by Dan Sofer
“Nothing gets past you.”
“We need to talk. It can’t wait.”
In the mad panic at the Society, Irina had forgotten her own personal troubles.
They stepped into the corridor, and she closed the door.
“Will he do it?”
Irina looked over her shoulder by reflex. Her mission to the Prime Minister’s Office on behalf of Alex’s criminal handlers still made her feel like a traitor. “No. I didn’t get to speak with him, and Rabbi Yosef didn’t like the idea. I don’t think Moshe will either. With all that’s going on, he doesn’t have time to think about it.”
Alex gripped her shoulders. “Then we have to leave. Now!”
“But we’re in the middle of a crisis, Alex. When things settle, I’ll try him again.”
“It doesn’t work that way. The people I work for, they don’t accept excuses. We must disappear now while the whole country is in chaos. This might be our only chance.”
Irina glanced down the corridor. The muffled noise of pandemonium continued unabated behind closed doors.
How could she abandon Samira at a time like this? The Society needed her.
“I saved some money,” Alex continued. “We can get new identities. New lives.”
A new life. Since Moshe and Rabbi Yosef had discovered her among the gravestones on the Mount of Olives, that was all Irina had ever wanted—a new life with a man she loved.
“Tomorrow?” she said. The word was a plea.
Alex scrunched his lips, and his chest heaved. After a moment that seemed to last an eternity, he nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Chapter 45
“Horrendous!” the Texan said. “Preposterous!”
Reverend Henry Adams gripped the armrests of the seat before Yosef’s desk with large, manicured hands, his face red.
“Yes, yes,” Yosef said, in English. What had so upset his benefactor? “You mean the earthquake?”
“No, no. That was a sign from the Lord Above and a blow to Moshe’s detractors.”
Yosef swallowed hard. “You mean the… monkey-men?”
The early hominids had amazed Yosef too but not shaken his worldview. How God had created humanity didn’t really bother the rabbi. But representatives of the earlier stages in human evolution might disturb those who clung to a more literal reading of Genesis.
The reverend’s brow wrinkled. “Monkey-men?”
“Never mind. Ah! You mean the accusations against Moshe. Of, eh, corruption?”
“No, of course not! I won’t dignify those with any attention.”
Yosef scratched his beard. Which of the many recent troubling events had infuriated the reverend so?
“Did you receive our email, Rabbi?”
Yosef nudged his laptop to life. Coordinating emergency activities throughout the country had left him no time to check his Inbox. He turned the screen to allow the reverend a better view. The message from that morning contained a single link, and Yosef clicked it.
YouTube played a news broadcast from Al Jazeera. “High hopes are spreading across the Arab world that the End Time has arrived,” said the clean-shaven Arab presenter. “In the wake of a major earthquake that wreaked havoc and destruction on Jerusalem, a Mahdi-claimant has arisen in the Holy City and won hearts and minds across the Muslim world.”
The clip cut to a grainy handheld video of a young Arab in a smart suit, white cloak, and headdress, who spoke into a microphone at a podium. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Known only as Ahmed, the former suicide bomber rose from the ashes to lead the faithful to a new era of victory.”
The Arab kid from the DBS! The suicide bomber! Yosef said nothing. If the boy had aroused Adams’s ire, Yosef had better not tell him that the Dry Bones Society had fed and housed the boy on his dollar.
The camera cut to the tree-lined grounds of the Temple Mount. Opposite the towering golden Dome of the Rock, a group of workers in blue overalls shouldered building materials and constructed a raised platform.
The narrator continued. “Preparations are underway for the largest ever gathering at Al Aqsa tomorrow when the Mahdi will deliver his message.”
Something in the images caught Yosef’s eye, but then the clip ended, and Reverend Adams gave Yosef a stern, expectant look.
“What is this Mahdi?” Yosef asked.
“The Messiah.”
“Ha!” So the Muslims believed in a Messiah too. “And this is a problem?”
“Rabbi Yosef.” The reverend sounded disappointed. “Our Daddy running late is one thing, but an Islamic messiah—unacceptable!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nature detests a vacuum; left alone, the empty space fills with evil.” He made a sucking noise to illustrate his point.
“And this messiah has filled the vacuum?”
“Exactly. He will lead people astray in the hope that he’s the real messiah. If he’s the only contender, that is.”
Adams straightened on the chair and cleared his throat. “Now I know what I’m about to say is unexpected. Believe you me, we don’t take this lightly. But after long and careful discussion, our board feels that there is no alternative.”
Yosef got lost in the long words, and the reverend seemed to notice. “In short,” he concluded, “we want Moshe to know that the New Evangelical Church of America stands behind him.”
Adams seemed to be waiting for a response.
“And?” Yosef said.
“And we will back Moshe when he claims his rightful title.”
The meaning hit Yosef like a raging buffalo. “You want Moshe to say he’s the Messiah?”
Dear God, what was wrong with everyone? First Emden, then Irina, and now—of all people—Reverend Adams himself. Did they all want Yosef dead too?
“But he’s Jewish!”
Adams winked. “So was Jesus.” He became serious again. “I know this may seem surprising and counterintuitive. Believe me, this Resurrection of yours has created enough theological issues for us.”
“It has?”
“Of course. If this is the afterlife, this reunion of sinful body and pure soul, then—excuse me for saying so—what a letdown! People have endured all kinds of suffering in the hope of entering the pearly gates of Heaven, only to get thrown back right where they started—in this cesspool of sin and folly! Is this the eternal bliss we yearned for?”
Yosef didn’t understand the reverend’s poetic language, but he got the gist. Was this the World to Come—Heaven on Earth?
“Never mind the theology,” Adams continued. “We’ll work that out later—Moshe will be a son of Jesus, or an incarnation, or what have you. To be clear, he’ll have to step down when Christ does appear. But, for now, a Moshe is far preferable than an Ahmed!”
“But Moshe never claimed that he’s the Messiah.”
“What’s stopping him? The move is bound to win popular support. The people are already screaming it from the rooftops. In his time, we’ve seen miracles and wonders, and first and foremost is the way he won that election!”
Yosef stared his imminent death in the eyes. If Moshe Karlin was the First Messiah, did that make Yosef the Second?
“Moshe Karlin is the Messiah,” Adams said, and he gave the desk an authoritative thump. “Get the word out now, before it’s too late. C’mon, Rabbi. What have you got to lose?”
Chapter 46
In downtown Jerusalem, Moshe smiled for the cameras, his arms on the shoulders of the Israeli relief workers at his side. He took care not to accept photo ops with the American or Russian soldiers. There was no need to inflame superpower rivalries.
The camera operators gave the thumbs-up and Moshe headed for his cavalcade, flanked by his security detail. The torn streets and lurching apartment buildings smelled of dust and disaster, but, all things considered, the catastrophe could have turned out far worse.
In the back seat of the ministerial SUV, he hit a speed dial button on the phone, and Sivan’s face appeared on the d
isplay. “What’s our status?”
“Power and water are back up, and so are key access roads. The light rail will take longer. Only a handful of citizens are still missing, and we’ve relocated residents in unsafe buildings to temporary housing.”
“How temporary?”
“We’ll have to bulldoze much of the city center to rebuild it. The Ministry of Tourism is talking of designating ground zero as a national monument and museum. The projected tourism revenues will more than cover new housing projects. And then there are the diamond and mineral reserves the earthquake uncovered. We’ve listed a public tender for the mining rights. Those will add tremendous revenues to State coffers.”
“Great job.”
“And you were right about the bugs. The sweep found monitoring devices in almost every office. The committee rooms too.”
Moshe’s hunch had paid off. “Gurion’s work?”
“Probably, but we don’t have a direct link to him yet.”
“Pity he’s gone. We’d press charges of our own.”
A message flashed on the screen.
“About that,” Sivan said, but Moshe cut her off.
“The American Ambassador is on the line. Let’s catch up in my office.” He touched the display, and Ambassador Smith’s face filled the screen. His eyes were red and puffy.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Moshe said, ready to apply a thick layer of heartfelt appreciation.
“How dare you!” The ambassador’s mouth twisted with rage. “After all we’ve done for you.” So much for “Your Excellency.”
Moshe threw up his hands. “Hold on a minute. What are you talking about?”
The ambassador didn’t seem to hear him. “The Russians—you picked the Russians? You’re messing with the wrong administration. We’ll bomb you into the stone age before we let the Ruskies get their paws on your undead army!”
“We’ve done no such thing, Mr. Ambassador! Believe me, you’re our closest ally. Always have been.”
“Oh, yeah? Then you better clear that up real soon, Mr. Prime Minister. Or else!”
Another message flashed on the screen. The Russian ambassador. Crap! He’d done nothing to indicate he’d sided with the Russians, and he’d only told his cabinet of the offers in broad terms. Who in Moshe’s camp would have done something so stupid?
“I will,” he said, “right away.” His stomach juices swirled as the vehicle took a corner. Another touch of the display and the Russian Ambassador’s face filled the screen.
“You little worm!” Gurevitch snarled as he spoke and emitted drops of spittle. “We will squish you underfoot!”
“What? Why?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Mr. Prime Minister. The whole world knows you’ve handed your technology to the Americans. You take our kindness but spit in our face. You will pay the price.”
“Mr. Ambassador, there’s been a mistake!”
“You can say that again. See you in hell!”
“But we haven’t—!” The call cut out.
What in God’s name was going on? How could they both think he’d betrayed them and partnered with the other superpower? A third message flashed on the screen. Sivan was already calling him back.
“Put on Channel Two,” she said. “They’ve been playing it in a loop.”
“Get the cabinet together. I’m on my way.”
Moshe fumbled with the controls, found Channel Two on the television feed.
Well, what do you know? Isaac Gurion stood at a podium, back from the dead. The slimy politician raged into a microphone. “He tried to kill me in broad daylight. In the process, he destroyed our capital and murdered innocents.”
Moshe shivered. Did people believe that?
Gurion spoke with visible glee, a crazed smile on his face.
“But mass murder isn’t enough for our dear Prime Minister, oh no,” Gurion continued. “Yes, blood couldn’t satisfy his lust for power and personal gain. Foreign soldiers fill our streets. He’s sold our nation to a superpower. A mass murderer and a traitor! And now his undead soldiers are on the march and will not stop until they have conquered the entire world!”
“Dear Lord.” Moshe had preferred Gurion when he was dead. His claims were contradictory and absurd. If Moshe craved power and had a personal zombie army, why would he bow to a superpower? But devastation and loss had racked the nation, and fear and suspicion didn’t always respond to reason.
Besides, Gurion’s target audience was not the average Joe but the superpowers. Gurion had confirmed their worst suspicions: the undead army was real and Karlin had partnered with their archenemy.
In his bid for power, Gurion had jeopardized the existence of the Jewish State. This wasn’t another diplomatic crisis; this was Armageddon.
As they neared the Knesset compound, the cavalcade slowed. Protestors massed in the streets. Not long ago, Moshe had stood outside, chanting slogans at ministerial vehicles. The crowds appeared more menacing from behind the tinted windows.
The placards called to “End the Occupation” and to send the “Traitors to Jail.” They were talking about him! A man with wild hair pressed his pudgy face to the glass. “You killed our friends and family!” he said, the window muffling his angry cry. “You’ll hang for this!”
Moshe doubted that. Israeli law didn’t hold with capital punishment. Besides, he had murdered no one. Gurion and his cronies had chosen the wrong time and place for their libelous campaign. An act of God had struck them down, literally, and the people still blamed Moshe!
The car lurched forward, and the protestor stumbled away. Soon the security gates closed behind them.
Moshe opened the door before the vehicle came to a complete stop, and he ran for the entrance. In a corridor, halfway to the Government Room, Shmuel called to him.
“Moshe, a package arrived for you.”
“It’ll have to wait. I’ve called an urgent cabinet meeting.”
Shmuel shook his head. “Moshe, you need to see this.”
Chapter 47
Eli came to, confused and groggy. His tongue lolled in his mouth like a slug and tasted of burned rubber. The tent flaps floated above him. He lay on the same metal table, his limbs restrained by thick straps. How long had he been out cold? He had to get out of there pronto, and not only to find Noga.
Dr. Stern had gone insane. He had kidnapped Eli from Shaare Zedek and tied him to a dissection table. The doctor had rambled on about immortality and destiny. Eli had preferred the skeptical Dr. Stern who had threatened to send him to the Kfar Shaul Mental Health Center. Now the tables had turned. What experiments did the mad neurologist want to run on him? He had better not stick around to find out.
He listened for movement but heard only the beep of a heart monitor. No sign of Dr. Stern or anyone else. He pulled at the restraints. The effort drained his strength, and he stifled his groans.
The Magic. Elijah the Prophet had rained fire from heaven. He had caused drought, created bottomless pitchers of oil and flour, and he had revived the dead. Dealing with a few leather straps should be child’s play.
He willed his breathing to calm, his heart rate to slow. Closing his eyes, he found that invisible muscle at the center of his brain.
Flex. Turn the straps to dust. Flex. Make them disappear! Flex!
He moved his arm, but the bonds held fast. Eli swore under his breath. He wanted to cry out. There’s no magic, Noga had told him months ago. No miracles. She had doubted his claims then. Now she believed him, but it made no difference. He was useless. During the earthquake, he had failed to protect her. She might be dead, and he wouldn’t know.
Tears burned his eyes.
No! She had to be OK. There was a chance she had survived, and she might need his help. He wasn’t going to give up on her.
He turned his head to the side, blinking back the tears. The metal trolley still stood inches away from the table. If the bed had wheels, he might just be able to reach it.
With every ounce of strength, he
rolled to his right, until the leather straps cut into his skin. The table shifted. Yes! He relaxed, drew a deep breath, and repeated the action.
The table clicked against the trolley. He stretched his hand through the restraint as far as possible, gripping the edge of the trolley and pulling it flush with the bed. He dug his nails into the gauze sheet beneath the medical instruments, dragging them closer, and his quivering fingers touched the thin, rounded handle of a scalpel.
Shoes clicked on the floor behind him, and he retracted his hand.
He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, but the accelerated beep of the heart monitor betrayed his anxiety.
“Good morning, Mr. Katz.”
There was no point in pretending. Eli opened his eyes. “How long have I been under?”
“A day. You should be proud of yourself. We’ve been very successful.”
A horrifying thought made Eli break out in a cold sweat. Had Dr. Stern operated on him while he was unconscious? He didn’t feel the pain of stitches or the pull of bandages on his skin. “What did you do to me?”
The doctor walked around the bed and into view. “Don’t worry, Mr. Katz. I drew blood, that’s all. I’m not a monster.”
Right, Eli thought. You just keep your patients tied up against their will in your private laboratory. Keep him talking. Distract him from the trolley parked alongside the bed.
“What progress have we made?”
The doctor grinned. “Do you know how long turtles live, Eli?”
The turn of conversation did nothing to calm his concerns, but the doctor had called him by his first name.
“I don’t know. Twenty years.”
Another parental grin. “Try again.”
“Fifty?”
Dr. Stern moved closer and shifted the trolley away to sit on the edge of the bed. The scalpels rolled out of reach.
“The correct answer,” Dr. Stern said, “is forever. They never die.”
“What do you mean?” Eli would have heard of a thousand-year-old turtle if one had existed.
“They age. But at a certain point that stops. Their metabolism levels off, their cellular activity stabilizes. The phenomenon is called negligible senescence. Most people think that aging is just a fact of life, and the body must inevitably wear down, but turtles prove otherwise. If it wasn’t for predators, disease, and road accidents, turtles would truly live forever.”