A Premature Apocalypse Page 21

  “I haven’t been back since yesterday. It’s too risky. They might be watching.”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “In the car.” He grinned.

  That seemed a bit paranoid to Irina, but Alex knew what they were up against. “Then I’ll go.” His lips tightened, so she added, “I’ll be quick—I promise. In and out.”

  “OK,” he said. “But I’ll wait a few blocks away.”

  “No problem.”

  Shamai Street was only a few turns away through downtown Jerusalem. The car crossed over King George, and Alex stopped at a back street on the edge of Independence Park.

  “Be back quick?” he said.

  “In and out,” she promised, and, leaving him with a hurried kiss, she jumped out.

  The streets of downtown Jerusalem seemed empty for a Wednesday morning. The few people she encountered rushed off and didn’t seem to notice her. A hurtling asteroid and messianic frenzy had created the ideal conditions for two lovers to escape into thin air. The thought thrilled her. They were embarking on an adventure into the unknown, just the two of them.

  She paused at the corner to scan Shamai Street from a safe distance. Finding no unfamiliar cars in the parking bay and no suspicious men hiding behind newspapers, she walked beneath the stilts of Alex’s building and punched the code for the front door. She skipped up the two flights of stairs, glancing up in case a thug had arrived ahead of her. Then, her heart pounding in her chest, from both the climb and the tension, she slid her key into the hole and walked inside.

  Her bag lay on the kitchen table. Closing the distance in two strides, she grabbed the bag, slipped the strap over her shoulder, and turned to leave. She gasped. A man stood between her and the door. He wore a tweed coat and pointed a large black gun in her direction.

  His gray mustache shifted as he smiled. “Nice to see you again, Irina,” Boris said. “It’s been too long.”

  Chapter 70

  Ahmed stood in the wings behind the stage. This was his first visit to Al Aqsa and his last.

  The murmur of the waiting crowds beyond the partition buzzed like the hum of twenty thousand bees. He checked the order of his cue cards with shaky fingers. The golden envelope could mean only one thing—he was nearing the slaughterhouse.

  Hasan stepped in front of him, straightened the turban on Ahmed’s head, and adjusted the collar of the white robe. Ahmed’s cousin looked pale and his forehead glistened, but not because of the late morning sun. The drop-off bin in Ramallah meant that Hasan was also in the dark. For years he had danced for unseen puppeteers, blindly accepting their money without ever understanding their true intentions. Did he also sense that the end was drawing near—for them both?

  “You look perfect, Mahdi,” Hasan said. “Remember our agreement and keep to the script this time.”

  Ahmed nodded. Although Hasan had not fulfilled his promise to introduce him to the Shepherd, he had done his best. Was he not a victim too?

  “Because if you don’t, this time I’ll blow your brains out myself.”

  His empathy for Hasan evaporated.

  Hasan gave him a final clap on the shoulder. “Good luck.” Then he rushed away to his seat of honor among the other dignitaries in the front row.

  Alone at last, Ahmed turned to his last urgent task before stepping before the crowds to meet his fate. This task he could not fulfill in person.

  “Dara!” he hissed. “Dara!”

  With a whish of fabric, his friend appeared, all smiles and pride. “Here I am, O Mahdi. Your faithful servant is ready for your commands.”

  “Enough of that, you idiot. I have an important mission for you.”

  “Anything for my Mahdi.”

  “This is serious.” He withdrew the sealed white envelope from the folds of his robe. “I need you to take this to Clal Center. Give it to the girl, Samira.”

  Dara accepted the letter and sniffed it. “A love letter—can I have a peek?”

  “This is serious, Dara. And urgent. Take it to her right away, and only to her.”

  “What, now? And miss your historic speech? First, you disappear on me this morning, and now you chase me away?”

  “Yes, now. Please, my friend. This means more to me than any speech.”

  Dara’s shoulders sagged. “OK, my friend. But try to drag out your words, I don’t want to miss the after-party.” He winked and hurried off.

  Good. The favor would also keep his friend far from the slaughterhouse that awaited.

  Ahmed sucked in air, filling his lungs. He had been preparing for this day a long time. Everything he had experienced in his second life had led here. Today, he would meet the Shepherd, and he would prove that he had learned his lesson. This time, he would face his fate with honor.

  He forced his legs to carry him around the partition and onto the stage. The excited murmurs rose as his sandaled feet trod over the white carpet that led to the white podium. Placing his cue cards on the podium, he glanced beyond the microphones.

  Beneath the clear blue canopy of heaven and crowned by the towering golden Dome of the Rock, Arab men of faith covered every inch of the Temple Mount plaza. Dignitaries in kaffiyehs and turbans filled the first five rows. Guards of the Islamic Waqf in dark trousers and white collared shirts lined the aisles. Beyond them stood the endless mass of pilgrims. The common folk wore their finest clothing and waited for their Redeemer.

  This time nobody spoke ahead of Ahmed. The good tidings had spread, and the Mahdi needed no introduction. Besides, Hasan had said, rival imams and political figures had lobbied so fiercely to stand at his side that choosing any of them might spark a conflict that would engulf them in flames for decades.

  From the front row, Hasan nodded at Ahmed to begin.

  “My friends,” Ahmed began, reading from the cards, his voice bursting from immense speakers around the expansive plaza like the voice of God. “You have seen the signs. Today we begin a new era. A time when we no longer talk of struggle, because victory is already ours. The End Times.”

  Cheers erupted throughout the crowd. The ecstatic hope of the crowd surged through him like a drug, and a smile spread across his face without bidding. Yes! An end to their struggles. From his vantage point, the pilgrims at the back were dots of color, shapeless sheep in the herd, their murmurs of relief, contented bleating, secure in their trust of the Shepherd.

  If only he could channel that power for good. The struggle should end, not because one side has defeated the other, but because the struggle was an illusion, a deception created by cruel shepherds to satisfy their own base desires.

  But by telling them, he would break his promise to Hasan and risk the wrath of the Shepherd.

  Would the people listen? In Bethlehem, the audience had not stoned him for heresy; they had warmed to him and gripped his hand. No doubt his words had surprised them, but they had longed to hear that message of peace.

  He glanced at the next card. It spoke of the sons of pigs and killers of prophets, of yet another intifada and days of rage, of martyrs and streets flowing with infidel blood. And of his coronation later that day when he would strike the first blow that would start the Mother of All Wars.

  The excited murmurs settled, and an expectant hush washed over the sea of eager faces. In the pregnant silence, fifty thousand men held their breath. How would the Mahdi bring The End? How would he snatch that final victory from the jaws of struggle and stagnation?

  The courage Ahmed had nurtured behind the partition fled. How could he take on the Shepherd? How could he overturn centuries of hatred? He should turn and run. Run and hide. Hasan’s assassins would catch him one day, but at least Ahmed would not stain his soul again with innocent blood.

  His sweaty palms slid over the sides of the podium. His lips trembled, and his tongue dried up in his mouth.

  A ripple in the sea of spectators drew his eye. An inlet had formed at the side of the crowd. The inlet widened as people pressed against each other and struggled to move away f
rom the disturbance. In the center of the clearing stood a man.

  Then the man shouted at the top of his voice. Another murmur spread over the waters, as the lone madman parted the sea, crying out and waving his arms.

  Fingers of cold terror closed over Ahmed’s heart as the man ranted and raved. Ahmed knew the madman, who now directed his words at him!

  Chapter 71

  Moshe dialed a number on a landline in his office, ready to concede defeat. He’d plead and beg—whatever necessary to save lives.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Shmuel said, sitting beside him. “Chances are, we’re goners anyway.”

  Most other cabinet members had left for the Prime Minister’s Residence, where they’d follow the operation from the relative safety of the bunker.

  Moshe gave him a brave smile. “I’m an optimist.” Then he covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “It’s ringing.”

  Shmuel lifted the other receiver to his ear and covered the mouthpiece.

  Moshe’s pulse thumped in his ears. Although they had traded threats and blows via press releases, he hadn’t spoken with his adversary directly since the coalition had imploded. Now Moshe came crawling on his knees. Pick up, Gurion. I know you’re waiting for my call.

  Why else had the politician done this? His so-called Messiah Coronation was an exercise in brinkmanship. For Moshe, it was a catch-22. If he accepted the invitation, his presence would be proof of his haughty, overbearing rule. King Karlin, Gurion had labeled him, a corrupt dictator who holds himself above the law. If he didn’t show, Gurion might claim that golden crown for himself, riding the wave of messianic fever to the crest of public opinion. And while Moshe deliberated, thousands of citizens waited in the open, putting their lives in graver danger with every passing minute.

  It was a game he couldn’t win and so he wouldn’t play.

  The line continued to ring.

  Had Moshe misunderstood—was Gurion intentionally trying to increase the death toll so that, even if Moshe averted total annihilation, he’d still shoulder the blame for thousands of casualties? Or had Gurion’s hatred blinded him to the dangers of the asteroid?

  The call connected.

  “Well, well, well,” said the familiar, greasy voice. “If it isn’t King Karlin himself.”

  “Hello, Isaac.”

  “We’re waiting for you. The table is set. All that’s missing is our Savior.”

  Moshe scanned his options one last time, but no way out presented itself. All good things came to an end.

  “You win,” he said. “Call off this coronation of yours and send those people home. I’ll stand down. I’ll resign as Prime Minister, dissolve the government, and appoint you as my interim replacement. I’ll dismantle Restart too and leave politics forever.”

  “Moshe, Moshe,” Gurion said, sounding injured. “What do you take me for?”

  “Don’t take my word for it. I’ll sign a declaration or whatever you want. Just send those people to their bomb shelters.” Moshe eyed Shmuel, who nodded. He had to reveal their plan; at this point, there was no harm in doing so. “We’ve set a process in motion. There’s a chance we’ll beat the asteroid, but even in the best-case scenario, there will still be widespread destruction. The crowds outside the Messiah Coronation Center will die if they stay out in the open…”

  He trailed off. Gurion was laughing.

  “Sorry,” Gurion said, recovering. “I couldn’t hold back.”

  “It’s real, Isaac. Check with NASA. Check with any astronomical organization—they’ll all say the same thing. The asteroid is—.”

  “I know, I know.” Gurion’s voice quavered with residual humor. “I never doubted you, King Karlin.”

  Avi was right—Gurion had lost his mind, and in his insanity, he would slaughter innocents. “Think of the people you’ve gathered outside, Isaac. Their families, their children.”

  “I don’t want you to resign, Moshe. Oh, no. I want much more than that. You tried to kill me. Now come here and face me like a man.” His voice became gruff with pent-up fury. “This isn’t politics, Moshe; this is personal.”

  The call cut out.

  “He’s gone mad,” Shmuel said. “He wants to get at you, even if it means killing thousands.”

  Moshe got to his feet. “You should head for the Residence now.”

  Shmuel gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  Gurion had cornered him. “I need you to oversee the operation while I’m gone.”

  “Don’t go there. That’s exactly what he wants.”

  “I need to warn those people. They’re there because of me. I should have denied the rumors that I was the Messiah while I could. Now they’ll only listen to me.”

  “But he’ll murder you. He practically said so himself.”

  Moshe gave him another brave smile. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

  Chapter 72

  Yosef had never entered the Muslim Quarter of the Old City alone and for good reason. Most attacks against Jews occurred there. But today Yosef walked past the knot of Border Guard soldiers at Jaffa Gate, and into the unfamiliar labyrinth.

  Every second counted. He hurried along narrow alleys that squeezed between high walls of white stone. Decades of sun and rain had worn the cobblestones smooth. As he delved deeper, the metal street names on the walls no longer bothered with Hebrew or English, only Arabic.

  An Arab man, rough and unshaven, glared at Yosef. A woman, covered from head to toe in a flowing burka, averted her eyes. With his velvet skullcap and fringes flying from his belt, Yosef dared not ask for directions. A lone Jew in the Muslim Quarter was vulnerable; a lost Jew was asking for trouble. For the second time that day, he regretted forgoing his security detail.

  The trickle of pedestrians became a steady flow, and Yosef knew he was moving in the right direction. As he bustled along, he searched for a solution to an imminent problem. Of the eleven gates to the Temple Mount, non-Muslims could only enter through one, Mughrabi Gate, via a ramp next to the Western Wall Plaza. Tourists had to schedule their excursions in small groups and during limited visiting hours. Yosef had not scheduled a tour for today, and he approached from the north. How on earth would he get past the Temple Mount guards?

  As the foot traffic thickened, the number of robes and kaffiyehs increased. Yosef flowed with them, until, turning a corner, he glimpsed the tall arch of the Gate of the Tribes.

  An immense leafy tree cast a shadow over the arched gateway. The crowd meandered between metal dividers, bolted to the ground. A battery of men in dark uniforms eyed the worshipers, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, as the visitors passed beyond black crowd-control barriers emblazoned with the word Police.

  Once through the gate, Arab men massed on the green expanse, exchanging smiles and pointing to something to the south and out of sight.

  A month ago, Yosef had waited in line outside of the Western Wall Plaza to greet a different messiah. He had tasted the ecstatic rush that now reflected in the eyes of the Arabs. This time, he hoped the gathering would not end in mass tragedy.

  The line advanced. A young bearded officer with olive skin and mirror glasses raised his hand at the sight of Yosef. “You can’t go in there.” His voice had the harsh guttural inflection of an Arabic speaker.

  “I need your help,” Yosef said. “There will be an attack on the Temple Mount by Jewish extremists.”

  “Whoa, slow down, Rabbi.” The officer motioned for his colleague to stand in for him as he led Yosef to the side.

  He raised his sunglasses onto his forehead. “What attack?” he said, his voice hushed.

  “Have you seen a man with a beard—a redhead?”

  The officer shrugged. “Buddy, most people here have beards.”

  “This one is Jewish. I saw him on the Temple Mount. It was on the news. He must have planted explosives.”

  The officer did not look impressed. “What makes you think that?”

  “His cult wants to destroy the Dom
e of the Rock to build the Jewish Temple in its place. By any means. He told me so. We need to evacuate the area.”

  The officer looked over his shoulder at the thousands of worshippers on the Temple Mount. “That won’t be possible. And you are?”

  The officer clearly didn’t recognize him. Yosef had hidden from the cameras ever since the election campaign. “I’m the Vice Prime Minister of the State of Israel.”

  The officer didn’t stifle his laugh. “And I’m the Genie of the Lamp.”

  “This isn’t funny. I’ll hold you personally responsible for whatever happens.”

  “Run along, Rabbi. Don’t make me arrest you.”

  Yosef had feared this scenario. Don’t panic. Be firm. “I’ve spoken with Commissioner Golan!”

  At the mention of the Commissioner, the officer’s smile disappeared. The Commissioner hadn’t heeded Yosef’s warning either, but saving lives justified the half-truth.

  “Last I heard, it’s business as usual.”

  “Then you’re not up to date.”

  “One moment.” The officer pulled out a walkie-talkie and spoke in Arabic.

  Oh, great. Had Yosef expected the guard to take his word? The Commissioner’s office would expose Yosef’s deception. If he wound up in a holding cell, he’d have no chance of averting the tragedy.

  On loudspeakers beyond the wall, a voice boomed in Arabic, and a cheer rose from the audience like the crashing of waves on the seashore. The gathering had begun, the Mahdi addressed his unsuspecting crowd, and Yosef stood on the wrong side of the wall.

  Starry-eyed worshippers poured through the gates and into harm’s way. How could he stand idly by as they rushed to their death? The ruins of the Jerusalem Temple, the most sacred spot on earth, chosen by God to bring peace unto the world, would soon become the scene of a terrible crime that would sow suffering and conflict for generations.

  Stop waiting, Yosef. Do something!

  With a sudden jolt of wild desperation, Yosef stepped up to the nearest worshipper.

  “Don’t go in there,” he said. “Something terrible is about to happen!”