The Steward's Reckoning

By David L. Whitney

Following a chilling death threat in Chicago, journalist Tomas Andersen has come to Geneva, Switzerland, where he writes an environmental column for the EU DailyNews. Life seems secure. Then one day, a man called the Steward gives him a letter from the “Owner.” It contains a dire biblical warning, and a command.
Tom’s syndicated column, “Global Reckoning,” takes on urgency as he exposes a series of environmental dangers and disasters. His words are increasingly prophetic: global aquifer collapse, Brazilian rainforest depletion, Asian plague, American oil pipeline hazards, and a killer Siberian Arctic storm. Tom’s column and blog go viral.
EU DailyNews section editor Mair Bryn joins Tom. Together, they encounter Sicilian gunshots, Chernobyl nuclear radiation, mobster thugs, blog exploitation, and even a “lethal” Bulgarian shoe. Finally, the enemy tries seduction. Through it all, Tom and Mair find love and the conviction that “this is my Father’s world.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: David L. Whitney
• Release date: May 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370094035

David L. Whitney

David L. Whitney is Professor Emeritus at Central Michigan University. Prior to that, he was a faculty member at Washington State University and Pepperdine University. He also served as a department chair at the Anglo-American College in Prague, Czech Republic. Before his academic career, David worked as a writer and program director in missionary radio broadcasting in a number of international settings. He and his wife, Judy, live in Oregon.

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Prologue

Acold night wind blew off Lake Michigan as two men pulled Tom, blindfolded, out of their car. From the rotten, smoky smell in the wind, he guessed immediately where he was – a garbage dump – probably the same one on Chicago’s south side where police found the bodies of two local politicians at Christmastime. Tom shivered violently. He had been abducted without a coat.

Kneel, said one of the men.

When Tom failed to do so, the man kicked him in the back of his knees. He collapsed.

You know why you’re here, don’t you?

Tom struggled to stand only to be struck again. He stayed down.

Answer me. Do you know why you’re here?

Because you’re giving free tours of your neighborhood.

Funny man, said one of the thugs. He kicked Tom in the ribs.

One more time, Mr. Funnyman. Why are you here?

Tom gave up. He gasped, The news story.

Hey, said one thug to the other. He’s a smart guy, knows why he’s here.

Let’s make sure he doesn’t forget, said the other.

Tom braced himself. But instead of a blow or gunshot, he felt the cords around his wrists being cut, freeing his hands. When he pulled off his blindfold, he saw heaps of smoldering garbage dimly illuminated under distant floodlights. Seeing refuse all around only made the smell worse. And the wind was paralyzing him.

On your feet, a man ordered. Move!

Tom was pushed forward, stumbling around a mound of trash. There he saw the leg of a large doll sticking out of some loose debris. It wore a little black slipper.

One of the men pointed to it. Pull it out.

When Tom hesitated, he repeated, Pull it out, Mr. Funnyman.

Tom staggered to the side of the heap and grasped the doll’s frozen leg. He pulled. Out came the body of a small child.

Like they said, make sure he doesn’t forget. The man punched Tom in the abdomen. Then he got so close Tom smelled garlic. We are the owners here, Mr. Funnyman. This is your personal reckoning. We’re going to be watching you. Got it?

Yes. Tom choked on the word as he threw up.

1

Geneva, Switzerland, a year and a half later...

Far down the stone promenade Tom Andersen entered Bastions Park, walking beside the old rampart wall past a series of ten-foot-tall granite statues. At the wall’s halfway point, he slowed to glance over his right shoulder at the much larger sculptures of William Farel, John Calvin, Theodore Beza, and John Knox, historic heroes of the Protestant Reformation.

Watching him, the Steward produced a cellphone and tapped in a number. Then, seeing Tom bring his phone to his ear, the Steward began walking toward him.

This is Tom.

Tomas Andersen, I am the Steward.

Tom stood still and bent forward into his cellphone. Steward?

I work for the Owner. He has a message for you.

In his ear, Tom could detect the same ambient noise that surrounded him. Someone was phoning him from nearby. Puzzled, he turned his eyes from the wall toward the tree-lined park where a young couple sat on the grass staring into an iPad. In an open area, some children were kicking a soccer ball. Two old men were moving life-size chess pieces on a board half the size of a volleyball court. And in the distance, a mother pushed a pram, leaning in, talking to its little passenger. Then Tom saw a tall man approaching him on the walkway.

Do you mind telling me what this is about? Tom spoke into his cellphone.

Close now, the Steward put his own phone away and replied directly. It’s about the Owner’s final warnings. A few long strides later, he stopped and handed Tom an envelope. This is for you.

Tom looked at the man. There was a forceful energy about him, yet at the same time he seemed old; it was his face and eyes – dark, deep, intense. Intrigued, Tom accepted the envelope. What’s it all about? He repeated his question.

It is the beginning of the reckoning. Read it. You will understand.

Tom looked at the envelope. His name was handwritten across its face. Turning it over, he noticed it was wax-sealed in the old-fashioned manner. Taking a deep breath, he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket and addressed the other man. You say I will understand its message?

Yes, but not immediately. Many will inform you. Some will help. Others will oppose, even threaten.

And you?

I will watch, said the Steward. You will see me when you need to.

The Steward turned and walked away. Tom’s eyes followed him until he heard voices behind him. Glancing back toward John Calvin’s granite form, he saw three teenagers approaching the statue. One of them spoke into a cellphone camera, This is John Calvin. I think he started the Reformation in Germany. It lasted four hundred years. It doesn’t mean anything today. Nobody remembers it anymore so they have this memorial here in Geneva.

—

For the past year, journalist Tomas Andersen had worked for the EU DailyNews, continental Europe’s leading English-language newspaper, available in print throughout Europe, and globally via its Internet edition. His syndicated weekly column, Tom Andersen’s Global Reckoning, known in America, attracted a growing audience in Europe. Tom liked the fact that most of his readers, like himself, were multi-lingual.

After lifting the Steward’s sealed envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket, he hung the garment on a peg at the entry to his work cubicle and pulled his chair out from its workstation. He sat and looked at the unopened envelope.

Okay, Tom spoke quietly. Let’s read it and see.

He broke the seal, noticing as he did the whorls of a thumbprint in it. Apparently, the sender had dripped hot wax onto the envelope flap and pressed a thumb onto the wax to imprint the seal.

The single page inside was plain and sparse, no letterhead, no date, just a blunt personal designation and the words:

Tomas Andersen,

If I say to the wicked, You shall surely die, and you give him no warning, nor speak to warn the wicked from his wicked way, in order to save his life, that wicked person shall die for his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand. But if you warn the wicked, and he does not turn from his wickedness, or from his wicked way, he shall die for his iniquity, but you will have delivered your soul.

That was it. There was no signature at the bottom of the message, just another thumbprint, this one in ink.

Tom leaned back in his chair, absently scanning the high, wide, acoustical ceiling of the common work area while his mind focused on the Steward’s words, particularly the reference to reckoning. The beginning of the reckoning, he had said. What Tom just read was certainly that, almost a death-threat – a reckoning – and he was being singled out personally. Tom felt an icy sense of premonition, not for the first time in his career, but one uniquely prescient, unsettling.

Sitting forward again, he picked up the letter and reread its message. Those words, where had he seen them before? Turning to his computer, he brought up the Internet and googled If I say to the wicked. Instantly, there it was:

Ezekiel 3:18–21 (ESV) - "If I say to the wicked ...

biblia.com/bible/esv/Eze3.18-21

If I say to the wicked, 'You shall surely die,' and you give him no warning, nor speak to warn the wicked from his wicked way, in order to save his life, that ...

It was a quote from the Bible, the prophet Ezekiel. Searching further, Tom learned that Ezekiel was a Jewish prophet who had been taken into Babylonian exile when Jerusalem fell about six centuries before Christ. That information, however, only generated more questions. Who then was the man in the park calling himself the Steward? How was he connected to the biblical prophet? Obviously, someone wanted to get his attention, or perhaps was playing a game with him. That might have been annoying but for the fact that the man in the park had used the word reckoning.

Tom thought of his weekly news column, Global Reckoning. This would not be the first time he had been threatened, and not the first time someone had directed the word reckoning against him. It wouldn’t be the first time he felt anxiety over it. And he fervently hoped it would not be a repeat of last time. He took a deep breath.

But the Steward had not actually threatened him. Quite the opposite, toward the end of the encounter the man had almost seemed reassuring. I will be watching,’ he said, and you will see me when you need to. And he also mentioned someone called the Owner." Owner of what? Was this owner the writer of the letter?

Tom refocused on the letter. There had to be more to it. Slowly, he studied the stern quotation word by word. Later, he would also read it in its fuller context. Maybe that would reveal what he couldn’t see now.

At the bottom of the message, he looked again at the signature thumbprint, comparing it to the broken wax thumbprint on the back of the envelope. Not surprising, the two were identical. Tom examined them more closely; there was something under the two thumbprints. He reached into a side drawer for a magnifying glass. It revealed that in both cases, the thumbprint was imposed on a miniature map of the world.

Tom’s cellphone chimed again.

2

The last time he answered his cellphone, Tom had neglected to check caller ID. Now he looked and was relieved to see the call from Franz Baranyi, a Hungarian who was Associate Director of DRWA, the Danube River Water Association. Baranyi divided his time between DRWA’s headquarters in Vienna and a smaller office in Geneva. He and Tom had met at a social function and quickly discovered a common concern for the rising threat of river pollution in Central Europe. Afterward, Tom started a file, hoping to devote a future Global Reckoning column to the growing threat of toxic waste in the Danube River.

Hello Franz.

Tomas. What are you doing for lunch?

Today?

Next week is fine with me, said Baranyi, but of course I’ll be in Vienna then.

Where do you want to eat? Arpad’s? I haven’t overdosed on paprika in weeks.

Not this time, said Baranyi. Too many Hungarians there. How about McDonald’s at Beaulieu Park?

McDonald’s?

Nice and busy, said Baranyi. Lots of foreign tourists. We’ll get burgers to go. Twelve-thirty, okay?

See you then, said Tom.

It was now eleven o’clock. Tom had an hour before leaving. Phone still in hand, he tapped a name.

You know you could just walk over here and talk to me face to face, she answered.

I know. I just thought you might like advance notice. Tom stood and looked over the top of his cubicle toward the large window of an office on the big room’s outer wall. At her desk inside that office, a woman raised her hand and beckoned him over.

Tom picked up the Steward’s letter and walked into the hallway.

Mair Bryn watched Tom’s head above the labyrinth of cubicles as he wove his way toward her office. As section editor, she would normally be his boss, but that was not entirely the case here. Independently syndicated, Tom published his environment column in a growing network of English-language newspapers and websites. At the same time, the EU DailyNews was his primary outlet both in print and on the Internet. This was his journalistic home. So although Mair Bryn was not Tom’s boss in the strictest sense, she oversaw their professional relationship here at the EU DailyNews.

She waved him to a chair beside her desk. Thanks for the advance notice, she said. I was about to go to lunch.

At eleven o’clock?

I’m thin. I burn lots of calories.

Tom looked at her. She probably did burn lots of calories, but fit described her better than thin.

This might be better than calories, he said.

I doubt it.

Tom laid the Steward’s letter on her desk. Look at this.

Mair picked it up and silently read the message. Ezekiel, she said.

Tom was impressed. How did you know that? I had to google it.

I’m Welsh, remember. We memorize the whole Bible when we’re kids.

No kidding!

Yes, kidding. Not the whole Bible, but a whole bunch of it. Didn’t you go to Sunday school when you were growing up?

Yeah, I think so. A couple of times, maybe.

Hmm. You’ve been deprived.

Doesn’t matter, he said. What do you think of the note?

I don’t know. How did you get it?

Tom told her about the encounter in Bastions Park. He called himself the Steward, and said something about a final reckoning. He also said I’d understand what it was all about.

Do you?

Understand? Not in the slightest.

And you say he used the word ‘reckoning.’

Yes, ‘final reckoning.’ I find that very interesting.

Mair nodded.

One more thing. Tom handed her the envelope. Take a look at the seal. Compare it with the letter’s signature.

Mair ran her finger lightly over the broken wax. You don’t see this very often anymore. She looked again at the letter. Same print – a thumbprint, I’d guess.

Uh-huh. Anything more?

She looked closely. Ah, what d’you know, is that a map underneath?

Good eyesight. It’s a map of the world.

Mair handed back the letter with its envelope. So, Tomas, what’s next?

I don’t know, but I’ll keep you posted. I think there’s more to come.

Maybe so, she said.

By the way, I got a call from Franz Baranyi of the Danube River Water Association. We’re having lunch today.

Good. Maybe he’ll give you something we can publish.

Yeah, I hope so. You know, there’s a disaster waiting to happen on the Danube, either in some chemical plant up a tributary, or at the Slovakian Gabčikovo dam that’s destroying Hungarian habitat. Tom shook his head. We’ll see what Franz has to say. He got up to go.

Tom. Mair stopped him. Be careful with Danube information. That Gabčikovo dam has Hungary about ready to declare war. And Serbia’s very touchy about their chemical plants. Believe me, when ecology hits business and politics, things can get nasty. Mair pointed a finger at him. And if you’re not careful you’ll get caught up in it.

Tom knew she was right. They had both learned that lesson.

—

Mair Bryn’s career began with The Morning Post, a small newspaper in her hometown of Swansea, Wales. She was just finishing journalism graduate school. It was her thesis exposé of a coal mining waste disaster that aroused the displeasure of the local mining company and its political supporters. However, it also aroused the admiration of the newspaper’s managing editor who offered her a reporter’s job immediately upon her graduation. It wasn’t long before she was also writing an editorial column dedicated to local political and environmental issues. She also began editing the work of others.

Then, after several quiet years, she took a chance and landed a position of assignment editor with one of London’s leading tabloids. Purulent gossip mongering, she grumbled at the time. Fortunately, however, the assignment of her section was political and environmental affairs even though, as she put it, affairs was often the operative word. It wasn’t great journalism, but it gave her experience, and she learned the craft.

In her early thirties, she was looking at eventual promotion to section editor, one step below managing editor. Her career track was assured. Within months, however, it nearly got derailed exactly where it had begun, at the coalfields of Wales.

It happened one Christmas. With a rare two days off, she drove home to be with her parents and enjoy the good Welsh singing at their little Methodist church. While she was there, her dad suggested a drive into the countryside. A break from all this food, he said.

Fifteen miles north of Swansea, Mair realized they were on the road to Aberdar.

Years before, at Aberdar, a small mountain of mining debris had liquefied in heavy rain and poured itself down upon a grade school, burying thirty-five children and two teachers. That was when Mair’s graduate thesis revealed that the mining company knew of the danger and deliberately ignored it.

On the edge of town, Mair’s father drove past the mine and the empty field where the school used to be. There she saw another growing mountain of rock and mine tailings encroaching on a row of miners’ houses, a sure prelude to a repeat disaster. Mair watched the dark mass as the car rolled by, and she remembered the pain and suffering of that earlier event, the tears of parents – her own tears – over the lost lives of little children. All too well, she recalled her anger, anger now rekindled.

In London the following day, she sat in her editor’s office. I want somebody to research and write an op-ed piece, she said. Here’s an abstract they can work from.

He scanned its tightly written words. We can’t publish this story, Mair.

Why not? They’re doing it again.

The editor nodded. Maybe so, but this is pure speculation on your part. And maybe you’re also forgetting that the coal industry is one of the most powerful political forces in Britain. He handed the abstract back to her, shook his head, and reiterated, I’m sorry, we can’t do it. We report news, not prophecy.

The following week, when the EU DailyNews of Geneva posted its newly created position of environmental section editor, Mair collected her resumé and several dozen of her best news clips and jumped on a plane to Geneva. With her limited editorial experience, it was a long shot.

—

From City Center, Tom caught an electric bus north across the Rhone River, transferred at Rue du Grand Pré, and then walked two blocks to McDonald’s. He arrived at 12:29. Franz Baranyi stood in line waiting for him.

I hope they have hamburger paprikás, said Tom.

They do in Budapest.

Along with Magyar Bull’s Blood wine?

Of course. What else would you drink with it?

That’s inspiring. I should write a column about health hazards.

You already did, said Franz. "I looked it up. April 12 of last year. Global Reckoning talked about the environment effects of fast-food waste. You even added a clever line about ‘fast-food wastelines.’"

And here we are proving my point, said Tom.

They carried their take-out lunch bags across the street into Beaulieu Park where they settled on a bench under a tree.

Nice time of the year, said Franz as he unwrapped his Big Mac.

Tom got to the point. What’s the water level on the Danube this September?

Low, my friend. Too low. Franz looked around. No one was near them. We are not having this conversation, are we?

Of course not.

Franz gestured with a French fry. First, we eat, make what you call ‘little talk.’

Small talk, said Tom.

"We call it dumálunk."

That’s easy for you to say.

Franz Baranyi laughed. Why not? Hungarian is an easy language to learn. I spoke it as a child.

A little later, they packed their wrappings back into the bags and Tom dropped them in a trashcan. When he returned to the bench, Franz said, We call the Danube wetlands on our northern border the ‘Golden Garden’.

Tom nodded. Yeah, I read that.

It’s about to be destroyed.

Hasn’t that been the threat ever since the Budapest Treaty?

Yes. In 1977, Czechoslovakia and Hungary did what communist countries do best – they ruined the environment with a big socialist project.

The Gabčikovo Dam.

Gabčikovo. Franz pronounced it like a dirty word. That’s a Slovakian name. Hungary opted out almost immediately when the environmental impact was known.

And the two countries have been in international court ever since, said Tom.

Without success one way or the other.

Are you telling me that’s going to change?

Yes. We just learned that Slovakia is going to build another lock on the river, just above our border. It will cut the Danube’s main channel flow to the lowest level ever, too low to sustain fish and flora in the wetlands. The Golden Garden will be lost.

Franz took a deep breath and leaned closer, speaking quietly. The official announcement will be made next Friday, a week from tomorrow. Naturally, we’ll be prepared to condemn it. However, we can’t do that ahead of time because it would compromise our source of information. Even then, we’re restricted by political considerations.

Franz produced a small folder. Tom, I trust you with this. Maybe you should read it and then shred it.

Thanks, Franz. I will. What else do you want me to do?

Franz shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Do what you think best.

When Tom arrived back at his desk at two o’clock, the big room was buzzing as everyone focused on the task of putting tomorrow’s print edition of the paper to bed. Mair was in a space-budget meeting with other editors and reporters, filling what they call the news hole, the empty copy-cavity left over after positioning paid advertising. Now, each reporter was making a pitch for precious space. Tom knew she would be tied up until edition bedtime at six o’clock that evening. By then he hoped to have his thoughts together.

At her desk, Mair pushed a lock of dark hair back from her forehead and blinked hard to relieve her tired eyes. C’mon in, Tom. You’re just in time for my daily meltdown.

He knew better. She might appear frazzled, but she never was. Those who thought she was too tired to argue an issue or to insist on top quality would find themselves outwitted and outwilled.

Brought you a souvenir, he said. Reaching into a small sack, he handed her a wrapped apple turnover from McDonald’s. With it, he produced two cups of fresh coffee from the employees’ canteen.

Ah, sugar and caffeine. Thanks. She broke the turnover in half and pushed a portion across the desk to him. How’d it go with Baranyi?

A week from tomorrow the Slovaks will announce the building of another lock on the Danube’s main channel. Franz thinks it will reduce that stream to a trickle, ruin what they call the ‘Golden Garden’.

Stop up the entire Danube?

No, just the main channel. The river’s a lot like a delta there, with several channels. But much of the Hungarian wetlands depends on the main flow coming down from Slovakia.

Is Franz certain of this?

Yes. He says it’s gospel.

She looked at him. Tom, ‘gospel’ means ‘good news.’ This may be truth, but it definitely is not gospel.

More Sunday school stuff, right?

Mair smiled. Your education is incomplete. Then she grew serious. Okay, I think you’ve got a story. You want to talk it through?

Sure. Tom produced two pages of copy. I just wrote this, so it’s pretty rough, but you can see the general drift I’m taking.

After reading it, she became the devil’s advocate. First of all, Tom, we need to keep in mind that you’ve already submitted your column for tomorrow. So we’re not in a panic. But if we decide to replace it with this, you have only a few hours to polish it. And you’re right, it’s rough.

Or we can hit the street with it next Friday, print and online, just hours before the Slovaks hold their press conference. Timing might be perfect.

It would, she acknowledged. But either way, you need to rethink the content. You’ve got some very specific details here. The Slovaks will know you have inside information. Do you think they’ll suspect Franz?

I’ve been wondering about that, he said. Franz asked me to keep him covered. You’re right, I’m not sure we can do so with this. He pointed to the copy that she held.

"Unless you just happen to talk about Hungary’s Golden Garden, and just happen to mention how fragile the environment is."

He picked up the thought. "And just happen to comment on the critical role the Danube plays in the entire ecosystem, and that any interruption would be irresponsible given the delicate nature of the relationship between Hungary and Slovakia."

Mair stood and came around her desk. I don’t know, she said. Can you be that subtle?

Give me an hour to see, he said. We can make the final decision then.

Returning to his cubicle, Tom saw another envelope on his desk. His name was handwritten across the face. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned it over. There again was the thumbprint wax seal. He picked up his phone. Mair, can you come here? I just got another letter from the Steward.

3

When Mair appeared at his cubicle door, Tom handed her the letter. She turned it over, touched the wax seal, and gave it back. You haven’t opened it.

The seal has the same map embedded under the thumbprint.

I saw that, she said. Why don’t you go ahead and open it?

Tom still hesitated. And my name handwritten on the front, just like the other.

Tom, will you open the letter?

Yeah, I guess I might as well. He broke the seal carefully and lifted out a single page. As before, there was no letterhead, no date, just the designation to Tomas Andersen followed by another exhortation. There was no signature other than an identical ink thumbprint pressed onto a global map.

What’s it say? She tried to peer over the edge of the paper.

Tom turned the letter so they could both read it.

Tomas Andersen,

If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday. And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden.

Sounds like another Bible prophet, said Mair, but I can’t guess which one.

I thought you had them all memorized.

She ignored the comment. Google it, she said.

When he did, the computer responded:

Isaiah 58:10 (ESV) - "if you pour yourself out for the hungry ...

biblia.com/bible/esv/Is58.10

if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your ...

Isaiah! Mair exclaimed. I should have known.

But what’s it mean?

Well, obviously, he’s saying that giving to the hungry and helping the afflicted will bring light and blessings.

Yes, but there’s got to be a message here for us. What would that be?

For several minutes, they stared at the words.

Read it to me out loud, would you? said Mair.

Tom cleared his throat. If you pour yourself out for the hungry ...

Ah, did you hear what you just said? ‘If you pour yourself out for Hungary ...’

That’s not what I ... Tom stopped. Hungary? You mean as in Magyar?

Uh-huh. And before that, ‘If you pour yourself out ...’

As in water being poured.

Right, she said. Read the rest of it.

Tom read, And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places ...

Like dried-up river beds? Mair wondered.

" ... and make your bones strong. And you shall be like a watered