The End-Time Foretellers

by Ran Weber

  I wanted to close the computer and get out of there, but then I saw Senator Wilson’s name in the files. I brought my face closer to the screen, trying to understand the connection.

  I heard a door being slammed and raised my eyes.

  “Well, well,” said Jim, “here’s our friend… what do you say, Nash? Nice of him to drop by for a visit, isn’t it?”

  I stood up and the two agents approached me.

  “Great idea for an elegant break-in,” said Jim, “even Judy thought my cell was turned off, but the loyal Robert gave me a call.”

  “Robert?” I asked.

  “The security officer,” said Nash slowly and drew his pistol.

  “You’re aiming it at the wrong person,” I said coolly and took out my ID. “Special Agent David Peterson, FBI department of internal affairs.”

  Nash looked at Jim and then returned to look at me. He looked at the ID and said, “Looks genuine.”

  “Yoav Sharff has turned into David Peterson,” said Jim. “How convenient. You’re adding impersonating a federal agent to the list of felonies you’ve committed today, which already include fraud and arson?”

  Jim sat down in his chair and made himself comfortable, “I think you’d better start talking, Yoav.”

  “Check it out,” I told Nash, completely ignoring Jim, “I’m here to arrest Jim. If you resist the investigation, I’ll arrest you as well. This isn’t going to end up smoothly unless you start cooperating, Nash.”

  “Check?”

  “Call Harvey, the boss you admire so much, give him my details and check.”

  Jim struck his thighs and laughed. “Amazing. This guy really has a knack for acting.”

  Nash continued to hold and aim his pistol at me while dialing with his other hand. He placed the cell phone between his shoulder and his ear and looked at the ID. “Yes, please check a federal agent number for me,” he said and read the number over the phone. “What’s the agent’s name? I see.” If his skin was any lighter, I’m sure I’d have noticed him getting pale.

  “That’s a load of crap,” said Jim, are you actually buying this, Nash?”

  “Did you speak to Harvey?” I asked.

  “No… no… with someone else who actually authorized the information,” Nash was confused.

  “Call him,” I instructed. “Check with him about Jim, about where Jim is supposed to be right now.”

  Unwillingly, he called Harvey. “Yes, boss. I’m looking for Jim. Where? Appointment with an internal affairs agent? Yes, sir,” he disconnected the call and turned his pistol at Jim.

  “Cuff him,” I ordered, “before I report that you interrupted an undercover agent in his line of duty and risked his life. And get this gun away from my face.”

  “It’s all nonsense,” Jim determined. “You’re making a big mistake, Nash. Put the gun down.”

  “We’ve exposed him a long time ago,” I said, “Jim is a racist of the most dangerous sort, the KKK is child’s play next to him. Do you know why he didn’t let you know about his appointment with me?”

  “Why?” Nash asked Jim. “What’s going on here, Jim?”

  “He won’t answer,” I said, “but I’ll tell you why, because he looks down on you. He looks down on everyone who doesn’t happen to be a white American with the right social status. He looks down on African-Americans, he looks down on people of Mediterranean descent… isn’t that right, Jim?”

  Jim didn’t answer. He fidgeted his fingers on the edge of the table and shook his head.

  I took the pages with the information I’d prepared about Jim and tossed them on the table close to Nash. Jim tried to pull the pages. Nash pressed his pistol against Jim’s throat. “You better let go on the pages.”

  Jim let go of the pages and Nash pulled them to him and drew back a little, still aiming his gun at Jim’s head.

  The printouts of the forum conversations in which Jim had cursed Nash stung the latter’s eyes, then released years’ worth of frustration and rage. Nash tore up some of the printout and his eyes widened. “You piece of…” he brushed off the pages and said on the radio, “Security, I need assistance.”

  “You’ll be sorry for this, Nash,” Jim nodded his head, “real sorry.”

  Two armed security guards entered the room and Nash pointed at Jim. The guards cuffed him.

  “What do we do next?”

  “I’ll be going up to the fifth floor to see Harvey for a few moments, you stay here and guard Jim. I’ll check with my superiors how to continue this investigation.”

  Nash nodded, picked up the rest of the printouts and continued reading them thoroughly. He released the security guards and I quickly went out to the corridor. I hurried down the stairs and ran out of the building. In retrospect, I realized the speed with which I had escaped the building was critical. My last remark to Nash about Harvey was stupid and irresponsible. After crossing the road, I looked back and saw that the building had only four floors.

  80

  “Yes, I got them the access code to the ‘LA Times.’

  “Don’t you think it was insane to give them the codes?” asked Rami. He emitted a brief sigh, “this doesn’t sound good, Yoav. I’m starting to think Ehud’s constant warnings about you aren’t as paranoid as they seem. Maybe you’ve really started working with the End-Time Foretellers.”

  “I didn’t give them the codes,” I interrupted him, “relax. Besides, this is just half the story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We still need to decipher which picture should be published in the newspaper to neutralize the system. To the best of my information, they don’t know that.”

  “And if they do?”

  “They don’t. Besides, I didn’t give them the codes, the codes are encrypted in my laptop and it’s in a safe place. I transferred them a code that expired within five hours. I was able to get into the main server and have the system define a new, random password for the user after five hours, which will be sent to his email with a message about new security measures, blah, blah, blah.”

  “What about the break-in into the Citibank computers?”

  “I think I’ve read something on the local news about it, as well as in the forum. I thought it was just boasting.”

  “The End-Time Foretellers broke into the Citibank computers. Seems to me like they are at least one step ahead of us.”

  I didn’t answer. It irritated me to think they were ahead of us, a ghost organization, with no traces I could find in reality. But Rami said an actual break-in has been reported.

  “So what’s the next move?” asked Rami, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I want to meet with someone called Norman Watts.”

  “Norman Watts?”

  “Yes. He was the chief architect of the Pillar of Fire, and one of the most senior managers.”

  “What do you mean ‘was?’ He was sacked?”

  “Something like that, it’s unclear. Anyway, I think I’ll be able to obtain some important information from him.”

  “Nice.”

  “But I have a small problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “Now the feds are on my tail. I broke into their offices to retrieve the information about Norman Watts. And the Israeli embassy decided that I’m a spy and the consul is trying to get an extradition order for me.”

  “I understand.”

  “You understand?”

  “It’ll be fine, Yoav, take it easy,” said Rami. “I’ll take the necessary steps. Right now, we have much bigger concerns.”

  “All right,” I said. He didn’t sound too worried. He’ll probably be able to fix this.

  “Good luck,” Rami finally said.

  “Rami?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know I was the one who gave Schetritt the code
?” It was probably Ehud, scheming behind my back. I remembered his miserable act at the embassy. He’d do anything to get me out of his way. “Ehud?”

  “No, it wasn’t Ehud. He didn’t have to tell me anything,” Rami said in a low voice, sounding more serious than usual. “The Iranians.”

  “What?”

  “The Iranians have armed their nuclear missile and they are preparing to launch it.”

  81

  The Valley, Los Angeles

  “The lamp of deficiencies?” I asked. “Did you buy it at Ikea?”

  I looked at the ceiling lamp. Nothing new there, same old familiar lamp. Binyamin insisted on speaking about interior lighting with me, while I was under pressure to get to my flight to San Francisco on time. I had bought a ticket under the name Joe David. I hid the FBI ID. I thought it best not to show it to anyone before my meeting with Norman. The names David Peterson and Yoav Sharff could no longer be used at airport checkpoints or anywhere else with a connection to the FBI computers. One other thing I had done to make sure the feds won’t interrupt with my preparations was to purchase a flight ticket to Florida under my own name on the internet. The flight was supposed to leave at about the same time. I assumed Jim would try to get me off it, so he won’t be coming to look for me at Binyamin’s.

  “No,” Binyamin smiled, “not really. It’s a story, not a real lamp. A story about Rabbi Nachman and the lamp of deficiencies.”

  “Never heard of it,” I said.

  “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Why not.” I sat on the sofa. “Tell it away.” I looked at my watch. I didn’t have too much time, I was hoping it would be short.

  “All right, but don’t take my word for it, I’ll just give you the general outline. My interpretation. There are no definite interpretations for Rabbi Nachman’s stories, each person can understand something else from them.

  “The lamp of deficiencies is a story about someone whose son travelled the world to learn how to make hanging lamps, something like chandeliers, I guess. Long story short, the young man returned home to his father and told him he was now a master of his new craft. The father called all the experts so they could see, and the son showed them a lamp. At first, no one said anything. So the father urged them to tell the truth and each of them began to say how truly awful the lamp was. Each of them criticized the lamp for this or that reason. What do you think, did the son give up because of it?”

  “I don’t know, this is a weird story.”

  “Wait. This is only the beginning!” cried Binyamin. “The son remained unfazed and said this proves how amazing the lamp truly is. The father did not understand and the son explained that it was the lamp of deficiencies, comprised of the deficiencies of those looking at it. He who sees fault in it, is actually seeing his own faults and is simply projecting them onto the lamp. The son continued and explained that one man will see a single fault, while another man will look at the same exact place and see no faults at all. Each one sees one fault, but is unable to see all the other faults. It really shows how delusional they all are, do you understand?”

  “More or less,” I admitted. “I understand that if a man sees a drawback in something, while his friend thinks the same drawback does not exist, but sees another, then each of them does not actually see objective reality, but simply the tiny fragment of it that his distorted misconceptions allow him to see.”

  “Exactly!” cried Binyamin. “I’ll make it brief for you. After that, the son said two things: the first, that he could have created a perfect lamp. The second, that if you gather all the faults of a thing, you could understand its essence.”

  “And?”

  “And this is exactly what the people of Israel are all about!” said Binyamin, “understand?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the secular man looks at the ultra-orthodox Jew and sees his own problems in him, the ultra-orthodox looks at the secular man and sees his own problems too, and they both look at the national religious Jew and see other problems. And that very same national religious Jew looks at a follower of Rabbi Nachman, or a follower of Chabad-Lubavitch… they all see each other’s faults instead of understanding they themselves are lacking something! Instead of realizing that only together can we make something happen, realize that we have to cooperate, and if we won’t cooperate…”

  My phone vibrated, it was time to get going. “I’m sorry, Binyamin, I have to run. There’s something I need to take care of.”

  “Hold on,” he said in a low voice, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  I looked at him. He seemed more serious than usual, but I couldn’t explain to him why I had to catch a flight on time and why I couldn’t postpone it under any circumstances.

  “I have to run, there’s something urgent I need to take care of,” I said while rising from my seat. “Just try to be brief, or maybe we could talk on the phone while I’m on my way?”

  “Yoav,” he said, “look, there’s something I’d like to share with you. Are you sure you can’t postpone whatever it is you need to do right now? This is really critical.” He lowered his eyes. It was apparent that it was hard for him to speak. “I’ve been holding it inside for quite some time, it’s about Hebron… about what happened in Hebron… perhaps even about the future of the people of Israel?”

  “The future of the people of Israel?”

  “Exactly so.”

  There was nothing I could say, the man was being dramatic and took his principles to the extreme. Amazing, I thought, how everyone thinks his ideology is going to be the one to save the world, that he knows exactly what should be done. What could he possibly do? How would he bring his beautiful ideas into fruition in a world that doesn’t take too much interest in ideologies, a world of live and let die.

  A small laptop bag was slung on my shoulder. I realized that I needed to go by my unit to put my laptop in the safe. “I really have to run.”

  “We’ll talk when you get back,” he said. “Clear at least an hour for it and prepare yourself for a few surprises.”

  I was getting curious but had no choice. “We’ll talk once I get back,” I said at the door. “It sounds fascinating. About the lamp of deficiencies…” I stopped for a moment, “you’re being naive, Binyamin.”

  “Naive? Me?”

  “We’ll talk once I get back.”

  “You don’t know me yet, Yoav.”

  “We’ll talk once I get back.”

  ***

  I hurried to my unit, opened the safe and placed my laptop in it. I put my bag under the bed inside my suitcase. I opened the door a little and took a good look at the street. From afar, I saw a vehicle approaching with Jim and another agent sitting inside. My taxi was waiting; there was no chance I could get to it. And even if I did, we would never be able to escape a chase. They must have found out I hadn’t boarded the fictitious flight to Florida, or perhaps Jim had simply sent another team there and decided to come to Binyamin’s place himself. I was in trouble.

  I closed the door quietly and ran to the rear end of the unit. After the previous visit, I figured Jim would send the other agent to the rear porch before knocking on the door. I carefully opened the porch’s rear door and hurried to the rear entrance of Binyamin’s house. From the rear entrance, I continued to his kitchen and waited to hear what was going on. I heard a rustle and tensed up. I drew my Glock and pointed it in the direction of the rustling sound. Two more steps and Binyamin’s head was revealed. He saw the pistol and paled. I put it away. I wanted to say something, but then we heard knocking at the front door. He motioned for me to keep quiet and went to open it. I tried to hear what he was saying, but he went out of the house to talk to the agents. He returned and slammed the door behind him. I looked at him intently.

  “I got rid of them,” he said. “I told them they could forget about coming into my house without a search
warrant. One of them said he would get a warrant real soon. I wished him luck. As for you, I wish you the best of luck in getting to the taxi that’s waiting for you. Luckily, it’s parked on the other end of the road and they had no idea that it has anything to do with you.”

  “Well, I…” I started to stammer.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “You don’t need to explain. You’re not my first friend who’s run into trouble with the authorities. I’m on your side, whatever it may be. With friends, that’s what counts the most.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he said, “You’d better hurry and catch your flight. Explain it once you get back, if you want to.”

  I went out of the house, took a peek and saw that the area was clear. I hurried to the taxi, still carrying the pistol. There was no way I could get it past the airport without using my federal ID, I thought, and using the ID meant that I would almost certainly get caught. I motioned for the taxi driver to wait for another moment and looked about. I saw a large flowerpot at the entrance to Binyamin’s parking lot. It was a huge piece of pottery containing a relatively small flowerpot. I picked up the plastic flowerpot and hid my Glock inside. I hurried to the taxi. “LAX airport, please,” I instructed the driver.

  82

  San Francisco, California

  The flight to San Francisco was a short one. As far as the convenience and enjoying the views were concerned, I would’ve preferred to take the jeep, but my chances of getting from point “A” – Los Angeles, to point “B” – San Francisco, without Jim, Nash and their friends arresting me were slim.

  I rented a vehicle in the San Francisco airport. It wouldn’t be reasonable to come and rescue Norman with a taxi. After passing the Golden Gate Bridge, I looked at the GPS and the digital maps and saw that driving to the place where Norman was being kept at would take about half an hour. The view on the way there was breathtaking. I approached the villa.

  The guard at the gate stopped me. I waved my ID and said I was there to pick someone up. He asked whom. “Norman Watts.”