The Last Day

by Glenn Kleier

  “Yes, Holy Father,” di Concerci commiserated, “it keeps me awake at night.”

  “I, too, have difficulty sleeping. And when I do nod off, I have these tormented, recurring dreams that I cannot explain. In different forms I encounter this elusive presence. It abides nearby, always around, yet always in the periphery. Disappearing a step ahead of me, just around the corner. A familiar shadow, only I can never glimpse its face nor make the proper connection to identify it I believe God is delivering a sign to me, Tony, but I cannot yet read it.”

  “An intervention from God would be most welcome right now,” the cardinal agreed. “We're all praying for guidance.”

  The pope paused, observing his advisor closely. “Tony, I'm about to ask an important favor of you.”

  “Anything, Holy Father,” di Concerci pledged.

  “Tony, I want you to go to this second interdenominational convention in America.”

  Di Concerci's positive expression evaporated.

  “Hopefully you can persuade Alphonse to return. But more significantly, I want you to gain a firsthand experience and assessment of this mysterious Jeza woman, this spellbinder who's entranced so many, including one of our very own Holy See. I've arranged for you to occupy a seat on the presiding panel. I'd like you and another cardinal of your choosing to represent the Curia at the convocation. Hopefully while you're there, you'll find Alphonse and return him to his senses.”

  Nicholas placed his hands on di Concerci's shoulders. “Bring Alphonse back, Tony. Bring him back. But more importantly, bring with you an answer to this spreading problem that grows more serious by the day.”

  64

  Mormon Convention Center, Salt Lake City, Utah 9:00 A.M.. Thursday, March 2, 2000

  Not unexpectedly, the Mormon organizers had been more than receptive to WNN's overtures. Jeza would be scheduled in whenever WNN wished, for as long as WNN wished. WNN would also have exclusive coverage rights for the entire convention, complete with scheduled TV time-outs for sponsorships and commercial messages, with the exception of Jeza's speech, which would be telecast live and uninterrupted.

  Subsequently, the atmosphere for this much-vaunted Second Convocation of Interdenominational Religious Faiths of the Third Millennium, was far different from the first. For one thing, thanks to the announcement of the new surprise guest speaker, the convocation had gleaned vastly more respect and world interest Literally overnight, the Mormons were overrun with registration requests. In the first hour alone, after the mere rumor of Jeza's scheduled appearance leaked from a Washington, D.C., radio station, the Mormons had received over 400,000 orders from all over the globe, by phone, fax, e-mail and telegram, not including the massive in-person invasions of the Tabernacle Hall itself.

  The “Holy Bowl” was unquestionably an event of epic proportions. The excitement in the world religious communities was electric. And despite the sellout millions of rapturous pilgrims were still converging on the city by the Great Salt Lake.

  So many people, in fact that the governor of Utah was compelled to call out the National Guard to handle the unprecedented influx of pilgrims. Tent communities and soup kitchens were set up to accommodate the swelling numbers of homeless and afflicted who'd journeyed here just to be near their Savior. Cars, mobile homes, trailers and RVs stretched for tangled miles along the major routes feeding into the area.

  Out along the boulevards leading to the hall were street vendors, spiritual hucksters and religious entrepreneurs of all ilks, peddling everything from Jeza T-shirts, ashtrays and watches, to animal-friendly Jeza veggie burgers. Even prostitution, virtually unknown to this Blessed City, had arrived with an opportunistic vengeance. To the outrage of the religious community, some of the more marketing-oriented streetwalkers were even dressed to resemble the prophetess herself, with wigs of wild dark hair, bright white pancake, dark blue contact lenses and white flowing robes.

  Scalpers, it was said, were commanding up to $250,000 for a prime seat at the hall, willingly paid for by wealthy individuals with serious health problems, hoping for a miraculous cure. “Jeza Feva” extended everywhere, as countless bumper stickers proclaimed. Churches, temples and mosques were setting up big-screen TVs on their altars and advertising the event on their outdoor marquees.

  It was into this bizarre circus atmosphere that a tired and emotionally drained Alphonse Cardinal Litti descended from his transcontinental early morning flight. As a charter attendee of the first convocation and a member of the prestigious Roman Catholic Curia, Litti had been able to secure a coveted front-row seat on the convention hall floor, immediately in front of the stage, right behind the presiding panel. However, after this dear expense, the cardinal had been left with little money for accommodations. He'd had to settle for a small room in a third-rate hostelry, several long blocks from the convention center.

  Following his cab ride from the airport, standing alone on the sidewalk in front of his hotel with his three leather suitcases and green seaman's footlocker, the disenfranchised cardinal took stock of himself. He had with him his sole possessions in the world. Four black cassocks with purple trim; two red and black cloaks (one light, one heavy); two red zucchetto skullcaps; six white shirts; six clerical collars; a black sweater; a pectoral cross; a crimson fascia; a purple sash; four sets of underclothing; and two pairs of black dress shoes, size seven and one half. Also, his valued collection of precious books and papers; miscellaneous personal effects and mementos; photos of his parents and of his childhood.

  Certainly, many cardinals had more and better possessions than he, Litti was well aware, but the cardinal had always taken his vow of poverty seriously. As a young priest, at his mother's side in the hospital when she was so sick with tuberculosis, Litti had promised Saint Jude Thaddeus, saint of the impossible, that if the good apostle would only spare his mother's life, he would give to charity half of any money he ever earned.

  Although Saint Jude welshed on the deal, Litti forever kept his half of the bargain.

  For the cardinal, this trip to Utah was, in more ways than one, a journey of no return. The entire package, convocation ticket, hotel, one-way plane fare, et cetera, had required virtually all of his lifelong savings: the tiny inheritance from his father, God bless him; nickels and dimes squirreled away from forty-eight years of faithful, low-paying servitude to his Church; the proceeds from his pawned cardinal's ring.

  Where he would go from here, Litti had no idea. All that was left in his wallet was 626,350 lire—about four hundred dollars. But in his heart, he had the unwavering confidence that what he was doing was right. And for Alphonse Litti, that was wealth enough.

  Also in town today was the Right Reverend Solomon T. Brady, D.D. He'd arrived a little earlier, was staying at a substantially nicer hotel, and was in considerably better spirits than he'd been at the last convocation. While barely into his new televangelical fund-raising strategy, he could already forecast the success. His twenty-four-hour, pay-per-call phone lines, with trained counselors always available to accept calls and solicit donations, were operating at peak capacity. Things appeared to be back on track at the Universal Kingdom.

  And, making his first appearance at the convocation, another TV minister was arriving in style. Rolling up to his four-star hotel in a purple stretch limo, complete with a showy retinue of beautiful people, was the elegantly dressed First Reverend Fischer of the Samaritan Leadership Council, who'd recently changed his forename from “Richard” to “Peter,” to reflect his enhanced role as a “Fischer of Men.”

  Still condemning WNN's exposé as libelous, and still professing an intimate connection with the Messiah, Reverend Fischer was rumored to have paid an outrageous sum for two front-row seats for himself and an attractive, puerile little blond girl he referred to compassionately as “my poor little orphan.”

  65

  The outskirts of Cairo, Egypt 5:45 A.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000

  For his drive out to the desert, Feldman had left extra early, plagued by the
fear that this time Jeza wouldn't be awaiting him. It was a worry brought on by another of those nagging, perplexing dreams he'd been experiencing with such regularity.

  Arriving at the familiar hill, Feldman parked his Rover at the bottom and jogged quickly to the top, his heart racing more from anxiety than physical exertion. Disastrously, his worst fears were immediately confirmed. No Jeza. And with the dawning sun easily defining the flat desert horizon, she was nowhere to be seen across the vast panorama.

  Feldman began to explore the humiliation and financial loss this major faux pas would visit upon him and his company. The entire world was poised in anticipation of this great event, with Feldman the manifest master of ceremonies.

  Refusing to fall dictate to his dream, he resisted calling for Jeza across the wilderness void. He'd simply wait and hope. He looked at his watch. Six A.M. First light. She had said she'd be here at first light. He folded his arms impatiently.

  “Good morning,” a voice spoke softly behind him.

  Feldman spun around in startled relief. This time she must have come up the same hill as he, behind him. He had simply assumed she'd arrive from the desert, that being the direction in which she'd left.

  Embarrassed, he responded “Hello” with a sheepish grin. “You look great this morning!”

  She smiled back.

  “Did you leave your bags at the bottom of the hill?”

  “I have no bags,” she explained simply.

  Feldman wrinkled his brow and wondered how she managed to get by with nothing more than the clothes on her back.

  “No matter,” he said, cheerily. “God will provide. Or at least WNN will provide. We've got everything you'll need, from clothes to toothbrush. Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay then!” He extended his hand, she took it and they trekked down to his vehicle together.

  “Have you ever ridden in a car before?” he asked as they made their way to a rendezvous point with the helicopter that would shuttle them to the Cairo airport.

  “No.”

  “How about a helicopter or an airplane?”

  “No.”

  “You'll enjoy it,” Feldman assured her, although he had to wonder if this implacable lady ever really experienced true joy or pleasure. He'd never heard her laugh. And while she'd smile on occasion, it was usually fleeting and never exactly convincing.

  The helicopter was a safety precaution. On the mere rumor that the Messiah would be departing from the Cairo airport crowds had jammed the public areas and gates for days. The easiest way to avoid any entanglements was simply to fly the prophetess over the crowds and deposit her at the plane.

  WNN's clandestine arrangements for Jeza's flight, thanks to the full cooperation of the White House, had been well orchestrated. The chartered jet sat alone and undisturbed at a desolate area of the airport. But Feldman knew that a whole contingent of CIA security operatives were randomly scattered about in the immediate vicinity.

  Other than four crew members and two stewardesses, Hunter and Cissy McFarland were the only other passengers Feldman and WNN had allowed on board. Feldman had felt at least one woman from WNN's staff should be available if Jeza required some manner of personal assistance on the flight. Under normal circumstances, Cissy would have been an automatic choice. But given her widely known conflict with Hunter, it had taken an extraordinary effort from Feldman to convince the WNN hierarchy. And that was only after Cissy trained her big green eyes on Feldman and swore a blood oath that the devil himself couldn't provoke her to another incident.

  Feldman also had to wrest a solemn pledge from Hunter not to say or do stupid things during the trip that could possibly antagonize Cissy. But Feldman realized this was not an issue under Hunter's control. So the reporter had a few other worries to occupy his mind as the hatch to the jetliner was sealed and he and the prophetess took their plush seats near the midsection of the fuselage. The jet was immediately cleared for takeoff and they were soon hurtling down the runway off into a cloudless blue sky to begin their long journey to America.

  66

  The White House, Washington, D.C. 7:20 A.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000

  Over an early breakfast meeting in the first family's sun room, White House campaign advisors Brian Newcomb and Edwin Guenther were having a difference of perspectives about the day's presidential agenda. They'd already been informed that the prophetess Jeza was in the air and their ambitious plan was under way. The president, who had intended to join them, was delayed by a phone call and had insisted they start without him.

  “This gambit had better pull in some major support from the millenarians,” Newcomb was warning as he attacked a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, “ ‘cause we're sure pissin’ off the rest of the media by only allowing WNN to cover the dinner tonight.”

  “It's all right here,” Guenther responded confidently, tapping his fork on the top of a large bound document “Five separate, independent research reports. This Jeza's so hot with the millenarians, all Al has to do is stand next to her and we're gonna pump his ratings seventeen to twenty percent.”

  “All the more reason we should have stuck to the game plan,” Newcomb pointed out. “Bringing her in for lunch would have been just fine, but a formal dinner and reception? Overnight? There's too much time to kill. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong. We just don't know enough about her. Hell, I've heard reports she's a certified wacko. I mean, shit, the girl thinks she's a female Jesus Christ, for chrissakes!”

  “If she's wacko, she's no more wacko than some of the other religious nuts we've paraded through the Oval Office.” Guenther was not above talking with his mouth full. “And none of ‘em have done us an iota of good. Besides, a quick in-out isn't gonna get the job done. She's too damn important Having her come all this way for a fast lunch and then packing her off again would make Al look like a superficial vote panderer. Hell, the public thinks she's God, and we damn well better treat her like one!”

  “I guess I'm getting cold feet,” Newcomb confessed, rubbing his face. “Let's just make sure we keep Jon Feldman close. At least he seems to be able to exercise some control over her.”

  “Yeah. He's a good man. Gave us everything we asked for.”

  “Not that he had much choice, now did he?” Newcomb added, laughing.

  Guenther laughed with him. “The power of the presidency!”

  “But I hear he did make one demand on us,” Newcomb mentioned.

  “Oh yeah? What was that?”

  “He made us promise we wouldn't put her on the spot or try to get her to perform any miracles.”

  “Damn!” Guenther feigned disappointment “I was gonna have her take off twenty pounds around my middle and give me another four inches on the ol’ sausage!”

  They both laughed heartily.

  67

  The skies over the Atlantic 10:10 A.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000

  The large four-engined jet that WNN had specially chartered for this journey was the private property of a Saudi oil sheik. In addition to offering plush, oversized leather seating, the jet had been converted to house a large forward stateroom with king-size bed, elegant dining room, and all the accoutrements of the incalculably wealthy. Feldman had been curious about how Jeza might react to all this indulgent extravagance, and saw the flight as a special opportunity to gain important insights into her nature. He was not disappointed. But he was surprised.

  From the onset of the trip, Feldman had been kept off-balance by Jeza's inexplicable awareness and understanding of her surroundings. Intending to assist her with her seat belt as they had prepared for takeoff, for example, he found she needed no instruction. The same held true with adjusting her electronic seat controls, regulating her air conditioning, turning on her overhead light, or manipulating the armrest dials to listen to music on her headset. She had handled all these things easily and perfunctorily, requiring no assistance.

  Relatively early in the flight Feldman had also discovered, in a
ttempting to point out some of the more notable sites and cities over which they passed, that Jeza was well up on her geography, too. After waxing professorial to her about various regions of the Mediterranean, he'd mistakenly identified the island of Sardinia as Sicily. She had casually corrected him, and he was suddenly aware, to his great chagrin, that all this time she'd been politely tolerating his amateurish stint as tour guide. Once again, he'd seriously underestimated this fathomless woman.

  Ever mindful of his duty to WNN, and with the world desperate to know more about the mysterious Messiah, Feldman turned his efforts toward drawing Jeza into revealing discussions. With mixed results. At first, she answered most of his questions with a simple yes or no, and seemed preoccupied, uncommunicative. Given that there would be plenty of time and opportunity for Feldman to attempt further conversation, he felt it best not to press, and finally allowed her some peace.

  During this time period, Hunter and Cissy dutifully kept their distance at the front seating section, allowing Jeza and Feldman privacy. Occasionally, and discreetly, Hunter would turn around and shoot a little footage of the prophetess with a zoom lens. While Jeza could not have avoided noticing some of these occurrences, she tolerated them.

  It wasn't until almost five hours of flight time had elapsed that a clumsy, but fortunate accident eventually opened the door to an anecdotal insight into the Messiah.

  Well out over the Atlantic now, Jeza and Feldman were dozing in their seats next to each other. Cissy was curled up with a pillow and blanket beside Hunter, who'd been staring vapidly out the window, bored.

  Deciding this was a perfect opportunity for some candid close-ups of the prophetess, Hunter slipped past Cissy and crept out into the aisle, stealing slowly toward the back of the plane. This was the nearest to the Messiah he'd yet dared since first being introduced to her.