Authors: Tim LaHaye
Abigail Jordan strolled into the den of the high-rise penthouse. Several of her bar-association certificates hung on the wall, including her admission to practice before the Supreme Court and her black-framed law degree. She walked up to Cal, her twenty-year-old son, seated at the desk with his laptop, and she looked over his shoulder. He was tapping furiously on the keyboard. Then he stopped. And waited.
Abigail knew Cal had been trying to contact Joshua.
“Okay,” Cal said with his fingers still on the keyboard. “It’ll take a couple more minutes to finish the encryption to get an email contact with Dad.”
Using the complicated security-enabled email procedure to communicate with Joshua while he was exiled overseas had become a regular routine for the Jordan household. Ever since Joshua had found himself facing trumped-up charges brought by the Department of Justice, Abigail had been counseling her husband to take advantage of the asylum that had been provided to him by Israel — at least until Abigail could prove his innocence and guarantee him a fair trial. But given the energy put into the case by the administration of President Tulrude, and the political corruption that Abigail believed was at the bottom of it all, she knew that would be a Herculean task.
The charges accused Joshua of treason, painting him as a domestic terrorist who had used his own defense-contracting firm and the
Roundtable group to infiltrate the Department of Defense and manipulate America’s national-security apparatus so it would conform to his own political agenda. Abigail considered the allegations an absurd insult. Her husband was a decorated hero — yet the Tulrude administration and its attorney general had concocted a wild theory that through Josh’s leadership of the Roundtable, he was attempting to create his own “shadow government,” using his influence and connections to subvert American domestic and foreign policy. There was no greater patriot than her husband. Painting him as a revolutionary willing to use violence to oppose the White House policies was an atrocity. It was the lowest kind of “dirty tricks” that the Tulrude administration and Attorney General Cory Hamburg could have used. Abigail believed that the criminal case against Joshua was the only way to shut him up, to stop his work in exposing the dangerous direction that President Tulrude had taken the country.
For the last two years, the case had been hanging in limbo in the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia while Joshua remained in Israel, beyond the court’s jurisdiction. Meanwhile, Abigail and her husband’s lawyers reviewed the evidence that the Department of Justice had been ordered to disclose during discovery. It all boiled down to one witness: the government’s case hinged on the testimony of a lawyer by the name of Allen Fulsin. The attorney had told the federal authorities that he had been interviewed by a member of the Roundtable, Fort Rice, a retired judge, about joining the Roundtable. That much was true, as far as it went.
But it didn’t end there. Fulsin, who was later rejected for entrance to the group, went on to tell the DOJ that according to Rice, Joshua had repeatedly declared his Roundtable group existed for the purpose of “revolution.” That also was true, though only technically. Fulsin had cleverly parsed Joshua’s actual words, which in the full context were much different: Joshua had stated to the members of the Roundtable that they were in the “business of revolution — a moral and political revolution in America — from the top down, starting with the federal government and the White House.” Clearly, Joshua had been talking
about lawful means to turn around the wretched direction that Washington had taken over the years.
But Fulsin’s other statements to the feds were pure fantasy. He recited a raft of supposed quotes from Joshua, calling for an armed militia to take down the government, allegedly declaring that the Pentagon and the national security apparatus needed to be “interdicted.” When Abigail read Fulsin’s bogus story the first time, she screamed — right in the middle of the conference room at the Department of Justice — “This is a pack of lies straight from the pit of hell!”
But Fulsin’s story, and the DOJ’s willingness to use it, wasn’t the only problem. While Josh’s attorneys were convinced of Joshua’s innocence, they had repeatedly voiced doubts about their chances of proving it at trial. Sensing a near-certain verdict of guilt based on Fulsin’s sworn statements, they had badgered Abigail to pressure her husband into accepting a plea bargain, pleading guilty to a lesser charge in return for a recommended sentence of two years in prison. In response, Abigail fired them all and took over her husband’s case herself. It was time to brush the cobwebs off her former career as a trial lawyer. Still, she knew she was on thin ice. She herself would almost certainly be called as a witness if the case ever came to trial, and ethics rules made it difficult, if not impossible, for her to wear both hats at once.
But then, she never planned to allow Joshua’s case to get to trial anyway. The optimal strategy was to expose Fulsin’s lies and get the case dismissed. Until she could do that, she pleaded with Joshua to stay in Israel, his temporary home, where the government had given him asylum and refused the U.S. government’s extradition requests. It tortured her to be separated from him. Her lawyer’s brain told her that if Joshua were to rush into a courtroom now, it would be disastrous — the machinery of the entire government would be mounted against him, and he would end up spending the rest of his life in prison for a crime that didn’t exist.
Because of the legal restrictions placed on her by a court order naming her as a “material witness” in her husband’s case, and prohibiting her from leaving the United States, she and Joshua had to live at opposite ends of the world. Their lengthy separation, limited
to chatting by videofone or email, was killing her. She was tired of it, right down to her soul. And so was Josh. He would always say that he missed her like crazy and kept threatening to ignore her professional advice and return to America and, in his words, just fly right into the flak. But she would talk sense to him and urge him to give her a little more time to figure things out.
This had been the hardest separation Abigail had ever had from Joshua. They had endured separation before. Many times. But there was always the promise of an ending point. Missions had beginnings and endings. Assignments would last for a finite amount of time. But not this one. She ached for him and prayed endlessly for their reunion. In the end, however, she was convinced that with God’s help the only solution to their dilemma rested in her own hands. She had to find a way to crack open the phony case against her husband.
Suddenly she noticed Cal looking up from the computer screen.
“Okay,” he said, “earlier I sent a message to Dad and asked him to update us. Now something just came through from him. But it looks like he embargoed it — sent it earlier but timed it for release now for some reason. I’m going through the ChangeCipherSpec sequence for encryption.”
Cal held the palm of his hand close to the screen for five seconds.
Then the screen read — “Palmprint Authentication Complete.”
Abigail grinned. “I can’t wait to hear about his trip to South Korea. He must be back in Israel by now.”
A few moments later Cal announced, “Here it comes.”
Cal read it aloud: “‘I will call you on the encrypted Allfone whenever I can. But currently caught up in paperwork. Love you all more than I can say. Buried in red tape. Be strong, Abby, and know I love you more than life itself. Love to you, Cal, and Debbie too. God is in control. Josh.’”
Abigail stood up straight, a stunned look on her face.
“Mom, what’s up?”
“That business about ‘buried in red tape’ …”
“What about it?”
“That’s code.”
“For what?”
“It’s our private message. His way of letting me know he’s on a dangerous assignment — again. He started using the phrase years ago, when he flew those missions.”
“You sure?”
His mother threw him a look that left no doubt. She shook her head. “He hadn’t hinted at anything to me. Just going to Seoul to speak at a church, then to return to Israel. His temporary home — the man without a country.” Then she asked into the air, “So, what in the world is Josh involved in?”
“You know Dad,” Cal said. “He takes risks, sure. But not foolish ones. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
Then a stern look swept over Cal’s face, as if he were going to do a tricky U-turn in the conversation. “You know, Mom, I deliberately avoided talking about the deadline today …”
Abigail’s face tightened. She knew where he was going. “Cal, you know I’ve made my decision. I have to follow the leading of the Lord in this. Not that it’s wrong for you and Deb. You had to make the decision yourselves. But for me … I feel compelled to protest, knowing in my heart and from the prophecies in the Word of God where this BIDTag process is ultimately going to lead. I know what it says in Revelation … how it all comes together in the end. And so do you, Cal. Total control. A mark that enables you to buy and sell, to function financially. No, I can’t believe the BIDTag is the mark of the Antichrist … but it’s the first step, okay? Everything in my spirit tells me to fight this thing, to take a stand.”
“You’re going to catch heat by not getting tagged.”
“Those are my reasons.”
“So why did you let Deborah and me get them? Why didn’t you tell us you were going to hold out?”
“Because Deborah would lose her job at the Pentagon …”
“You mean that great assignment where all she does is file papers and sit on her hands? Every time I talk to her she complains.”
“She ought to be glad she’s there at all. You and your sister happen
to be connected to one of the most controversial families in America. Sorry, but that’s a fact. I’m shocked that some of our enemies on Capitol Hill didn’t block her Pentagon assignment. As far as you’re concerned, Cal, you needed to get tagged to get accepted to law school. A law degree is going to come in handy. You’ve told us you want to continue the work your Dad and I have started, right?”
“But they’ll target you, Mom. You’re already in their sights. With that material-witness order keeping you from leaving the United States while Dad’s case is pending. And now if you refuse to comply with the BIDTag law, the government will come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Abigail had resolve in her eyes, but her voice was soft, confident, settled. “These are extraordinary days. We’re called to take extraordinary risks.”
Cal narrowed his eyes as he studied the back of his right hand, the site of the invisible laser “tag” that he had received like most Americans. “Well, anyway, I’ve been reading some stuff. There are some theories out there about possibly reversing the laser tag imprint by erasing the QR code imprinted in the tissues. Or possibly other ways to avoid complying with this tagging law.”
Abigail turned to look out the big windows with a wistful expression, taking in the New York skyline. She and Joshua had felt that events in the United States and around the world were racing like a bullet train toward God’s prophetic closure. How she and Joshua were going to face all of that as it unfolded — and the example they would set for their children — that was the challenge now.
“You know, Mom,” Cal added, still not letting it go, “they will come after you. The White House. The president and her buddies. They won’t rest. Just like they went after Dad when he stood up to them and exposed the rotten stuff that has been going on in this administration. They’ll hunt you down, Mom. You know they will.”
She smiled, but in her face was a faint shadow of fatigue, the signs of an embattled life. As usual, Abigail mustered an optimistic response. “I’m a good runner, remember?”
A long line of people wrapped around the government office building and wound down the street. Some were nervous, bouncing on their toes. Others looked around aimlessly, wrinkled their brows, or fidgeted.
A farmer and his wife stood with forty people still ahead of them in the line that stretched up to the glass door with black lettering on the glass: S
ECURITY
A
ND
I
DENTIFICATION
A
GENCY
— S
IA
.
In line immediately in front of them was a man in a suit with shoulder-length hair, who carried a briefcase. Behind them a truck driver was getting impatient.
The trucker patted his pockets for his cell phone, then realized that he had left it in his rig. “Who’s got the time?” he called out.
“Almost noon,” the farmer’s wife replied.
“Oh, great,” he groaned, “I’ve got a load to drop off in Traverse City, Michigan. No way I’m going to make it. This is crazy. Why am I here? Can somebody tell me that?”
“I’ll tell you why,” the guy in the suit said, whipping around. “Five years in jail and a maximum fine of $50,000 if you don’t, that’s why.”
“You a lawyer?”
“Yeah. And don’t blame me. I supported the legal groups that have been fighting this.”
“Why didn’t the courts stop it?”
“We tried. A few cases were won at the trial level, but even more lost. Then every single legal challenge got shot down on appeal. Very scary.”
The farmer wasn’t convinced. “I heard they caught some child molester at a theme park yesterday using this tagging program.”
His wife chimed in, “Because he had the tag marking on his hand, that’s how they got him … with this laser tattoo …”
“Fine,” the lawyer said, “so this one guy has a BIDTag — his Biological Identification Tag — and the police pick him up. So what? Meanwhile the rest of us law-abiding citizens have the last vestiges of our right to privacy completely stripped away.”
“But it doesn’t hurt, they say. You can’t even see it on your skin,” the farmer’s wife added.
“Which is beside the point,” the lawyer countered. “It’s the idea that creeps me out. Inside that glass door, you’re going to have to stick your hand into a machine. Right? They put that invisible imprint on you. Bang, right there, keyed into that little digital imprint are all your medical records, court records, tax returns, every public record that ever had your name on it. And all that stuff, every bit of it is accessible because of that laser configuration …”