Left Behind: A Novel of the Earth's Last Days

  “He didn’t exactly come from nowhere. His businesses were built on Stonagal financing. And Carpathia has been a disarmament crusader, very popular with his colleagues and the people.”

  “But disarmament doesn’t fit with Stonagal. Isn’t he a closet hawk?”

  Plank nodded.

  “So there are mysteries.”

  “Some, but, Buck, what could be bigger than the story you’re on? You haven’t got time to fool with a guy who becomes president of a nonstrategic country.”

  “There’s something there, though, Steve. My guy in London tips me off. Carpathia’s tied in with the most influential nonpolitician in the world. He goes from lower house to president without a popular election.”

  “And—”

  “There’s more? Which side of this argument are you on? Did he have the sitting president killed or something?”

  “Interesting you should say that, because the only wrinkle in Carpathia’s history is some rumors that he was ruthless with his business competition years ago.”

  “How ruthless?”

  “People took dirt naps.”

  “Ooh, Steve, you talk just like a mobster.”

  “And listen, the previous president stepped down for Carpathia. Insisted on his installation.”

  “And you say there’s no story here?”

  “This is like the old South American coups, Buck. A new one every week. Big deal. So Carpathia’s beholden to Stonagal. All that means is that Stonagal will have free rein in the financial world of an Eastern European country that thinks the best thing that ever happened to it was the destruction of Russia.”

  “But, Steve, this is like a freshman congressman becoming president of the United States in an off-election year, no vote, president steps aside, and everybody’s happy.”

  “No, no, no, big difference. We’re talking Romania here, Buck. Romania. Nonstrategic, scant gross national product, never invaded anybody, never anyone’s strategic ally. There’s nothing there but low-level internal politics.”

  “It still smells major to me,” Buck said. “Rosenzweig was high on this guy, and he’s an astute observer. Now Carpathia’s coming to speak at the U.N. What next?”

  “You forget he was coming to the U.N. before he became president of Romania.”

  “That’s another puzzle. He was a nobody.”

  “He’s a new name and face in disarmament. He gets his season in the sun, his fifteen minutes of fame. Trust me, you’re not going to hear of him again.”

  “Stonagal had to be behind the U.N. gig, too,” Buck said. “You know Diamond John is a personal friend of our ambassador.”

  “Stonagal is a personal friend of every elected official from the president to the mayors of most medium-sized cities, Buck. So what? He knows how to play the game. He reminds me of old Joe Kennedy or one of the Rockefellers, all right? What’s your point?”

  “Just that Carpathia is speaking at the U.N. on Stonagal’s influence.”

  “Probably. So what?”

  “He’s up to something.”

  “Stonagal’s always up to something, keeping the skids greased for one of his projects. OK, so he gets a businessman into Romanian politics, maybe even gets him installed as president. Who knows, maybe he even got him his little audience with Rosenzweig, which never amounted to anything. Now he gets Carpathia a little international exposure. That happens all the time because of guys like Stonagal. Would you rather chase this nonstory than tie together a cover piece that tries to make sense of the most monumental and tragic phenomenon in the history of the world?”

  “Hmm, let me think about that,” Buck said, smiling, as Plank punched him.

  “Man, you can sure chase rabbit trails,” the executive editor said.

  “You used to like my instincts.”

  “I still do, but you’re a little sleep-deprived right now.”

  “I’m definitely not going to London? Because I’ve got to tell my guy.”

  “Marge tried to reach the guy who was supposed to meet your plane. She can tell you how to get through and all that. But be back here by eight. I’m bringing in the department editors interested in the various international meetings coming here this month. You’re going to be tying that coverage together, so—”

  “So they can all hate me in the same meeting?” Buck said.

  “They’ll feel important.”

  “But is it important? You want me to ignore Carpathia, but you’re going to complicate my life with, what was it, an ecumenical religious convention and a one-world-currency confab?”

  “You are short on sleep, aren’t you, Buck? This is why I’m still your boss. Don’t you get it? Yes, I want coordination and I want a well-written piece. But think about it. This gives you automatic entrée to all these dignitaries. We’re talking Jewish Nationalist leaders interested in one world government—”

  “Unlikely and hardly compelling.”

  “—Orthodox Jews from all over the world looking at rebuilding the temple, or some such—”

  “I’m being overrun by Jews.”

  “—international monetarists setting the stage for one world currency—”

  “Also unlikely.”

  “But this will let you keep an eye on your favorite power broker—”

  “Stonagal.”

  “Right, and heads of various religious groups looking to cooperate internationally.”

  “Bore me to death, why don’t you? These people are discussing impossibilities. Since when have religious groups been able to get along?”

  “You’re still not getting it, Buck. You’re going to have access to all these people—religious, monied, political—while trying to write a piece about what happened and why it happened. You can get the thinking of the greatest minds from the most diverse viewpoints.”

  Buck shrugged in surrender. “You’ve got a point. I still say our department editors are going to resent me.”

  “There’s something to be said for consistency.”

  “I still want to try to get to Carpathia.”

  “That won’t be hard. He’s already a media darling in Europe. Eager to talk.”

  “And Stonagal.”

  “You know he never talks to the press, Buck.”

  “I like a challenge.”

  “Go home and take a load off. See you at eight.”

  Marge Potter was preparing to leave as Buck approached. “Oh yes,” Marge said, setting down her stuff and flipping through her notebook. “I tried Dirk Burton several times. Got through once to his voice mail and left him your message. Received no confirmation. OK?”

  “Thanks.”

  Buck wasn’t sure he’d be able to rest at home with everything flying through his brain. He was pleasantly surprised when he reached street level to find that representatives of various cab companies were posted outside office buildings, directing people to cabs that could reach certain areas via circuitous routes. For premium fares, of course. For thirty dollars, in a shared cab, Buck was let off two blocks from his apartment. In three hours he would have to be back at the office, so he made arrangements with the cabbie to meet him at the same spot at seven forty-five. That, he decided, would be a miracle. With all the cabs in New York, he had never before had to make such an arrangement, and to his knowledge had never even seen the same cabbie twice.

  Rayford was pacing, miserable. He came to the painful realization that this was the worst season of his life. He had never even come close before. His parents had been older than those of his peers. When they had died within two years of each other, it had been a relief. They were not well, not lucid. He loved them and they were no burden, but they had virtually died to him years before, due to strokes and other ailments. When they did pass, Rayford had grieved in a way, but mostly he was just sentimental about them. He had good memories, he appreciated the kindness and sympathy he received at their funerals, and he got on with his life. Whatever tears he shed were not from remorse or heartache. He felt primarily nostalg
ic and melancholy.

  The rest of his life had been without complication or pain. Becoming a pilot was akin to rising to any other highly paid professional level. You had to be intelligent and disciplined, accomplished. He came through the ranks in the usual way—military-reserve duty, small planes, then bigger ones, then jets and fighters. Finally he had reached the pinnacle.

  He had met Irene in Reserve Officer Training Corps in college. She had been an army brat who had never rebelled. Many of her chums had turned their backs on military life and didn’t even want to own up to it. Her father had been killed in battle and her mother married another military man, so Irene had seen or lived on nearly every army base in the United States.

  They were married when Rayford was a senior in college and Irene a sophomore. She dropped out when he went into the military, and everything had been on schedule since. They had Chloe during their first year of marriage but, due to complications, waited another eight years for Ray Jr. Rayford was thrilled with both children, but he had to admit he had longed for a namesake boy.

  Unfortunately, Raymie came along during a bleak period for Rayford. He was thirty and feeling older, and he didn’t enjoy having a pregnant wife. Many people thought, because of his premature but not unattractive gray hair, that he was older, and so he endured the jokes about being an old father. It was a particularly difficult pregnancy for Irene, and Raymie was a couple of weeks late. Chloe was a spirited eight-year-old, so Rayford disengaged as much as possible.

  Irene, he believed, slipped into at least some mild depression during that time and was short tempered with him and weepy. At work Rayford was in charge, listened to, and admired. He had been rated for the biggest, latest, and most sophisticated planes in the Pan-Continental stable. His work life was going swimmingly; he didn’t enjoy going home.

  He had drunk more during that period than ever before or since, and the marriage had gone through its most trying time. He was frequently late getting home and at times even fibbed about his schedule so he could leave a day early or come back a day late. Irene accused him of all manner of affairs, and because she was wrong, he denied them with great vigor and, he felt, justified anger.

  The truth was, he was hoping for and angling for just what she was charging. What frustrated him so was that, despite his looks and bearing, it just wasn’t in him to pull it off. He didn’t have the moves, the patter, the style. A flight attendant had once called him a hunk, but he felt like a geek, an egghead. Sure, he had access to any woman with a price, but that was beneath him. While he toyed with and hoped for an old-fashioned affair, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to stoop to something as tawdry as paying for sex.

  Had Irene known how hard he was trying to be unfaithful, she would have left him. As it was, he had indulged in that make-out session at the Christmas party before Raymie was born, but he was so inebriated he could hardly remember it.

  The guilt and nearly spoiling his image straightened him up and made him cut down on his drinking. Seeing Raymie born sobered him even more. It was time to grow up and take as much responsibility as a husband and father as he did as a pilot.

  But now, as Rayford ran all those memories through his throbbing head, he felt the deepest regret and remorse a man can feel. He felt like a failure. He was so unworthy of Irene. Somehow he knew now, though he had never allowed himself to consider it before, that she couldn’t in any way have been as naive or stupid as he had hoped and imagined. She had to have known how vapid he was, how shallow, and yes, cheap. And yet she had stayed by him, loved him, fought to keep the marriage together.

  He couldn’t argue that she became a different person after she switched churches and got serious about her faith. She preached at him at first, sure. She was excited and wanted him to discover what she had found. He ran. Eventually she either gave up or resigned herself to the fact that he was not going to come around by her pleading or cajoling. Now he knew from seeing her list that she had never given up. She had simply taken to praying for him.

  No wonder Rayford had never gotten that close to ultimately defiling his marriage with Hattie Durham. Hattie! How ashamed he was of that silly pursuit! For all he knew, Hattie was innocent. She had never bad-mouthed his wife or the fact that he was married. She had never suggested anything inappropriate, at least for her age. Young people were more touchy and flirtatious, and she claimed no moral or religious code. That Rayford had obsessed over the possibilities with Hattie, while she probably hardly knew it, made him feel all the more foolish.

  Where was this guilt coming from? He had locked eyes with Hattie numerous times, and they had spent hours alone together over dinners in various cities. But she had never asked him to her room or tried to kiss him or even hold his hand. Maybe she would have responded had he been the aggressor, but maybe not. She might just as easily have been offended, insulted, disappointed.

  Rayford shook his head. Not only was he guilty of lusting after a woman to whom he had no right, but he was still such a klutz he hadn’t even known how to pursue her.

  And now he faced the darkest hours of his soul. He was nervous about Chloe. He wanted her home and safe in the worst way, hoping that having his own flesh and blood in the house would somehow assuage his grief and pain. He knew he should be hungry again, but nothing appealed. Even the fragrant and tasty cookies he thought he would have to ration had become painful reminders of Irene. Maybe tomorrow.

  Rayford switched on the television, not out of interest in seeing more mayhem, but with the hope of some news of order, traffic clearing, people connecting. After a minute or two of the same old same old, he turned it off again. He rejected the idea of calling O’Hare about the likelihood of getting in to get his car, because he didn’t want to tie up the phone for even a minute in case Chloe was trying to get through. It had been hours since he’d heard she left Palo Alto. How long would it take to make all those crazy connections and finally get on an Ozark flight from Springfield to the Chicago area? He remembered the oldest joke in the airline industry: Ozark spelled backward is Krazo. Only it didn’t amuse him just then.

  He leaped when the phone rang, but it was not Chloe. “I’m sorry, Captain,” Hattie said. “I promised to call you back, but I fell asleep after the call I took and have been out ever since.”

  “That’s quite all right, Hattie. In fact, I need to—”

  “I mean, I didn’t want to bother you anyway at a time like this.”

  “No, that’s OK, I just—”

  “Have you talked to Chloe?”

  “I’m waiting for her to call right now, so I really have to get off!”

  Rayford had been more curt than he intended and Hattie was, at first, silent. “Well, all right then. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll call you, Hattie. OK?”

  “OK.”

  She had sounded hurt. He was sorry about that, but not sorry that he had gotten rid of her for the time being. He knew she was only trying to help and be kind, but she hadn’t been listening. She was alone and afraid just like he was, and no doubt by now she had found out about her family. Oh, no! He hadn’t even asked about them! She would hate him, and why shouldn’t she? How selfish could I be? he wondered.

  Eager as he was to hear from Chloe, he had to risk a couple more minutes on the phone. He dialed Hattie, but her line was busy.

  Buck tried calling Dirk Burton in London as soon as he got home, not wanting to wait longer with the time difference overseas. He got a puzzling response. Dirk’s personal voice mail ran through its usual message, but as soon as the leave-a-message beep sounded, a longer tone indicated that the message system was full. Strange. Dirk was either sleeping through it all or—

  Buck had not considered that Dirk could have disappeared. Besides leaving Buck with a million questions about Stonagal, Carpathia, Todd-Cothran, and the whole phenomenon, Dirk was one of his best friends from Princeton. Oh, please let this be a coincidence, he thought. Let him be traveling.

  As soon as Buck hung up, his phone
rang. Of all people, it was Hattie Durham. She was crying. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Williams, and I had promised myself I would never use your home number—”

  “That’s all right, Hattie. What is it?”

  “Well, it’s silly really, but I just went through something, and I don’t have anybody to talk to about it. I couldn’t get through to my mother and sisters, and well, I just thought maybe you’d understand.”

  “Try me.”

  She told Buck about her call to Captain Steele and brought him up to date on who Steele was, that he had lost his wife and son, and that she had been late calling him back after hearing her good news from Buck. “And then he just brushed me off because he’s waiting for a call from his daughter.”

  “I can understand that,” Buck tried, rolling his eyes. How did he get into this lonely hearts club? Didn’t she have any girlfriends to unload on?

  “I can, too,” she said. “That’s just it. And I know he’s grieving because it’s like his wife and son are dead, but he knew I was on pins and needles about my family, and he never even asked.”

  “Well, I’m sure it is all just part of the tension of the moment, the grief, like you say, and—”

  “Oh, I know it. I just wanted to talk to somebody, and I thought of you.”

  “Well, hey, anytime,” Buck lied. Oh, boy, he thought. My home number is definitely going to come off that next batch of business cards. “Listen, I’d better let you go. I’ve got an evening meeting tonight myself, and—”

  “Well, thanks for listening.”

  “I understand,” he said, though he doubted he ever would. Maybe Hattie showed more depth and sense when she wasn’t under stress. He hoped so.

  Rayford was glad Hattie’s line was busy, because he could tell her he had tried to call her right back, but he didn’t have to tie up his phone any longer. A minute later, his phone rang again.

  “Captain, it’s me again. I’m sorry, I won’t keep you long, but I thought you might have tried to call me. I shut off the call waiting like I promised, but I’ve been on the phone, so—”