He paused to carefully consider what he was about to say and how to say it. Her reputation among those in media was that of a woman who neither wasted her time nor indulged those who did. She was not known to suffer fools gladly. The discussion could meet an abrupt end at any given moment and there would be no second chance with her. The fact that there had even been a meeting in the first place, that she had even agreed to it, and that he was now sitting in her office, high above the streets of Manhattan, was nothing short of a miracle—and he knew it. He had only one concern—the message. It didn’t even occur to him to remove his black leather overcoat, nor had anyone offered to remove it for him. Leaning forward in his chair, he gave her his answer, slowly, cautiously, carefully deliberating every word. “An ancient mystery . . . that holds the secret of America’s future . . . and on which its future hangs. And it’s not fiction—it’s real.” She was quiet. At first, he took the silence as a positive sign, an indication that he was getting through. But then she spoke and quickly dispelled the notion. “An Indiana Jones movie,” she said. “An ancient mystery hidden for thousands of years under the sands of the Middle East . . . but now revealed . . . and upon it hangs the fate of the entire world!” Her flippancy provoked him to become all the more resolute. “But it’s not fiction,” he repeated. “It’s real.” “What would I say?” she asked. “Yes, what would you say?” “I’d say you were crazy.” “Perhaps I am,” he said with a slight smile. “Nevertheless . . . it’s real.” “If you’re not crazy, then you’re joking . . . or you’re doing this all for dramatic effect . . . part of a presentation. But you can’t be serious.” “But I am serious.” She paused for a moment, staring into the eyes of her guest, attempting to ascertain whether he was sincere or not. “So you are,” she said. “So I am,” he replied, “and you have no idea how much so.” It was then that her expression changed. Up to that point it had suggested a trace of amused interest. It now turned to that of total disengagement. “No, I guess I don’t. Listen, I believe you’re a sincere man, but . . . I’m really . . . I’m really very busy, and I don’t have time for . . . ” “Mrs. Goren.” “That’s Goren. The accent’s on the last syllable. But Ana is fine.” “Ana, you have nothing to lose by listening. Just go on the slight possibility . . . ” “That you’re not crazy?” “That too,” he said. “But the slight possibility that what I’m saying could actually be true, even the slight possibility that there could be something in what I’m telling you, even for that slightest of possibilities . . . for just that . . . it would be important enough to warrant your time. You need to hear me out.” She sat back in her chair and stared at him, making no attempt to hide her skepticism. “You still think I’m crazy.” “Fully,” she said. “For argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. I am crazy. Indulge me, as a public service.” She smiled. “I’ll indulge you, Mr. Kaplan, but there’s a limit.” “Nouriel. You can call me Nouriel.” At that, she got up from her chair and motioned for him to do likewise. She led him away from her desk to a small round conference table where the two sat down.
Excerpted from The Harbinger by Jonathan Cahn (Lake Mary, FL: FrontLine, 2012), Used by permission.
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