A Premature Apocalypse Page 22

  The elderly Arab sneered at him from beneath his kaffiyeh and hurried along.

  Yosef accosted the next in line, grabbing him by the arm. “Go home—you are in danger!”

  “Hey!” the officer called behind him. “Stop that!”

  Heavy boots clapped on the stone courtyard behind him.

  “All of you—leave this place! Run for your lives!”

  A hand gripped his shoulder, but Yosef ducked and dived sideways, evading the officer’s grasp. He cut back and sprinted for the open gate.

  As the gate grew larger, Halachic qualms flashed in his mind. Jewish law prohibited Jews from treading on the holy ground of the former Temple but permitted almost anything to save even a single human life. How many men, women, and children would perish if Tom Levi executed his cruel plan?

  His legs carried him forward. Crossing the threshold, he almost slammed into the burgeoning crowd of Arab worshippers. The Temple complex was much larger than he had imagined. And so green! People flowed over the lawns and around the towering golden dome, its octagonal base tiled in blue, yellow, and green. The white stage stood before the Al Aqsa Mosque to the south.

  Yosef had expected the guards to apprehend him by now. Glancing over his shoulder, he discovered why they had not. The black-clad police officers glared at him from the threshold. The officer with the sunglasses spoke into his walkie-talkie, his forehead glistening with sweat.

  Ha! The Israel Police entered the Temple Mount only to escort tourists and catch terrorists, delegating the management of the holy site to the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf. Mass gatherings such as today were especially sensitive, and a charging group of armed Israeli officers in the middle of the speech would create a diplomatic incident of international proportions. Yosef had a few seconds before the officers got permission to grab him.

  He scanned the worshippers for a red beard. None paid him any attention, their eyes fixed on the white-robed figure on the stage. The Mahdi’s voice roared from the many loudspeakers.

  Tom Levi would stay far away for the detonation. Yosef had better search for the explosives. Where had he placed them? What did explosives look like? And if he found them, what could he do to prevent them from detonating?

  Nothing. Time was running out. He had to clear the place, and if the police would not help, he’d do it alone.

  “Hey!” he cried at the top of his voice.

  Two men at the edge of the crowd scowled at him, then returned to the spectacle on the stage.

  Yosef ran south along the flank of the standing audience.

  “Hey! All of you! Shoo! Get out of here. You are in danger. The Temple Mount is about to explode. Leave now!”

  The speech continued unabated. Yosef’s ranting had won only short-lived glares of irritation and shushing. What was this Jew doing here, interrupting their Messiah’s speech?

  He glanced back. The officers were running toward him now. His time was up. If only they had believed him.

  He charged at the crowd, waving his arms and roaring like a raging bull.

  That did it. The worshipers in his path lurched away from the raging Jew, clearing an opening in the mass of bodies.

  “Your lives are in danger!” he declared. “Leave this place! Leave now!” He walked on, the horrified robed men edging away from the ranting madman, their eyes bulging.

  Yosef pressed on, walking deeper into the crowd, repeating his mantra at the top of his voice and waving his hands. On and on he charged as the mass parted like the Red Sea. The Arabs stared at him from an arm’s length away. Did they understand a word he was saying?

  He spun around, pleading with them, imploring them to flee, and discovered that the opening had closed behind him. The path had become a small air pocket within an ocean of Muslims. The police officers peered at him from the sidelines, their rage replaced with fear and concern for the trapped Israeli civilian.

  Then the Messiah on the stage fell silent. The susurrus of a thousand whispers circled the crowd like a host of murmuring spirits. The worshippers blinked at Yosef, their surprise turning to annoyance and edging toward outrage. In their eyes, he read their thoughts. An infidel in our midst! An intruder at our holy site!

  When the Messiah spoke again, his tone had changed. Yosef didn’t understand a word, but he guessed the meaning as the clearing shrank and the crowd closed in on him. Not all the worshipers were old and frail. A dozen rough hands clamped onto his arms and prodded him forward. He fell over but didn’t hit the ground. More hands gripped his legs, lifting him overhead, stretching his limbs in every direction.

  He glimpsed blue skies above, and pain shot through his joints. Closing his eyes, he braced for the worst. His life was at the mercy of the mob now. He muttered a final prayer—Shema Yisrael! Hear O Israel!—when another voice echoed in his mind.

  Your life is in danger!

  Chapter 73

  Eli sat at Noga’s bedside, stroking her hair and willing her to wake up. Her vital signs had returned to normal hours ago, but she remained unconscious. Misinformation was tearing the world apart at the seams—on the one hand, fear of extinction by rogue asteroid; on the other, hope in a false messiah. Eli needed to go out there and fulfill his destiny before time ran out, but how could he leave her in this state?

  “How much longer will it take?” he asked.

  Dr. Stern looked up from his desk in the private field hospital. “I don’t know. Judging by the speed with which her body recovered, I thought her mind would follow soon, but—”

  “How long?” Eli had not meant to shout.

  Dr. Stern lowered his eyes, looking old and haggard. “A few minutes. A few years. Never. Nobody’s tried this treatment before, and she was out for so long. Maybe too long.”

  An anguished gasp escaped Eli’s mouth. This was why he had avoided entanglements with mortals. Love might last forever, but humans didn’t. Only Eli. Dr. Stern had located the Fountain of Youth in Eli’s epigenetic makeup, but the discovery had come too late for the only girl who mattered.

  Dr. Stern returned to the comfort of his computer screen.

  “Don’t do this to me,” Eli whispered, addressing Noga or God—he couldn’t tell.

  Had Noga served her purpose in the cosmic drama and become expendable? Did the same apply to Eli as well?

  Months ago, lying in his hospital bed and mourning the loss of his powers, Eli had suspected that God had abandoned him. Perhaps he had lost the Magic because there would be no Redemption. Had God finally given up on humankind? That same depressing scenario rose in his mind now. In the time of Noah, God had promised never to send another flood. But there were other ways to wipe out humanity.

  According to Moshe Karlin, at noon today, an asteroid would slam into the country, pulverizing the Jewish State. The impact would inject the atmosphere with enough dust and ash to create a year-long winter that would extinguish ninety percent of the planet’s living creatures. Had humanity become expendable too?

  He grasped Noga’s hand. Was she better off asleep? That way, she wouldn’t see her dream die and her world blasted into oblivion.

  Her fingers twitched in his hand, and Eli bolted upright. “Noga?”

  The eyelids fluttered.

  He stroked her hair. “Noga, can you hear me?”

  She opened her eyes and stared into his. “Eli?”

  Her voice was soft and weak, but she was looking at him and she knew who he was. Eli couldn’t hold back. A tense halting laughter jerked his body, and he bawled into her hand.

  A chair shifted as Dr. Stern rushed to her bedside.

  “Why are you crying?” she said. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  Eli wiped the tears from his cheeks, while Dr. Stern stood over them, his eyes glistening.

  “Never been happier,” Eli said.

  Her eyes shifted back to him. “How long have I been gone? Does Karlin know about the Ten Tribes?”

  Eli shushed her. He wanted to tell her that everything would be fine, that she shou
ld rest and take it easy. There would be time to talk about everything. But that wasn’t true. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re OK. That’s enough.”

  “No,” she said. “We have a job to do.” She struggled to sit up.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. “Don’t worry about it. You need to rest.”

  “Then you must do it,” she said. “Go on without me. Promise me.”

  He looked at Dr. Stern, whose brow furrowed with unspoken questions. Karlin? The Ten Tribes?

  “The thing is,” Eli said, “it’s too late.”

  “It can’t be!”

  There was no way around it now. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “but it is. An asteroid is heading for Jerusalem. Karlin said so on the news. We have an hour left. I’d rather spend that hour with you.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I didn’t want to have to tell you, but it’s the truth. It’s over, Noga. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s only over when we stop trying.”

  Dr. Stern cleared his throat. “The asteroid scare might be a hoax.”

  “Then we have to try!”

  “It doesn’t matter. Isaac Gurion, that false prophet, has set up his own Messiah Coronation. It’s underway right now.”

  “Who’s he going to crown?”

  “That’s unclear. He claims that Karlin will attend the ceremony, but he hasn’t said who his messiah will be.”

  “Then this is our chance. Maybe our final chance to get through to Karlin.”

  She might be right. “But… I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Do it for me, Eli. We’ve come so far, you’ve waited so long.”

  He had waited long, but now that the moment had arrived, he faltered. Was this really about Noga, or, without the Magic and the Thin Voice, had he lost his nerve?

  Dr. Stern jerked his head to the side, and Eli joined him a few steps away for a hushed consultation.

  “Humor her,” he said. “It might raise her spirits and aid her recovery.”

  Eli grasped around for more excuses. “What if you need me for another transfusion? Or your granddaughter? She needs treatment too.”

  As unpleasant as the transfusion had been, Eli would go through it a hundred times to spend his last hour with Noga.

  The doctor’s face slackened at the mention of his granddaughter. “That won’t be necessary. She died two months ago.” Dr. Stern seemed to crumble as he spoke the words.

  Two months ago. During his stay at Shaare Zedek, Eli had evaded Dr. Stern’s probing about his speedy recovery, desperate to conceal his identity. If he hadn’t, the doctor’s granddaughter might have lived.

  “But,” the doctor added, “it’s not too late for Noga, or for this other little project of yours.”

  Another memory from Shaare Zedek rose in Eli’s mind. Never delay, Oren, his roommate had said, shortly before his untimely death. Or you will lose her.

  Eli stepped back to the bed. “OK,” he said. “I’ll do it.” The smile on her face made his decision worthwhile. “But I want you feeling much better when I return.”

  “Deal!”

  He kissed her, long and hard, then turned to Dr. Stern. “I need clothes.”

  Chapter 74

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” Moshe’s security chief said from the driver’s seat later that morning, “this is a bad idea.”

  Alon might be right. Outside the windows of the SUV, people poured into the road beside the Mount Zion Hotel and the Jerusalem Cinematheque, thick as bees in a hive. In sweaters and ski caps, the common folk had hit the streets to greet their Messiah.

  Moshe had set out for the Sultan’s Pool with a single guard and without his usual cavalcade. The rest of his security detail he had sent home to their families. Yesterday, protestors had jumped the Knesset perimeter fence and hurled rocks at his window; would this gathering turn violent too?

  The citizens didn’t seem angry. Sighting the SUV, pedestrians jumped out of the way and let them pass. Many waved at the tinted windows or gave the thumbs-up.

  As they rolled onto the bridge over the Hinnom Valley, Moshe learned why. A sequence of large images was displayed on a two-story billboard: a golden crown, Moshe’s own likeness, and a turbaned young Arab.

  What was Gurion up to? Spinning lies like webs, he had lured Moshe to the Messiah Coronation. Once caught in his sticky trap, would Moshe be able to wriggle free?

  Let Gurion spin his webs. Moshe had his own mission to complete, and then he’d hightail it to the Prime Minister’s Residence.

  “Stop here,” he said.

  “Sir, I recommend that you stay inside the vehicle.”

  “I’ll stay close.”

  The SUV idling on the curb of the bridge, Moshe swung the door outward.

  “There he is!” a man said.

  More excited voices spoke. “That’s him. That’s Moshe Karlin!”

  Moshe cringed, expecting a rotten tomato or a hook to the jaw. Instead, he found hopeful smiles.

  He smiled back, crossed the road, and stepped up to the railing.

  The Hinnom Valley squeezed between Mount Zion and the rise of modern West Jerusalem. The corner where the mountains converged had served the Ottomans as a reservoir. Today, the so-called the Sultan’s Pool functioned as a stadium for open-air concerts.

  Moshe leaned over the low stone wall of the bridge and peered through a gap in the Plexiglas barrier. This concert had sold out.

  People blanketed the tidy rows of seats on the valley floor. Vendors moved between the rows, selling drinks and snacks. A red carpet ran along the main aisle and ended in a huge, black, boxlike structure, at least several stories tall, that dominated the stage. This Messiah Coronation had involved some serious preparations.

  Alon joined him at the wall. He faced the street and unbuttoned his jacket, allowing free access to the holster at his side.

  Moshe lifted the bullhorn he had packed for the ride and placed it between the Plexiglas dividers. Then he climbed onto the low wall and held down the press-to-talk button of the handset.

  “Friends,” he said, broadcasting his voice into the valley. Heads turned heavenward at the sound of the voice from above. “Fellow citizens. I know why you’re here.”

  Voices cheered below; hands clapped. Bystanders filmed him on their mobile phones.

  “You’ve heard unbelievable things in the media and from the Prime Minister’s Office. Some are easier to swallow than others. We don’t want to believe that our lives are in danger, or that the world we know is ending. It’s much easier to hope that things will be OK.”

  The morning breeze played with his hair and caused feedback on the megaphone. He released the button. Every head turned to him. In the tense silence below, a man coughed. He had their undivided attention now.

  He pressed the button again. “People exploit our desires and fears to get what they want and with little consideration for others. So, I’ve come here to tell you the ugly truth. The asteroid is real. We are all in great danger. The government is working to minimize the damage, but you must go home now, collect your loved ones, and take cover in the nearest bomb shelter.”

  Somebody cried out below. “You’ll save us!”

  Cheers erupted, then the voices chanted. Kar-lin! Kar-lin! Kar-lin!

  Moshe enjoyed hearing his name as much as the next guy, but his supporters would remember Moshe Karlin in a very different light after their country got pulverized and they lost their loved ones.

  “I should have said this a long time ago,” he said into the handset, and the chant died down. “There are no magic wands. I cannot perform miracles or conjure natural disasters. I’m just a human being like you. And I am not the Messiah.”

  There, he had said it. Had they finally gotten the message? Voices echoed below. They were laughing. What was so funny?

  The loudmouth cried out again, “That’s what they said you’d say!”

  The chant
rose again. Kar-lin! Kar-lin! Kar-lin!

  Moshe glanced at Alon, who shrugged. Once Gurion had planted the seed of hope, how could he prove that he wasn’t the Messiah? He glanced at his golden wristwatch, the piece Gurion had given him a lifetime ago for running with Upward in the elections. Under thirty minutes to impact. He needed a new tactic and fast.

  “OK,” he said. “If I say I’m the Messiah, will you go home?”

  Cheers and applause.

  What did it matter? He squeezed the talk button again. “Fine. Your Messiah commands you to go home and take cover. You have less than thirty minutes to reach safety. Go!”

  More cheers below. His audience stood, but the crowds didn’t run for the exits. Instead, they clapped. Another chant emerged. “Show us! Show us! Show us!”

  Moshe released the button and swore under his breath. There was no winning with these people.

  They wanted a show. Fine, he’d oblige. If he couldn’t get through to them, he’d find someone who could. “Isaac Gurion,” he said into the loudspeaker. “Show yourself. You wanted to meet face-to-face. Time to show yours.”

  All eyes turned to the black box on the stage. The dark, foreboding structure recalled the warehouse where Mandrake had held Moshe captive. Whatever he did, Moshe should not go down there.

  “Come on out, Isaac. Stop hiding.”

  As if in answer to the taunt, a loud clank issued from the box. A door-shaped rectangle fell away from the front of the box and crashed to the ground. All present waited with bated breath, but not a soul emerged from the box.

  A new chant rose from the crowd. “Mo-she! Mo-she! Mo-she!”

  The dark opening beckoned.

  Gurion was running this show. Moshe wasn’t the Messiah, and the people needed to hear it from Gurion.

  “Mo-she! Mo-she! Mo-she!”

  Fine!

  Moshe climbed off the stone wall and returned to the sidewalk. Abandoning the megaphone, he descended the ramp into the Hinnom Valley and the Sultan’s Pool. The chant grew louder with his every step.

  Let Gurion have his way. Let him hurl insults and accusations. If that was the fastest way to send his believers home, Moshe could handle it.