso handed the little briefcase to Coliquin and added, “Everything that Belltether was working on should be in there, including his tapes and notes of your interview with him and his stuff on the problems with your orphanages in Romania.”
“Well done.”
Tomasso smiled and said he’d like to hit the beach for a few days before leaving.
After he left, Coliquin made an international call to Baghdad, to his manager for international development. After chatting for a few moments, Coliquin asked how the project in Iraq was going, and the manager replied, “About that one hundred acres owned by the U.S. government … the State Department says it should be able to transfer the parcel to your global foundation. Then we can begin construction on your international headquarters.”
“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.”
“Only, we need a name for the project.”
“That’s simple. I’ve always been a student of history,” Coliquin explained.