by Glenn Kleier
“At the time, there were only a couple thousand people around these shrines, primarily overflow from the capacity crowds at Manger Square. The crowd here was mostly under the control of a millenarian order known as the Samaritans. The Samaritans’ deal was to set up paid trips to Bethlehem for sick and invalid people from all over the world, with the idea that the poor suckers could get cured at the Second Coming.”
Hunter leaned toward Feldman and placed his hands palm down on the table. “So, among the Samaritan followers, there's this one crippled Bedouin boy of about fourteen or fifteen. Supposedly, the kid and his parents were picked up in the desert by a group of Samaritans traveling up from the south. The boy was brought to David's Well yesterday on a stretcher, all bandaged up, he couldn't walk or feed himself, couldn't see, hear or speak. Or so everyone swears, anyway.”
Feldman was hoping this wouldn't turn out to be some sort of religious miracle story.
“After they baptized him,” Hunter went on, “he and his family stayed near the Wall of David for the evening ceremonies and the boy just lay there on his stretcher, apparently sleeping.
“Later in the evening, remember, the storm came up. Close to midnight, there was a lot of lightning and wind—it never did rain though—but everyone scrambled for shelter near the buildings around the sides of the plaza. That's when several people noticed that someone had forgotten the boy.”
“They'd left him lying out in the storm?” Feldman gasped, incredulously.
“Yeah. Apparently with the sacred hour of midnight approaching and in the throes of the storm, everyone panicked. As the lightning got really bad, a number of people saw him illuminated out there, but before anyone summoned the courage to go out and get him, he suddenly stood up, shook off his bandages, walked into the enclosure, calmly drew water from the well and drank it. Then, with everybody yelling for him to get the hell out of the open, he began to walk slowly toward the old temple.
“Meanwhile, there was a big countdown to midnight going on from a large part of the crowd that didn't notice what was happening with the boy. But he just kept on walking, right up the steps, turned around at the top and raised his arms high.
“Then a shout went up celebrating the new millennium, yelling and cheering, and suddenly there was this shock of electricity. A bolt of lightning must have struck really close. Everyone claims it hit the boy and radiated out into the square. At the same time, as if the lightning set it off or something, the earth began to shake and you can see what happened.” Hunter brought up monitor G, which delivered a tight zoom on the base of the well.
Feldman saw the beginnings of a jagged fissure on the ground. The camera followed it away from the well, the fracture yawning as much as a foot wide in some places as it wandered along.
“They claim the ground just opened up as you can see here,” Hunter explained, “from the well clear to the base of the temple, up the steps, splitting them all the way to the top, right between the feet of the boy.
“And you see what's carved there on the top step?” Hunter could hardly restrain himself. The camera continued to travel along the fissure, up the stairs to close in tightly on the very last riser.
Worn, but clearly visible, were ancient Hebrew letters carved into the face of the step. The first two letters were bisected by the very end of the fissure, but were still legible, if indecipherable, to Feldman.
“Exactly where the boy was supposedly standing.” Hunter leaned forward and touched the screen with his forefinger. “There, that's the ancient Hebrew word for ‘Messiah,’ right, Erin?”
“Correct,” Erin confirmed. “The letters read right to left. The Hebrew pronunciation is ‘Moshiach.’ ”
“And to top it all off”—Hunter slapped his hands on the table—”there were over two hundred and fifty alleged infirm and handicapped people present who now claim to have been cured of their afflictions when the lightning struck. I tell you it's voodoo, Jon, but it's perfect. We've got a follow-up to end all follow-ups! The climax everybody's been looking for!” He sat back, luxuriating. “We've got ourselves a genuine, bona fide Messiah figure!”
Erin Cross anted up additional support. “I have to tell you, Mr. Feldman, it looks pretty good. We talked to a lot of people here who claim to hive been cured of everything from cancer to blindness. And some of the evidence is rather convincing. It'll make for a sensational feature.”
Feldman had sat silent through most of this, elbows on the table, chin resting on the heels of his thumbs, fingers laced and pressed against his mouth. But his eyes had betrayed a growing fascination.
“This is completely incredible, Breck,” he finally whispered. “Absolutely unbelievable. This boy, where is he? Have you seen him? Have you spoken with him?”
“No,” Hunter admitted. “The Samaritans are hiding him, protecting him they say. We don't even know if he's in Bethlehem anymore. But we're working on it.”
Filson, who'd added nothing to the conversation so far, finally contributed. “That presents a nice element of mystery to all this, of course,” he said in the flat voice of a third-generation accountant. “But without the boy, we lose the crux of the story. And we lose our scoop if and when some other network finds him first. I think we should sit on this development and allow ourselves more time to find the boy. Otherwise, we risk putting every other newshound on the scent.”
Feldman and Hunter exchanged glances. It was unclear whether Filson was attempting to assert himself or simply offering his opinion. But while they didn't yet know what authority Filson might or might not exercise over this operation, they were not about to let an interloper threaten the momentum.
“I've enough confidence in our team to move forward with this story right away,” Feldman replied in a straight, certain tone. “Particularly with the addition of your two crack WNN teams.” He was patronizing Filson, but Filson, apparently, was unaware.
“Not to worry, Filson,” Hunter assured him, “we've got the manpower, the nose and the inside track to get the job done.”
They didn't wait for an approval. As they rose from their chairs, Feldman clapped Hunter soundly on the back. “Brilliant work, buddy. Now, why don't you show me around outside and tell me how you see us putting this story together.”
Erin rose with them, and Filson, who appeared to have an objection, finally closed his mouth and said nothing.
Hunter grinned at Feldman. “All this is starting to make that ol’ presidential election look a tad tame, now isn't it?”
Feldman just smiled.
By the time a furious, anxious Bollinger and his crew arrived with the second Cairo team, Hunter and Feldman had worked out the sequence of shots and storyline for the newscast. Rather than allow the fuming bureau chief any sort of explanation, they simply sat him in front of a monitor along with as many of the crew as could squeeze into the RV, and played him a rough cut of their newscast.
With Feldman providing live commentary, the videotape methodically unveiled the entire bizarre tale. The final segment of their story focused on the beneficiaries of the miracles alleged to have occurred when the lightning struck. Especially poignant was one series of photos showing a paralyzed young girl from southern Alabama, the victim of a car accident some years before. The selected photographs showed the wreckage of the car in which she was injured, shots of her in a body cast and in a wheelchair.
And now, after the events of Millennium Eve, she was seen slightly older, her fresh face beaming as she walked haltingly on two wasted, but obviously functioning legs. The joy and religious rapture of her parents was extremely moving. Entirely convincing.
To counter any end-of-the-world misinterpretations this ‘’miraculous” happening might have fostered, Feldman had crafted a secular ending to the story. A positive message of hope and faith, and the extraordinary power of the mind to heal. A refreshing optimism that disavowed the Samaritans’ claims of miracles and the arrival of a new Messiah. But Hunter had insisted the story close with a slow zoom i
nto the chiseled word “Moshiach.”
There was a momentary pause in the cramped RV, then a growing murmur of amazement, followed by an outburst of applause that included even Filson. Feldman bowed, extended his arms toward Hunter and deferred to his associate, who accepted the praise with a gratified grin.
Bollinger, his anger completely quashed, looked as relieved as he did pleased. “Breck,” he said, exhaling deeply, smiling broadly, “WNN has been on my butt all day for details on our follow-up, and all I could do was promise them ‘something big.’ Thank God you delivered, you asshole.” He had obviously known Hunter had been ignoring his calls.
“Now,” the bureau chief said, rubbing the palms of his hands together briskly, “let's see if we can find that boy!”
23
Bethlehem, Israel 7:17 A.M., Sunday, January 2, 2000
In a café early the next morning, Hunter and Feldman didn't even touch their breakfasts. They were absorbed with sections of today's and yesterday's London Times, electronically transmitted by satellite link directly to a copier in the WNN RV.
In an article from the bottom half of yesterday's front page was a story entitled: “False Alarm Breeds Doomsday Panic,” with the subhead: “Jerusalem Earthquake Heralds New Millennium.”
In today's paper, however, the story graduated to top front page: “World Jolted by Reports of New Messiah!” It was accompanied by lengthy accounts of religious unrest and sidebars detailing the strange developments in Israel and around the globe. Feldman was relieved to find that at least no major rioting or violence had reerupted.
Virtually the entire main news section was devoted to the story. Religious organizations everywhere were in a state of confusion. Official responses differed widely, from outright denunciation by the Catholic College of Cardinals in Rome, to complete embracing by such denominations as the Seventh Day Adventists and Mormons. Most religious leaderships, like the Jewish Rabbinical Council, took a wait-and-see approach.
An interesting anecdote, Feldman noted, was a report of a mild tremor in Rome with minor damage to a priceless Michelangelo fresco in the Sistine Chapel, and a fracture in the main altar stone of St. Peter's Basilica. There had been, however, no such “supernatural” occurrences reported in Salt Lake City.
Another small notice caught his eye and he called Hunter's attention to it. Joshua Milbourne, spiritual head of the Jehovah's Witnesses, who had been viewing the WNN Millennium Eve program from his hospital bed, had died that night of a massive heart attack. Death occurred, the article said, at one minute past midnight Mideast time as Milbourne witnessed the beginning of the climactic earthquake.
“Well,” Hunter observed dryly, “I guess you can say he made it to the Second Coming and fulfilled the old prophecy. That ought to keep the Jehovah's Witnesses in business a while longer!”
As Hunter and Feldman arrived at the morning staff meeting held outside the WNN RV, they made the nodding acquaintance of a familiar-looking executive in an expensive European suit and tie, standing at Bollinger's side. Bollinger, oblivious to their arrival, continued his monologue to the crew. But the new visitor detached himself and approached them around the edge of the gathering.
Feldman finally recognized who this was, gripping the firm hand of Nigel Sullivan, WNN's European bureau chief. Though they'd never met, Feldman knew and respected the man largely responsible for WNN's millenarian coverage and Feldman's current position. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan smiled warmly and also shook Hunter's hand. He motioned the sleepy-looking newsmen to the last row of chairs. “Please, no need to be formal with me. I'm Nigel to you and to everyone else, as well,” he said with the aristocratic accent of an English nobleman. But there was no stuffiness or distance to it. “I'm delighted to finally meet you lads. As I've been telling Arnie and your associates, you've done an outstanding job here. Simply outstanding.”
‘Thank you, sir,” they both responded, neither quite able to drop the formality yet.
“Have you heard how the world's responding to last night's newscast?” Sullivan asked.
“Just what we've read in the morning papers,” Feldman answered.
Sullivan sat back in his chair and looked them squarely in the eyes. “For the last two nights, I'm pleased to tell you, WNN, with your team's outstanding contribution, has dominated world news ratings beyond anything ever achieved. A seventy-one percent share! And that's global, gentlemen. A seventy-one percent share! Not only un-precedented, virtually inconceivable!”
Feldman and Hunter looked at each other in disbelief, and then broke out in wide grins.
“This has happened so quickly, and become so large,” Sullivan continued, “it's caught everyone quite by surprise. At this time, no other network is even within shouting distance of us. But believe me, gentlemen, after the last two nights, every one of them is mounting a major thrust to catch up.”
That much was obvious. From where they sat they could see as many as twelve competing network vehicles queued up around the quadrangle where there had been none ten hours ago. A number of news helicopters, Sullivan's among them, rested in a pasture nearby.
“Jon.” Sullivan turned to Feldman and placed a hand on the newsman's shoulder. “I understand you've accepted a new position back in the United States. And while I realize it may be too late, I'd like to persuade you to reconsider. I'm prepared to offer you a new contract with an open term, quadrupling whatever compensation package you've been afforded.” He turned to Hunter. “And I'll be extending the same provisions to your current contract as well, Breck.”
The two reporters looked at each other and blinked.
“We want to expand our coverage of this development,” Sullivan explained, “yet we wish to preserve the unique chemistry and style that your team has created here. We'll put several additional teams at your disposal for developing the lead story on the boy Messiah. And, we're turning the Jerusalem office into a regional news center, expanding operations into three additional wings of office space and conference rooms. I'm here to see that you gentlemen get what you need—everything you need. It's one bloody big story, lads. Handled properly, it could well be the story of the century. The millennium!”
Twenty feet beyond them, Bollinger had just been delivering commendations to his troops and now called over to Nigel Sullivan to address everyone.
Sullivan rose and the two journalists followed suit. “We'll have lunch together today, if you're available, gentlemen, and we'll continue our discussion then?”
They nodded, thanked him, and he strode to the front of the meeting area to apply his congratulations and encouragement to the rest of the crew. Turning toward each other, Feldman and Hunter were mirror reflections of restrained enthusiasm.
“Holy shit, Feldman!” Hunter whispered.
“Holy shit, Hunter!” Feldman whispered back.
It was finally dawning on Feldman the potential measure of his circumstances. He'd stumbled into a world-class opportunity. A place where Pulitzers and legends were made. A place that generated books and speaking engagements and professorships with honorary degrees at hallowed Ivy League colleges. This was heady stuff. There was simply no way he could refuse this break, despite the embarrassment of having to renege on a plum position he'd fought so hard to win.
And yet, while he decided to accept Sullivan's generous offer, in the few seconds it took for all these grand permutations to ricochet through his mind, from somewhere Feldman found the foresight to focus on the larger picture. Whatever his good fortunes, he knew he must not lose sight of his need to understand what was happening here in the Holy Land.
Feldman was yanked from his reflections by a tug at his shirt sleeve. A flushed and elated Cissy McFarland had stolen up on the two reporters from behind.
“I'm glad I caught you bozos before you had a chance to slink off,” she deadpanned. “Guess what?” She pulled a pink telephone slip from inside the neck of her shirt and waved it in their faces.
She gave him a withering look and turned to a grinning Feldman as the only semirational alternative. “I've gotten a confirmation from the Samaritans. They'll meet with you in one hour at the Bethlehem Star hotel. Here's the room number and the names of the leaders there. Maybe you can finagle an exclusive with the Messiah boy and we'll have ourselves another scoop!”
24
Bethlehem, Israel Sunday, 11:28 A.M., January 2, 2000
Three pompous-looking Samaritan disciples had met with Feldman and Hunter for nearly an hour. Things were not going well for the two reporters. The main obstacle was the head Samaritan himself, the First Reverend Richard Fischer.
A dogmatic, arrogant, portly man with wavy gray-brown hair, bulbous nose and acne maculations on his face and neck, the Reverend had done most of the talking. He took obvious delight in the attention he'd been receiving, and in the power he now wielded as custodian of the hottest media property on earth.
“Boys,” he addressed the frustrated reporters, “while I'll grant you WNN may be the best-followed network covering this particular story, as directors of the Samaritan movement, we, the Leadership Council, must refrain from showing any partiality. All we're able to tell you at this time is that the Messiah will be making a public appearance in the near future. Where and when I'm not disposed to say, but you and all your fellow media people will be apprised in due course.” He rose, extended his damp, fleshy hand and summarily dismissed his guests.
Once the reporters had left, one of the disciples turned to the First Reverend and exclaimed in a chagrined voice, “Reverend Dick, I don't get it. You let Brother Leroy sell our videotape of the Messiah to WNN an hour ago. Why did we have to keep that a secret? And you sold it for a pittance! If we'd just waited, I bet that Feldman would've paid us a fortune!”
Fischer presented his cohort with a knowing smile. “Brother Gerald, you miss the tactics entirely. Leaking the tape to WNN is the best investment we could make. No one must know it came from the Leadership Council. As long as WNN believes they finessed it from one of our lower-level brethren, we preserve the tape's credibility. You've got to appreciate the cynicism of the media, Brother. They're a suspicious lot and will surely question the tape's authenticity anyway. If it came directly from us, that would only deepen their skepticism.”