Free Brink of Chaos by Tim Lahaye

shouted out, “Any update on the condition of former president Corland?”
    Tulrude whirled around and tossed out the answer, halting momentarily. “Still convalescing and permanently disabled —” she clasped her hands over her chest as if officiating at a funeral — “but while he can no longer serve America, I am sure you will remember him and reflect on what he meant to our great nation and place him in your warmest thoughts.” She was about to turn toward the exit, but she stopped and added, “And your prayers, of course.”
    President Tulrude strode out the press room and walked down the private access corridor through the West Wing. Her chief of staff, Natali Traup, was waiting for her. “Well done, Madam President,” she said brightly, though she had to jog to keep up with Tulrude who had just blown past her.
    “Did you hear that?” Tulrude snapped.
    “I caught it all on the monitor —”
    “I want that AmeriNews reporter barred from all future White House press conferences. In fact, no one from AmeriNews is allowed within a hundred yards of me.” Then she slowed down to issue the next directive to Natali. “And make sure AmeriNews doesn’t get an invitation to the holiday media party …”
    “You mean the White House press Christmas party?”
    Tulrude shook her head at her COS’s miscue. “
Holiday
party, exactly as I said.” As she swaggered down the hall the president added,“This is an election year. I won’t stand by while those AmeriNews morons launch torpedoes at me.”
United Nations Headquarters, New York City
    At the weekly policy meeting, two men sat in the secretary-general’s office. They were the only two in his inner circle that he trusted. These two high-ranking United Nations staffers sat patiently in the overstuffed chairs as they waited for Secretary-General Alexander Coliquin to finish reviewing his agenda notes in his velvet wing-backed chair.
    Bishop Dibold Kora, the balding special envoy on climate change and global wellness, had a placid smile on his face, hands folded gently in his lap.
    The other executive, Ho Zhu, the deputy secretary-general, who managed Coliquin’s administration, was customarily expressionless, but as the minutes ticked by he occasionally glanced over at the engraved black-walnut grandfather’s clock in the corner to check the time.
    Finally Coliquin looked up. “The Israeli situation,” he said, “where are we on that?”
    Ho Zhu said, “Our special reporter is broaching the subject with Israel. We thought it best to approach it as a human-rights issue, moving it up the ladder in Jerusalem.”
    “Meaning?”
    “We believe Prime Minister Sol Bensky already knows we want to talk. We’re waiting for a response.”
    “
Waiting
, you said?” Coliquin snapped. His rhetorical question was designed to show the self-evident stupidity of Ho Zhu’s point. Coliquin, the handsome Romanian polymath, had little patience with his underlings — brilliant though they were — when they failed to keep up with his genius, particularly when it concerned his obsession with Israel. Of course, he was able to see things that they missed, but at least they should understand his priorities.
    “I want no foot-dragging on this,” Coliquin said, waving his hand in circles. “Timing is everything. Can you see that? Israel is in aunique position. On one hand, emboldened by the natural disasters that blocked the Russian-Arab incursion, yes, of course. Attributing their rescue to an act of God — and so, they have been basking in the sun ever since, like an overfed lizard. But at the same time, the people of Israel, deep down, fear further conflict. I know this to be true. They wish to avoid that kind of heart-wrenching drama again. There is a dread among the people at the prospect of further war. So very tired of conflict. Year after year, having to defend their homeland, yearning for some kind of permanent solution, which is exactly what I have for them — if