CHAPTER 10

Sitting in the cockpit, two days later, Richard stared straight ahead. Next to him, Andrew focused on the controls. The two pilots were enroute to the Middle East.

Flying was normally such a comfort, but today Richard could hardly concentrate. His arguments with Christina tumbled through his mind constantly. He had actually threatened to divorce her if she didn’t give up her faith. Richard shook his head--he couldn’t believe he’d said that. When he got home, he’d have to plead temporary insanity to his wife on that one. On top of that, his recurring grief over Nicole and Jessica had surged up repeatedly that morning, forcing him to enter the bathroom and take deep breaths to calm down.

Richard scowled. For once, flying wasn’t helping. Whenever he and Christina had fought before, he could always make peace by getting her a present from some foreign country as a peace offering. This time, however, he feared it might take more than a gift to mend the rift between them. Try as he did, he couldn't get his mind off their argument. They had not exchanged ten words between them since.

He glanced sideways at Andrew, who leaned forward, gazing down at the instrument panel. A half-full glass of lemonade stood on a tray next to him; Andrew had been taking periodic sips of it for the last 15 minutes. Wish I had something to drink, he thought. Anything to get my mind off home! And my sister! And my baby daughter.

Glancing around for something to distract him, Richard saw the newspaper, and the front-page headline, “Puccini Works for World Peace.” Ahh, perfect topic of discussion with Andrew!

Richard glanced at the newspaper again. “Well, Andrew,” he said, “what did you think of Puccini’s speech?” He rubbed his right hand on the front of his uniform. Leaning back in his chair, Andrew glanced at him, then took a sip of lemonade.

Setting the Styrofoam cup back on the tray, Andrew took a deep breath and tensed. “Well...I think...” Andrew hesitated.

As Richard waited for Andrew to continue, he frowned. He didn't get it. Puccini’s speech was what everyone was talking about...why was Andrew so uncomfortable discussing it? Andrew bit his lower lip, then took a deep breath.

“I think...” Andrew repeated; Richard fidgeted as impatience surged through him. Finally, Andrew let out a long sigh and said, “Well, Richard, I don’t think Puccini can be trusted.”

Richard was taken aback. Not trust Puccini? He gaped at Andrew in disbelief.

“You don't trust Puccini?” Andrew shook his head in the negative. Richard let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not trust Puccini...why...you may as well not be trusting this plane! Nowadays, I think you’re gonna be depending on him to stay alive.” Richard wasn't normally so vocal about his opinions, but he had to keep the conversation rolling.

Andrew smiled, but there was no smile in his eyes. “You know the old axiom, Richard: ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrects absolutely.’” Richard shrugged. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he cared. He had a strong hunch that not many did, anymore.

Andrew leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, he gazed down at the controls as Richard waited. “A man with absolute power can be corrupted by it easily,” he said. “It’s very easy for such a man to become a tyrant, and throughout history, many such men have. And a man who’s about to become the absolute ruler of the whole world...” Andrew shook his head.

“You think he’s going to become a tyrant,” Richard finished. “A tyrant with no concern for the needs of the people.” Andrew nodded.

Pursing his lips, Richard shook his head. He had no desire to get any further into this discussion. A memory of his former first officer, Timothy Hill, flashed into his mind...

“The Bible says that in the end times, a leader will emerge from the Roman Empire,” Timothy said. “He'll promote world peace, and even achieve it, and he’ll make peace between Israel and her Arab neighbors. But in the end, he'll be bad news.”...

Richard pressed his lips into a tight line. Timothy had insinuated that Puccini was this world leader the Bible had predicted. Was Andrew about to say the same thing?

If he does, he thought, I won’t listen! He reached into his pants pocket for his handkerchief and rubbed his forehead, then stuffed it back.

As if reading his mind, Andrew said no more. Instead, he glanced at Richard with a sorrowful expression. Please, God, give me the words to open his heart, he silently prayed.

__________________________

Ryan looked across the table at Kristen; clusters of other customers sat at the tables around them. No one could convince him otherwise--Kristen was the smartest, funniest, and prettiest woman who had ever walked the face of the planet. If he’d thought working with her was a privilege, dating her had sure shown him what the real privilege was! Kristen had a natural grace he’d been attracted to from the moment he saw her. She was the only person he knew who could take a sweater-and-jeans combination and still look like a princess.

It had been three days since their coffee date, but it felt like forever. Ryan and Kristen had talked for hours over cup after cup of coffee and one or two doughnuts. Now, three days later, they were having dinner at a restaurant that was a little taste of home for them both. It could only be described as a fast-food place with waitresses--a restaurant that served American food.

They had ordered and paid at the front; now they were waiting for a waitress to bring them their food. The closest thing to American food that one would find in any other part of Italy was pizza.

Neither felt like talking at the moment. Both were listening to the music in the background at the moment. Ryan sat leaning back in his chair, his hands in his jeans pockets. Kristen leaned forward to rest her elbows on the end of the smooth, polished table. In the background, a beautiful song that both were familiar with played softly from a TV set that was set to an American music video station.

“Did you ever know that you’re my hero?

And that you’re all that I'd like to be.

I can fly higher than an eagle,

'Cause you are the wind, beneath my wings.”

Kristen smiled and closed her eyes, swaying slightly to the tune of the music. “Mmm,” she said. “Did you know this is one of my favorite songs?”

Ryan grinned. He had suspected as much, from intense concentration she had been giving to it. Still, he couldn’t resist practically shouting, “Mine, too! I love that song!”

“Yet another thing we have in common!” Kristen leaned back and laughed. “How many is that now?”

Ryan chuckled along. During their talks, they’d realized that they had so much in common it was almost scary. “I’ve long since lost count, Kristen. And you obviously have, too.”

Kristen nodded, pretending to be upset with herself. At that moment, the waitress approached, carrying a large tray. She set a plate with fried chicken and mashed potatoes in front of Kristen, and a plate with a large cheeseburger and fries before Ryan.

As they ate, conversation picked up again, but the subject almost made him wish it hadn’t. “So...what did you think of Puccini's speech?” She wiped her lips with her paper napkin as she spoke.

Ryan tried to keep from flinching visibly. Despite falling for Kristen, he still wasn't 100% sure he could trust her with his suspicions and experiences. He didn’t know where she stood with Puccini, and if he told her she might report his suspicions to their boss. Ryan shuddered, remembering Puccini’s mental threat, as he’d come to call it. If he learned Ryan mistrusted him and seriously considered quitting every time he looked Puccini in the eye...only God in Heaven knew how Puccini would react.

Ryan tried to come up with a good answer. He did think Puccini’s speech was convincing...maybe a little too convincing, like he was trying too hard. Then again, Ryan might just be paranoid. He suspected he might have had an over-active imagination...but there was no denying what he had heard in his mind when Puccini had threatened him.

Finally, Ryan realized something. He had the perfect escape point! As he leaned back, he shook his head. “You know, I can’t believe that, less than a week after the worse catastrophe to hit the planet, everyone is talking about some speech!”

Ryan wished he had phrased the last part differently from how he had. It sounded unimpressive, and that was the last image he wanted to portray, to anyone. Least of all Kristen.

To Ryan’s surprise, Kristen didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she simply said, “I guess everyone’s trying to fill up their minds with other things, to block off the pain that day caused.” Her fork clinked as she laid it on the edge of the plate.

Ryan noticed a hint of pain in her voice. How could he have been so stupid?! Even he had tried not to think about the loss of millions all over the world, but it was like a boomerang--no matter how hard you threw it, it always kept coming back.

“I'm sorry.” He gently covered her hand with his. “Did...” For some strange reason, Ryan's voice broke. “Did you lose anyone?”

Kristen nodded, her eyes moist. “Half my family.” She gazed down at her plate.

Ryan swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Somehow, when Kristen was hurting, he hurt with her. Don’t cry, he pleaded with her silently. Please don’t cry.

The TV in the background played another song.

“We need some help,

Down here on earth.

A thousand prayers,

A million words,

But one voice was heard.”

Ryan didn't know what to say. The song seemed to express his thoughts exactly. Planet Earth did need help. The question was...how many people were still aware of that? Pondering that, he reached down to rub his left hand on his jeans, then picked up his hamburger to take another bite.

As he chewed and swallowed, the song suddenly broke off. A voice spoke on the television speaker. “We interrupt this program for a breaking news bulletin.”

Exchanging worried looks, Ryan and Kristen half-turned their bodies toward the TV set to listen. An anchorman sat behind a desk and a microphone, ruffling papers before him. Ryan sensed that something serious had occurred.

“Five minutes ago, the Dome of the Rock collapsed without warning on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. As yet, there are no reports of fatalities.”

Kristen gasped audibly, and Ryan flinched. This was big news, and it surely meant an imminent trip to Israel. As the announcer explained the event, Ryan and Kristen focused on the TV set.

When he paused, Ryan and Kristen made eye contact across the table; no words were needed. At that moment, Ryan’s pager started beeping. “Puccini,” Ryan said. Kristen nodded. Ryan took a deep breath and gazed down at his half-finished plate.

Silently, Ryan did the mental math and figured out how much their meal would have cost. He laid a large bill on the table and strode out the door, with Kristen at his side. As much as Ryan dreaded it, he knew they had to get to work, since this was an emergency. Puccini needed his pilot.

__________________________

Andrew sat up straight in his seat, gazing at the light-gray cloud surrounding their plane. He resisted the temptation to slouch. He was winning Richard’s respect, slowly but surely, and he didn’t want to ruin it by acting unprofessionally. They weren’t too far away from their destination, and Andrew hoped that he’d run into Tess in Israel...he had so many questions!

His role in this assignment was as cloudy as the view outside their windshield. Richard was so cold and stubborn, it would be practically impossible to ever soften him up. Every time he looked at the man, Andrew had to remind himself that with God, all things were possible. Andrew wanted nothing more than to find out why Richard was so bitter towards God, but Tess hadn’t explained that to him. He got the impression from Gloria that Richard hadn’t suddenly gotten bitter when the Rapture took his baby away, so he had no idea what the reason might be. Silently, he prayed that God would reveal it to him.

Andrew glanced down at the now-empty Styrofoam cup. When the flight attendant returned to the cockpit, he would ask her to bring him another cup.

Without warning, the radio crackled to life. “Pan-World Flight 55, this is Ben-Gurion Control Tower. Do you read me?” Andrew jumped and looked across the cockpit at Richard, who pushed a button on the radio.

“Tower, this is Pan-World Flight 55, ten-four,” Richard said. Andrew detected a note of surprise in the pilot’s voice at receiving communication from the tower this soon. They were still a good half-hour’s trip away from the airport, so what could the airport want?

“Ben-Gurion is being shut down, 55; proceed to another airstrip,” the accented voice said. Richard and Andrew exchanged puzzled glances. The airport was being shut down? Why?

Richard asked that same question. “Copy that, tower; what's the reason?” Andrew wondered how Richard had managed to sound that calm, with no traces of confusion in his voice. Richard’s blue eyes betrayed a hint of confusion as he glanced at Andrew, then looked away. Andrew smiled to himself humorlessly--Richard would never admit confusion to anyone.

The voice came back over the radio, its explanation simple in words, but powerful in message. “Disaster on the Temple Mount--the Dome of the Rock just collapsed.”

Richard's eyes widened, and Andrew stared at him in shock. He knew the temple was going to be rebuilt prior to or during the first part of the tribulation, but he hadn’t expected anything as dramatic as the Dome of the Rock collapsing. Since the site of the original Holy of Holies lay a hundred meters to the north of the dome, he hadn’t thought that would be necessary. The mattress sagged underneath Andrew as he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. This would certainly speed up the prophetic developments!

Richard frowned for a moment, then spoke into the radio’s microphone. “I wasn’t aware of that, tower; will proceed to another airport. Any recommendations?”

Andrew was impressed with how calmly Richard seemed to accept that news. This was a big development, huge...on a political level as well as spiritual one. Still, Richard's question made sense to ask--they needed a place to land. The angel of death leaned sideways to listen for the answer.

“We're forwarding all flights to Tel Aviv,” the voice responded.

“Copy that tower, redirecting flight course now.” Richard glanced at Andrew. No words were needed; the passengers would have to be informed of this change in plan. Andrew nodded.

Richard reached for the radio. Switching to the channel used to speak to the passengers, he cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I regret to announce that the Ben Gurion airport has just been closed, so we will not be landing there. We will be rerouting to the airport in Tel Aviv.”

Richard switched the radio off. Andrew leaned back in his chair, frowning. When he had a chance, he was going to discuss this development with Tess. Father, he prayed, what does this mean for our assignments?

As he glanced at Richard, he saw a photo lying in the pilot’s outstretched right hand. He glanced at it and smiled. “That’s a very pretty photo,” he said. “Is that someone you know?”

“Knew.” Grimacing, Richard stuffed it into his wallet and inserted his wallet into his pocket. “My sister.” He paused. “Her name was Nicole.”

Andrew nodded. Something told him that the situation with Nicole was the cause of Richard’s bitter atheism. He prayed, silently, that Richard would open up toward him.

“Would it help to talk about it?” Andrew asked gently.

Richard leaned back. For a long moment, he did not speak. When he did, his voice sounded bitter and hard. “She’s dead.” He paused. “She was murdered when she was fourteen.”

Andrew winced in shock. So that was it! For a moment, he wondered which angel of death had escorted Nicole home. Adam, perhaps. Out loud, he said, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Richard nodded. “Thanks.” He bit his lip, as he gazed down at his lap. Minutes passed in silence.

“She had just started her freshman year in high school.” Richard paused. “She was a wonderful girl, a great sister. She believed in God, believe it or not.” He pressed his lips into a tight line of displeasure. “And a fat lot of good it did her!”

“Why is that?” Andrew furrowed his eyebrows in concern.

“Because her belief in God didn’t save her life.” Richard banged his fist on the instrument panel. “She was kidnapped. Some creep grabbed her and dragged her into his car--she was screaming. A woman saw the whole thing from a distance, and ran to the nearest pay phone to call the police.”

He paused again. “It took the police all of 30 minutes to get there, and by that time, well, let’s just say they could have saved the trip. They never found her--till it was too late.” He swallowed hard. “They found her body in a field, in upstate New York, eight days later. Her throat was slit, and her hands were tied behind her back. She had been dead for almost a week.”

For a long moment, Andrew did not speak. Silently, he prayed for wisdom. “That must have been quite traumatic for you.”

Richard glowered at him. “Would you believe I actually prayed during those 8 days?” He clenched his fists into tight balls. “Every day--repeatedly--I begged God to save my sister and bring her home! When we received the news at the end of our long wait…” He swallowed. “Well, that was when I knew there was no God. There never was, never has been! Because if there were, He would have saved Nicole. She was such a sweet, good girl, and she believed in Him! And for what?” He spat into the ashtray by his side.

As deep sadness for Richard welled up in Andrew, he rose to his feet and rested a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. With a sigh, Andrew patted his hand. “Thanks, Andrew.” He fidgeted. “I’ve lived with the pain for years now, and I’ve learned to endure it. It will never go away.”

Andrew patted his shoulder and returned to his chair. He knew, now, what Richard’s problem was, and he knew where to focus his prayers. Please, God, help him. Please heal his wounded heart and give him a new faith.

__________________________

Christina leaned her head against the bedroom wall, taking a shuddering sigh. Things were going from bad to worse. She and Richard had had some nasty arguments since her born-again experience, but this was the first time Richard had threatened divorce. From the moment of their fight till his departure for the airport, he had given her the cold shoulder, and she had not dared speak to him unless absolutely necessary.

“I can’t stand it anymore!” she moaned. “What am I going to do if Richard divorces me? Does God even care?” She shook her head violently.

“Of course He does.” Gloria’s voice startled her; Christina whirled to face her. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” Gloria smiled apologetically. “I was coming upstairs to find you, and I just happened to overhear you talking to yourself.” She rubbed her fingers on the nightstand as she spoke.

With a nod, Christina trudged toward the bed. The mattress sagged underneath her as she slumped on its edge. With a sigh, she gazed down at her slack-clad legs. “Gloria, I’m at the end of my rope. I told you that Richard would make things miserable for me when he learned I’d accepted the Lord, and he is! Our marriage is about to end. And if what you’ve told me about a seven-year Tribulation is true--” She choked back a sob. “How am I going to survive without a husband to comfort and protect me?”

An unwanted tear trickled down her cheek. She reached up to swipe it away. Gloria approached her and touched her shoulder.

“You must turn to God and let Him comfort you,” Gloria said softly. “He knows what you’re going through now, and He knows all about Richard’s stubborn, angry heart. He’s working on Richard, even as we speak, but it’s going to take time and patience.” She perched on the bed next to Christina and laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “God hasn’t abandoned you, Christina. He never abandons His children. He always makes a way to bear and triumph over hard times, and He’s doing that for you right now. And He’s going to go on doing so.”

For a long moment, Christina thought about what Gloria had said. When she looked up, she sighed. “You’re right.” She smiled wanly. “It’s just so hard to trust God when my own husband’s against me.” She shook her head.

Gloria put her arm around Christina’s shoulders. “Shall we pray for Richard?” she asked. Christina nodded. Together, woman and angel prayed for Richard’s salvation and for the healing of the Daly marriage.

At last, Gloria sat up straight. “Christina, there’s something you need to know. The Ben Gurion airport in Jerusalem has been closed. I just learned from watching the news, downstairs, that the Dome of the Rock collapsed today.”

Christina stared at her. “My--my Richard--?”

Gloria smiled. “I’m sure he’s all right, Christina--there were no reports of airplane crashes. But what’s happened today is going to be very important. With the Dome gone, the Moslems won’t be able to prevent Israel from rebuilding its Temple anymore.”

Christina swallowed hard. “You--you said that an agreement between the Antichrist and Israel would begin the Tribulation.” Gloria nodded. “And that this agreement would make it possible to rebuild their Temple.” She paused. “That means things are speeding up!”

Gloria nodded. “Yes. In a very short time, the Tribulation will begin. Already, the beginning of a new world government is being set up, and a world religion along with it.” She pushed her glasses up her nose.

Christina rose to her feet. She paced the bedroom several times, pondering the new developments. At last, she turned to face Gloria. “What I’m going through now is minor compared to what I’m going to go through,” she said slowly. “Richard and I may well lose our lives before this is over.”

Gloria nodded, as sadness creased her face. “That’s certainly possible.” She stood up. “I can’t promise you’ll live to see His coming, Christina, but this I do promise you: if you’ll remain true to Him, He’ll get you through the next 7 years with your soul intact. And whether you enter the Kingdom as a mortal believer or a resurrected one, you’ll be a part of the Millennium and the eternity that’s going to follow.” She smiled encouragingly.

Christina nodded. “Is it on the news right now?”

Gloria shrugged. “It was when I came up.”

Leaping to her feet, Christina rushed into the hall and darted down the stairs. Gloria followed her. Christina silently prayed that God would protect Richard and soften his heart.

__________________________

Monica strolled down the aisle of the plane, smiling cordially at the passengers. She had no idea why her presence was required, since only Puccini and a few members of his staff were flying to Israel--Puccini hadn't even brought the prime minister. Come to think of it, she didn't know why they were in Puccini’s large plane instead of taking a smaller one. Still, for some strange reason, Puccini seemed to think her presence there would be necessary.

A voice broke into her thoughts. “How much longer?” Puccini snapped. He leaned forward and glared at Monica. An open cellular phone lay on the table at his side, she noticed. Apparently, he’d been making calls.

The angel fought the urge to say that Puccini had his own watch and that he should use it. Instead, she pressed her fingers together in front of her waist and said, “We only took off 15 minutes ago, Mr. Puccini--uh, Antonio. We still have an hour and 45 minutes before we're supposed to touch down at Ben-Gurion.” She put an apologetic look on her face, hoping that would mollify him.

Puccini clenched his fists and tensed. Monica turned away and smiled humorlessly. Less than a month ago, she never would have imagined herself watching the Antichrist tense up. Then again, who was where they’d thought they would be less than a month ago? Or even less than a week ago?

Puccini’s voice barked again. “Get me something to calm me down! I will go crazy unless I get something out here now.”

Monica guessed what he was talking about, and a knot formed in her gut as she walked to the galley. Why her? Why did she have to be assigned to work under the Antichrist--a demon-energized man who wanted her to do things that went against her moral code? Her discomfort fueled into anger--he knew she was an angel! He knew what she believed about liquor...and he asked for it anyway.

Her anger dissipated, as an idea came to her. Of course...he hadn’t exactly asked for alcohol directly, had he?

For the next few minutes, Monica rummaged through the cabinets. There...a box of teabags. Perfect. She started to pull the box out when a round coffee tin caught her eye. Of course! How could she give Puccini something to relax him unless it was her special drink? With mischief gleaming in her eye, she grabbed the tin with her other hand. Just picturing Puccini’s face made her want to burst out laughing!

Pulling a teabag out of the box, she reached for a pair of scissors with her free hand. The “sugary” on the teabag took three minutes. Good thing the Father had provided her with a small pocket-sized stapler to quickly re-seal the teabag after adding the coffee grains. By the time she had put the tea/coffee bag in a glass and added a little bit of sugar, the kettle was whistling. A cloud of steam poured out of its snout.

Monica brought the drink to Puccini on a tray. She tried to hide her mischievous glint under a professional smile. Monica handed him the glass, then held the tray at her side. He eyed the brownish liquid, then looked at her warily. Not taking his eyes off her he sipped the drink...and spit it out onto the plane floor. “You little--!”

The crash of the glass shattering on the carpeted floor drowned out the rest of his words. Monica jumped back, and Puccini froze in his seat. Glass fragments and dark liquid spilled everywhere.

“I'm sorry, President Puccini.” Monica tried not to choke on the words. She wasn't sorry in the least, but she didn‘t want Puccini to know that. Then she decided the innocent approach was the best approach. “What’s wrong, sir?”

“That!” Puccini gasped, pointing to the spilled mixture. “That is disgusting! I have never tasted anything more revolting in my entire life!”

It was all Monica could do to keep from bursting into giggles. His reaction was a little more extreme than she’d expected, but few people really cared for her nice little combo. She barely managed to suppress a smile as she apologized again. “It's just...that's one of my favorite drinks. It always relaxes me.”

“Well,” Puccini snapped. “I am not you, nor am I anything like you. Something you know quite well.”

Monica flinched. Did Puccini's words have a double meaning? Did he know she was an angel? Her amusement turned to fear in an instant. What if he did know? What would she do? Or, what could he do? For some reason, the idea of the Antichrist knowing the truth about her was a very frightening one.

Puccini broke into her thoughts with a quick, “Now go get me a glass of wine. That is what makes me relax.” He pounded his fist on the chair of his arm and glared at her. Monica could have sworn she saw flakes of fire behind his eyes.

The angel’s mind raced again. What should she do? She couldn’t serve him wine...alcohol of any kind was wrong--she wouldn’t serve it. Yet she’d already angered him once, and she didn‘t want to do that again, if she could help it. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter--Puccini wasn’t her assignment, so she didn’t have to make an impression on him. But what to do?

Monica prayed silently for guidance. As she continued praying, she stared blankly out the window at the fleecy clouds drifting past their airplane. A few moments later, an idea came to her. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.

She pivoted to face Antonio, who picked up his cell phone and punched some buttons. “Get me Elijah Dayan,” he barked. As he cradled the phone next to his ear, he glared at Monica, who swallowed and squared her shoulders.

“I have to clean up this mess,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. As she knelt down and began picking up the broken glass, she added, “I'll ask Patty to bring you your wine.”

Nodding, Puccini waited for his party to answer his call; seconds later, he started talking. While Antonio carried on his discussion, Monica swept up the glass shards with her bare hands. Ten minutes after she’d started, she picked up the last glass fragment and carried them to the galley.

__________________________

As he set the cell phone down on the table, Antonio leaned back in his seat, and relaxed visibly. He’d never admit it to anyone, but that angel made him nervous. She was on assignment, he knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. The question was, who was she assigned to? It was entirely possible Ryan was her assignment, and that caused Puccini no end of worry. He wished there was some way he could counter Monica’s influence, but he wasn’t even sure how heavily influenced Ryan was at this point in time. He made a mental note to get out the Ouija board when he got home, to make some inquiries about her.

Although he hated to admit it, Monica had done well on the tests he’d given her. Without saying a word about it, she’d stuck with her beliefs on alcohol despite his demands. Puccini suppressed a grin; she was strong, he had to give her that. He would have to see how she handled thinly veiled threats very soon.

The cell phone jangled. Good, he thought. That must be Elijah with the news I have been waiting for.

__________________________

Monica hurried into the galley. When she dumped the glass shards into the trashcan, she gave the other flight attendant a hurried request: “Patty--Puccini--would--like--a--glass--of--wine--could--you--get--it--for--him?” Without taking a breath, she grabbed a washrag, wet it, and hurried back out down the aisle, leaving her shocked co-worker standing in the galley.

Monica wasn’t sure how much time had gone by, she was sure it wasn’t much. Yet, for some reason, Puccini was glaring at her as if she’d been gone for an hour. Without saying a word or even looking at him, she knelt on the floor and began scrubbing at the brown patch on the coal-black carpet. Tufts of carpet pressed her pants against her knees as she pressed the washrag in circles on the carpet. The coffee-and-tea mixture came off easily. All the while, Puccini talked with Elijah Dayan on the phone about an upcoming meeting to be held in Israel.

When Monica had finished, she carefully searched the carpet for more of the brown mixture. Good, she had wiped it all up--although parts of the carpet looked and felt damp, no trace of the liquid remained. Suddenly, Puccini’s voice interrupted her work.

“Where is Patty? Why has she not brought my wine?” he snapped.

“I don't know, sir,” Monica said softly, almost shyly. Over the past few days she'd had to remind herself over and over that this man was the Antichrist. Now it was easy to believe. “I told her to bring you some wine.”

Monica didn't want to look at Puccini. She could feel him glaring at her. Fear was a rare feeling for her, but she felt it around this man. She heard the mattress creak under--evidently, he was shifting position on the armchair. “I am so sure,” he said sarcastically, “that you asked your co-worker to do something that you think you are too good to do yourself!”

Monica hesitantly looked up. Puccini's oddly-colored eyes stared coldly into hers. “I mean that I know how you regard alcohol, Monica Welleye! And, in all honesty, my regard for you is barely higher.”

Monica flinched. Puccini had never spoken to her like that. Come to think of it, no one ever had! If it had been anyone but the Antichrist, Monica knew those words would have penetrated her heart and hurt her deeply; instead, all she felt was an icy chill. Cold fingers of fear crept up her spine as she gazed at Antonio, who sat digging his fingers into the arms of his chair.

The chill grew into an icy frost nearly covering the room. His eyes seemed to flow from one color to another, the way they always did. Monica knelt frozen in place...there was that dangerous blackness again. For a moment, all she could see was blackness, and the danger that portended threatened to overwhelm her. Struggling to breathe, Monica barely managed a few gasps.

Suddenly, Monica heard a voice somewhere behind her, and Puccini’s gaze shifted. Monica practically sank to the floor in relief. Pressing the palms of her hands against the carpet, she balanced herself and looked up.

Patty, her co-worker, handed Puccini a gleaming crystal goblet of red wine. Monica scrambled to her feet, suddenly aware that she was shaking. With a quick glance at Puccini and a nod to Patty, she hurried off.

A mixture of strong emotions churned within her--anger at Puccini for testing her like that, and a twinge of embarrassment at being caught squatting on the floor not doing anything, but mostly fear. Not since the day God had turned her into a black woman for one of her assignments had she felt such fear. The moment she entered the galley, she leaned against the counter, facing the center of the room; squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath.

“Angel Girl?” a familiar voice spoke directly in front of her. Monica's eyes popped open. There in the kitchen stood Tess.

All Monica’s emotions spilled over when she saw her friend. "Oh, Tess," she said, softly. She fell into her mentor’s warm embrace. Whispering words of comfort, Tess patted Monica’s back as she clasped the other angel against her chest.

“Shh,” Tess whispered. “I'm here now. And baby, God is with you. He is not going to let Puccini harm you or disrupt your assignment, Miss Wings.” At Tess's softly spoken words, Monica dissolved into tears.

“It was the most terrifying experience of my existence!” Monica said, her voice muffled as she buried her face in Tess's shoulder. “I couldn't breathe Tess...I couldn't breathe!”

“Angel Girl,” Tess said gently, stroking her hair. “Just remember, Puccini has no power over you. Just look to God, baby, and He will be your strength.”

Monica pulled just far enough away to see her supervisor’s face. Looking at Tess, she dried her tears. “Thank you, Tess,” she said softly.

Tess patted her shoulder. “Remember what I said, Miss Wings.”

“I will,” Monica promised. And with that, Tess disappeared.

Monica took a deep breath, and prayed softly. “Oh, Father...thank You for Your protection, and forgive me for doubting that You would be there for me.” She gazed at the ceiling as she spoke, then glanced out the window. Suddenly, a snow-white dove flew by. A sensation of peace welled up in Monica. The Father was with her, even here; everything would be all right.

Suddenly, Ryan’s voice from over the intercom interrupted her. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Monica briefly wondered who he was talking to when he said “gentlemen”; Puccini and Ryan were the only men on the flight. She dismissed all thoughts of that when Ryan said, “The disaster at the Temple Mount this morning has resulting in the closing of all major airports in Jerusalem. All aircraft are being redirected to the airport in Tel Aviv. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

Monica started to leave the galley, but when the curtain was halfway open, she saw Puccini rush past her, rage etched on his face. Monica froze, holding her breath. Puccini was upset by the rerouting, that was obvious. And it was even more obvious that Puccini was upset with Ryan. “Oh, Father,” she prayed quietly, leaning against the wall. “Father, protect Ryan.”

Out of curiosity, Monica slipped into the hallway as Puccini stormed into the cockpit. Biting her lip, Monica considered what to do. She realized that Ryan might need a convenient interruption...that was part of her job as a caseworker angel assigned to him. Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Monica leaned her head against the cockpit door.

“How could you just relent like that, Ryan?” Puccini fumed on the other side of the door. “We are heading for Ben-Gurion, and I say we land at Ben-Gurion! I have an important meeting in Jerusalem to get to!”

Ryan spoke calmly and reasonably. “I'm sorry, sir; Ben-Gurion has been shut down for very understandable reasons.”

“You would think they could make an exception in my...our case!” Monica flinched. And she had thought Puccini was angry over the drink. At this moment, Puccini sounded as though he was ready to explode.

“I don't think so, sir,” Ryan said, politely, yet firmly.

“Contact the tower,” Puccini ordered. “Tell them that I order them to let us land there.”

Monica tensed. What would Ryan do? How could he argue with that? She sent up a silent request toward the Father, then pressed her ear against the wall to hear Ryan’s answer.

“With all due respect sir,” Ryan said, “they have no reason to obey your orders. This world government you plan to lead has yet to take effect, and you’re out of Europe, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Thank You, Father, Monica prayed silently. She was impressed; clearly, Ryan could hold his own in an argument with Puccini.

There was silence for a second. Footsteps approached the door. Monica darted behind it as it swung open--it wouldn’t do for Puccini to catch her eavesdropping. The door was less than two inches from her nose, but fortunately, Puccini left it open as he stormed back down the aisle. He did not look back. Monica smiled as she took a deep breath--at least she had escaped detection.

She stepped around the door and slipped into the cockpit. Ryan sat facing straight ahead, his hands on the controls. Monica could see he was breathing deeply, like someone trying to catch his breath. He glanced backwards, as a questioning expression crossed his face. She needed an excuse to be in here.

“Would you like something to drink, Captain Whittaker?” she said softly.

Ryan shook his head. “No thanks, I have to pay attention. The autopilot won't work since we've switched directions.” He smiled. “Thanks, though. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

Monica smiled back. With a nod, she turned around and shut the door behind her. Silently, she thanked God for getting her near the end of the flight. If Puccini needed anything else the rest of the way, her co-workers could cover for her. Right now, it was time to sit down and spend some quality time with her Father.

__________________________

Richard and Andrew stepped off the plane, clutching their flight bags against their legs. The terminal was crowded--no, crowded was an understatement. Jam-packed was closer to the truth. Richard looked around at the crowds milling around. People seemed desperate to get to their original destination. Richard would never understand why when something bad happened, airports shut down in the place where people wanted to be the most.

There was so much noise, Richard doubted even Jessica could be this loud. Jessica. For the first time ever, thoughts about his daughter were unwelcome. He missed the way she would reach out for him, screeching “Da-ddy,” when she was upset about being put in the pen...or the way she would hold on to him when he would dance around the room with her. He missed his baby girl. Pain surged in his heart at the memories.

Richard shoved all thoughts of his personal life out of his mind. He had always been good at doing that, goodness knows, having had enough practice with his memories of Nicole...but now a shadow of his pain remained in his mind no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it. He decided the best thing would be to start a conversation about something else. "What do you wanna bet Ryan and Monica are somewhere in here?" he asked Andrew.

“I don’t bet.” Andrew smiled. “But I agree--Puccini wouldn't miss a chance to make his influence wider than it already is. So unless they landed at Ben-Gurion...”

Richard shook his head. “Ryan wouldn’t force his way into a closed airport for anything. He and Monica are here; I’m sure of it. Why don’t we go find them?”

“Sure,” Andrew said. “Maybe we could all meet up in the coffee shop...a couple buildings over.” He nodded toward a distant building.

“Sounds like a plan.” Richard strode toward the terminal as he spoke, his flight bag bouncing against his leg. He couldn’t waste time. He couldn’t leave a moment for a stray thought about home. If he could just stay focused, his problems wouldn’t feel as bad.

__________________________

Ryan wandered aimlessly through the terminal, shoving past one passer-by after another. Try as he did, he couldn’t stop shaking. It always confused him how, when circumstances called for it, he could be perfectly calm in the midst of an emergency or a confrontation, and completely break down afterwards. He’d been faced with both kinds of situations today, and now his body was doing exactly what he had expected it to.

Ryan could barely move for all the people around, yet he dared not stop for fear of someone slamming into him from behind. The last time he had seen a crowd this big was…actually it hadn’t been that long ago. On the day of the disappearances, there had been crowds this size everywhere. He had been helping injured people then, and had barely noticed the mob of people. If they weren’t hurt or in shock, he had paid little attention. Yet now, for some reason, he seemed painfully aware of all the people right now.

Any one of these people...the young man at the phone, or the middle-aged woman searching for the door...any one of them could easily be a spy for Puccini. Oh sure, he was probably paranoid and overreacting. Yet he couldn't shake the fact that there was something about Antonio Puccini--Puccini’s voice in his head, when it had threatened him the day he was hired, had made him believe it, and Puccini's show of temper today had convinced him of it.

A man bumped against him, jostling him. “Excuse me,” Ryan muttered, clutching his flight bag against his waist. His pilot cap slid halfway down, so he reached up to position it on top of his head.

As Ryan pushed his way through the crowd, Ryan shook his head, in an effort to clear his head. Why do people do that? he wondered. It’s not like that really clears their mind or anything. He smiled wryly at the thought. At least, that had given him the chance to change the direction of his thoughts, enabling him to reason out the situation more rationally. In truth, he wasn’t in any imminent danger, and as long as he didn’t give Puccini any reason to suspect his mistrust, he probably wouldn’t be. With a determined nod, Ryan forced himself to consider other matters that affected his immediate family.

Richard and Christina were having marital problems; there was no hiding that. With so many changes, that was to be expected. Jessica was gone, and Christina's new friend had talked her into getting religion. What Richard didn’t understand was that there were lots of people all over the world doing exactly what Christina was doing, and some of them hadn’t lost anyone as close to them as Christina had. Ryan couldn’t help but think that if Richard was going to harass someone about their choice of beliefs, it should be one of the crackpots who thought aliens had snatched up a bunch of people with weaker minds. He shook his head--he was going to have to have a talk with his brother-in-law. “Someone needs to talk some sense into him,” he muttered, glancing down at his watch.

“Ryan!”

Ryan froze and scanned the crowded terminal. Who had called him?

The voice again called him name. At that moment, a familiar face appeared within the crowd. “Ryan!” Richard repeated as he neared.

“Hey, Richard,” Ryan said, waving. With a delighted grin, he broke into a run as he approached his brother-in-law.

__________________________

At the same moment, Monica wandered around the grounds of the same terminal. Sunshine beat on her tanned face, forcing her to squint. Puccini had long since been taken by limo to his meeting with several leaders, but she was still lost, dazed, and confused. She wasn't sure where Ryan was, since she had left the plane long before he had. There was a strong possibility he was still there. If only she could find him!

Suddenly a familiar voice called out to her from across the crowd. “Monica?”

Monica looked up. About 60 feet away stood Andrew. He was scanning the crowded place, looking for her. He held a flight bag against his right leg.

“Andrew!” she yelled. She motioned for him to head for the side of the building, near the benches. It wasn’t so crowded there. Unsure if he was following, she turned and looked over her shoulder as she headed in that direction herself. To her relief, Andrew strode after her, a broad smile on his face.

__________________________

Richard and Ryan dropped their flight bags and flew the last few feet toward each other. As the two friends shook hands and then embraced, Richard smiled, despite the anger seething in his eyes. Ryan plastered a smile on his own face in return. What had happened to the Richard Daly of a few weeks ago? He’d been replaced by the tense, angry man that stood before him. Of course, the same could practically be said for himself. He mentally shook himself, since he didn’t want to think on that question for more than a second.

“Andrew and I thought we’d find you and Monica here.” Richard picked up his flight bag as he spoke.

Ryan wasn’t sure what his own response was, but it sounded an awful lot like, “Uh.” A fog enmeshed his mind. So much was going on. Why did everything have to happen at once? First millions of people had disappeared, then some guy from Italy had made plans to change the world, and then the Dome of the Rock had collapsed. What was going to happen next? How could a mind process it all? At least, that's what he tried to convince himself that his mind was in a fog over.

As Ryan picked up his own flight bag, he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the real issue at all. Anger--intense anger--lay in the pit of his gut, churning his stomach. He’d seen how Richard was treating Christina since her radical change, and he didn’t like it. Yet his mind and entire body rebelled at the thought of being angry with Richard. They’d been best friends for years and brothers-in-law for the last five, so he just let himself sink into other thoughts, trying to pay attention to what Richard was saying. He’d wrestle with this issue later.

“Uh--what?” Ryan blinked. “What did you say?”

Richard scowled. “I said it was annoying, having to change my route like that. If that stupid dome hadn’t collapsed when it did, I could have flown to Jerusalem as planned.”

Ryan nodded. “It was inconvenient for me, too, but not too bad. Unfortunately, Puccini didn’t think so.” He grimaced. “He was gonna insist that Ben-Gurion Airport let us land anyway. I had to remind him he didn’t have jurisdiction over that area yet.”

Shaking his head, Richard jerked his head toward a door at the end of the crowded hall. Silently, Ryan followed him down the corridor.

__________________________

A moment later, Andrew and Monica both stood by a bench and embraced. Monica's mind spun. Today had been among the worst days of her life, but now she was safe. Safe in the embrace of a friend and in the love of the Father. The feeling overwhelmed her, and she broke into tears.

“Monica?” she heard Andrew say softly. “Monica, what’s wrong?” Monica wanted to say something, but she couldn't. She was too overwhelmed, the entire day had taken its toll, and the sudden safety she felt had left her without defense against the tears that refused to stop.

Andrew just held her for several seconds, as Monica did her best to pull herself together. When she did, she pulled away slightly and dried her tears. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, before slumping down onto the bench. Andrew stood above her, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

__________________________

As Ryan spoke, he glanced at the opposite wall. I wonder what Monica’s doing, he thought. At that moment, his stomach growled. Out loud, he said, “I’m going to find me a restaurant soon.” A hard tone crept into his voice as he spoke.

“Me, too.” Looking back, Richard stared at his brother-in-law curiously. “Ryan, you want to tell me what’s eating you?” He rubbed the front of his uniform as he spoke.

Ryan pressed his lips into a tight line. “You really want to know?” Richard nodded, gazing at him intently. Ryan recognized that look--Richard was not going to leave him alone until Ryan told him.

Ryan frowned at Richard for a long moment. “Something’s wrong between you and Christina, Richard. I’ve been noticing it.”

Richard clenched his left fist; with his right, he tightened his grip on the flight bag. “You've noticed.” Ryan nodded. “Yes, and the problem’s Christina.” He hurled his flight bag on the floor.

“Because she’s turned religious--is that it?” With an effort, Ryan kept his voice even.

Richard glared at Ryan. “Yes--that’s it. It makes me so mad that my sensible wife--my one-time sensible wife--would turn to those stupid fairy tales to help her cope! I can’t stand it, Ryan.”

Ryan nodded. “So you’ve been bullying her every chance you get.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve been making her pretty miserable about it, haven’t you?”

Clenching both fists, Richard took a step forward with such a fierce look on his face that Ryan resisted a violent impulse to step back. His face had turned beet-red. “That’s none of your business, Ryan! It’s my marriage and my wife!”

“And my sister!” Ryan shot back. “You forget, Richard, Christina was my sister long before she was ever your wife! You think I’m going to just stand back and see her so miserable? Well, I’m not!” His flight bag landed with a thud as he dropped it on a nearby bench and whirled back to face Richard.

__________________________

Andrew sat down beside her. “What's wrong?” he asked again.

Monica took a deep breath. “Today has been one of the worst days of my life, Andrew,” she admitted.

“The flight?” he asked softly. She nodded, and Andrew asked, “What happened?” She paused for a moment, shifting her position on the hard, unyielding bench. Andrew sat leaning toward her, eyes fixed on her face, as he waited for her to begin.

As Monica told him the whole story, Andrew nodded periodically, compassion welling in his expressive eyes. He did not speak until she ended her monologue with a sarcastic, “Just a day in the life of an angel working under the Antichrist.”

Pressing his lips into a wry grin, Andrew shook his head. “It sounds as if I got the better end of the deal. And here I thought Richard was impossible.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Monica smiled slightly. Andrew could always cheer her up when she needed it most. And if there were ever a time when she needed that cheer and support, this was it.

“Thanks,” she said softly. Andrew nodded in response, and then Monica clasped her hands in her lap. “But, seriously! How am I supposed to deal with that? He orders me to do things that go against my principles; he hints he knows the truth about me but never gives me any proof; and he turns around and threatens me!”

Andrew shook his head. “It’s not easy to deal with a human like that,” he said, “especially one who’s being energized by the devil himself.” He smiled. “Just ask God for the wisdom you need to deal with Puccini. He’ll give it to you, and whatever backup you need, as well.”

Monica nodded. “That’s exactly what Tess said,” she admitted.

Andrew nodded. “Tess is right,” he said simply. “Would you like a prayer partner?” Andrew extended his hands in an invitation for her to pray with him. She took them, and she and Andrew bowed their heads for prayer while she prayed for wisdom and strength. Silently, as she had done previously, Monica added a request that God frustrate any attempts of Puccini to learn more about her through his contacts with demons.

When they raised their heads, Andrew sighed. “I could use the same divine wisdom, Monica. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I thought Richard was impossible.”

“Have you talked to him about how much he needs God?” Monica leaned against the bench as she spoke.

Andrew shook his head. “Not yet. I’m waiting on the Father for that one. If I speak up too soon, I may drive Richard away, and if I speak too late.…” Andrew didn't finish the sentence.

Monica nodded. She understood what he meant. The wrong word, or the right word spoken at the wrong time, could destroy all the work an angel had put into an assignment, especially when the assignment was a person as stiff-necked and stubborn as Richard Daly. Silently, she prayed that God would melt the hardness in Richard’s heart and save the Dalys’ marriage.

“Have you prayed about that?” Monica asked.

Andrew nodded. “Without ceasing,” he responded. “At least, I know, now, why his heart is so hard against God.“ He paused. “His sister was kidnapped and murdered years ago, when she was just fourteen. In his grief and bitterness, Richard hardened his heart against God, to the point where he has refused to acknowledge His existence. And still does.”

Pain welled up in Monica’s heart. “Oh, Andrew...”

“Yes.” After a brief moment of silence, Andrew glanced at his watch. “Hey, Monica,” he said. “Richard went to go find Ryan; we were supposed to meet in the coffee shop outside the terminal. Would you like to come?”

“A coffee shop,” Monica repeated. A broad smile snaked across her face. “I’d love to.”

Andrew slapped his knee. “Should have known. Let's go.” With a chuckle, he rose to his feet and led the way toward the coffee shop.

__________________________

Richard spat into a nearby trash can, then glared at Ryan. “I’m not about to have my wife turning into some--some--religious nut! There’s no God, and no good comes out of pretending otherwise. My wife wants to find peace, let her do it the way sensible people do. Not by praying to some mythological Being! And certainly not by claiming that I need my eyes opened--because I don’t!” His face turned a deep purple as he spoke. He took quick, deep breaths, as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

Rage welled up in Ryan. For one awful moment, fought the overwhelming urge to hit Richard. Taking two steps toward the man, Ryan glared at him through eyes narrowed into slits.

“You’re lucky I’m not a violent type, Richard Daly, because I’d be fighting you to the dust over the way you just talked about her.” He ground his teeth and took short, quick breaths. “Just remember that’s my sister you’re talking about, and I don’t take too kindly to seeing her mistreated by anybody! Even you!” He paused. “And what’s so terribly wrong with your wife turning to God, anyway? I see no problem with that! A lot of other people are doing it, too--apparently they need it! If it helps her feel better, then I say let her. Stop giving her such a hard time, Richard!”

Richard took another step forward, his fist raised over his head. Suddenly, he froze; dropping his hand to his side, he shook his head from side to side. “And where’s this--this God going to be if something terrible happens?” Richard kicked the trash can. “You know what happened to my sister, Ryan! If faith in God did any good, she’d still be alive now!”

Without another word, he picked up his flight bag, turned, and walked off. Ryan watched him in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line.

A few steps away, with a halt, Richard pivoted to face Ryan. “I forgot. We were going to meet Andrew and Monica at the coffee shop. You gonna meet us there?” Ryan nodded, purse-lipped. Richard marched off.

Ryan watched the enraged man stalk out of the terminal. His stomach felt as if it were churning. This is serious, he thought. This is going to get real ugly soon! He shook his head. If I could just talk some sense into that stubborn guy’s head! He slammed his fist against the wall, then, wincing, he picked up his flight bag with his throbbing hand.

__________________________

Andrew and Monica sat at a booth in the coffee shop. As Monica took sips from a steaming cup of coffee, Andrew sat waiting for Richard and Ryan to show up, stirring some sugar into a cup of tea. The teaspoon clinked against the side of the cup as he swirled the sugar into the mixture.

Andrew lowered his head to hide an amused smile. He couldn’t believe that Monica had had the nerve to use the Antichrist as a guinea pig for her latest drink combination. He wondered if he would have dared to try that. Then again, the way Monica described Puccini’s confused facial expression must have made the entire prank worthwhile. When he raised his head, Monica gazed at him with a quizzical expression.

Chuckling, Andrew said, “Puccini must have been infuriated when he discovered what his drink tasted like.” Monica laughed with him, clasping her hands together on the table.

A moment later, Richard joined them, followed by Ryan. “Sorry we’re late.” Dropping his flight bag on the floor, Richard perched on a chair as he spoke. “I had some personal business to take care of.”

“Me, too.” Ryan sat down and placed his bag next to his right leg. A waitress took their orders and left.

As Andrew leaned back, he noticed Ryan and Richard studiously ignoring each other. Apparently, they’d just had an argument--over Christina’s faith, no doubt. Maybe if he introduced a neutral subject--but what? He and Monica exchanged knowing glances.

“Ryan, I’m pleased with the way you stood up to Puccini today,” Monica said softly.

“Thanks.” Ryan smiled. “Puccini had no call to attempt to force Ben-Gurion Airport to let him land there. They shut down for a good reason.”

“I agree.” Richard grimaced. Andrew sensed that he really didn’t want to agree with Ryan, but his own convictions as a pilot forced him to. “Landing there wouldn’t have been safe, or the airport wouldn’t have shut down.”

Andrew shook his head. “Things have become quite serious.” He rested his fingers against the table’s smooth surface.

Richard shrugged. “In what way? This is what Israel’s always wanted. Now the Jews can rebuild their temple.” He removed his cap to rub his hair, front to back.

“True,” Monica agreed. “But with or without the Dome of the Rock, the Moslems do not want Israel to rebuild its temple. In fact, they don’t even want Israel to exist.”

Andrew agreed. “They will be forced to let Israel rebuild the temple, Richard, but there will come a time when they will turn on Israel and try to destroy her. And when that happens--” He broke off and shook his head.

The waitress brought their coffee on a tray. The group fell silent as she placed a cup in front of each customer. Raising her steaming cup, Monica shook her head. Again, Andrew exchanged glances with her.

Minutes passed as the two humans and two angels sipped their coffee and tea. Silently, Andrew prayed that God would open Richard’s heart and give Andrew the words to reach the pilot. He added a second request that Monica would finish her assignment without any interference from Antonio Puccini. He took a sip of his gradually cooling tea, then leaned back.

Leaning back, Richard wiped his mouth. “It’ll work out,” he said. “It always does.” He rose to his feet. Monica and Andrew watched him worriedly, as he stepped away from the booth while Ryan pressed his lips into a tight line. Suddenly, Richard froze. “Hey, what’s that?”

The others approached him, then halted at the site of a TV set hanging from the corner of the ceiling. It was turned to CNN. A couple of bearded men were standing in front of the Wailing Wall, dressed what appeared to be the oddest, most worn-out garments.

“Repent, you Jews, and turn to your Messiah!” one of them shouted.

The other nodded agreement. “Jesus is your Messiah, not man!” He pointed his finger toward the TV camera imperiously. "'The fool has said in his heart there is no God!'"

Richard pressed his lips into a thin line of rage. Without a word, he stormed out of the coffee shop, pressing his clenched fists against his sides, shoes thudding on the polished wood floor. Clearly, he resented the insinuation that people like him were fools. Shaking his head, Ryan followed him out the door. At that moment, Tess joined the other two angels. For a moment, the three watched the two Israeli evangelists as they preached to a crowd in front of the TV cameras.

“The two lampstands,” Andrew said softly. “They’re here. Moses and Elijah.”

Monica nodded agreement--she knew what Andrew meant. The Book of Revelation predicted that, for the first half of the Tribulation, two men, referred to as “lampstands” in Revelation, would preach to Israel, and would have the power to shut up the heavens and turn water to blood. For several minutes, the two watched the two men preach to an angry crowd.

Finally, Monica turned to Andrew and Tess. “How much time do we have left?”

Andrew glanced at Tess and bit his lip. “If he doesn’t turn his heart over to God today or tomorrow, his life will be totally devastated, if not ended. He’s already lost Jessica. Now he’s in danger of--” He broke off, as deep sadness creased his face. “I had to escort two new believers Home during the night, while Richard slept,” he explained. “They were murdered by thieves who had broken into their homes. If Richard doesn’t repent, I’ll be escorting Christina, too, shortly after Richard returns home.”

Tess shook her head. “Crime has increased greatly in just the last few days,” she said quietly. Monica nodded agreement--she, too, had noticed that.

“There have been so many burglaries and murders just on Christina’s street alone,” Gloria said softly. “And two attempted break-ins at the Dalys' home. It's no wonder Richard forbade her to go out alone.”

Andrew bit his lips. “It won’t be too long, now, before we angels of death will be on full-time status.” He shook his head. “We’ll be so busy escorting people Home, there won’t be time for casework.”

Monica winced as she thought about what Andrew meant: the approaching judgments and the worldwide persecution of Tribulation believers. Please, Father, she silently prayed, get through to Richard before it’s too late!

__________________________

Antonio Puccini’s shoes made soft thuds in the carpet as he followed the butler down the carpeted hallway of the Israeli prime minister’s home. Everything was falling into place, quite literally actually. He smirked at the truthfulness of that thought. “Falling into place” was certainly the best way to describe it. With the collapse of the Dome of the Rock, the Arabs would surely be more inclined to go for peace now. The 7-year treaty was on its way.

The butler paused in the sitting room entrance. “President Puccini, sir,” he said, then stepped aside.

Puccini paused just inside the entrance. There, in the sitting room, were the men he was to meet with. Israeli Prime Minister Jacob Barak, his host, sat on the large velvet-covered sofa. His blue eyes shot proverbial daggers at his other guest, Ishmael Mozenrath, chairman of the Palestinian Authority, who sat with folded arms on the love seat. Mozenrath's own green eyes were doing their imitation of lasers. The tension in the air was so thick Antonio thought he could cut it with a knife. Elijah Dayan leaned against the wall.

Barak turned to the butler. “Have the cook send a snack for my guests.” Bowing, the butler left. Barak turned to Dayan. “Come have a seat, Elijah.” Chuckling, Dayan joined him on the couch.

Puccini looked from the couch to love seat. He had to sit somewhere, but where? With Barak and Dayan, or with Mozenrath?

After a moment of indecision, the Italian president strode toward the couch, where Barak sat. He perched near the edge of the couch that faced the love seat; the soft velvet mattress sagged under him as he leaned back and cleared his throat.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we have much to discuss and only a short time to do it.” Mozenrath nodded sullenly; Barak glared at him.

“Indeed, we do,” Dayan agreed.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Mozenrath wanted to follow in the footsteps of his predecessor, Arafat, and send a few suicide bombers to our cities.” Barak pursed his lips as he spoke.

“I’m not going to do that,” Mozenrath said. “But I can’t speak for my people. With our sacred dome gone, my people are up in arms. Who knows what they will do?” He shot a fierce glare at Barak as he spoke. His clenched till his knuckles turned white.

Barak leaned toward him, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Your people are up in arms and you aren’t?” He fixed a fierce glare on Mozenrath. “The day you send any suicide bombers to murder my people, or send any missiles or armies to destroy us, I will order the Samson option. And you know what that means. You and your people will be wiped out of existence. And so will every one of your Arab neighbors!” Mozenrath clenched his fists, as his face turned beet-red.

Puccini raised his hands. “Gentlemen, calm down!” He turned to Mozenrath. “Now, now, Ishmael, surely you do not blame Jacob Barak, here, or his foreign minister, Elijah Dayan, for the collapse of your dome. Not even the most devout Jew could have caused that underground river to make it collapse. That river had weakened the foundation for years. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

Mozenrath nodded, sighing. “No,” he conceded. “Barak is not responsible for that.” He sagged against the love seat’s back.

“I certainly am not!” Barak glared at him.

“Of course he is not.” Puccini fixed his gaze on the new leader of the Palestinian Authority. He rested one hand on the soft velvet arm of the couch and the other in his lap. He and Dayan exchanged meaningful glances. “And really, when you think about it, is it worth starting a war of revenge over? Especially since it was an act of nature that destroyed the dome.” He paused. “Besides, the dome was not really located on the site of the temple anyway. The location of the Jewish temple’s Holy of Holies was 100 meters to the north.”

The four men sat in silence for several minutes, pondering Puccini’s words. Finally, Puccini rose to his feet and turned to face the other three men. With his right hand, he patted the side of his pants as he gathered his thoughts. “Mozenrath, answer me this. When you Moslems kneel to pray, toward what place do you face?”

Mozenrath sighed again. “Mecca.” He sat up straight once more, biting his lower lip.

“Correct.” Puccini looked at him. “Mecca, not Jerusalem. Despite what I have heard Moslems say, the Temple Mount is not one of the more holy sites for Islam. Mecca is the most important for you and your people. And there are other holy sites far more important to your religion than Jerusalem has ever been. So tell me, now--” He paused as Mozenrath squirmed. “Tell me, is it worth killing millions of men, women, and children for a now-demolished dome that was not really so important to begin with?”

Barak stared hard at Mozenrath as the latter squirmed. Dayan leaned back against the couch’s back to await Mozenrath’s answer. For a moment, no one spoke.

Mozenrath sagged against the love seat. Shrugging, he gazed at Barak and then Dayan, a weary expression in his eyes. “No,” he finally agreed. “It is not.”

Barak turned to Puccini. “Antonio, since you are president of the European Union, I appeal to you. His predecessor, Arafat, and his terrorists have slaughtered hundreds and thousands of my people from September, 2000, till now. All in the hope of destroying Israel and driving us out.” He fixed a stony gaze on the Palestinian Authority chairman. “We will never leave this land, Mozenrath, so you may as well give up any plans for continuing the Infitada.” Puccini nodded agreement.

Mozenrath turned toward Puccini. “So what are you suggesting?”

Puccini crossed his arms as he glanced at Dayan. “I am saying, let the Jews have their Temple Mount and their temple. Let them have East Jerusalem. Stop trying to drive all the Jews into the sea, because it will never work. The Jews will annihilate all their Arab neighbors before they will give up Israel. Let them have their little nation and their temple, and live in peace with them. You and your Arab neighbors have more than enough land, among you, to compensate you for the loss of that little plot of land the Jews own.”

Mozenrath’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed? And what do I get in exchange, if I agree to this?”

Puccini smiled. This was just the question he had expected. Leaning back, his crossed his fingers. “Your own state. A Palestinian state. In Gaza and the West Bank. Full recognition by the United Nations and the European Union. In short, the Oslo agreement will be carried out to the full.” He gazed at Barak. “I know that Barak and Dayan, here, will willingly let your people have those regions if you will let them live in peace.”

Barak nodded agreement. “That’s all we’ve ever wanted. To live in peace and security. If you will accept that, we will accept you. Deal?”

Mozenrath leaned against the back of the love seat for a long moment, thinking the proposal over. At last, he said, “I will discuss it with my people.”

Puccini nodded, as a surge of pleasure shot through his chest. He knew that the Palestinians would agree to the proposal--he would personally see to that! And once the constant threat of war in the Middle East was finally brought to an end, the whole world would be at Puccini’s feet. He would bring peace to the whole world! The thought brought a broad smile to his face. As he thought over the ramifications, a servant brought a silver tray laden with food to the coffee table.

Dayan shot a pleased look at Puccini. He and Puccini had worked behind the scenes for days, to bring all this development about. Barak didn’t know it, but it was Dayan, more than Barak himself, who had helped Puccini accomplish this previously impossible goal of making peace between Israel and the Palestinians. Now their hard work was paying off!

Barak does not know it, but I have big plans for his foreign minister, Dayan, Antonio thought. Dayan will be very useful to me. And--for the present, anyway--so will the pope.

__________________________

Ryan perched behind the controls the next morning, as relaxed as he could be with a downright evil man who was sitting less than 100 yards behind him. Puccini had returned from the meeting looking like the cat that ate the canary; happiness and contentment had flooded his face. That was comforting to some point; at least his nerves weren’t on edge, so there was no imminent danger to Ryan. Sunlight poured through the windshield, flooding the cockpit; a few isolated clouds drifted eastward.

As Ryan reached downward to rub his pants, he wondered, for the umpteenth time, what was going on around there. What went through Puccini’s head half the time? So many questions flooded Ryan’s head anymore, he couldn’t even begin to ask them all. Why had all those people disappeared, including his niece? Where had they gone? Was it just a coincidence that Puccini had just happened to begin his ascent to power right after the most cataclysmic disaster to ever befall Planet Earth? If Puccini’s theory was right, when had all the radiation begun building up anyway?

Slumping forward, Ryan rested his face in his hands and bit his lower lip. So many questions! “And only God knows who has all the answers,” he mumbled to himself.

He hadn’t expected a response, so when a lightly accented voice said, “No, Ryan,” he shot his head upward and practically leaped out of his chair. Monica’s voice continued speaking from behind him. “Only God has all the answers.”

“Monica!” Ryan exclaimed, switching the plane onto auto-pilot and twisting his upper body to face the senior flight attendant. Monica was standing in the doorway, dressed in her uniform and wearing her luxuriant brown hair in the required bun. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry,” Monica said gently. “But you were wrong. God doesn’t know who has all the answers...God is the One Who knows all the answers.”

“Monica,” Ryan said, “that was an...expression...like...a figure of speech. I didn't mean it literally.”

“But I do,” responded Monica calmly, stepping inside the cockpit. As she did, everything seemed to happen at once. The door swung shut behind her of its own accord, and, in less time than it took to blink, Monica’s appearance completely changed. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders. Her uniform disappeared, to be replaced by a flowing white gown. A glow that seemed to come from somewhere behind, or even inside her, illumined her body. Ryan gaped at her--what was this?? This couldn’t be happening--could it?

“Wh--what...” he stammered, “what's happening?”

“Don't be afraid,” Monica said softly. “I'm an angel.”

Ryan's head spun. This was too much! As he slumped backward in his seat, he blinked his eyes twice. Was he going mad?

Ryan shook his head violently, in an effort to clear it. Maybe he’d been living in a dream for days; maybe he’d gotten hit on the head on the morning of the disappearances, and he’d since been living in some insane dream. No, he thought, that’s impossible--my subconscious could never have come up with half the stuff I’ve been going through!

Maybe Richard had pushed him back at the airport, and he'd hit his head and was dreaming. Or maybe he had fallen asleep at the controls and was dreaming. Or worse yet, had died! The last was the scariest, yet most reasonable possibility. Monica gazed down at him with a warm smile on her lips and an otherworldly light shining in her eyes.

“An...an...an angel?!” was all Ryan could say.

“Yes,” responded Monica. “An angel. Sent by God to give you a message. To tell you the truth.”

Ryan couldn't believe it! This was real--Monica was really an angel!

"And what is the truth?" Ryan had no idea how he managed to keep his voice sounding so neutral. Inside his heart was pounding and his mind was swimming. The mattress creaked underneath him as he swiveled his chair to face her.

“The truth is that God loves you, Ryan Whittaker.” Monica clasped her hands in front of her waist. "And when millions of people disappeared, He wasn’t judging or punishing anyone. He was bringing his children Home, to spare them what’s about to happen. He evacuated every person who had come to Him prior to then, both dead and alive, and every baby and small child--He gave them new bodies so they could live in Heaven without dying. But Ryan, it isn’t too late for you. It’s too late to participate in the Rapture, but it’s not too late to get right with God. God loves you too much not to give you another chance.”

Ryan took a deep breath as he thought about what Monica had just said. “You mean, it’s not too late for me to--to accept Him?”

“No.” Approaching Ryan, Monica touched his shoulder. “In fact, that was another reason God conducted this mass evacuation. Not only to spare His church, but also to get the attention of the rest of the people. That includes your brother-in-law, Richard. And your sister, Christina. And you.” She squeezed his shoulder as she spoke.

Ryan stared at her for a long moment. If God had meant to get his attention, He had certainly succeeded! But why? Why would God go to such an extreme measure to do this?

At last, with a sigh, Ryan nodded. “All right, He’s got it. What does God want me to do?”

“Accept His love. His gift.” Monica paused. “The gift of salvation He offers you. Live in faith--the same faith your sister now has. And heed His warning.”

“Warning?” Ryan stared at Monica.

“Yes.” Sadness creased Monica’s face as she dropped her hands to her sides. “The man you work for is what the Bible calls the Antichrist. He will rule a one-world government, and both he and a man the Bible calls the False Prophet will be used by Satan to steal people’s souls.” She paused. “Elijah Dayan is the False Prophet.”

Ryan’s shoes thudded as he leaped to his feet, horror surging in his heart. This explained everything he’d feared about Puccini. In agreeing to work for the man, he’d walked right into the trap of the devil himself! For a long moment, he stared at the cockpit door.

“If that’s true, I’ve got to quit my job! Now!”

“No.” Monica laid a hand on his arm. “Right now, you are where God wants you. He can use you in your proximity to Antonio Puccini, if you’ll let Him. With your inside knowledge, you’ll be able to help Richard and Christina. And Kristen.”

Richard, and Christina? Are they in danger? He gulped. And Kristen--if anything happens to Kristen, I’ll--!

Ryan took a deep, shuddering breath. He rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger. These panicky thoughts were getting him nowhere--he had to stay calm and rational. “All right.” He paused. “What does God want me to do?”

“First of all, He wanted you to know who you’re working for, so you won’t be deceived, yourself.” Monica paused. “With the help of Dayan, Puccini will successfully deceive the whole world until it worships him. There will come a time when the devil himself will indwell him. Even now, Satan is energizing him and giving him power. Later on, he will completely take over Puccini's personality." Ryan shuddered at the thought.

"But before that time comes--" Monica frowned. "--there will be a worldwide religion, occultic in nature and purpose. The new pope will be its leader. It will claim to be all-inclusive of every religion except one."

"Christianity," Ryan guessed. "The new religion will reject it as being intolerant."

The Irish-tongued angel nodded. "Yes. It will have much influence, and it will persecute the Tribulation believers. Until Puccini has it destroyed, shortly before the midpoint of the Tribulation."

Monica paused. As Ryan waited, sorrow welled in the angel’s eyes. “Puccini and Dayan then will force the whole world to wear what the Book of Revelation calls a mark--the Mark of the Beast. Without that mark, people will not be able to buy, sell, or hold jobs. Furthermore, there’ll come a time when those who refuse that mark will be executed.” Ryan winced at the thought.

She paused again. “Whatever happens, Ryan--” She swallowed. “--never, never accept that mark. It will be a computer implant, injected under the skin--already the technology is in place to set that up. When that day comes, those who accept it will be forced to worship Puccini as God, and to reject all other gods--including the true one. Those who do can never enter Heaven. They will be separated from God for eternity. In the Lake of Fire. All who die without accepting the true God will suffer the same fate.” Deep sadness etched her face as she spoke. A chill flooded Ryan’s soul at the prospect.

Ryan swallowed. "Uh, tell me, how will Puccini be able to force everyone to accept the implant if they want to buy or sell?" His eyes widened as recent news slammed into his brain. "I remember now--lately, our governments have been talking about moving to a cashless technology! All buying and selling will be done by computer." He gulped. "And Puccini will control the switch, so to speak." Monica nodded. "And if the whole world moves to one currency--the Euro--that will make Puccini's plot much easier to carry out."

"Yes." Monica nodded agreement. "It will." She bit her lip. "And already, the people are being primed to accept the mark. With the rash of child kidnappings in recent months, even before the Rapture--and now, the disappearances of millions of people--people are clamoring, even now, for some way to identify those who are left. And to keep children safe, by developing a way to track them."

"I know. I've heard." Taking a deep breath, Ryan nodded. “I won’t accept the implant.” He swallowed. “You have my word.”

“That’s good.“ Monica smiled approvingly. “And Ryan, God also wants you to know that the next seven years will be the most devastating and cataclysmic the world has ever known and will ever know again. Mankind will be brought to the point of utter annihilation. When that happens, Jesus, the Son of God, will return to this planet and set up His kingdom. Everyone who accepted the implant will die, as will Puccini himself. Only those believers who survive to see His coming will enter the kingdom.” Ryan bit his lower lip as he listened.

“And those believers who survive the seven-year Tribulation will enter the Kingdom as mortal people.” Monica paused. “They will marry, have children, and hold down jobs or start businesses. All the believers who die during the Tribulation will be resurrected and given brand-new bodies. And those believers who were caught up in the Rapture will return with Jesus to earth. Including Jessica. And your mother, who died on 9-11.”

Ryan nodded, as everything she had just told him sank into him. “You’re saying we may very well die.” He paused. “And that the only way we can enter Heaven is to reject the implant, even though it may cost us our lives.” His stomach tightened at the prospect.

“To reject the implant and to accept the true God.” Monica nodded. “If that happens, Ryan, you will enter the Father’s presence, where there is no suffering and no Tribulation. If you do survive--and a minority of the people who come to faith will, I promise you--you will go on to live as a mortal believer for the next thousand years. Then, at the end of that period, you, too, will receive a new body, one that can never die. You will live for eternity in a beautiful city on a brand-new earth in a brand-new heaven, in the presence of God for all time.”

Ryan nodded, as he silently accepted her words. For a moment, he stared at the windshield as he pondered what she had told him. Outside, a dove flew past the cockpit.

He turned to face her. “Thank you, Monica. You have helped me. I will do whatever I can to oppose Puccini, and to help Richard and Christina. Tell me--” He paused. “I know that Christina has accepted God, but what about Richard?” He frowned. Richard, he knew, would be a most difficult nut to crack.

“God is still working on him.” Monica smiled. “Angels have surrounded you and your sister and brother-in-law since the recent events started. Don’t worry, Ryan, but pray. Pray very hard for Richard. And for Christina.”

“I will.” Ryan nodded. “I certainly will. Thanks again.” He smiled in gratitude, as he bowed his head to pray silently. Peace flooded his heart, followed by a sensation of joy. When he lifted his head, Monica had disappeared.

__________________________

Richard walked through his front door and let out a long sigh. Christina wasn’t in the front room waiting for him as she normally was. He tried to dismiss it, but he felt a twinge of pain. He missed the days when she’d greet him eagerly every time he returned from a flight. That had been one of the few things in life he could depend on: Christina’s warm smile and, more recently, his baby’s joyous squeals. Now they both were gone. With a sigh, he gave the door a push--it swung till it clicked.

Of course, what more could he expect? He’d been horrible to her recently; he’d even threatened to leave her, the day before! It was not as if he had any right to expect her to want to greet him. He should have expected this icy silence, but it still hurt to be in the midst of it. As long as she hasn’t left the house, he thought. I'm not going to have her getting her fool self killed.

As Richard leaned against the door, scanning the empty living room, he tried to justify the situation to himself. It wasn’t his fault. If Christina hadn’t gotten so involved in this whole stupid religion thing, then they wouldn’t have argued. It was her fault they were having this fight. But still...he should be grateful that Christina had found a way to keep her sanity. There had been times Richard had seriously doubted whether he’d be able to do that himself.

Richard sighed. “I’ve got to find her,” he told himself. “Got to try to make things right.” He glanced down at his flight bag and approached the hall entrance. His shoes thudded down the carpeted hallway.

He trudged up the stairs to the second floor, then approached the bedroom door. He found Christina gazing out the window, her back to him. “I’m home,” he said. He removed his cap as he spoke.

Christina didn’t turn around. “I know.” Her voice sounded dull and flat.

Pushing his cap upward, Richard shook his head. This was going to be more difficult than he’d expected. With a weary sigh, he set down his flight bag, removed his jacket, and tossed it on the bed. “Well, this has been a most interesting flight,” he said. “We had to reroute to Tel Aviv instead of Jerusalem.” He paused, but Christina did not respond. “The Dome of the Rock collapsed yesterday. Seems a river running underneath it weakened its foundations.”

Slowly, Christina turned around. “I know. Gloria told me.” Reaching up, she twisted strands of hair around her index fingers.

Richard nodded. “Did you see it on the news?” He rubbed his hair as he spoke.

Christina inclined her head. “Gloria and I were glued to the TV all afternoon yesterday.” She paused. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Richard.”

Richard leaned against the wall. “Thanks.”

Christina picked up Richard’s jacket and hung it in the closet. “The Jews will be able to rebuild their temple now, won’t they? Gloria and I have been expecting that.”

Richard stared at her. “And why’s that?” No! Not that religious garbage, he wanted to shriek. Anything but that! As Christina turned to face him, the look on her face confirmed his fears.

__________________________

Back in Rome, Puccini growled in frustration. For once, Lucifer and his demons weren’t coming through for him! All Antonio wanted were some details of Monica’s assignment, but no matter what he did, or how urgently he asked, his master would not, or could not, respond. Not one thing had Lucifer told him about whom Monica had been assigned to, or why. Without that knowledge, Puccini was powerless to frustrate Monica‘s assignment.

It must be that he cannot. Grinding his teeth, Puccini leaned back in his desk to consider the matter. Because if he could tell me, he would. He hates the loyal angels as much as I do--God always sends them to frustrate Lucifer! And Monica is no exception. But why is he being silent? Does he not know? Or has God prevented him from telling me? If so, why?

Leaning forward, he propped his fingers together. Could someone be praying? But who? All the Christians have been evacuated from this planet! Who could be left to pray?

A knock on the door startled him. “Just a minute,” he called.

With a sigh, he opened the bottom drawer and swept the items into it. Slamming the drawer hard, he cursed. This would have to wait till another time. At that moment, he had work to do, and he had better get to it. He leaned back in his chair and said, “Come in.” Kristen entered the room to give him a sheaf of papers.

__________________________

Minutes later, Kristen cradled the phone next to her ear. A pencil dangled in her right hand as she sat leaning against her desk. “Yes, I believe he'll be free then...Yes, Chairman Mozenrath, I've got you in for as soon as possible.” She paused to listen to his comments. “I'm afraid that would require far too much re-arranging…Yes, yes, you've been given priority. I will inform President Puccini of the date and time, and if it is not appropriate for him…”

The infuriated response of Mozenrath set her temper aflame. “Don't yell at me; I'm only letting you know that you’re not the only person who’s affected by this! As far as I can see on a professional level of meetings he’s free during that time, but whether he has any personal commitments in that time slot is not to my knowledge, nor my concern!” She pressed her palm against the desk’s smooth surface and pursed her lips. “I will ask him about the recommended time and contact you if there’s a better one.” Finally, the conversation was wrapping up!

After a few more moments of conversation, Kristen hung up the phone. Ishmael Mozenrath was the most difficult man she’d ever talked to in her life! She understood why the man would be on edge--what had happened the day before must have changed his life forever, but that was no excuse to be so impossible to get along with! Was it her fault that stupid dome had collapsed? She glared at the receiver for a long moment.

The chair screeched as she pushed it from her desk. As she rose to her feet and walked away, Kristen reluctantly admitted she shared part of the blame for the conversation being so...frustrating. She wouldn’t have lost her temper under normal circumstances, but these was hardly normal. Puccini had been back in his office for an hour and she had yet to hear from Ryan. She had been going crazy with nearly every emotion in the book since he and Puccini had arrived back from their Israel trip that morning, and her feelings had churned ever since.

Kristen got off the elevator and headed for her boss’s office. Her mind was in turmoil. With the way traffic was, Ryan might have gotten into a car accident, or maybe something had happened in Jerusalem that made him not want to contact her. She didn’t want to consider either possibility, so she silently cursed herself for even letting her mind go there. Ryan is OK! she silently scolded herself. Ryan cared for her, and he would call her as soon as he could.

Seconds later, she paused in Puccini’s doorway. She barely managed to pull herself into her usual professionalism before facing him. Sunshine poured into his office through the window behind his desk, illuminating every object.

As he looked up at her, she spoke quickly. “Antonio, Chairman Mozenrath was on the phone. He wants to meet with you here, Wednesday morning at nine. Will you be free at that time?”

“I believe I will be. Hold on.” He picked up his desk calendar.

As Puccini flipped through its pages, Kristen leaned against the doorjamb and gazed at the wall behind her employer. A smell permeated the room. That smell…it was familiar--where had she smelled it before? She suppressed a gasp. Marijuana!

She didn't want to believe that. She hadn’t smelled that since her older brother had tried it when they were in high school--surely, she was mistaken! But if she wasn’t, what was the smell of marijuana doing in her boss’s office?

Her mind reeled. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe...her mind barely could process its own thoughts. Without warning, Puccini rose to his feet and brushed past her in the doorway without a word. Where was he going? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she might have just stumbled onto the biggest secret of the world that day. She had to know for sure!

Her mind almost completely shut down; she didn't bother to reason out her actions and the possible consequences, nor did she even give herself time to ponder them. She swiftly approached the desk and, resting her left hand on the desk’s smooth surface, opened the top drawer with her right hand. Nothing of importance, just papers, folders, and a few other little odds and ends. She hunted through every drawer, rummaging through its contents to see if there was any signs of marijuana. Nothing.

Finally, as she crouched on the floor, she reached the bottom drawer. She had begun to believe the smell had been a fluke. Likely as not, it was just one of those crazy things...as when you smell chocolate for no reason as you’re walking down the hallway. She felt much more confident opening that last drawer, but when she gazed at its contents, she felt her confidence being ripped away from her.

Her face paled, and she could only stare in shock at the jumbled items in the bottom drawer. This was worse, much worse, than anything she’d ever expected! Choking back a scream, she slammed the drawer shut and rushed from the room. I’ve got to find Ryan! I’ve just got to tell him!

END OF CHAPTER 10

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