Assassins: Assignment: Jerusalem, Target: Antichrist by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins Page A

voted?”
    Rayford sat back, his cup in both hands. “We got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I’m sure it was my fault.”
    “You ignored my question,” she said.
    “Stop it. Voting in a new sister would never result in a tie. Hattie was here for months, and she’s not even a believer.”
    “So is this our truce chat, or are you just being polite?”
    “You want a truce?” he said.
    “Do you?”
    “I asked you first,” he said.
    She smiled. “Truth is, I want more than a truce. We can’t live in the same house just being cordial. We’ve got to be friends.”
    Rayford wasn’t so sure, but he said, “I’m game.”
    “So all that stuff you said …”
    He raised his chin. “... that exposed me for the crank I am?”
    She nodded. “Consider this an all-inclusive pardon.”
    He hadn’t asked forgiveness.
    “And for me?” she pressed.
    “What?”
    “I need a pardon too.”
    “No you don’t,” he said, sounding more magnanimous than he felt. “Anything you said was because of what I―”
    Leah put a hand on his arm. “I didn’t even recognize myself,” she said. “I can’t put that all on you. Now, come on. If we’re going to start over, we have to be even. Clean slates.”
    “Granted,” he said.
    “I’ve got money,” she said.
    “You always switch subjects so fast?”
    “Cash. We’d have to go get it. It’s in a safe in my garage. I am not going to be a freeloader. I want things to do, and I want to pay my way.”
    “How about we give you room and board in exchange for medical care and expertise?”
    “I’m more about care than expertise. I’m no replacement for Floyd.”
    “We’re grateful to have you.”
    “But you need money, too. When can we get it?”
    Rayford pointed to her cup. She shook her head. “How much are we talking about?” he said.
    When she told him, he gasped.
    “In what denominations?”
    “Twenties.”
    “All in one safe?”
    “I couldn’t fit another bill in there,” she said.
    “You think it’s still there? The GC must have torn the place apart looking for you.”
    “The safe is so well hidden we had to remind ourselves where it was.”
    Rayford rinsed out the cups. “Sleepy?” he said.
    “No.”
    “Want to go now?”

    Mac and Abdullah met with David Friday morning. Once introductions were out of the way, David asked if either had an idea where the 144 computers in the Condor cargo hold could be put to use for the cause.
    “I can think of lots of places,” Mac said. “But not one on the way to Africa.”
    “I can,” Abdullah said. “There is a huge body of underground believers in Hawalli. Many professionals, and they could―”
    “Hawalli?” David said. “In Kuwait?”
    “Yes. I have a contact in cargo―”
    “That’s east. You’re flying southwest.”
    “Only slightly east,” Abdullah said. “We just need a reason to stop there.”
    “Virtually right after takeoff,” Mac said. “That’ll arouse suspicion.” They sat in silence a moment. “Unless . . . ,” he said.
    David and Abdullah looked at him.
    “How far is our flight?”
    “Here to Kuwait?” Abdullah asked, pulling out his charts.
    “No, to Africa.”
    “More than four thousand miles.”
    “Then we need a full fuel load to go nonstop. We want to save the GC money, so we’re going to make a quick detour for fuel at a good price.”
    “Excellent,” David said. “I’ll negotiate it right now. All I need is a few cents’ break per pound of fuel and it’ll be worth the detour.”
    “What will my contact need to get the cargo?” Abdullah said.
    “Big forklift. Big truck.”

    “Why’d you leave a note?” Leah asked Rayford as he pulled the Land Rover away from the house toward Palatine. “Surely we’ll be back before anyone wakes up.”
    “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, “if someone was peeking at the note already. We hear everything in that house. In the dead of night we hear sounds in the walls, sounds from outside. We’ve been