by Glenn Kleier
Although Hunter was absolutely silent in his approach, Jeza, like a cat, sensed him and shifted upright in a flash, freezing him with her ice-blue eyes. Feldman was jarred from his nap. He knew instantly what had happened, but had no idea how the Messiah would react to this rude intrusion on her valued privacy.
Before Feldman could decide what to say or do, Hunter recovered from her gaze, and searching to ad-lib his way through the incident, clumsily blurted out, “Miss Jeza, I was just wondering, uh, if you wouldn't mind, uh— showing me how you make yourself disappear in the middle of a crowd the way you do. I, uh, I won't tell anyone, I swear to God.” He winced at his profanity.
The panicked look on Hunter's face was so pitiful, Feldman cycled uncontrollably through flashes of embarrassment, fear and amusement.
From her seat down the aisle, Cissy McFarland was more certain in her emotions. She'd been watching all this develop with nervous curiosity, and now she buried her face in her pillow, mortified.
Through all of this, Jeza sat stone-still. Slightly frowning, her lips pursed, her emotions undiscemible.
At length she leaned forward in her seat and deliberately, slowly, drew an arm up in front of her until the full, hanging sleeve of her robe completely obscured her face, like a magician drawing a scarf over an object that was about to be vanished.
Hunter shrank back, apprehensively.
Suddenly she dropped her arm to reveal her head completely covered in a traditional black Islamic veil.
A childishly simple but effective little trick. To disappear in a crowd, all the Messiah ever had to do was to duck down, flip on her veil, and instantly render herself indistinguishable from the myriad of other similarly attired women around her. No one would be the wiser. And even if suspicious, no self-respecting Middle Easterner would ever consider defiling the confidence and modesty of the veil.
Hunter quickly nodded his understanding, thanked the Messiah effusively and then hastened off to the rear of the plane to lie low for a while.
As Hunter fled, Jeza slipped off her veil, exposing a slight smile. Feldman was relieved and pleased to see that the Messiah did, indeed, have a sense of humor. He turned to her, grinning.
“You know, it's only natural that people are curious about you, Jeza,” he opened. “You're a very important person, and so little is known about you.”
“I am not important,” she said with a sigh. “It is the Word that is important.”
“But you are important! If people are to believe your message, they must believe in you. That can only come from getting to know you.”
“The Word stands on its own,” she returned flatly. “Little is known about the writers of the four Gospels, yet their words are immortal.”
Feldman leaned toward her and looked into the abyss of her eyes. “Well, I would certainly like to know more about you, Jeza.”
She was inside his mind again. His soul. He felt suspended out in front of her, as weightless as a ghost. She sighed again, sounding disappointed. “You have seen more than any other, nevertheless you must see more. Blessed are those who do not see, yet believe.”
Deflated and confused, Feldman sunk slowly back in his seat.
Jeza closed her eyes to return to her sleep and softly murmured something that sounded to Feldman like, “… in your dreams.” Although he was certain he misunderstood.
About half an hour later, a flight attendant appeared before them to announce dinner, and to invite Jeza and Feldman to freshen up before convening in the dining room.
Hunter, returning to his seat from his self-imposed exile, spied Jeza coming his way as she headed for her stateroom. He withdrew into a corner, giving her a wide berth. But noticing this, Jeza walked over to him and asked if he and his companion would join her and Feldman for supper.
Feeling reclaimed, Hunter readily accepted.
From their first two meals on the plane, Feldman had learned that Jeza followed a very meager and strict diet. When a flight attendant had brought them breakfast menus, Jeza had passed altogether and taken only water. At lunchtime, she had ignored the meat and poultry dishes to settle for a salad.
For her dinner, she had a raw vegetable plate and hard rolls, unbuttered. Which made it a little difficult for the others, who were tempted by, and ultimately succumbed to, gourmet appetizers, entrées and desserts. When asked if she objected to anyone having wine, she offhandedly replied, “Christ Himself enjoyed wine,” but took none herself.
Not having had any personal contact with Jeza before, but with a long list of burning questions, Cissy cautiously attempted a query of her own.
“Excuse me, Jeza, I hope you don't mind me asking, but there's an issue you've raised several times, a point about which there's still much anxiety and concern in the world. Does your coming really mean that the Last Day is imminent?”
Raising a glass of water to her lips, Jeza paused and returned it to the table. She was quiet for a moment before responding. “That there is at long last concern in the world over the will of the Father, I submit, is good. The purpose of my coming is to deliver the Word of God and to reveal God's plan for all mankind. I say to you that the destruction of the world can take many forms, and that mankind has brought upon himself God's judgment. A great trial is coming. And all will be revealed soon, at the appropriate time, and not before.”
This disclosure had a sobering effect on the gathering. A prolonged silence ensued and Cissy's remaining questions had suddenly lost their fire.
Finally, in an attempt to dispel the gloom and rekindle the conversation, Cissy asked, “Jeza, you seem to lead such a hard life. No home, no possessions, no close friends. How do you manage?”
“You say I have no friends?” she responded, looking genuinely surprised. “But everywhere I am, people open their hearts to me. I am generously offered shelter, food, clothing. And when I leave, I leave with friendship. I lack for nothing,” she said with complete sincerity. “How is my life hard?”
“But don't you ever get lonely?” Cissy persisted. “Don't you ever long for companionship, a family, a normal life apart from all the turmoil and crowds?”
“I find peace in my meditation,” she responded. “My mission is not to seek earthly gratifications. Each of us is here for a purpose. And in fulfilling that purpose, so do we achieve personal happiness.”
Feldman opened his mouth to ask an intentionally loaded question. A difficult, dangerous question he knew he must ultimately ask of this New Messiah. And then he reconsidered. Although sorely tempted, he dared not risk it now. Perhaps on the return flight, if and when they'd cleared all that lay ahead.
After dinner, Cissy offered to show Jeza some of the extensive wardrobe of beautiful clothes, shoes and accessories they'd assembled for her. She wasn't interested. “I will wash my robe tonight and it will be clean and dry for the morning,” she decided.
“But what about shoes?” Hunter wondered. “It's winter and cold in Washington!”
Jeza looked down at her worn leather sandals and appeared perfectly satisfied.
“Well,” Cissy enticed her, “at least let me show you some of the nice new robes we have. You'll be meeting a lot of important people at the White House and you'll want to look fresh.”
Hesitantly, Jeza accompanied Cissy to her stateroom and they closed the door behind them.
“How about a round or two of HyperWar? Hunter challenged his fellow newsman to a video game on the big-screen TV in the lounge. “They've got a great setup in here.”
While Cissy and Jeza were occupied, Feldman and Hunter did 3-D battle in outer space. They became so engrossed, it wasn't until Hunter whirled around in celebration after destroying one of Feldman's Stellar Interceptors, that the men noticed the vision standing behind them. Hunter stopped and whistled. A beaming Cissy extended her hand to proudly display an uneasy, uncertain Jeza.
The New Messiah was clad in another simple, full-length white robe. But rather than coarse linen, this one was of soft, elegant fabric, fa
r more stylish and attractive. Cinched at her waist with a simple gold cord, it was a well-tailored garment with a modest square-cut collar. Upon her tiny white feet were two new sandals with pretty gold side buckles.
But most noticeably, her thick, formerly untamed hair had been washed, trimmed slightly and brushed smooth. It slipped like black, shiny silk down the sides of her face across her magnificent jawline.
“She wouldn't allow any makeup,” Cissy complained.
She needed none. Her long black lashes radiated away from those stratospheric blue eyes. Her finely sculpted lips contrasted deep crimson against her flawless, fluorescent white complexion.
Jeza had obviously been pushed into all this, and showed increasing discomfort at the appreciative stares and comments. “I prefer my own robe,” she declared finally, starting to back away, but Feldman rushed to the defense.
“Please don't change,” he asked disarmingly. “You look so fresh and revitalized! Once you see what the women wear in Washington, you'll be thankful!”
Jeza appeared unconvinced, but Hunter, attempting to lighten the situation, interrupted with another of his soaring non sequiturs.
“Hey, Jeza, I bet you've never tried this before,” he chirped. “It's called a video game. Give it a shot, it's fun! I just disintegrated five of Jon's spaceships, no contest!” He turned and with a quick flip of his handheld control, sent another of Feldman's armada into oblivion.
Jeza again stared at Hunter with that incredulous, slightly frowning gaze he seemed to invite. Then, almost as an afterthought, she took the control from Feldman's outstretched hand, turned and in one fell swoop, faster than the eye could follow, executed the complex maneuvers necessary to annihilate Hunter's entire space fleet. She immediately handed the control back to the astonished Feldman, pivoted quickly, and with a slight, bemused smile on her face, retired to her room.
Hunter could only stare at the screen, mouth agape.
Jeza spent the remaining few hours before their arrival in her room, alone, meditating.
68
Salt Lake City, Utah 8:00 A.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000
Cardinal Litti was up early this morning in anticipation of yet another full day at the second convocation. He sat on the sofa in his hotel room, sipping tea and praying.
But in the middle of his thoughts, the cardinal was interrupted by a knock. Assuming it to be maid service, he quickly unlatched the lock and opened the door wide. But it was not the chambermaid.
“Hello, Alphonse,” a familiar but unwelcome voice intruded. “May we come in?”
“Di Concerci! Santorini!” Litti gasped. “What are you doing here?”
The two cardinals entered the room, despite lacking an invitation.
“You're looking well, Cardinal Litti,” Silvio Santorini greeted his errant colleague.
“ ‘Cardinal?’” Litti questioned. “Do I still hold that title?”
“Of course,” di Concerci reassured him.
Litti asked the impossible. “Can it be that you're here because Nicholas has reevaluated my report?”
“No, Cardinal,” di Concerci said. “We're here to observe the convocation, and also to talk with you about returning to the Curia. Perhaps we were too abrupt with you. Perhaps you should have been allowed to discuss your— interesting theories. If you'd be willing to come back with us at the end of the convocation, we assure you, you will have an opportunity to present your thinking. Come, let us go to breakfast together and we'll discuss all this further.”
Litti was not won over so easily and emitted a short, contemptuous laugh. “Please spare me the patronization. The Congregation's encyclical on the New Messiah is written and disseminated. It's too late for my words to matter.”
“It's never too late, Alphonse,” Santorini promised. “Please, reconsider.”
“Do you think I make my choices casually, Silvio?” Litti's face reddened with emotion. ‘That I so simply give up fifty years of devoted service to my Church. Abandon my security, the only life I have ever known, to pursue—” Litti fought back the tears that welled in his pained, sad eyes.
Knowing he was wasting his efforts, Litti calmed himself and changed the subject. “You're here for the duration of the assembly? You'll stay to hear the Messiah speak?”
“We are here for the duration, Alphonse,” di Concerci pledged. “I'll be representing the Vatican on the dignitary panel.”
“What!” Litti shouted, in disbelief. “You try to prevent my coming, and then you steal the panel seat I want!” He turned and retreated to a window, needing to put distance between himself and these interlopers. In the distance, the snow-capped mountain peaks stood serene and eternal against the azure heavens.
“Antonio did not steal your place, Alphonse,” Santorini attempted to reassure the wayward cardinal. “The convocation made a formal request of the Vatican for an official representation on the panel. Nicholas was considering you when you forsook your position on the Congregation. You were in absentia. We didn't even know for sure that you were here until after we arrived last night.”
“I don't believe you!” Litti challenged. “Nicholas denied my request to come here. Why would he reconsider?”
“Irrespective, Alphonse”—di Concerci sidestepped this—“we're here to observe and evaluate this alleged Messiah, which is precisely what you wished of us all along.”
Litti turned to face his old adversary once more. “Cardinal di Concerci, I caution you that you cannot possibly understand her message unless you adjust your perspective. You must listen with a virgin ear, feel with a pure heart, think with an unadulterated mind.
“Regretfully, in knowing you, Prefect, I must say that I have little hope for you in that regard. But if, after hearing the New Messiah, either of you find yourselves persuaded to my position by even a small degree, seek me out again and I will speak with you further. Beyond that, we have nothing more to say.”
With that, the two Vatican emissaries departed. Litti attempted to return to his prayer but was too upset.
In the elevator down to the lobby, Silvio Santorini rolled his eyes and shook his head at his colleague. “He's exactly as you described him. Not at all himself. It's very sad. And potentially very embarrassing for us should he express his views to any of the media who hover constantly around us here. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it was not wise to allow Alphonse to retain his cardinalship. Should he speak out in public, he may be presumed to be representing an opinion of the Curia. Or at best intimating a division in our ranks. It's dangerous.”
“I agree, my friend,” the prefect replied, “but the pontiff wouldn't hear of it At least, not yet Nicholas and Alphonse were once very close. Nicholas still holds out hope that our fractious cardinal will come to his senses. Personally, I've never found him to be sensible.”
Santorini nodded “Did you bring your virgin ears?”
“None that I would allow the words of this false prophetess to penetrate, I can assure you,” di Concerci quipped. And both men indulged in a brief laugh as they left the elevator and exited the hotel into the brisk morning air.
69
Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C. 2:15 P.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000
It was a bright and beautiful winter afternoon. Right on schedule, WNN's charter flight touched down on the outskirts of the U.S. capital. The sight that greeted the deplaning party was spectacular—hundreds of thousands of screaming, near-hysterical people with flowers and signs and flashing cameras, amassed as far as the eye could see around the protected perimeters of the huge airport.
It would have been impossible to motorcade through this congestion and, as planned, the Moore administration had one of its presidential helicopters waiting close by to whisk the four of them immediately off to the White House. All the immense crowd got for its long patience was a few glimpses of the petite Messiah as she intermittently appeared among the moving wall of Secret Service agents.
But there was no mistaking her. Her r
adiance set her dramatically apart from everyone else around her. Disappointing to Feldman, Jeza had returned to the security of her old linen robe and tired, worn sandals. Her hair, however, looking considerably less unruly than Feldman was accustomed to seeing it, gleamed and bounced in the morning sun as she and her party moved rapidly across the tarmac, into the idling chopper, up and off to the South Lawn.
The welcome at the White House was even more ebullient. The crowds were larger still Stretching all along Pennsylvania Avenue and its surrounding blocks were throngs of well-wishers, followers, the hopeful afflicted, the curious—as well as a few isolated groups of protesters who held absolutely no sway over this generally adoring crowd.
Throughout the cheering multitudes, colorful signs and placards abounded, praising Jeza as Lord, citing scripture, predicting the end of the world. And one banner that was particularly popular on all three major network evening newscasts: “Moore needs a miracle!”
Stepping out of the helicopter, Feldman took Jeza by the arm, assisted her down to the pad and along a lengthy red carpet past a full-dress color guard, a gauntlet of ramrod-straight Marines with drawn swords, a brass band and saluting Boy Scouts. The band, Feldman noticed, was playing a familiar tune. He had to smile. It was the same Sousa march Anne Leveque had hummed to him in recounting her story of the dancing lamb.
Unfortunately, Hunter and Cissy wouldn't be able to stop and take in much of this pomp and ceremony. Their responsibilities would be to help orchestrate the WNN camera crews deployed in and around the White House. And, with access to Feldman and the prophetess, Hunter and Cissy hoped to provide a personal, more intimate coverage of this historic event.
At the end of the military tunnel stood the president and first lady, the vice president and his wife, and countless senators, congressmen, assorted VIPs, socialites, foreign dignitaries and high-ranking bureaucratic officials. Everyone was smiling profusely. Feldman looked over at his small companion and was impressed with the confidence and poise she exhibited. None of this pageantry affected her in the slightest. She seemed neither impressed nor intimidated. Merely curious.