“Uncle?” Her feeling of uneasiness suddenly turned into a deeper and much more immediate fear. Was he in such trouble that he had risked calling her twice? “To-to what do I owe this pleasure?” she stammered, gripping the phone more tightly. “We haven’t heard from you in . . . too long.”
“I’ve been . . . deceived,” Isaac said slowly. His voice had the flat, tinny sound she had heard in the voices of fearful men. “I was led to think I would not be welcome in your home.”
Sarah turned and leaned against the table. “Who would lead you to such a conclusion? You are always welcome here, Uncle. You are family.”
She heard nothing, not even the whisper of a sound, then Isaac said, “I will come tomorrow. I will not have much time, so I would like to see as many family members as possible. Alert them now, if you please. I have so much to tell you all.”
Sarah’s thoughts raced. Whatever had put the note of urgency in Isaac’s voice would not wait, or he would not have risked telephoning her. Though this Uncle Laban disguise would fool a live eavesdropper, more sophisticated technology would certainly reveal the voiceprint as Isaac’s. He had risked this call because he knew neither the IDF nor the Universal Force would have time to do a trace and voiceprint analysis.
“By all means, come as soon as you can.” Turning, she pulled a pen from the chipped mug by the phone and scrambled for a sheet of paper. “Do I need to prepare anything special?”
“I’d appreciate anything you can do.” His voice was low and controlled, but she could hear an undertone of desolation in it. “I’m scheduled for a meeting tomorrow with my friend Avraham—I’m picking up a gift for the shabtsitvainik; there’s to be quite a big production arranged for him. The meeting is scheduled for just after lunch.” He paused. “Did you get all that?”
“Just a moment, please. I’m trying to take it all down.”
Her brain worked as she jotted down the phrases. A bedrock of meaning lay somewhere beneath this sea of obfuscation, and Sarah strove to catch a glimpse of it. Avraham? The most likely Avraham to meet with Isaac would be the prime minister. Big production might refer to an important summit or some task Isaac was overseeing for Romulus—but if it was some unclassified mission, he wouldn’t have called and he definitely wouldn’t be speaking in riddles. She frowned at the word shabtsitvainik. Isaac had used the word as if he wanted to honor the man, but every Jew who spoke even a smattering of Yiddish knew that a shabtsitvainik was a false religious prophet or self-proclaimed Messiah. The word was always spoken scornfully, but Isaac had said he was picking up a gift for this person . . .
Who was the false religious leader? Not the prime minister, surely. It could only be Romulus or one of his associates, for Isaac wouldn’t have used a Yiddish word to cloak his meaning from the Israelis. So—he was picking something up for Romulus, and in a big production—a press conference?
“I think I’ve got it all.” Her voice, like her nerves, was in tatters. “Am I to assume that my father won’t be happy about having this shabtsitvainik in the family?”
“You are brilliant as always, my Sarah.” She heard approval and a note of relief in Isaac’s voice. “The entire family will be upset, I’m afraid.”
Disbelief struggled with yearning as she forced a reply: “I’ll do what I can to smooth things over, Uncle.”
“I knew I could count on you.” He said these final words in a hoarse whisper, as though he had been too worried to utter them in a normal voice.
She brought her free hand to the phone, not ready to let him go. “Uncle?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to read something before you come.”
Isaac managed a brittle laugh. “I don’t exactly have much reading material with me.”
“You’ll have to seek this out. It’s an old book by a man named John . . . and it’s called the Revelation. Please read it as soon as you can. I think you’ll find it fascinating. I do, though I don’t understand everything I read.”
Silence, as thick as wool, wrapped itself around her, binding them together for a long moment, then Isaac said: “Our American friend might be able to help. Try him, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She hung up quickly, not daring to say anything more. Her brilliant husband was a resourceful man. And though he may not love her as he once did, he had always respected her advice. If a copy of the Christian Bible existed within a mile of where he stood, he’d find a copy.
She stared at the phone for five minutes, replaying the conversation in her mind, then picked up her secure cell phone and dialed Danny Melman’s number.
TWENTY-TWO
THE MEDITERRANEAN SPARKLED LIKE CRUSHED BLUE diamonds beneath the Universal Force jet, then disappeared beneath a cloud bank. Isaac waited until his traveling companions had settled into their seats before pulling the small French testament from his coat pocket. With no time to visit a bookstore, he had asked Madame Blanchette if he could borrow a copy of John’s Revelation. Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement until she realized what he wanted. “Oui, ce fait partie du Testament Nouveau,” she said, pulling a small blue book from a drawer in her dining room hutch. “Bonne chance. Je n’ai jamais pu le comprendre.”
Isaac gave her a smile, then slipped the book into his pocket. “Merci. I may not be able to understand it, either, but I shall try.”
Now, staring at the little book’s table of contents, he felt a wave of relief. The New Testament had been printed in both English and French, so at least he wouldn’t have to struggle through difficult material in a language he had yet to master.
Knowing that he had at least two hours to read, he slouched down in his seat and turned toward the window, silently sending the message that he wanted to be left alone on the flight. Sighing, he ran his finger down the page until he spied a listing for The Revelation of Jesus Christ to Saint John. The last entry, of course.
Flipping to the back of the book, he scanned the pages, looking for familiar words that might have meant something significant to Sarah. He couldn’t imagine her reading a New Testament, either, so he knew she would not have urged him to read any part of a Christian Bible unless the information was crucial.
He ran his gaze over the page, staring at the words, waiting for one to leap up and scratch the mental itch that would not let him rest. And then he saw a simple phrase, “And no one could buy or sell anything without that mark, which was either the name of the beast or the number representing his name.”
A mark or a number on the right hand or on the forehead . . . numbers. Just like the ones encoded into Isaac’s Universal Chip.
He flipped through several other pages and saw the phrase again, this time in a different context: “Anyone who worships the beast and his statue or who accepts his mark on the forehead or the hand must drink the wine of God’s wrath.”
Isaac’s stomach tightened into a knot as fear brushed the edge of his mind. What could this mean? He did not know what beast the writer referred to, and he knew nothing of a statue or a mark, only the microchip and the UFM code. Perhaps this had nothing to do with Romulus. Perhaps Sarah was imagining threats that didn’t exist.
He skimmed down the paragraph and read another sentence: “The smoke of their torment rises forever and ever, and they will have no relief day or night, for they have worshiped the beast and his statue and have accepted the mark of his name.”
He closed his eyes to clear the haunting words from his field of vision. If this was true, whoever took this mark— whatever it was—would face some pretty serious consequences.
A tremor of fear shot through him as a meaty hand fell upon his shoulder. “Dozing off there, Major?”
Isaac shoved the book into the narrow space between his leg and the seat as he turned to look up at General Archer. Though he had to be concerned about the day’s events, the American’s face seemed to be locked in neutral. Isaac had taken pains to conceal his reservations, but men like Archer had built-in antennae. Their lives depended upon it.
Raising his chin, Isaac assumed all the confidence he could muster. “I wasn’t dozing—just thinking.”
Archer cocked his head to one side, as far as his multiple chins would allow. “Must be a great pleasure for a man like you to go back to Jerusalem as a symbol for your people. Thousands will watch as you join the Universal Faith Movement today. I know they will be inspired by your example.”
Isaac shrugged in mock humility. “I don’t consider myself all that inspiring. But I am happy to do what I can.”
“We are pleased you are so willing.” Archer lifted his hand from Isaac’s shoulder, then clasped his hands and stooped forward, pretending to look out the windows of the jet. “Beautiful view. A lovely day. What will you do in the free time we’ll have before the meeting?”
Isaac sat very still, his eyes narrowing as he considered the question. The general’s nonchalant attitude and the seemingly casual query were neither nonchalant nor casual, and Isaac knew his answer would be weighed and judged. If he was caught in a lie . . .
“I will go see my wife,” he said, knowing that this answer might surprise the general. “Things have not been going so well between us . . . and I have some issues to discuss with her.”
Archer nodded, apparently satisfied. “Divorce can be a messy situation. But you have friends in high places, Major. If you need anything, you have but to ask. Whatever you need will be provided.”
“Thank you, General.” Isaac waited until Archer moved away, then folded his arms and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.
Sarah felt her heart rise to her throat when the doorbell buzzed. Her father lifted his head at the sound, and Thomas Parker and Ephraim Ben-David glanced at each other.
Melman spoke first. “Go,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “They’ll be watching, so let him in quickly.”
She hurried to the door and opened it, then stepped back as Isaac entered the room. Once the door closed, she clasped his hand. “Husband! I am glad you are home.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then led him into the dining room where the others sat around the table.
Isaac’s father was the first to rise. “It has been too long, Isaac.” He drew his son into an embrace, then pulled away, tears shimmering in his eyes. “I fear for you, Son. Thomas and Sarah have been reading to me . . . about things I have never considered.”
“I am eager to hear about it.” Isaac embraced Sarah’s father, then shook Thomas Parker’s hand. He hesitated before Danny Melman, then forced a smile and addressed the group. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must speak to my wife before we talk of anything else.”
Sarah felt a rich blush stain her cheeks as Isaac took her hand and led her through the narrow hallway, past Binyamin’s closed door, to the privacy of their bedroom. Without speaking, he gestured for her to stand in the corner, then he began a systematic search of the walls, running his hands behind the mirror, along the bureau, over the molding of the closet door. And then, without a word, he pulled the Monet print from the wall, laid it face down on the bed, and silently pointed to the back.
Sarah stepped forward, transfixed. A small black rectangle, no thicker than a credit card, had been affixed to the back of the painting.
“That would never come from our people,” she whispered, horrified.
Isaac ripped off the device and broke it in half, then stepped into the bathroom. She heard the clatter of plastic hitting the metal trash can, then he reappeared at her side.
“Camera,” he said simply, rubbing his hands on his trousers as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. “High-resolution digital images transmitted through wireless technology.”
“But how did you know—?”
He shook his head, cutting her off. “I was given information that led me to believe someone in Romulus’s organization had access to our bedroom.”
Sarah winced. Though she usually undressed in her bathroom, she couldn’t help but feel invaded. Someone had actually watched her most private moments, even while she slept . . .
“That’s all finished now.” Isaac sat on the edge of the bed, then reached out and took her hands in his. “Sarah, I can’t go on like this.” Misery was visible in his face—the sockets around his eyes seemed thin and brittle, his skin pale and moist. “Do you want to divorce me? Are you in love with someone else?”
She closed her eyes, astounded and ashamed by the direct question. No man should have to ask his wife such a thing, no matter how long they had been apart.
She drew a deep breath. “I do not want to divorce you, but I will not contest a divorce if you want one. And I have been faithful to you.”
“Look at me when you say that.”
She opened her eyes and saw a tortured man sitting before her. A muscle clenched along his jaw, and suffering carved merciless lines upon his face. And his eyes—those dear, beautiful eyes!—were filled with deep longing and unutterable agony.
“Isaac.” She pulled her hands from his, then cradled his head. “You are my husband. I could love no one else. These distant years have been hard, but I have never stopped loving you. It’s just that I stopped . . . knowing how to care for you. I could barely take care of myself, and by the time I had healed enough to reach out . . . you were gone.”
“You . . .” He paused, and the look in his dark eyes pierced her soul. “You and Director Melman. They led me to believe that you and he—”
She brushed her fingers across his lips, cutting him off. “We are coworkers and friends, nothing more. He’s here today because I asked him to help you.” She pressed her hand to Isaac’s jaw and brought his chin up as she looked into his eyes. “What did they tell you that could bring such pain?”
His square jaw tensed visibly, then relaxed. “Never mind what they told me,” he said, looking up at her. “I trust you, Sarah.”
“A roomful of people out there want you to trust them.” Lowering her forehead to his, she raked her fingertips through his hair. “And you can trust me, Isaac Ben-David. I would risk everything for you.”
And then, while the men outside waited to decide their futures, Sarah kissed her husband, with promise and anguish all mingled and the salt of her tears in their kiss.
TWENTY-THREE
AS ISAAC RODE THE ELEVATOR TO THE PRIME MINISTER’S office, he was again overcome by the sense, unanchored but strong, that he stood at a crossroad in his life. Until today he had been resilient and resolute, capable of acting alone, able to reason and rationalize and refute anything that did not consist of physical matter or verifiable properties. From his father he had learned that physical evidence alone was trustworthy; from his job he had learned to observe and record confirmable facts and hard evidence.
In the later years of his life, no one had ever encouraged him to acknowledge the spiritual, yet in the past few hours he had been convinced that the Bible, even the Christian New Testament, could hold the keys to understanding the action he was about to take. Thomas Parker, whose study of the Bible had not yet resulted in physical treasure, shared that from the Scripture he had lately received an entirely different kind of wealth—understanding. Holding a battered Bible from his hotel room, Thomas had sat at Isaac’s dining room table and shared Scriptures from Daniel, Zechariah, Paul’s second letter to the Thessalonians, and, of course, the Revelation.
“It is my belief,” he had said, dropping the open Bible to the table, “that Adrian Romulus must be the one the Bible calls by many names, including ‘the king of fierce features,’ ‘the prince who is to come,’ and ‘the willful king.’ Most people simply know him as the Antichrist.”
Isaac expected his father to turn away, but he said nothing. Even Rabbi Lerner remained silent, merely lifting a brow as the American spoke.
“Romulus is a false messiah, but many Jews will believe he is the mashiach,” Parker went on, looking around the circle. “He negotiated the rebuilding of the Temple. He orchestrated the peace treaty with the Arabs. But though many Jews adore him now, the prophet
Daniel wrote that after three and a half years, he will mightily offend the chosen people.”
Sarah’s father shook his head. “How could he offend our people? They consider him a hero.”
“It’s right here in Daniel.” Parker tapped the page with his index finger. “The prophet wrote, ‘He will make a treaty with the people for a period of one set of seven’—that’s seven years—‘but after half this time, he will put an end to the sacrifices and offerings. Then as a climax to all his terrible deeds, he will set up a sacrilegious object that causes desecration, until the end that has been decreed is poured out on this defiler.’”
Isaac ticked off the timeline in his head. Romulus had held international power since the Disruption well over three years ago.
“A sacrilegious object?” Ephraim’s eyes gleamed with interest as he stared at Parker. Artifacts had always fascinated him. “Like what? A statue of a pig?”
“The prophet doesn’t say what the object will be.” Parker closed the Bible and bent to pick up the leather folio by his side. “But I stumbled across something the other day as I visited an Arab friend who designs statuary. I’d gone to consult with him about one of the Temple treasures I hoped to find in the excavations beneath the Temple Mount. As I passed his workbench, I glanced down and saw a sketch of his latest project. He quickly hid the paper, but there was no denying what I saw.”
Parker paused for effect, but Sarah urged him on. “Don’t leave us hanging. What was it?”
“A larger-than-life statue of Adrian Romulus himself.” Parker jerked his head in a decisive nod, sending his heavy sheaf of blond hair flopping into his eyes. “From what I saw, it’s Romulus holding a spear in his right hand.”
Though he had felt warm all day, Isaac felt suddenly warmer, and slick with a different kind of perspiration—the cool, sour sweat of fear.
“Impossible.” Rabbi Lerner slammed the table with his clenched fist. “The Kohanim would never allow such a thing in the Temple! No graven image could even pass through the courtyard, and such an abomination must never—”
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