Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff Page A

hundred American dollars?”
    Tulkarm, West Bank • 12:26 GMT
    Jonathan Silver returned to consciousness on the right-hand side of the aisle, two rows from the front of the bus, with his right arm through the left arm of one of the women in the tour group, his wrists bound together by the plastic tie strap. The woman’s left arm was crooked around his elbow, both her wrists bound in front of her too. To stand or move, they’d have to stand or move together.
    Silver tried to understand what had happened but could remember only a slight wooziness, then nothing. Obviously he’d been moved while he was unconscious. Why was the bus stopped? Where was the driver? Where, for that matter, had the bus been stopped?
    He was thirsty. The woman beside him was still unconscious. She was a young woman—at least to him—probably forty or forty-five. Peggy Bailey, he remembered—one of the devout ones, soaking in his apocalyptic explanations at each Holy Land stop. He knew she was a Fort Worth blonde society type, recently divorced, lots of money in the settlement—the reason she’d received the special and personal invitation to the tour. She was prim and proper, but her hairdo and frilly clothing were ten years behind. He was glad her perfume wasn’t overpowering. It didn’t seem they would be separated soon.
    Silver turned his head and gave his own armpit a sniff, then rolled his eyes at himself. Sixty years old and still vain enough to be concerned about the public impression he’d give. If the two of them were linked for much more than a couple of hours, body odor would be the least of their problems.
    Silver looked across the aisle. Two men—both on this tour with their wives—had been bound together arm in arm. Their wives were seated directly behind them, bound as well.
    He strained to turn his head and look behind him. As far as he could see, the other passengers were in the same situation, most of them with their respective husbands and wives.
    It must have been enough movement to catch the eye of Dr. Marc, who moved from the rear of the bus and stood above Silver.
    “What is going on?” Silver whispered. He jerked his wrists. “Cut me loose.”
    “After all the effort I went through to make sure you woke like this?”
    “You? I don’t understand!”
    “You will soon enough. We’re waiting for a military truck. Then you’re going to disappear from the face of the earth.”
    “Who are you? Why?”
    “You’ll find out soon enough.” Marc was smug. The smugness of power. Silver regretted how he’d treated the man at Megiddo. “Let me just say my name is not Marc.”
    “This is criminal!” Silver sputtered.
    The man squatted so he could look Silver directly in the eyes. “In my world, you are much more of a criminal, and now is the time to pay.”
    “In your world?”
    “The world of Khaled Safady—the Black Prince.”
    “He’s a terrorist!” It didn’t take much knowledge of Middle Eastern affairs to be aware of the name. Silver knew Safady was as famous and elusive as Osama bin Laden; whereas bin Laden was seen as a spiritual leader for Muslim extremists, Safady was renowned for performing actual acts of terrorism. More covert than bin Laden.
    “Watch what you say.” The man smiled. “You don’t want to insult me.”
    It took Silver a moment to comprehend. With horror. “You?”
    Safady smiled. “Yes, you do understand. I am the Black Prince.”
    “What do you want?” Silver asked. “Don’t kill us. We can pay you—”
    Silver’s words were cut off as Safady clapped a hand across his mouth. Silver jerked his hands up in a defensive response but was stopped by the woman’s arms linked through his.
    Safady smiled. With the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, he pinched Silver’s nostrils shut.
    Silver tried to suck for air but found none. Frantically he tried to pull his bound wrists up to his mouth again.
    Safady stared directly into Silver’s eyes, as if trying to watch the