A Premature Apocalypse

by Dan Sofer

  “You’re right, but the ambassadors won’t listen. Gurion’s got them both threatening war. We need to calm things down before matters really get out of hand. Sivan, we need to make another announcement. Shmuel, get both Presidents on the line. Not at the same time,” he added.

  On cue, the door opened and Rafi entered, breathless. “We have an emergency,” he said.

  “Take a number and get in line.”

  “This can’t wait. We’ve sighted nuclear submarines off the Tel Aviv coast.”

  “US or Russian?”

  “US. The Russian subs have entered the Gulf of Aqaba, on course for Eilat. They’re all carrying multiple thermonuclear warheads. The aircraft carriers have ordered their troops to return.”

  Sivan said, “If they’ve made them visible, it’s a warning.”

  “More than a warning,” Rafi said. “Both sides are using their influence to isolate us. Foreign airlines have withdrawn from Israeli airspace. Other countries have canceled incoming El Al flights and grounded Israeli planes in their territory. They’re preparing for war.”

  “Shmuel,” Moshe said.

  “I’m right on it.” Shmuel left the room at a trot.

  “OK, what’s next? Rafi, when can we replace the foreign troops with our soldiers?”

  “Right away. The Sixth Aliyah is slowing. If the Dry Bones Society and social services take over the relief efforts, we can redeploy the reserve units to the city.”

  “Excellent.” The situation had seemed so fragile, but one by one, their problems had solutions. Divide and conquer.

  Glass shattered behind him and he cringed. Alon, the ever-present head of Moshe’s security detail, drew his handgun and moved to the edge of the window. Then he spoke into his sleeve. “Four agents to the gardens.”

  A rock wobbled onto the carpet at Moshe’s feet on a bed of glass shards.

  On the other side of the smashed window, two men hiked across the lawns, pickets waving in their hands. At the perimeter fence of the Knesset compound, demonstrators gripped the steel posts and pulled their bodies upward. Like their stone-throwing comrades, they were not content to exercise their freedom of speech.

  Within seconds, four agents in black suits waded through the flower beds toward the intruders. When their quarry turned to flee they fired shots in the air. Ten seconds later, two ruffians lay face-down in the manure, hands cuffed, as they awaited justice.

  “That’s not a demonstration,” Sivan said. “That’s a lynch mob.”

  Her phone rang, and she answered. “What?” she said, clearly surprised at the news. She ended the call. “It’s Galit,” she said.

  Moshe envisioned a similar mob outside the Prime Minister’s Residence, and his pulse quickened. “Is she OK?” He should have returned her missed calls.

  “The police have taken her in for questioning.”

  “On what charges?”

  “They haven’t said yet.”

  “Gurion, that bastard. Now he’s coming after my family too?”

  “And pushing the entire country toward nuclear war,” Sivan reminded him.

  Earthquakes. Civil unrest. Nuclear war. And now Galit in police custody. Not since his abduction by Mandrake’s goons had Moshe felt so vulnerable. If only he could conjure natural disasters and take out his enemies. Gurion more than deserved it.

  “He’s gone too far,” Moshe said. “This has to stop.”

  “He’s hitting us from every side,” Sivan said. “But we’re stronger. We’ll get through it.”

  “I hope so.”

  The door opened, and Shmuel rushed back in. That was quick. The Foreign Minister did not look happy. “We have a problem,” he said.

  “We know. Many.”

  “No. A new problem.”

  Moshe threw up his hands. “Bring it on. Things can’t get any worse.”

  Shmuel’s jaw wobbled. “Actually, they can. Much worse.”

  Chapter 51

  Eli sawed at the strap on his right arm, trying to make as little noise as possible. If Dr. Stern walked in now, his escape gambit would fail.

  His wrist ached from the awkward movement, and his neck hurt from lifting his head from the metal cot and straining to see what he was doing. Gripping the scalpel backward between his fingers, he jerked his hand inward, slicing the hardened leather strap with the surgical blade.

  As the knife ate away at his restraints, he slowed his pace. The scalpel blade hovered an inch above the tender skin of his inner forearm. If he wasn’t careful, he’d cut right through the strap and slit his wrist.

  As he worked, the doctor’s words bounced around his brain. Over three millennia, Eli had survived numerous life-threatening injuries. His longevity had been a miracle, the hallmark of his special Divine Intervention, and a necessary tool for his eschatological mission. But if Dr. Stern was right, God had not guided Eli’s every step; he had merely tinkered with his DNA.

  No longer was the Almighty a fairy godmother who popped out from behind the curtain of existence to save the day. He was a grandmaster who set plans in motion billions of years before the game began and watched from afar as the moves played out. Having discovered the natural mechanism behind his longevity, Eli felt less indestructible.

  The scalpel blade lurched toward his wrist as the strap gave way, missing his skin by millimeters. Phew! He stretched his free arm, and then ran his fingers over the strap at his neck, searching for the buckle.

  “The holy grail of human ambition,” Dr. Stern had said. “Immortality.” The words recalled other, much older declarations. “He will swallow Death forever,” Isaiah had prophesied of the End Times. “The Lord will wipe the tears from every face.”

  Was the doctor right—was this his true calling, to safeguard the genetic key to immortality until the Messianic Era?

  And what of the Thin Voice—did those Divine Whisperings have a mundane explanation as well? Was he both remarkable and delusional? The Thin Voice had led him to the Mount of Olives and to Moshe Karlin. Was Moshe truly the Messiah or was their abortive meeting the random side effect of a runaway imagination?

  He unbuckled the second strap. Eli sat up, reached over, and made short work of the remaining restraints.

  Right now, he had only one mission—to find Noga. She needed his help. And if anything had happened to her… No! Don’t even think it.

  He turned off the ECG and ripped the electrode stickers from his chest. Shifting his legs over the edge of the bed, he eased his bare feet onto the cold cement floor. His legs supported his weight. This time he had broken no bones. The thin hospital gown flapped at his thighs. He needed clothes. The tent had no storage cabinets. Where had Dr. Stern stashed his things?

  After taking a step forward, something pulled at his groin, holding him back. A catheter tube. Oh, gross. He detached the drainage pouch, and the loose tube dangled to his feet. Freedom first; catheter later.

  He limped to the doorway of the tent, a set of overlapping flaps, parted them slowly, and stepped through. He found himself in another tent, another makeshift hospital room. A heart monitor beeped on a stand, and a respirator wheezed.

  A sudden premonition tied his insides in a knot. He tiptoed toward the cot and the still form of the woman beneath the sheets. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose. As he drew closer, the knot in his gut tightened. Oh, no!

  He touched her arm. “Noga, wake up!”

  She didn’t open her eyes; didn’t move at all.

  “Noga, we have to get out of here.”

  “I would advise against that,” said a voice behind him.

  Dr. Stern stood at the tent flap, his hands in the pockets of his lab coat.

  “What have you done to her?”

  “Saved her life. For now.” His words were not a threat, only a sad diagnosis.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  The doctor stepped up to the gurney and gazed at Noga. “She was comatose when she arrived at Shaare Zedek. That level of brain trauma is irreparabl
e.”

  Brain trauma. Irreparable. No! It couldn’t be.

  “Usually,” Dr. Stern continued, “I’d advise the next of kin to pull the plug.” He looked Eli squarely in the eyes. “You’re her only hope.”

  Chapter 52

  In the passenger seat of Hasan’s yellow Mercedes, Ahmed’s heart bounded like a terrified rabbit. The sports car zoomed along the dirt roads of Samaria north of Jerusalem, kicking up dust and cutting corners, as Hasan blared the horn at donkeys and their drivers. Hasan’s reckless driving was not the only cause for Ahmed’s adrenaline rush.

  Little old Ahmed was going to meet the Shepherd—the Great Imam himself! No, not Ahmed; the Mahdi. Only a select few in a generation merited this honor. Ahmed had chosen the finest suit from the closet in his room and now racked his brain for clever questions. The Mahdi should prove himself worthy.

  Hasan leaned his arm on the door and said nothing, a scowl on his face. The meeting must have cost him a lot of favors. At first, Ahmed had doubted whether his cousin had access to the Leader of the Generation, or whether the Shepherd even existed. The Great Imam had avoided the public eye for years and lived in great secrecy and austerity.

  His money was real enough. Ahmed had grown used to his new life: the hot showers and clean clothes; the soft bed and fresh linen; the fridge and cupboards full of every imaginable delight.

  But those material benefits had not impressed Samira. She would not approve of the harem of beautiful young women that had served him so eagerly that first night either. Ahmed blushed at the memory. He’d better keep those details to himself.

  Hasan turned right at a signpost pointing to Ramallah, his hometown.

  Ahmed returned to the question of what to say. He’d start off with lavish thanks. Ahmed was not worthy of the title and mission that the Great Imam had bestowed upon him. He’d beg forgiveness for his ignorance, but inquire about the end goal of his mission, and ask the Shepherd’s advice on how best to fulfill that destiny.

  Ramallah panned by in the passenger window. Ahmed had never ventured into the city, notorious for its seething refugee camps and terrorist training grounds. The houses and apartment buildings on the outskirts had resembled the dilapidated housing of Silwan.

  The inner belly, however, painted a different picture of life in the West Bank. Luxury hotels and technology centers stood tall with fresh marble and rounded edges that gleamed with tinted windows. Modern mansions stood in spotless Jerusalem stone, with paved driveways, manicured gardens, and fountains—the opulence reserved for the well-connected.

  Some of the flock had grown filthy rich while others blew themselves up. Why do we raise our little boys and girls to love death? He didn’t have the guts to ask the Great Imam that. Maybe one day he’d find the answer, after Al Aqsa, when his fame had spread throughout the land—throughout the world! Then, even Samira would kiss his feet.

  The car pulled up beside a vacant lot beyond the luxury suburbs.

  Hasan got out, leaned against the car, and lit a cigarette. Ahmed climbed out of the passenger seat and brushed off his suit.

  “Is this the meeting point?”

  Had the Imam’s security guards selected a random spot for their face-to-face, to avoid capture?

  “Go on, say hello.” Hasan waved his hand at the empty lot. “Greet your Shepherd.”

  Ahmed scanned the vacant lot but found no Imams or security personnel, only a dented, burned out metal barrel. “I don’t understand.”

  Hasan swaggered over to him and pointed at the battered bin. “There he is. Speak your mind. Talk all you like.”

  Was his cousin making fun of him? “The Shepherd is an old barrel?”

  “You wanted the truth. Here’s the truth—nobody’s seen the Shepherd in years.”

  That made no sense. “The money,” Ahmed said. “The speech. How do you know what he wants?”

  “He drops off his instructions in that bin. Every week, every month. Whenever the Shepherd feels like it. The money too.” Hasan dropped the cigarette in the dirt and ground the stub under his shoe. “This stays between me and you, OK? You can’t tell anyone about this place. Understand?”

  “No!” Hot anger boiled in his chest. Hasan was lying to him. Again. “You said I’d meet the Shepherd and ask all my questions.”

  “Go ahead. He’s listening. Just don’t expect any answers.” He chuckled.

  “This isn’t funny, Hasan. You’re calling meetings, telling people I’m the Mahdi when you’ve never even seen the Shepherd, never heard his voice.”

  “Keep your voice down, cousin. That’s the way things are here. The leaders keep their heads down or they lose them. They still call the shots and pay the bills.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what does he say right now?”

  Hasan rolled his shoulders. “Why don’t we find out?”

  He strutted to the bin, lifted the jagged metal lid, and reached his arm inside. When he withdrew his arm, he held a dusty burlap sack. He opened the mouth and peered inside.

  Ahmed walked over. This was another trick. Hasan would whip out a dead rat and laugh when Ahmed jumped. But there was no rat, no trick.

  “Here,” Hasan said, his face blank and glistening with sweat. From the sack, he extracted a large golden envelope. “It’s addressed to you.”

  Chapter 53

  Boris strutted into the Magitek offices Tuesday afternoon, feeling on top of the world. The secretary at the white front desk looked up and popped her bubble of gum.

  “Afternoon, Anna.”

  He had always sensed that the buxom Russian gave him that look. Others might have interpreted her deadpan as boredom, but Boris knew better. She was warming to him, and as he climbed the rungs of the Organization, she was turning red hot.

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  Boris nodded and continued his swagger down the corridor, through the busy cubicles of the Call Center. Not long ago, the thought of a face-to-face with the Boss had made him tremble. The revenues of his branch of the Organization had dipped, thanks to the nosy intervention of Moshe Karlin, his former slave, and Mandrake had called in a third party to get close to Karlin. Boris had feared that the Boss would terminate him.

  Since then, Boris’s luck had improved. He had redeemed his career—and extended his life expectancy—by running a special operation to infiltrate Israeli politics. The mission had culminated with the capture and subjugation of Moshe Karlin himself, bringing their interactions full circle and with a sweet dose of poetic justice.

  Now Mandrake had entrusted him with a new task, one that would drive the final nail into Karlin’s coffin. The preparations were right on schedule. Unlike that earlier meeting with the Boss, this time Boris did not fear losing his head.

  He looked up at the camera at the end of the corridor, and the white door clicked open. Once inside the antechamber, he walked up to the mirror at the far wall, and a panel shifted sideways. Boris walked through the dimly lit control room, ignoring the technicians at their data terminals, and knocked on the door of Mandrake’s office.

  The door clicked open.

  Mandrake waited for him on the low backless couch in the center of the chamber, draped in purple ambient light. He looked up from the laptop on the coffee table.

  “Enter, my friend. Have a seat.”

  Boris obeyed. He settled on the couch beside his boss, close but not too close. He glimpsed a large letter A on the screen before Mandrake shut the laptop.

  The gesture upset Boris’s confidence. Mandrake didn’t trust him. Had Boris misunderstood the purpose of the meeting? Instead of a pat on the back, had his boss summoned him to deliver something far less pleasant? With Mandrake, he never knew what to expect.

  “Are we ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re all set.”

  “I’m pulling you off the project.”

  Boris’s heart dropped into his trousers. He had been looking forward to watching Karlin meet his end. Had Boris messed up? Had someone libeled
him to his boss behind his back? Or perhaps he’d done nothing wrong, but Mandrake would kill him to keep the secret safe. These might be his final moments; he’d better use them well.

  “The stage is set,” he said, in his defense. “All the pieces are in place. As you instructed.”

  “I know, my friend. But I have another task for you.” He considered Boris, his large intelligent eyes bridged by a beak nose, like a raptor considering its next meal. “Do you believe in the Devil?”

  Boris swallowed. These questions were better left unanswered. His boss had a thing for stage magic and the theatrical, but the sudden turn to the supernatural worried him? Had Mandrake lost his mind?

  “Should I?”

  “Of course not. But it is a useful idea. As the story goes, the Devil was once God’s favorite angel. Until he rebelled. But even then, I suppose, God couldn’t bear to destroy him.” Mandrake fixed him with those large, intelligent eyes. “There’s a devil in our midst, Boris, a traitor who requires elimination. It’s very sad, really. A dear, old friend. I don’t have the heart to do it myself.”

  Boris highly doubted that. Beneath the amicable facade, cold blood ran through veins of steel. Had Mandrake just compared himself to God? Whatever. Boris knew what was expected of him.

  “Let me do it for you.”

  Mandrake gave him a warm, appreciative smile. “I’ll tell you the story in full, my friend. I think you’ll enjoy this task. It involves an old friend of yours too.”

  Mandrake slid two photographs on the table toward Boris. He didn’t recognize the first photo. The devil, he assumed. The second, he recognized only too well.

  Well, well, well. Full circle, indeed.

  Chapter 54

  Yosef pored over the holy books on his desk in the Vice Prime Minister’s Office, Reverend Adams’s words ringing in his ears. Moshe Karlin is the Messiah.

  But how could Yosef know for sure? He needed more information. In the past, he had turned to Rabbi Emden and the Great Council. Who was left to guide him now?