A Premature Apocalypse Page 18

  Late that afternoon, Yosef paced the foyer of the Talpiot Police Station and glanced at his wristwatch. He’d been waiting an hour—an hour too long. If his suspicions were right, something terrible was about to happen.

  He approached the front desk. “Officers,” he said. The two young women at the desk might have been identical twins. Both sported dark ponytails, and both had told him to wait. “This is a matter of life and death—when will the Commissioner see me?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Vice Prime Minister,” said the one. “But the Commissioner is very busy. You’d best try him again tomorrow.”

  She got up and swung a handbag strap over her shoulder. “Can you give me a ride?” she asked the other. Their resemblance was uncanny, and Yosef wondered how their coworkers told them apart.

  “Sure,” the other replied. She stood and swung an identical bag over her shoulder.

  “You’re leaving?” Night had fallen an hour ago, but Yosef had assumed that law enforcement didn’t keep strict business hours.

  “You’re welcome to call the Police Hotline. They’re open twenty-four/seven.”

  And with that, they were off.

  In what twisted world did the Vice Prime Minister have to wait hours for the Police Commissioner to discuss a matter of piku’ach nefesh, life and death?

  Yosef’s business couldn’t wait any longer. He looked over his shoulder. A telephone rang down a corridor, but no officers were in sight. For the first time, Yosef regretted forgoing the security detail usually assigned to the Vice Prime Minister. He could do with some backup now.

  He walked around the reception desk and down a long corridor, scanning the signs on the doors of the offices. The Commissioner’s room was at the far end.

  Yosef knocked once then turned the handle.

  Commissioner Golan looked up at his unannounced visitor, annoyance passing over his face for a moment.

  “Mr. Vice Prime Minister,” he said, without rising from his seat. “What an unexpected honor.” He sounded anything but honored.

  “Pardon me for intruding, but this is a matter of life and death.”

  Golan leaned back in his chair and indicated for Yosef to sit in the visitor’s chair. He did.

  “I have reason to believe there will be a terrorist attack on the Temple Mount tomorrow.”

  Golan said nothing, so Yosef plowed on. “During the speech of the, ah, Mahdi.”

  “The Arab Messiah?”

  Yosef swallowed. “Yes.”

  Golan smiled. “Afraid he’ll beat the Prime Minister to the punch?”

  “The Prime Minister has never professed to be the Messiah.”

  Golan snorted. “Not yet. But that would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  Yosef had expected the Commissioner to send Special Forces to sweep the Temple Mount for explosives. Instead, he had accused Yosef of political schemes.

  Focus on the facts. “A news clip from yesterday shows workers preparing the Temple Mount for the Mahdi’s speech. One of the workers is Tom Levi. His cult aims to destroy the Dome of the Rock and rebuild the Jewish Temple. He told me that himself. I think this Mahdi has pushed him to act now. Today, he sent me this.”

  Yosef displayed the text message on his phone.

  Golan said, “You think he’ll blow up the Temple Mount along with the Mahdi’s followers?”

  “Yes!” Finally, Yosef had gotten through to him. “An attack on the Temple Mount would cause interfaith tensions to explode.”

  Golan nodded. Surely, he would do everything possible to prevent that.

  “Mr. Vice Prime Minister,” he said. “Let’s be frank. This is about the corruption charges, isn’t it?”

  “What? No!”

  “Another cynical attempt to direct our attention away from the Prime Minister’s crimes. His wife’s crimes too.”

  “No! Please listen to what I’m saying. People will die if we don’t act.”

  Golan just smiled. “Let me guess, you want the police to cancel the Mahdi’s speech, for their own safety, creating a media storm and removing the other messiah from the scene all in one stroke. Brilliant, I must admit. But I’m not falling for it.”

  Yosef couldn’t believe his ears. Had the Commissioner heard a word he’d said? “The earthquake was not a cynical trick and neither is this.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the earthquake.” Golan glared at him. “Haven’t you heard the news? According to your boss, terrorist plots are the least of our worries tomorrow. You people really should get your stories straight.”

  “What news?” What was he going on about?

  Golan turned his laptop to face Yosef. “See for yourself. Straight from the Prime Minister’s Office.”

  The front-page article on Ynet displayed a grainy photo of a bright object in a black sky. A star? “Breaking news,” read the headline.

  Yosef read the first paragraph and fell off the chair.

  Chapter 59

  Dani Tavor wheeled his Samsonite carry-on bag into the international departures terminal at Ben Gurion airport and almost had a heart attack. As a celebrity, he was not used to waiting in line, but now he stood at the end of the mother of all lines.

  Every Israeli and his sister had shown up at the airport with bulging suitcases and sharpened elbows. The few travelers not arguing at the top of their voices with the airport staff looked about with glum, doomsday faces. A few of the glazed glances stirred with momentary recognition at the sight of him.

  Dani was having nothing of it. He whipped out his iPhone and dialed his daughter Liat’s number, but got that annoying “out of service, try again later” message. He swore under his breath. Liat, her husband, and the grandkids had set out a half hour before him, but he couldn’t spot them in the crowds. He hoped they had boarded a plane and would leave this Godforsaken country in time. Had they reserved him a seat?

  With a final huff, he gripped the handle of his carry-on bag and marched on, flanking the unruly line, and made for the El Al Business Class reception desk. Into the bag he’d stuffed a change of clothes, a wad of hundred-dollar notes from his safe, and his Lifetime Achievement Award from the Tel Aviv House of Journalists.

  He rounded the corner and halted. The Business Class counters stood empty. He swore again.

  In recent years, he’d arranged charters for his travels but as of today, all planes had fled the Middle East. Not for the first time, he wished he could afford a private plane. Fame in Israel came with all the annoyances but few of the perks. Today, however, his talk show career might just save his life.

  He returned to the long line of Economy Class check-in desks. Flashing his fetching smile at the woman at the front, he cut in.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Just a question.”

  The woman turned on him, ready to offload her frustrations and fears on the cheeky older man when that flash of recognition sparkled in her eyes. “Oh. Hi!” She ran her hand through her hair and smiled. “Honey, it’s Dani Tavor!” She nudged her geeky husband in the ribs, who looked up from his phone. Their three kids gawked at him from behind the suitcase trolley.

  “Thank you!” Dani gave them a free sample of his trademark penetrating stare, then turned to the clerk behind the desk. “My daughter reserved a seat for me earlier. I’ve no luggage to check in.”

  The clerk had exhausted her quota of smiles for the day. “Dani Tavor,” she said, as she typed at her keyboard. “Nope, sorry. Nothing here. Where are you flying?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to buy a ticket like everyone else.”

  Like everyone else—the nerve!

  A finger tapped him on the back. “Hey,” the husband said. “We were here first. Get in line.”

  Dani ignored him. “I’ll take whatever you have,” he told the clerk. “The further away, the better.”

  She glanced at the screen. “The only seats left are to Timbuktu.”

  “I’ll take it!”

  “Do you have a visa for Mal
i?”

  “I’ll use my foreign passport.”

  The clerk reached out, so he handed over his mint condition German passport. His mother had barely escaped the Holocaust, and her former nationality had allowed Dani to apply for German citizenship. As with many Israelis, he had procured the second passport “just in case.” His forward thinking had paid off!

  “That’ll be fifty thousand.”

  He almost choked. “Fifty thousand shekels—for Timbuktu?”

  The clerk wasn’t joking. “No,” she said. “Fifty thousand US dollars. When the exchanges open tomorrow, the shekel will be worthless.”

  The airlines had no shame—to take advantage of refugees, fleeing for their lives! He’d do a special exposé on airline extortion when he got back. But he wouldn’t be back. Tomorrow an asteroid would obliterate the country. But still, fifty thousand US dollars!

  “Move along,” the clerk said.

  “I’ll take it.” He held out his Visa Platinum Card. “Here, take my fifty thousand dollars.”

  She did. Good thing he’d removed the limit on his card. He glanced over his shoulder at the lines of desperate fellow travelers. How many of them could swipe fifty grand on their cards? There weren’t enough seats for them all anyway, poor things.

  In his lengthy career, he’d covered tragedy and sorrow, but he’d never looked the victims in the eyes hours before disaster struck. Oh, well.

  The clerk printed the ticket and wished him a pleasant flight.

  On the way to passport control, newsrooms displayed on muted television screens. “Breaking news,” flashed the ticker in red. But for a change, the talking heads were smiling. Why were they still in the studio?

  A familiar self-satisfied face filled the screen. Dani drew near. Isaac Gurion, that old devil, had survived the earthquake. What mischief could he possibly be stirring up during the final hours of the Jewish State?

  “Asteroid Hoax,” read the ticker.

  What? He moved close enough to hear Gurion speak.

  “Do not be fooled,” Gurion said, looking calm, a beatific smile on his lips. “And do not be frightened. The apocalypse Moshe Karlin has promised is yet another lie. Fear not. Tomorrow, your true Redeemer will arrive.”

  Dani stared at the fifty-thousand-dollar airline ticket in his hand and he swore again.

  Chapter 60

  Galit stared at her husband’s face on the television screen. This couldn’t be real. She’d had Henri whip up a dinner of Moshe’s favorite foods to comfort him and make up for the trouble she’d caused.

  She’d spent the morning at the Talpiot Police Department, answering questions about the new First Lady’s spending habits and use of state funds. The investigation was another travesty, she knew, but she still felt responsible. She had become another front in the political war against Moshe.

  That, and the return of her family to the Prime Minister’s Residence. They would be staying much longer than anticipated. A fancy dinner would not solve that problem either but would give comfort in these trying times.

  “He’ll bounce back when he’s ready,” her mom had said. “Just make sure you’re there for him when he does.”

  She watched her husband deliver his recorded statement from the Prime Minister’s Office, the Israeli flag behind him, and her petty concerns faded to nothing. In a matter of hours, a speeding chunk of cosmic rock would succeed where armies and haters had failed for decades—to annihilate the Jewish State. The screen switched from Moshe’s serious face to an image of the asteroid.

  The diplomatic dinner table, set to perfection by the kitchen staff, would go to waste. Who could eat at a time like this?

  The door opened, and she ran to the entrance hall. Galit overheard Moshe speaking with his security detail. He used the words with which he had concluded his televised address. “Head home and spend time with your loved ones.” Alon nodded and left.

  Moshe turned around and met her eyes. Giving her a brave grin, he walked up to her and held her face in his hands. “I guess we won’t be conquering the world after all.”

  “I never wanted the world,” she said. “Just you.”

  He gave her that sad grin again and kissed her on the forehead. He wasn’t angry with her. Moshe had always weathered her moods and outbursts with patience. Another trumped-up charge from the Opposition wouldn’t make him turn on her. She should have known that.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she said, a tear in her voice, hoping to find something positive in their last hours. “We’ll have one hell of a final meal.”

  Moshe forced another smile, then trudged down the corridor to their bedroom.

  Her father had sidled up beside her. “What’s for dinner?”

  Some people always had an appetite, end of the world or not. “Didn’t you see his address?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sneaky move.”

  “Sneaky?”

  “That’ll keep everyone busy for a while and deflect attention from the scandals. It’s better than faking a war and easier to clear up after. Phew! The astronomers got it wrong. Sorry for the scare. Maybe I underestimated him. It’s brilliant.”

  “You think Moshe made that up?”

  “Don’t look at me. That’s the analysis on Channel Two. The timing is too convenient.” Her father cleared his throat. “Shall we serve ourselves?”

  “Go ahead.” Galit made for their bedroom. She knew Moshe. He wouldn’t make up something like that.

  She knocked on their door. Hearing no response, she turned the handle. The room was dark, the lights off, and curtains drawn against the street lights. “Moshe?”

  A soft grunt came from their bed. She walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. His head poked out from the bedspread.

  “You coming to eat?”

  “I failed you,” he said. “We’re all going to die, and I can do nothing about it.”

  “It’s not your fault. You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders.”

  “We had the superpowers on their knees yesterday. Now they all want to see us die. If I’d just chosen one…”

  Galit didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t share details of the government’s inner workings with her, and she accepted that. But she didn’t need to know the details. She knew her husband, and he always did the right thing.

  “It’ll be OK.”

  “No, Galit. This time it won’t.” He gave an ironic laugh. “They all think I’m a messiah, but they’re wrong. I’m done.”

  She shushed him and stroked his hair. He was always the one calming her down over some silly, inconsequential nothing that had set her off; she’d never seen him so devastated and drained of life. Moshe had returned from the dead. He had faced off criminals, shaken up an unfeeling bureaucracy, and beaten the political establishment at its own game. He’d beat this too. She knew it. But not like this. “C’mon Moshe. You’re not done yet.”

  “I am,” he said, his voice louder, harder.

  He pulled the covers over his head, knocking her hand away. Hurt flashed in her mind. We’ve only got a few hours left on this Earth and he wants to be alone?

  She left the room, slamming the door behind her, and leaned against the wall. The hurt boiled away, leaving a silt of gloom. We’re all going to die. She’d never taken that possibility seriously. Moshe always swept in to save the day. He was her personal Superman. But with Moshe in this state, she ran out of hope.

  Hearing a knock at the front door, she ran to answer. She opened without thinking, forgetting the mass of demonstrators outside the gates. But no angry protesters waited on the threshold as the door swung open, only one man.

  A series of emotions swept over her: revulsion and rage, and then pity. He hung his head, the face beneath the oily fringe for once devoid of guile and cocky self-assurance. The plaster cast on his left arm hung in a sling. When he looked up, fear flashed in his eyes.

  On the welcome mat stood Avi Segal.

  Chapter 61

  “What are you doi
ng here?” she demanded.

  On the threshold of the Prime Minister’s Residence, Avi avoided Galit’s glare. After his deceptions and betrayals, he had no right to be there, but now he forced himself to look her in the eye. “Is Moshe home?”

  Home. Moshe belonged here, not him, but Avi had to get inside at all costs. Moshe’s life depended on it.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your pal, Isaac Gurion?”

  “I left Upward. I quit politics.”

  Her short, dismissive laugh told him that she didn’t believe a word. He didn’t blame her, although, after their experiences in Mandrake’s warehouse a month ago, he had hoped that she would have softened.

  They had sat side by side, bound to their chairs and gagged. Avi had refused to let their mad tormentor kill Moshe. Later, when memories of Moshe’s first death came flooding back, Avi had risen to her defense, and shouldered the blame for their unfaithfulness. He had deceived and betrayed them both.

  The traitor in Avi had died, but earning back their trust would take time. Now time was running out. For what it was worth, he had to try.

  “I need to speak to Moshe.”

  “About what?”

  “His life is in danger.”

  She shook her head. Not the response Avi had hoped for, but the words seemed to have worked. She stepped aside and let him enter.

  The hall of the Prime Minister’s Residence had the high ceilings and fancy paintings of a museum. A glimmer of pride for his friend warmed his heart. Look how far you’ve come, my bro.

  Galit closed the door behind them. “I guess you didn’t get the memo. We’re all going to die.”

  “I mean immediate danger. Gurion’s gone crazy. He’s not interested in defeating Moshe; he wants him dead. I tried to warn Moshe before, but he wouldn’t listen to me. You must tell him. What?”

  She shook her head again and considered him with a sadness that bordered on pity. “When I said ‘we’re all going to die’ I wasn’t being philosophical. ‘All men must die.’ I mean, we’re all going to die tomorrow—every person in the State of Israel. The rest of the planet too, probably. We’re expecting an asteroid strike at noon.”