by Glenn Kleier
Feldman's stomach soured at the image of the cold, calculating mentality behind this scheme. But his desire to know the entire truth overrode his revulsion.
“The solution arrived at,” Lazzlo continued, “was to position the IDF as champions of peace. The IDF would protect the prophetess and begin separating the two warring factions, to the best of its abilities. But the idea was to be selective in protecting Jeza.
“The IDF would defend the Messiah from any and all sects that might pose political problems for Israel should Jeza come to harm at their hands. Meanwhile, the IDF—specifically, my former Department of Intelligence Operations—would identify the sects and conspiracies that best fit our purposes. Ideally, those with Arabic origins. Once we selected the appropriate conspiracies, it was simply a matter of allowing one to succeed. Indeed, there were many ingenious plots uncovered.”
“I assume that's why you were so accommodating in allowing Jeza's Good Friday sermon—to facilitate an assassination attempt?”
“Exactly,” Lazzlo admitted. “Even to the point of providing a blast shield and an evacuation helicopter so it would appear we had done everything reasonable to protect the Messiah. Good-faith efforts to reduce any internal or international recriminations.”
“You knew”—Feldman was restraining himself, but the veins in his neck betrayed his anger—”that a professional sniper would have no problem striking Jeza when she finally emerged from behind the screen. That's why you were so careful to keep the media off the stage and to clear the rooftops for him.”
“And to enlist you and Mr. Hunter as witnesses,” Lazzlo added.
Feldman was stunned at this revelation. “We were a part of the plot?” he blurted out, incredulously.
The shame in Lazzlo's face was apparent. “We went to the additional length of having the assassin furnished with a WNN jacket so you couldn't possibly miss him. We knew when and at what gate he would be entering the Old City. When he presented his falsified credentials, he was informed that it was mandatory that he wear a media identification jacket and we supplied him with one of WNN's. He was even escorted to his position directly in front of you to ensure he'd be completely conspicuous.”
“So the gunman was a Muslim Gog?” Feldman wanted to know.
“No,” Lazzlo said “Although at first we were concentrating on several Arab extremist groups, in the final analysis, we settled on a Mafia operation.”
“Mafia?” Feldman was puzzled.
“Yes. One of the plots we uncovered had direct Mafia ties. Probably a reprisal for Jeza's Secret Archives revelations about the Vatican-Finia C.C. scandal. At any rate, the Mafia's scheme proved simpler and more ingenious than any of the others. The camera-rifle was perfect. And we were able to assemble an extensive file on the sniper—a man with a record of success and a reputation for sharpshooting accuracy. His MO was always to fire several rounds to the upper torso in rapid succession, resulting in fatal wounds to the heart and lungs. That was perfect for our purposes because, of course, Tamin and Goene did not want the neurochips damaged, if at all possible.”
“And you wanted us to witness, if not record, all of this so that the gunman could be arrested, identified and convicted,” Feldman concluded for Lazzlo. “With an obvious trail and documented Mafia ties, the IDF would be entirely in the clear.”
“Precisely. Security personnel were positioned to arrest the assassin in short order. We had all his escape routes cut off. However, you nearly upset our plan single-handedly, Mr. Feldman. No one anticipated your inhuman leaping abilities. If that first shot had not been perfect—”
Lazzlo paused and his face clouded as darkly as those of his companions.
Feldman had heard enough. Not bothering to mask his anguish and disgust, he rose stiffly to his feet. “I'd like to see Jeza, one last time,” he requested.
“Certainly,” Lazzlo allowed. “But I must caution you, we do not have much time. Immediately afterward, if you will bear with me, we have just a few more things of some importance to discuss.”
Feldman agreed.
“While I make arrangements for your visit,” Lazzlo said, “perhaps you'd care to see the Catholic cardinal?”
“Litti?” Feldman's face lightened slightly. “Yes, please.”
Awaiting Feldman and Hunter in a room in another wing was a reasonably composed Cardinal Alphonse Litti. Feldman felt a surge of warmth in seeing him again.
Looking tired, but maintaining control, the cardinal hugged Feldman like a long-lost sibling. Despite the pain, Feldman accepted the embrace without complaint.
“Jon, thank God! It's so good to see your face. But you're hurt.”
“It looks a lot worse than it really is, Alphonse,” Feldman replied. “It's good to see you again, too.”
Litti repeated the ceremony with Hunter, who affectionately patted the cardinal's back.
“Things have turned out quite differently than any of us would have anticipated, haven't they, my friends?” Litti said as he offered chairs to his visitors, holding his precarious emotions in check. “Quite frankly, I just never thought God would allow this to happen to Her.”
“I know, Alphonse,” Feldman responded, admiring the clergyman's brave front. “It just doesn't seem possible that she's gone.”
They were all three quiet for a moment, pursuing their independent memories.
“Of course.” Litti sighed. “She knew this was to be, all along.”
Feldman looked at him.
“She prophesied this many times,” he continued. “Only I misunderstood. I saw things from an entirely incorrect perspective, the way I wanted to see them. How very presumptuous of me. Such befalls him who dares anticipate the mysterious ways of the Lord!”
Hunter reacted to this, breaking a long silence. “It certainly looked to me like she was aware of what was coming. It was as if she knew that gun was waiting for her and just walked right into it.”
“Yes,” Litti agreed. “And of course in retrospect it's all very clear. She never intimated a joyful ending to her journey.”
Feldman dropped his head and his voice. “Alphonse, was she—was it—quick?”
The cardinal clasped Feldman's good hand in both of his and squeezed it gently. His face took on the cast of a man at peace with his vision of God. In a hushed voice he said, “It was very quick. She was dying as She fell into our arms. She lay there quietly, so incredibly beautiful. So brave, and so noble.”
Litti shut his eyes and tilted his head heavenward in spiritual transport. “She simply closed Her eyes and the life left Her. I could actually feel it. As if a great weight were lifted from Her. There was a trace of a smile on Her lips, I thought, and She was gone.”
He paused for a long period and then opened his eyes. They were tearful.
Feldman's jaw was taut, his eyes seeing into the past. “And then the Israelis came to your aid?”
Litti nodded. “The Israelis were wonderful. They came right up and took Her from me and rushed us both into the helicopter and flew us directly here. The Messiah was in the emergency room in a matter of minutes. But of course it was too late.”
“Alphonse?” Feldman had one more thing he must know. “Right before the end, as she stood there, she whispered something. Do you recall what her last words were?”
The cardinal looked thoughtful. “I can't say, Jon. In fact, I don't actually recall Her saying anything after She left the podium.”
Feldman nodded, disappointed. “Where is she now, Alphonse?”
“She's still here, Jon. They have Her in a separate vault in the morgue. There's some question as to the release of the body and who holds claim. They're attempting to contact Mrs. Leveque, I understand. I was afraid they'd try to conduct an autopsy. Fortunately, Jewish law makes that very difficult, although in murder investigations they generally can receive permission from the rabbinical court. But I have no intention of allowing such a desecration. I've demanded temporary custody through tomorrow morning.”
&
nbsp; Feldman knitted his brow. “Why tomorrow morning, Cardinal?”
Litti stared at Feldman as if the newsman were from another planet. “Jon!” he chided. “Tomorrow morning, Jeza will be restored to us. It's Easter Sunday. The Resurrection! You must have faith!”
Feldman squinted hard at the clergyman and nodded again. Lazzlo appeared at the door. Standing, Feldman bent toward the cardinal and compassionately gripped his arm. “Alphonse, I'd like to pay my respects to Jeza now. Would you please excuse us for a short while?”
Litti looked searchingly into his friend's eyes. “When you see Her, you will know. You must believe, Jon. You must believe!”
As they left, Feldman turned to Hunter and they exchanged sighs.
Proceeding at a respectfully slow pace, Commander Lazzlo led Hunter and the struggling Feldman along a corridor to a service elevator guarded by armed security personnel. Lazzlo pressed the last button for the lowest level of the hospital.
As they descended, Feldman stared at the officer, a concern rising in his mind. “I presume the plan was to retrieve the neurochips under the guise of an autopsy?”
“Yes.”
Feldman swallowed hard and asked, “Has that been completed yet?”
“No,” Lazzlo answered. “I've defied Tamin and Goene and blocked the postmortem, which is why we have little time left. They consider me in mutiny. An armored division is on its way as we speak.”
Exiting the elevator past a row of guards, traveling through several corridors past still more guards, they turned into a large morgue filled with columns of small metal doors along two facing walls.
Feldman felt ill at ease and his palms began to sweat. They advanced through this room into another corridor that ended in a single, large metal door, very much resembling the entranceway to a bank vault.
Lazzlo paused in front. “Would you care to be alone with her for a few minutes, Mr. Feldman?” he offered graciously.
Feldman looked to Hunter, who nodded solemnly, barely able to meet his friend's gaze.
Lazzlo pulled open the large door and Feldman hesitated, then entered. A cold wall of air met his face, and felt refreshing under the circumstances. The door closed behind him and Feldman needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim, indirect lighting.
The room was completely bare save for a lone table at its center and security cameras in opposing corners of the ceiling. The table was completely covered in white drape, under which was the unmistakable form of a small female. A dark stain showed conspicuously above the breast area.
Feldman approached slowly, with the heaviest of hearts. He halted next to the still form and bowed his head in prayer. After a minute, he summoned his courage and nervously, tenderly drew back the sheet.
It was too much for him and the tears flowed freely from his unblinking eyes. He found her every bit as noble and precious as she had been in the full bloom of life. Yet the luster was gone. Her porcelain skin no longer glowed, but now manifested the eternal grandeur of white marble.
He stared at her for the longest time, his mind churning with images and memories. He realized he was overstaying his visit, but he couldn't tear himself away, knowing this would be the last time he would ever be with her again. He ran his hands through her soft hair and then gently replaced the drape.
Lazzlo and Hunter patiently awaited the reporter as he emerged from the room. Feldman had composed himself, but he could tell from the men's expressions that his face bore the evidence of his experience. He was not embarrassed.
Lazzlo gestured to Hunter, “I've already asked Mr. Hunter if he cared to view the remains, and he has declined. Perhaps you'd allow me a few more moments of your time, Mr. Feldman?”
“I also have more questions to ask you,” Feldman replied, solemnly.
“Of course.”
“First, I want to know why you bothered to warn us about Goene's raid on WNN back in January.”
Lazzlo stared at the floor. “While you may find this hard to accept, Mr. Feldman, I was truly attempting to help you. Let me just say that I, and another within the IDF high command, were becoming increasingly concerned about the devastating effects Tamin's Negev experiment was having on our country. Our world!
“We could not oppose Tamin directly. He is a powerful man with many influential friends. We had to work secretly to counter him. His order for your arrest, for example, was simply a personal vendetta. All that the IDF needed to do in response to your True Origins broadcast was to eject WNN from Israel. I tried to accomplish what was necessary without putting innocent people behind bars.”
“Again”—Feldman wagged his head—”I don't understand. You resist Tamin and Goene in trying to help us, but you willingly participate in this cowardly murder.”
Feldman was amazed at the rapid deterioration in Lazzlo's demeanor. Like a deflating balloon, he shrunk in both stature and poise. “Please understand, Mr. Feldman, that I do now recognize the full weight of my actions. And while I understand I can never make atonement for what I've done, what there's left for me to do, I am doing.”
The reporter almost felt sorry for the commander.
“Please also understand,” Lazzlo attempted to explain, “that at the time, I truly believed our actions were in the best interests of Israel. I bore Jeza no personal malice. I merely thought her another of the countless deranged fanatics who have plagued this city for four millennia. Only this time, the fanatic happened to have a global following which threatened our nation, and perhaps our world.”
Feldman could no longer withhold his empathy, recognizing that in the past, he himself had harbored precisely the same fears. The newsman placed his good hand on the officer's shoulder. “If it's any consolation to you, Commander, I feel certain Jeza would forgive you. I think I knew her well enough to say that.”
This had a positive effect on Lazzlo, who searched the reporter's face carefully. “That means more to me, Mr. Feldman, than you can possibly know.” His composure returning, he gestured down the hallway. “But come, I have something else to show you that I trust you'll want to make public. Mr. Hunter, you'll need your camera.”
As they exited the room and headed back down the corridor to a side laboratory, Feldman had one last question he had to ask.
“What about those claims that Jeza was controlled by that neurotransmitter chip? Was someone communicating with her? Or exerting some sort of influence over her?”
“I'd like some satisfaction on that one, too,” Hunter added. “The way she sacrificed herself to that gunman yesterday. She walked to the front of that stage and just offered herself up, like she was under someone's sped or in a trance or—”
“I'm about to answer that question for you now,” Lazzlo replied.
They entered a glass-doored room and an elderly gentleman in a white lab coat stood to greet them.
“Gentlemen,” Lazzlo introduced them, “this is the head of forensic medicine here at Hadassah. Dr. Goldberg, could I trouble you please?”
As if he'd performed this duty several times before, the doctor moved spryly to a large screen on the wall, darkened the room and flipped a switch. Hunter turned on his camera to record the demonstration. Illuminated instantly on the screen was a transparent, multicolored image of a full-size human body, laid out horizontally on its side.
Feldman looked at the fascinating image, curious as to its relevance.
“Dr. Goldberg,” Lazzlo asked, “can you explain what we're looking at here?”
“Of course, Commander,” Goldberg responded and moved in front of them to the center of the screen. “Gentlemen, what you're viewing is an Enhanced Positron Emission Tomography of a human body. An E-PET scan, if you will.
“You'll notice that all internal organs of the body are completely visible.”
“We'll have to take your word on that one, Doctor.” Feldman made their lack of medical knowledge understood.
“Now,” the doctor began manipulating controls under the screen, “we're advancing to
the cranial area, and I'm magnifying the image and rotating it so that you can see ad angles and aspects of the cerebellum. Can you see?”
Feldman and Hunter nodded dumbly, watching the revolving anatomy.
“Now, tell me,” the doctor said, like a professor leading a student, “what do you notice?”
The two newsmen studied the image for a moment, baffled. “I don't know, Doctor,” Feldman finally admitted. “Am I supposed to see something unusual?”
“No,” the doctor answered. “As a matter of fact, this is a completely normal brain in every way.” The doctor flipped another dial at the bottom of the screen and then stepped away to allow a clearer view.
Magically, the rotating skull started to change, to fill in, to add features, to become whole—a complete human head and face. A full-color, three-dimensional image of a beautiful young woman with tousled black hair and perfect, alabaster skin.
Feldman gasped as the enormous implications began to sweep over him. He said nothing, his eyes orbiting the peaceful, sleeping face. Finally, in the softest voice, he asked, “This—all of this—is Jeza?”
“Yes,” Lazzlo said, “down to the minutest detail. Even to the whorls of her fingerprints. This procedure was undertaken last evening as a preliminary to an autopsy.”
The doctor reversed the image sequence to expose, once again, the internal aspects of the cranium. “As you can see,” the doctor pointed out with a pen, “there are no internal microchips. No wires. No electrodes. No artificial anything. Simply a natural, normal, healthy human brain.”
“No,” Lazzlo corrected him. “Not exactly human.”
Hunter whispered to himself, “I'll be damned!”
Staggered, unable to take his eyes off the fantastic image, Feldman had to sit down.
The doctor continued his demonstration, scanning down the body to reveal the internal organs of the chest cavity. “You'll notice here,” he indicated with his pen, “a single, invasive trauma of the cardiac muscle …”