by Mike Resnick
“There’s a staff phone beside your bed,” he said. “Feel free to use it whenever you wish. Your refrigerator is well stocked, and if you wish, a roommate can be supplied.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Moore. “What are my duties, and who do I report to?”
“Your duties are simply to evaluate the situation, and you’ll report directly to me. Any suggestions I find useful will be transmitted to Prime Minister Weitzel. You have free run of the city, and on your nightstand you’ll find a pass that will get you into all but a handful of our military installations.” He paused. “Try to get some rest now, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning to show you around.”
Moore thanked him, locked the door, and began inspecting his apartment. Except for the lack of books, it was very similar to his Chicago dwelling: small, comfortable, and unpretentious. He found the pass, pinned it to his lapel, and walked to the bathroom, where he undressed and took a long, hot shower.
When he emerged he went to the kitchen and checked out the refrigerator, and discovered that someone had gone to great lengths to learn his taste in food. He warmed up a frozen dinner of veal parmesan, but found that his mouth was too sore to chew, so he settled for drinking a quart of ice water. Then, suddenly very tired, he took a couple of pills the hospital had given him and collapsed on the bed while the medication went to work.
Chapter 23
Jeremiah suddenly sat up in bed.
“He’s there!” he announced.
Moira stirred sleepily and opened one eye. “Who’s where?”
“Moore!” said Jeremiah excitedly. “He’s in Jerusalem!”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think so. I know it!”
“Big deal. You’re just going to kill him anyway.”
“Poor little necrophile!” said Jeremiah with an amused laugh. “You don’t even begin to understand what’s happening, do you? Moore is the last person in the world I want to kill just now. Our fates have become linked to one another.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Moira, rubbing her eyes.
“You think you and that fucking book of yours are important?” said Jeremiah sarcastically. “Well, let me tell you: it makes no difference to me whether or not you ever sell another copy or write another word. It’s all clear to me now. Moore is my most important ally, not you.”
“Be sure to tell him that just before he blows your brains out,” said Moira disgustedly.
“Oh, I will,” chuckled Jeremiah. “I will!”
Chapter 24
Moore awoke feeling very stiff, but in considerably less pain. He was in the process of cooking some soft-boiled eggs for himself when Yitzak arrived.
“How is our wounded warrior feeling today?” asked the Israeli.
“A little the worse for wear,” replied Moore. “I’m too old to take up parachute jumping.” He poured himself a cup of tea. “What’s on the agenda for this morning?”
“A tour of the city. You can’t spot our weak points if you haven’t examined our defenses.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Moore. “I wouldn’t begin to know what to look for. If you tell me the city’s secure, I have to take your word for it. If you tell me there are weak spots, you’ll have to point them out to me before I know they’re there. I think it’s a waste of time.”
“I’m fully aware of this,” said Yitzak. “But I’ve got a lot of time to spend. As you have doubtless guessed by now, my sole responsibility is to shepherd you around while listening to you and evaluating your observations.”
“We’re going about it all wrong,” said Moore. “Finding weak spots isn’t the way Jeremiah works. He’s more likely to walk right up to fifty riflemen—and twenty of them will miss him while the other thirty rifles will explode.”
“So you keep telling me,” said Yitzak patiently. “Nonetheless, I would appreciate it if we could do this my way.”
“You’re the boss,” said Moore. He finished his eggs and tea, and then accompanied Yitzak out into the street.
They climbed into a Land Rover and began driving around the city on the Jaffa and Gaza roads. Jerusalem, more than most cities, was a mixture of the old and the new, with fifty-story steel-and-glass office buildings towering over the Mandelbaum Gate, fast-food stands lining Jericho Road, and a rugby field buttressed up against the Lion’s Gate.
Only the Wailing Wall was not surrounded by new structures; it stood alone, untouched by any recent century, guarded by twenty crack Israeli soldiers.
“We’ve created a rectangle, the corners of which are the four Gates—Lion’s, Jaffa, Zion, and Mandelbaum,” explained Yitzak, pointing out the various fortifications to Moore as they drove by. “For all practical purposes, the city of Jerusalem is within that perimeter. Of course, this doesn’t mean we will allow Jeremiah’s army to march over the Israeli border without a fight, but Jerusalem is his ultimate target, so this has become our final line of defense. We don’t know what part of the city he’ll hit first, but this perimeter encompasses all of the Old City, including the Muslim and Christian shrines, plus the Knesset, the Prime Minister’s palace, and the various other governmental buildings. If it’s secure, Jerusalem’s secure.”
“Where do you expect the attack to originate?” asked Moore, gazing off in the distance.
“Not in the direction you’re looking,” replied Yitzak with a smile. “They’ll most likely approach from Abu Tur to the south, Tel Arza to the north, and the Golan Heights to the northeast. You’re looking almost due west, which is the one direction we’re not too worried about, since we’ve got about half a million troops stationed there, halfway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.”
They continued driving around the Old City, which an army of almost eight hundred thousand Israelis was poised to defend to the last man, woman, and child. There was sufficient ammunition for a four-month pitched battle, and the air force, geared for action, was ready to take off at an instant’s notice. Radar and sonar blanketed the area, laser weapons were revved up for the conflict to come, and tanks guarded the perimeter at regular intervals.
“A mosquito couldn’t get through all that,” said Moore when they had arrived at Yitzak’s headquarters, the nerve center of the communications network.
“You’re quite sure?” asked Yitzak, escorting Moore into a nondescript office and offering him a beer, which he refused.
“I can’t imagine any army launching a successful attack—at least, not on the ground. Just how good are your air defenses?”
“Excellent,” replied Yitzak. “Furthermore, according to our information, Jeremiah hasn’t got more than half a dozen planes.”
“Fifth columnists?” asked Moore.
“I tend to doubt it,” said Yitzak. “This is not the Messiah of Christianity we’re dealing with here. Whether our people believe in him or not, we all know that he’s not exactly coming as a Prince of Peace.”
“Do they believe in him?” asked Moore.
“Who knows?” replied Yitzak with a shrug. “It makes no difference. This is the only homeland we have, and we don’t plan to turn it over to him without a fight.”
“As far as fighting goes, I’m no expert—but I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about from Jeremiah’s army. Jerusalem seems about as well fortified as cities get to be.”
“Good. Tomorrow we’ll tour it on foot, and see if you still feel that way.” Yitzak paused thoughtfully. “Possibly we’ll go well beyond the perimeter. You can put yourself in Jeremiah’s shoes, so to speak, and try to foresee how he might lead the attack.”
“I keep telling you—he won’t be leading anyone into battle. It’s not his style.”
“If his army is expected to overrun Jerusalem without availing itself of his special talents, he’s going to have to wait until it’s larger and better-trained,” said Yitzak. He turned to Moore. “I find it difficult to believe that having come this far, he’ll be willing to wait any appreciable length of ti
me.”
“Could this be a feint?” asked Moore.
“What do you mean?”
“What’s to stop him from attacking every other square foot of Israel first? All he has to do is keep clear of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and assume you won’t leave them unguarded.”
Yitzak shook his head. “You still don’t comprehend just how small Israel is. We could cross it in ninety minutes in that beat-up Land Rover we used this morning. Believe me, there is no place he can attack where we can’t retaliate instantly, and without appreciably decreasing our security around Jerusalem.”
“Then I’m out of ideas,” said Moore. “I don’t know what the hell he’ll do next.” He shrugged. “I guess we just sit back and wait.”
“For the moment,” agreed Yitzak.
And so they waited. For two weeks there was no change in the disposition of Jeremiah’s forces. Yitzak and Moore toured the perimeter of the city daily, looking for weak spots, for anything that might give Moore an idea as to when and where Jeremiah would strike.
They found nothing.
It was late on the night of his sixteenth day in Jerusalem that Moore decided to call Pryor in Chicago to see how the business was going. He quickly discovered that the phone in his room could only make contact with headquarters, so he wandered over to Yitzak’s office to place the call from there. He nodded to the various members of the night staff, which consisted primarily of lower-echelon officers and orderlies, then let himself into the office and closed the door behind him.
He put through the call, was informed that Pryor was in Boston on business, and hung up. Since he didn’t feel like going right back out into the oppressive heat of the Israeli night, he walked over to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice that the general had started keeping for him. He carried it over to Yitzak’s desk, sat down on a swivel chair, stretched his legs out, took a long sip from the glass, and closed his eyes.
“That drink sure looks good,” said a familiar voice from behind him. “Mind if I join you?”
Moore spun his chair around and leaped to his feet.
“Hello, Solomon,” said Jeremiah. “Long time no see.”
Chapter 25
How did you get in here?” demanded Moore.
“Relax, Solomon,” laughed Jeremiah. “You’ll have a stroke. Now, how about that drink?”
As Jeremiah strolled over to the refrigerator, Moore quickly walked to the door and found that it was locked.
“There’s nothing to see in the outer office anyway, except for a bunch of sleeping soldiers,” said Jeremiah. He pulled out a can of beer. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, popping the top open, “but I gave up fruit juice when I was four years old.” He took a long swig of it, wiped his mouth on a shirtsleeve, and then finished it. “Good stuff. Mind if I have another?”
Moore sat back down at the desk and stared at him while he opened a second can.
“Thanks, Solomon. It’s hot as hell out there. I’m not used to the climate anymore.” He chuckled. “I’d forgotten just how uncomfortable the Middle East can be at this time of year.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” said Moore. “How did you get in here?”
“I just walked in.”
“Don’t give me that shit!” snapped Moore. “There are a million armed men and women out there!”
“Nevertheless,” said Jeremiah, breaking out into a huge smile.
“I didn’t hear a single shot.”
“There weren’t any. I walked straight from my camp to this office. Nobody saw me, nobody heard me, nobody tried to stop me. It was really amazing, Solomon—I simply walked right by them and they acted like I wasn’t there. Then, when I got here, I just told everyone in the outer office to go to sleep, and they did.” He grinned again. “I like being the Messiah!”
Moore slid a desk drawer out, found a letter opener, and withdrew it. “Then I guess I’ll have to kill you myself,” he said ominously.
“No you won’t, Solomon,” replied Jeremiah, making no move to defend himself. “But your job is done. I can finally kill you—and if you annoy me, I will.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Up until this moment, you’ve been as impossible to kill as I have, Solomon,” said Jeremiah, pulling up a chair and facing him. “But you’ve been so concerned about killing me that you never realized it.” He paused, obviously enjoying himself enormously. “Remember that day in Chicago when the plane crashed into the hangar? I got away, but you survived too. Lisa Walpole couldn’t kill you, either. And while you’ve been trying to kill me for four years, I’ve had a hit out on you, too. Even shooting down your plane didn’t do the trick.”
“What are you driving at?” asked Moore, laying down the letter opener and staring at him.
“I thought you were supposed to be the one with all the brains,” said Jeremiah. “And yet you still don’t see it, do you?”
“Keep talking.”
“Take a look at the record, Solomon. You’ve spent the past four years alerting millions of people to my presence; indeed, you’ve been the best advance man anyone could want. And now you’ve even helped to make Jerusalem totally impregnable. You did your job well, Solomon.”
“My job?”
“Yes, Solomon,” said Jeremiah. “You see, you’re the Forerunner. You are Elijah, come to pave the way for the Messiah.”
“You’re crazy!” snapped Moore.
“No, Solomon. I’m right, and I can tell from the expression on your face that you’re beginning to realize it.” He paused. “How was Elijah to come to Jerusalem?”
“You tell me.”
“He was to streak across the skies in a flaming chariot,” replied Jeremiah. “We don’t have chariots anymore, but I’d say that you chose the closest thing. ‘Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord!’ That’s Malachi 4:5, Solomon.”
“Bullshit!”
“I got a million of ’em,” grinned Jeremiah. “Do you want me to start quoting them?”
Moore shook his head, lost in thought.
“I would have attacked much sooner,” Jeremiah continued, “but when I figured it all out, I thought I’d wait and see just how much of the way you would prepare for me. I’m glad I did, too. I knew you’d make me a household name, but I never dreamed that you’d also present me with an impregnable Jerusalem. As I said, Forerunner, you did your job well—but your job is over now. You live or die at my whim. You’re simply not needed any longer.”
Moore remained silent for a few minutes while Jeremiah opened a third can of beer. Finally he looked up, a rueful smile on his face.
“In other words, if I had just ignored you …”
“You couldn’t have, Solomon. The Messiah must have his Forerunner. It was written in the Book of Fate eons ago that you and I should play out these roles at this time and place.”
“Such eloquence,” said Moore sardonically.
“Oh, I know I was a pretty dumb little bastard when all this started,” admitted Jeremiah. “But the Messiah must rule with the wisdom of David and Solomon. I see things more clearly these days.”
“So what’s next?” said Moore. “Do you establish a poverty-free utopian state?”
“Oh, no, Forerunner,” said Jeremiah with a nasty smile. “First I raze civilization to the ground. I burn out the evil and put mine enemies to the sword—figuratively, of course. After all, I’ve got an army to do that kind of stuff for me. Then and only then do I set about rebuilding the world the way I want it.”
“And what kind of a world will it be?” asked Moore.
“I really don’t know,” answered Jeremiah. “But I’m sure it will come to me in time. Most things do, you know.”
Moore nodded. “I know.” He paused. “Will your army march into Jerusalem the same way you did?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Jeremiah. “But I rather suspect that I won’t need
them any longer. After all, you’ve presented me with a ready-made army.”
“And what makes you think they’ll accept orders from you?”
“Historic inevitability. If they don’t take orders from me, then I can’t establish my kingdom, can I? Unless we’re to have a military bloodbath, that is—and I don’t think God would want that. When all is said and done, I’m the Messiah of the Old Testament, and the Israeli Army represents a healthy chunk of God’s chosen people.”
“The wholesale slaughter of His chosen people never seemed to deter Him in the past,” noted Moore dryly. “Forty days and forty nights of flooding wasn’t exactly the act of a compassionate deity.”
“True,” responded Jeremiah. He shrugged. “Well, whatever I have to do, I’m sure the solution will dawn on me when the time is right. But right now I’m afraid I have a more immediate problem, Solomon.”
“Oh?”
“What am I to do with a Forerunner who has outlived his usefulness?”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Moore warily.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Jeremiah. “On the one hand, I’m certainly grateful that you accomplished your purpose so effectively. But on the other hand, you have been trying to kill me for four years. I realize that this was predestined, and that of course I can’t be killed—but you did cause me an enormous amount of pain, Solomon. I certainly have to take that into consideration.” He paused. “Have you any suggestions?”
“You’re holding all the cards.”
“True,” agreed Jeremiah. “Well, I’ll figure it out eventually. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll let you hang around for a while. After all, you are my Forerunner. I owe you something for that, even if it’s just another few days of existence. Just see to it that you don’t leave the city.”
“Thanks,” said Moore ironically. “Well, who do you kill first? What city goes up in flames tomorrow—Jerusalem, or something inhabited by the infidels?”