The Last Judgment (25 page)

“I don't think you and I are very far apart,” Will said. “I think your interpretation of prophecy and mine are pretty much the same. But I look at it from a practical standpoint. We don't know when God is going to wrap up history. We don't know when the Second Coming of Jesus Christ is going to occur. Scripture guarantees that. So, if we can't know, then let's emphasize applying our faith in a practical way for the present. And not speculating on the future.”

“I figured that you'd say that,” Len said with a smile. “But what happens when the future is suddenly dead center in the vortex of the present? What happens when thousands of years of prophetic promises suddenly start coming to be? Do you ignore them? Do you close your eyes and say, ‘I'm just living for today'?
The point is this—there is no question, given a correct interpretation of the Gospel of Matthew, Paul's second epistle to the Thessalonians, and the book of Revelation, that Herod's Temple must be rebuilt at the Temple Mount location for Scripture prophecy to be fulfilled. The Temple has to be rebuilt. The animal sacrifice in Old Testament Judaism will be reinaugurated, and then a shadowy and metaphysically evil personage is going to defile that Temple and declare himself God.”

“You aren't seriously thinking that this case—or Gilead Amahn—has anything to do—”

“I'm telling you—I wish you wouldn't have taken on this case. I fear for you. I tremble that neither of us may really understand the nature of the man you're representing…or be able to appreciate the implications of the maelstrom you're walking into. You can take every controversial, explosive, gut-wrenching case you've ever handled in your long legal career. And you can put them all together on one side of the scale, and I believe that this one case you are now undertaking, outweighs those by an exponent too immense to calculate.”

Will fumbled mentally for a handle to grasp in this conversation that was spiraling into abstraction.

“I was actually only hoping, Len, that you could give me some guidance on the defense of this fellow.”

Len leaned back. For several seconds he said nothing. Then he asked a question.

“Do you have the indictment from the international tribunal with you? The charge against Amahn?”

Will quickly fished in his briefcase, retrieved it, and handed it to Redgrove, who studied it carefully for several minutes.

“This corresponds to what I have heard in the news,” the older man said quietly. “The Knights of the Temple Mount group was a sect, a cultic breakaway from the Druze religion. You need to get someone who has credentials. Someone who's an expert in Middle Eastern cultic groups like this. And an expert in this
group in particular. There aren't many people in the world who have that kind of information.”

“Good point,” Will replied. “Any suggestions?”

Redgrove was thinking. After a few seconds of reflection he continued.

“There was a professor. Don't remember what his name was. I met him when I was in the Middle East several years ago. I was working on a book on comparative religions at the time. Something tells me that he taught at the University of Cairo—a professor in what he called ‘esoteric religions.' I can fish around in my papers. See if I have his card. Or his name and address. He might be a good person to contact.”

Then Redgrove rose abruptly and extended his hand to Will.

“I'll pray for you. My soul is troubled that you are entangled in this. Be on your guard. And if you see any opportunity to withdraw from representing Gilead Amahn…I would counsel you to carefully consider it.”

With that warning, Will turned to leave. As he reached the screen door, his old friend asked him one more question.

“Since the Temple Mount bombing, have you had the chance to meet with Gilead Amahn face-to-face?”

“No. I'm sending my investigator, Tiny Heftland, over there to do some field work for me. But before too long, I'm going to have to go over there and have a sit-down with Gilead myself. Why do you ask?”

Redgrove began closing the door behind Will, but paused to add one final comment.

“When you meet with him, you ask him something—ask him point-blank, ‘Do you believe you are a messiah?' You ask him that. Or better yet—ask whether he's the Antichrist.”

Will's old professor gave him a quick nod, and then closed the door tightly behind him.

37

A
FTER HIS INITIAL SUCCESSFUL OVERTURES
to the Arab delegation in Cairo, Warren Mullburn returned to Maretas and at once directed the captain of his three-hundred-foot yacht, dubbed
Epiphany,
to prepare for a three-day cruise.

As the massive yacht sailed over the brilliant turquoise of the Carribean, Mullburn was in the stateroom when his butler tapped gently on the varnished mahogany door and entered.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Theos Petropolos has just landed on the heliport. He's on his way down to see you.”

A few minutes later a tall man, thirty years old, with dark hair, strikingly dark eyes, and chiseled good looks entered the suite, dressed casually in a silk island shirt, shorts, and deck shoes.

Mullburn, who was finishing lunch, rose to his feet, flashed a smile at his guest, and strode over to shake his hand.

“Theos,” Mullburn said with a smile. “Very good to see you. Want me to order you some lunch?”

“Not necessary,” the other man replied. “I grabbed some lunch before I got in the chopper.”

Mullburn sat down at his private table, and his visitor stretched out on a couch set below a row of windows overlooking the ocean.

“Now that we're face-to-face,” Mullburn said, “I need to thank you for handling that Middle East assignment. A job well-done. Executed flawlessly. Excellent work on the multiple firewalls
between you and the direct actors, particularly regarding the grand finale.”

“Thanks,” Theos said. “That's certainly one thing I've learned working closely with you over these last five years. Protect yourself—immunize yourself—always work on a pyramid basis. You at the top. Limited direct access. And delegation that cannot be traced.”

“I'm glad to see you appreciate your apprenticeship.” Mullburn grinned. “You've been a good student.”

Petropolos was casually lounging on the couch with his legs stretched out to full length. Not the usual position for a man in the presence of the Warren Mullburn empire.

“And I still consider you a great teacher. Even a mentor,” he replied. “Even if you weren't my father.”

“Care for a drink?”

The younger man nodded.

“Whatever you're having.”

Mullburn stood and walked over to the brass, mahogany, and crystal liquor cabinet behind him. He poured two glasses and handed one to Theos.

“Let's toast.”

Theos rose quickly to his feet, drink in his hand, beaming at his father.

“What shall we toast to?” he asked.

Mullburn raised his glass, and so did his son.

“I propose a toast,” the billionaire said, “to our global partnership—and to our family empire.”

They clicked glasses.

Theos made himself comfortable on the couch as his father stood, sipping from his glass.

“I know things were not always good between us,” Mullburn said. “And I'm sure your mother had some very nasty things to say.”

“Well, I have to report,” Theos replied, “that she would run you down…bitterly criticize you. All I heard were negative things about how you'd left her high and dry. And yet I saw with my own
eyes how well you provided for her. Our Athens villa was very nice. And all of our needs were taken care of—I knew that you couldn't be the monster that she made you out to be. And so, as I got older, I decided to make up my own mind. Judge for myself.”

“And?”

“And—I'm here. I'm working with you. It's obvious that I've taken a tremendous risk…”

“Of course you have,” Mullburn snapped back. “We all do. How do you think I created this world for myself? By being timid and weak and fearful? If you've learned anything over the last five years, it should be this—the only world worth having is the one you create for yourself. With your own hands. By force if necessary, but always by cunning. By being smarter, better prepared, and more willing to take risks than your adversary. Leadership requires brutal choices. And it demands the courage of mind to follow through. To execute decisions, no matter what blood may be let, no matter what losses may be incurred.”

Theos Petropolos smiled.

“Father, I want to make you proud of me. I want you to build in me the kind of character that has made you the man you are.”

Mullburn returned to his chair behind the dining table.

“I have another job for you. President LaRouge is continuing to apply pressure to me. He's demanding more and more accountability. He's treating me like a member of his cabinet. The fact is, he has to consider himself a member of
my
cabinet—that is, if he's very lucky.”

Both of them chuckled.

“I'll get some figures together later,” the older man continued. “But we need to remind our island's esteemed president how very vulnerable he is. How I am his sole source of protection, domestically, internationally, economically, and most importantly—militarily. I control the Elite Guard of the Republic, not him. In an instant I can shut down all of our banks, change our currency, and orchestrate a coup. All in probably less than an hour. So as far as
Mandu LaRouge is concerned, I'll get back to you with the details on how I want you to handle him.”

“Whatever you'd like me to do,” Theos replied. “You can count on me, Father.”

Mullburn rose, put down his glass, and strode over to his son, who was still reclining on the couch.

“Finish your drink while you head back to the helicopter,” he ordered. “I want you back in the palace. I'll get some information to you then via Himlet.”

The younger man quickly swallowed the last of his drink and shook hands with his father. But he hesitated at the door.

“And we will have to finish our discussion sometime,” he added, “about your continuing progress regarding financial transfer.”

Mullburn eyed his son carefully. “As you know,” he said matter-of-factly, “I've already begun shifting control of some important assets to you. I'll continue making progress on that. I plan on regarding you as my successor. As I promised. And when the centralization of my economic structure is completed, I'll be able to have more flexibility in bringing you into some of the major global ventures. Now—you'd better be on your way.”

Theos threw his father a quick wave, then disappeared up the stairs to the top deck.

After he had left, Mullburn snatched his cell phone and punched in a number. His chief personal accountant answered quickly.

“This is Mullburn.”

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“It's about Mrs. Petropolos in Athens…”

“Yes, sir?”

“You know the monthly stipend I've been paying to her?”

“Yes, sir. It's been a fixed amount for as many years as I can remember.”

“Stop paying it,” Mullburn growled.

38

P
RESIDENT
H
ARRIET
C
ORBIN
L
ANDOW
was seated on the couch in the Oval Office, chugging from a twenty-four-ounce bottle of French spring water and paging furiously through a report that had just been handed to her by Secretary of State Thomas Linton.

The secretary of state was seated in a chair across the coffee table from the president. His hands were folded politely in his lap, and he waited patiently for her comments.

There was a knock, and the door cracked open a few inches as her chief of staff, a middle-aged woman with short-cropped hair and a datebook in her hand, attempted to politely interrupt.

“Excuse me, Madame President. I'm sorry to interrupt, but you had asked that I let you know—”

President Landow snapped, “I don't want to be interrupted. No exceptions. Close the door, and I don't want to see you until I ask for you.”

She returned to the final page of the report, studied it carefully, flipped back to a few pages in the middle, then laid the document down on the coffee table and took another slug from her bottle of water.

A few seconds passed, and the secretary of state made some initial observations.

“Madame President, this is our best information available. I regret to say that as far as the Middle East peace process is concerned—”

“Yes, let's talk about that,” the president shot back. “As far as the peace process is concerned, the United States has lost control. We have been cut off at the pass by a fly-by-night, self-appointed ambassador of goodwill, Warren Mullburn, who buys himself this little banana republic somewhere in the Caribbean. And now he upstages the president of the United States. Is that what we're dealing with here? Are you saying this guy has more leverage than the leader of the free world…which I am?”