An Accidental Messiah

by Dan Sofer

The yellow Mercedes was parked outside the cement hangar. Hasan’s two thugs sat on crates and stared at their backgammon board. Another seductive melody blared from the speakers of the car to a maqsoum beat. “Ma Tegi Hena?” Why don’t you come here?

  Ahmed approached the luxury vehicle from behind. Hasan slouched in his usual position. On the iPad, Nancy Ajram danced in a fruit market. She wore a skintight red dress and ran her hands through her long curly locks. She gyrated her hips and sent suggestive glances at the camera as she carved watermelons with a butcher’s knife.

  A cold, cruel idea froze Ahmed’s breath in his lungs. Lunging forward, he could seize Hasan’s head in both hands and, with one mighty twist, break his cousin’s neck with a satisfying crunch before his henchmen knew he was there. They would kill Ahmed but he didn’t care. His life was no longer worth living.

  Five cowardly seconds passed, but Ahmed did nothing. Instead, he touched his cousin on the shoulder.

  Hasan flipped on the seat like an omelet in a frying pan. “You crazy bastard, Ahmed. You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.” He shook his head, laughed, and paused the music. “So, cousin, have you considered my offer?”

  Ahmed stood over him and nodded. He said, “I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER 68

  In the middle of the city center and in broad daylight, a biker pointed his long-barreled gun at the windshield of their car.

  Time stood still and Moshe’s senses sharpened. His heart pounded in his ears. His lungs inflated with his final breath.

  He had watched enough Jason Bourne movies to know what would happen next: the thump-thump of shots fired through a silencer; the bullet holes in the windshield; the death dance of the trapped victims. Bourne would dodge the bullets and escape in the nick of time, but this was no movie and Moshe was no Jason Bourne, so he froze on his seat, squeezed Galit’s hand, and braced for the worst.

  The gunman didn’t fire his weapon. Instead, tires screeched as a large brown van pulled up beside them in the lane for oncoming traffic.

  It happened very fast. Thugs in ski masks poured out of the van. Galit’s door opened and a masked man leaned inside, pressed the release for her seatbelt, and pulled her, kicking and screaming, from her seat. Her hand slipped from Moshe’s. He lunged forward to grasp her waist but his seatbelt held him back. He disengaged the belt when his door opened and powerful arms locked around his neck and shoulders, yanking him out of the car and lifting him in the air.

  He flailed his legs, trying to find traction or to wriggle free of the steel grip. The immense thug carried him off with ease as though Moshe was a baby and Moshe thought of King Kong, the Russian henchman from the slave labor camp.

  Then Moshe floated in the air and landed hard on a metal floor. A sliding door banged shut, casting him into darkness.

  Moshe scrambled to his feet, but the floor moved and he fell onto one knee. Outside, a motorbike engine growled. A light bulb ignited on the ceiling of the van, making him blink. Two thugs pinned Galit to the floor and wrapped her wrists in duct tape. Moshe dashed at her but something heavy collided with his arm and again he slammed into the metal floor. Pain seared through his shoulder.

  A ski-masked giant crouched over him, his head blocking the glowing bulb. He pulled the mask from his head and the ugly mug of King Kong grinned down at him.

  “Miss me?” the Russian asked, and he slammed a boulder-sized fist into Moshe’s face.

  CHAPTER 69

  Eli woke up face down on his bed, still fully dressed, his brain pounding inside his skull. He was starting to regret last night and not just the drinking.

  His phone read 12:04 PM. There were no missed calls on his phone, and the only missed call on Noga’s was from himself. He plugged her phone into a charger. Even if she had decided to leave for good, she’d probably come back for her phone and laptop.

  He trudged to the bathroom, his head exploding, his mouth tasting like glue. He popped two Acamol tablets, stripped, and stepped under a hot shower.

  That morning he had passed out on a high, having rediscovered his true identity. Finally, he understood God’s plan, and the revelation empowered him to both win back Noga and redeem the world. Wonderful.

  Nothing dampened the human spirit like a hangover. He had surrendered his identity once before to find favor in her eyes. Was he ready to do that again? And if, this time, he was right, where was the Thin Voice? And where were his legendary miraculous powers?

  He turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and sat on the edge of his bed. The pair of mobile phones lay motionless on the bedside table. Elijah the Prophet had summoned fire from Heaven and revived the dead. If he really was the famous prophet, surely some of those abilities remained?

  He stared at Noga’s phone, then closed his eyes. He imagined the Samsung Galaxy floating in the air, as weightless as a feather in a gentle updraft. He flexed the muscle in the center of his brain. In his mind’s eye, the black tablet rose a centimeter above the table.

  He opened his eyes. The phone remained grounded. His shoulders slumped. Then the phone rang.

  He glanced at the display. Who was Hannah? The name sounded vaguely familiar. Was Noga calling from a friend’s phone in order to locate her own? Or did she want to speak with him, to mend their bridges and come back home?

  He answered.

  “Noga?” said the voice of an older woman.

  “This is her phone.”

  “May I speak with her?” The voice had the tone of restrained annoyance.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Professor Hannah Rechter, her doctoral supervisor. And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “A friend,” he said. He did not say “boyfriend.” Their relationship status still hung in the air and the fewer details he shared, the fewer questions he would have to answer. “She left her phone here by accident,” he added. “I’ll tell her to call you as soon as she can.”

  The professor exhaled her frustrations into the receiver. “Please do. I’ve been trying to contact her for weeks!”

  “She’s been… distracted lately.” The distraction had answered her phone. “But she’ll be back on track soon.”

  “I hope so. If we don’t submit soon, we’ll have to wait months.”

  Eli put the phone down, the professor’s urgency reigniting his own. He had to find Noga and not just to deliver the professor’s message. Not even to patch up their relationship.

  If Noga was right, he had a job to do, and his job was… what exactly? Elijah had always known the where, the how, the why—the Thin Voice had whispered the details directly into his brain. Eli Katz, however, was lost. Clueless. But together, he and Noga might just figure things out.

  He pulled on some clothes, gulped down a glass of milk, and collected his riding jacket and helmet. He pocketed an apple as well. This might take some time.

  As he waited at the front door for the elevator, he bowed his head. Boss, if ever there was a time for a hand up, it’s now. Where is she? He waited for the soft whisper, the sudden flash of clarity.

  The doors opened on the golden elevator but he made no move to get in. What was he going to do—drive around the city hoping to spot her on the street?

  The elevator doors closed. He dumped the helmet on the kitchen island, returned to the bedroom, and picked up Noga’s phone. The screen wasn’t locked. Ignoring the pinch of guilt for invading her privacy, he scrolled down her call history and found another vaguely familiar name.

  CHAPTER 70

  Yosef had hoped to sneak into the office unnoticed, but the call center of Restart, formerly the Dry Bones Society, had never looked so crowded. Or festive. Balloons and streamers in blue and white hung from the ceiling and windows. On the mounted TV, political commentators dissected the mounting exit polls. Party members and reporters chatted and glanced him over as he entered. Some members wore party hats.

  “Where have you been?” their eyes seemed to ask. Was his guilt written on his face? The
answer was as embarrassing as it was predictable: Yosef had believed. He had followed a false messiah, basing his blind faith entirely on the rock-solid authority of—wait for it—his local greengrocer. Thank God that he had not shared his messianic convictions with Moshe or with his own wife. Rocheleh was right; Yosef the gullible fool had no place in public politics. Was he even worthy of guiding a charitable organization?

  “Hi, Rabbi!” Irina said. She knelt beside a large packing box at the entrance and stared up at the rabbi, who flinched preemptively at the expected interrogation.

  Her cheerful countenance faltered. “Are you OK? You look pale.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He gave her a quick, feeble grin to back up his claim and made for the secure isolation of Moshe’s office.

  “Rabbi Yosef,” called another female voice, and he stopped in his tracks. Sivan had spotted him from across the call center and strode toward him. He braced for the worst. Here it comes.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, breathless, and she looked over her shoulder at the sea of reporters. Her painted-on smile failed to hide her anxiety. “Where’s Moshe?”

  The question caught him off guard and he glanced around for their party leader. “I haven’t seen him yet. Is something the matter?”

  Yosef had a bad feeling about this. It wasn’t like Moshe to abandon his team in times of trouble.

  Before Sivan could answer, Irina joined them, the cardboard box in her arms. “Here’s the confetti we ordered. Where do you want it?”

  “In Moshe’s office for now,” the campaign manager said.

  “How are we doing?” Yosef asked softly.

  “Not good,” Sivan said, still smiling at the packed room. “We should have hit back harder. That’s what you get for running a clean campaign.”

  Yosef swallowed. This was his fault. His failings had crippled Restart. Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught that one can start life anew each day, but a new today didn’t erase a shameful yesterday.

  “Pray for a miracle,” she whispered and walked off.

  Perhaps Restart would fare better without his prayers. He should resign and let them be. Not now, of course, like a rat abandoning a sinking ship, but after the elections. His presence drew calamity the way magnets drew iron filings.

  “Let me give you a hand,” he said to Irina, and reached for the box. At least he could help out with the manual labor without causing more damage.

  “I almost forgot,” she said. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “To see me? Who—Mr. Adams?” Yosef was in no state to host their Christian benefactor.

  “No, a woman. She wanted to speak with you or Moshe. She said it’s important.”

  Had a messenger of the failed messianic cult beat him to the office? “Was she wearing a white cloak?”

  Irina’s eyes narrowed and she gave him a bemused smile. “A white cloak? No. Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Yes. Of course. Never mind.” His cheeks warmed. “I’ll see her in Moshe’s office.”

  Yosef placed the box of confetti in a corner of the office and settled behind the desk. The countless calls he had made at that desk to potential messiahs had achieved nothing. He would never find the Messiah—if he existed at all.

  Yosef shuddered at his heretical thought. What if the Messiah was a myth—a futile exercise in communal wishful thinking, an imaginary fairy godmother for centuries of miserable Diaspora Jews?

  For starters, Yosef should stop wasting time in trying to find him. In fact, he should stop accepting everything he read or heard. If he didn’t grow up soon, he’d bring more disgrace to himself and those around him.

  Irina opened the door for a pretty young woman with tied-up dark hair, and moved on to her other tasks. The woman approached the desk, her eyes large and expectant, her mouth drawn, and she put out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Yosef shook her hand and beckoned for her to sit. Despite his numerous interviews with female reporters, physical contact with a woman other than his wife still made him uncomfortable.

  What did this pretty young woman want with him? Had Avi Segal sent her to generate more scandalous rumors?

  Two reporters glanced at them through the large windows of the office. He had better send the woman on her way as soon as possible.

  “How can I help you, Miss…?”

  “Shemer. Noga Shemer. I’m a doctoral student at the Hebrew University. My research—”

  “Then I must refer you to Professor Yakov Malkovich,” Yosef said, cutting her off. “He’s already heading up a study of volunteers from our Society at your university. I think he’ll be happy to discuss your research.”

  Miss Shemer glanced at the desk, and seemed taken aback at the interruption and abrupt dismissal. “My research is different and, in my opinion, of great interest to you.”

  Yosef felt ashamed at his curt behavior. He had no choice but to hear her out. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

  “My study aimed to find a genetic link between Jews of priestly descent—the Cohen Gene.”

  “And did you find this link?” He still didn’t see how this was relevant to the Dry Bones Society.

  “Yes. But I discovered something else, something unexpected. I won’t bore you with the technical details but the bottom line is this: I think I’ve found the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel.”

  Yosef considered her words. According to Rabbinic sources, Elijah the Prophet would reveal the Ten Lost Tribes at the End of Days. Now this pretty young student claimed to have discovered them in a test tube.

  “The Ten Lost Tribes?” he repeated, and he tried to conceal his smile beneath his moustache. He folded his lips into his mouth to stop them from trembling. After his experiences that morning, her statement was just too much.

  She studied his reaction in tense silence.

  Trying to keep his voice level, he said, “And where are these lost Israelites?” Had she spotted them between the chromosomes in her lab, or perhaps the lost Jews had colonized the moon?

  “They’re right here, Rabbi Lev.” She lowered her glance to the table again. “Among us. Palestinian Arabs are the Lost Tribes.”

  His body shook with pent-up laughter. He did not want to embarrass the girl but—Palestinian Arabs! A sobering thought helped curb his sense of humor. First, the weirdo messianic cult; now a pretty young pseudo-scientist. He should hang a sign on the door: “Fools Anonymous. We buy anything. All manner of crackpot theories welcome. Leave reason at the door.” This is what you’ve become, Yosef: a magnet, not for calamity, but for lunatics.

  He drew a deep breath, stared at the ceiling, blinked back a tear, and counted to ten. Composed, he retrieved a yellow square from a pile of notepads. “As you can see outside, we’re a bit swamped with the elections today. But please leave your name and number and we’ll try get back to you later.”

  The girl stared at the sheet, then scribbled down her contact details and stood. “Thank you for your time,” she said, her voice soft and defeated, and she left the room. She had read between the lines.

  Try to get back to you, he had said; he had made no promises.

  CHAPTER 71

  A pain at the back of his neck roused Moshe to consciousness. He was slumped over on a hard chair in a dark place. Daylight seeped through the filthy slats of windows high on corrugated walls. The floor stank of old motor oil.

  He wanted to massage his neck but he couldn’t move his arms. Thick duct tape secured his wrists and ankles to the metal frame of the chair. He made to speak but his lips were taped shut, and he breathed heavily through his nose. The skin over his cheekbone felt raw and tender.

  He turned at the sound of a whimper at his side. Galit sat strapped to another chair, a line of silver tape over her mouth, and fear glittering in her eyes.

  Moshe had never intended to put her in harm’s way, but he should have seen this coming. Boris had done this. King Kong had pulled him from the car and King Kong did Boris’s bidding. Moshe may have bought back
his own freedom with hard cash, but his Dry Bones Society had ensured that none of the newly resurrected landed up in the crime lord’s slave labor machine. Fewer slaves meant less money. The backlash had been slow to arrive but inevitable, and now Boris would settle the debt.

  Where was Alex? Their driver had raised his hands in the air when the biker had trained his gun on their car. Had he tried to resist when the thugs had pulled Galit and Moshe from the back seat? Moshe didn’t recall hearing gunshots, but the abduction had happened so fast and King Kong had knocked him out.

  The future rolled out in front of him. Boris could have had them killed in the car if he had wanted. No, he had something else in mind. Torture. Threats. A lesson Moshe would never forget. Would Boris hurt Galit or was she there only to remind Moshe of what he had to lose? No, he wouldn’t hurt her, would he?

  A pitiful snort of fear and remorse escaped Moshe’s nose. He should have kept his head down and been thankful for his freedom. Instead, he had rushed headlong to save the world, and in doing so he had drawn a bull’s-eye over his loved ones. Poor little Talya was probably wondering why they hadn’t come home. But how could he have done nothing while Boris led other new arrivals into slavery?

  Don’t panic, Moshe. Stay focused. His first priority was to get out of there alive and in one piece. He’d tell Boris whatever he wanted to hear. Afterwards, in safety, he could figure out how to help others without jeopardizing his family.

  Moshe looked around. He heard no movement. They seemed to be alone in the abandoned warehouse. A third chair stood empty beside a large circular table that had been toppled onto its side, the round surface painted red like a single bloodshot eye. Beyond the table, a thin line of daylight framed a door in the corrugated wall.

  He pulled at his bonds, rocking the rickety chair on its metal feet. If he could dislodge the wooden surfaces, he might be able to free his hands and then—

  A door creaked open behind them and fluorescent strip lights flickered to life overhead. Heavy footfalls drew nearer.