A Premature Apocalypse Read online

  Moshe stepped into the arena. People rose from their seats and clapped their hands as he passed. He waved and pressed on, Alon at his heels.

  The box rose five stories above him. Would the walls fall away as the door had, to reveal a dazzling stage to the delight of the audience?

  He stood opposite the open doorway and peered inside, but the dark passageway faded into shadow.

  C’mon, Isaac. Where are you?

  The gaping hole called to him.

  Moshe glanced at his wristwatch. Time was running out for the citizens in the arena. He’d have to end this charade quickly. He turned to Alon. “Wait here.”

  “But sir—!”

  “It’s OK. Gurion won’t harm me in public, and I can’t exactly walk onto the stage with an armed escort.”

  He stepped forward, and the crowd cheered. Another few steps and he was inside the box. The inner walls were of painted wood. Three meters in, the passage turned left.

  Hinges creaked behind him, and he turned back. The door rose from the floor with a whoosh, snuffing out daylight, clicking shut, and entombing Moshe in darkness.

  Oh, crap!

  What a colossal mistake. Avi had warned him that Gurion wanted to kill him. But Moshe had not listened and now he had walked right into a trap.

  Calm down. He won’t kill you. Gurion wanted a public confrontation. He wanted to flaunt his power and hand Moshe a resounding defeat. He wouldn’t resort to murder, would he?

  Moshe had to get out of the box right away. He felt his way forward, retracing his steps to the door. His hands searched for a handle. He pushed outward, but the door wouldn’t budge. He threw his weight at the wall, ramming with his shoulder and all his strength.

  Then something hard slammed into the back of his skull, and he slumped to the floor.

  Chapter 75

  Ahmed watched as the rabbi’s body floated over the crowd toward him.

  “That’s it,” he said into the microphone. “Gently now.”

  The sight of the rabbi in the clearing, one bearded Jew in a sea of Muslims, had slapped Ahmed back to his senses and decided his internal conflict. He could not let this dear man die before his eyes. The rabbi had lost his mind, or he had a very urgent and important reason for risking his life. Either way, Ahmed would shelter him as the rabbi had done for him.

  The body reached the end of the standing masses. “Now, place him on his feet.” The befuddled men obeyed their Mahdi.

  The rabbi stood, his shoulders hunched, every muscle in his body tensed for sudden flight. He looked up at him.

  Ahmed beckoned with his hand. “Come here,” he said in Hebrew. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Many heads turned in the crowd and mouths tutted. Most of the crowd had not known the identity of the strange man they had supported over their heads, and the Mahdi’s use of Hebrew now confirmed their suspicions.

  The rabbi, clad in a black suit and skullcap, a brown beard streaked with white, and the white tassels of religious garb pouring from his belt, climbed the steps of the stage and inched toward the podium, his eyes filled with apprehension and focused on Ahmed.

  Questions floated in the whispers of the multitude. What was a Jew doing here—and onstage with the Holy Mahdi?

  In the corner of Ahmed’s eye, Hasan writhed on his seat, his fists balled. This was not in the script. The Shepherd would exact a price for the failure. His cousin was probably weighing the benefits of rushing onto the stage to execute him on the spot, against the alternative of fleeing for his life. For now, he remained seated.

  Ahmed had made his decision. The rabbi had forced his hand, and he was glad of it.

  He laid a hand on Yosef’s shoulder, and the rabbi flinched. “Welcome, Rabbi Yosef,” he whispered. “Be not afraid.”

  The rabbi swallowed, not entirely at ease yet. He said, “We’re in danger...”

  Ahmed cut him short. “Nobody will harm you while you’re with me.”

  The agitated murmuring of the masses below grew with each passing second. He had to calm them while he could.

  “This man,” Ahmed continued, speaking into the microphone in Arabic, “saved my life, and the lives of other Arabs. He took them into his home when they had nowhere else to go. Fed them. Clothed them. In return, he asked for nothing.”

  The whispers had settled, and in the many eyes, he saw anger turn to surprise and curiosity. As in Bethlehem, he sensed the thirst for a new message and a budding joy akin to relief.

  “This man is not your enemy. Our enemies are lies and fear.” At the edge of his vision, in the front row, Hasan twitched and buried his face in his hands.

  Ahmed would pay for this later, and pay dearly, but for now, he rejoiced. This would not undo his terrible crimes, but for once he would spread light instead of darkness. He thought of Savta Sarah and Moshe Karlin. Most of all, he thought of Samira. By the time she heard of his speech today, it would be too late for Ahmed, but she would remember him with pride.

  “We will only triumph,” he continued, the words pouring from his soul, “when we realize that the true foe is not this nation or that, this belief or that, but the hatred we sow in our hearts.”

  He felt a tug on his arm. “Ahmed,” Rabbi Yosef said. “There are explosives on the Temple Mount. We must ask everyone to leave at once.”

  The warm euphoric feeling fizzled in an instant.

  “What explosives?”

  “There are terrorists who want to destroy the Temple Mount, along with everyone here. A man with a red beard. He must have planted explosives all over.”

  Ahmed felt the blood drain from his cheeks. It was one thing to deliver a new message of hope, but to follow it with the threat of violent death?

  The rabbi was not lying. At once, Ahmed understood why he had burst onto the mount and endangered his life.

  While the two men on the stage conferred, the whispers resumed.

  Ahmed cleared his throat. “This man saved my life. Today, he has saved us all. Now, listen carefully,” he added, “and please, do not panic.”

  Chapter 76

  Savta Sarah glanced at the next paper on the Speaker’s podium.

  “Item twenty-four,” she read into the microphone. “The Tax Reform Law. I trust you all are familiar with it.”

  By “you all” she referred to the three Restart members of Knesset who had joined her in the Plenum Hall. They nodded their heads.

  “All in favor, raise your hands.”

  Three hands rose in the air.

  “Very well. Mrs. Secretary, please note that the law has passed.”

  The previous twenty-three laws had passed without incident and in record time. Today would go down in history as the most productive day the legislature had ever known.

  “Mrs. Speaker,” a man in a black suit called from the back row. “I must object again!”

  Well, almost without incident.

  Rabbi Mendel of Torah True had turned up and objected to every word that came out of her mouth. The nerve!

  “Yes, Member of Knesset Mendel?”

  “You cannot pass laws with such a low level of attendance!”

  “We’ve been through this before, Mr. Mendel. This legislation requires no minimal quorum, and—”

  In true Knesset tradition, Mendel didn’t let her finish the sentence. “And,” he spluttered, “you cannot pass laws with a single reading.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Again, Mr. Mendel, the first law we passed lifted those requirements for the legislation proposed today.”

  “But… but…”

  She ignored the thorn in her side, turned the page, and ran out of pages. “Mrs. Secretary, have we reviewed all the items on our schedule?”

  The Secretary, Mrs. Weinreb, a delightful young woman in her sixties, had tended to the red tape with a rush of taps on her keyboard. Working with professionals was such a pleasure.

  Mrs. Weinreb read from her screen. “Let’s see. We passed the Tycoon Law, the Law of Limited Government, the Tenure
Abolition Law, the Anti-Cronyism Law, Land Registration Law, the six Transparency Laws, and the Law of Free Negotiation….”

  That had been Savta’s own modest contribution. Store owners could no longer complain when she asked for a discount. By law, she had the right to ask.

  Mrs. Weinreb finished going through the list. “I think that covers everything.”

  “Excellent. Then it’s time to go home.”

  Savta Sarah left the papers on the podium and made for the exit where Rafi waited. She put her arm in his, and they made for the car park. The Minister of Defense had stayed behind to make sure she left the building and got to safety in time. Moshe had seen to that, lovely boy.

  “How did it go?” he asked as they strolled through the Knesset corridors.

  “Very well. It’s about time the country ran freely and fairly.”

  “Yes, indeed. I hope we get to see that in practice.”

  “Me too.”

  Outside, he held the door of the car open for her. “To the Prime Minister’s Residence?”

  Moshe had invited her to watch the operation from the safety of the Prime Minister’s bunker. “Not today,” she said. “Take me home. I defrosted all that meat; it’ll go bad if I don’t get to work soon.”

  “You’re cooking—today of all days?”

  “Rafi, dear, if we survive this, there will be celebrations. And celebrations need food.”

  Chapter 77

  From the driver’s seat, Alex reached over and opened the glove compartment. He grabbed his Glock and checked the cartridge before lodging the gun between his legs. Something wasn’t right.

  His black Hyundai idled a short walk from Shamai Street. Irina had left to collect her things fifteen minutes ago. She should have been back by now.

  He had spent so long under Mandrake’s wing that he’d never imagined how it felt to be on the wrong side of him. By now the crime lord had realized that Alex would not deliver on his final mission.

  Nobody left the Organization. After all he and Mandrake had been through together, Alex had believed that he’d be different. He’d been kidding himself. In hindsight, he should have disappeared without a word. Instead, Alex had opened his big mouth and triggered the fulfillment of his worst fears.

  Had Mandrake even expected him to follow through or had he assigned him an impossible mission, one he would surely fail? His twisted mind enjoyed creating that semblance of justification. Mandrake didn’t crave the moral high ground; he had strangled whatever conscience nature had endowed him long ago. But the moralizing seemed to give him a sadistic pleasure, to torture a man with the idea that he had brought Mandrake’s cruelty down on his own head.

  A hundred terrifying scenarios flashed through his mind: Irina slumped over, a tidy round hole in her forehead; Irina strapped to Mandrake’s man-sized red dartboard, pleading for her life.

  He should never have allowed her to return to his apartment. Now she had fallen into Mandrake’s hands, and only one more decision remained: was Alex going to follow her?

  He swore and thumped the steering wheel with his fists. Why had she popped back into his life and turned everything upside down? Not that he’d been happy before; her death had torn him apart. But at least he had been alive. Now, Mandrake saw him as a traitor, and in this line of work, traitors didn’t live long.

  You idiot! Alex had deluded himself that he could redeem his past, that he and Irina could live happily ever after and leave the terrors of the past behind. Now he had lost everything: his love, his oldest friend, and the only career he’d ever known.

  Only his life remained. For how long, he didn’t know. If he wanted to keep breathing, he’d better shift the stick into Drive and never look back.

  A blond woman appeared around the corner of the building and his heart jumped in his chest. The woman spoke into her phone, a handbag tucked under her arm, and marched on. She wasn’t Irina.

  Alex punched the wheel again. Then, leaving the motor running, he opened the door and got out. He shoved the handgun into the back of his jeans and beneath his jacket.

  He couldn’t do it. Not again. Alex had given her up once before, and the trauma had ripped his soul.

  He walked around the back of his apartment building, scanned the street for Mandrake’s thugs, and continued to the entrance. This second chance wouldn’t come again. He’d already decided. A dozen times, he could have walked away, out of her life. Each time, he had returned. If he abandoned her again, his soul wouldn’t tear; it would shrivel and die. What point would there be in breathing?

  Shoving fear and indecision out of his mind, he focused on the task at hand. This was a job, like any other, but this time, he was working for himself. For Irina.

  He punched the code into the keypad and pushed through the door. Taking the steps two at a time, he landed on the balls of his feet and glanced up the pier, gun in hand, searching for killers lying in ambush.

  He reached the door of his apartment without incident and touched the handle. Had the fear all been in his head? Had she taken a bathroom break?

  Unlocked, the door swiveled inward. He checked the corridor, then stepped into the kitchen.

  Irina stood by the counter, facing him, her arms hugging her chest. He exhaled a pent breath. She was alive! But her fearful eyes flitted to the side where a man slouched in a kitchen chair—the gray-haired man in the tweed coat from the elevator. The man stared at Alex, the revolver in his hand trained on Irina, while a smile spread beneath his bushy mustache.

  Alex could slug him, but not before the man fired his gun at Irina, and, at this range, he wouldn’t miss.

  Before Alex could decide what to do, the question became moot. Thick arms slipped under his armpits, lifting him off the floor and spreading his arms wide like useless wings, while tough hands shoved his head downward. His gun clattered to the square tiles of the old kitchen.

  “Finally,” Boris said. “The man of the moment has arrived.”

  Chapter 78

  Yosef stared at the crowd of Arabs below the stage. Moments ago, they had seemed ready to rip him limb from limb; now, they were helping him catch a terrorist.

  “A redhead,” he whispered to Ahmed, “with a beard. Not an Arab.” The former suicide bomber translated his words into Arabic and spoke them into the microphone.

  Headdresses shifted from side to side as worshipers conferred with each other and glanced around the Temple Mount.

  “They should spread out and leave the Temple Mount in an orderly fashion using the nearest exits.” Ahmed nodded and translated. The masses dispersed, exposing the neat lawns and cobbled pathways of the wide enclosure, and clustered at the exits.

  Yosef’s heart thumped in his ears. Any moment, the stones and trees could burst into flame as the charges detonated around them.

  A clean-shaven Arab from the front row approached the stage and yelled at them. Yosef didn’t understand the angry words, and he was glad for it. Ahmed stared the man down but said nothing. Then the Arab stalked off.

  The lines at the gates shrank as the Temple Mount emptied. Had Yosef sounded a false alarm? Had Tom planned merely to disrupt the gathering? Yosef could live with that.

  A commotion broke out, and voices shouted. A half-dozen white-robed Arabs burst back into the Temple Mount, pushing and shoving another man. Their quarry stumbled forward and fell to the ground. The kaffiyeh fell from his head, revealing a head of red hair.

  “Get away from me!” he cried in Hebrew, and even at the distance, Yosef recognized Tom Levi’s voice.

  “What do we do with him?” Ahmed asked.

  One of the Arabs kicked Tom, and Yosef shuddered. He had wanted to prevent bloodshed, but now he had turned a scared and angry mob against a lone, defenseless Jew.

  “The police,” Yosef said. “Hand him over to the police.”

  Ahmed spoke into the microphone again. The robed Arabs stood down as black-clad officers rushed to the beleaguered man and dragged him away.

  “Thank
you,” Yosef said. Together, they had averted a catastrophe.

  “No,” Ahmed replied. “Thank you.” A sadness clouded his features. “Now I must go. I fear we shall never meet again.”

  The gloomy words surprised him. “What do you mean?”

  But Ahmed didn’t explain. “Tell Moshe Karlin to stay away from the coronation.”

  “What coronation?”

  “The Messiah Coronation. At the Sultan’s Pool. I must go. It is my fate. But Moshe is a good man; he must stay away. This will not end well.”

  Questions vied for attention in Yosef’s mind, but he held them back. Moshe was in danger; Yosef had to warn him. “I haven’t been able to reach him since yesterday. I was busy with, well, with this.” He gestured at the Temple Mount around them.

  Ahmed walked to the ramp at the side of the stage. “Find him,” he said.

  Arabs in kaffiyehs and turbans greeted him and escorted him as he walked.

  Find him. Yosef felt his empty trouser pockets. His cell phone must have slipped out when the crowd had carried him overhead and shattered beneath a thousand pairs of trampling feet.

  This “Messiah Coronation” did not sound like good news. In Yosef’s experience, such events never were.

  Ahmed and his believers grew smaller as they moved through the grounds of the Temple Mount. Somewhere beneath the lawns and pathways, the Great Temple had once stood. Yosef must have trodden on that holy site tonight, transgressing a handful of Biblical prohibitions. Now that he had averted the bombing, was he permitted to cross that hallowed ground again?

  The Talmud allowed Jews to travel on the Sabbath to redeem Jewish hostages. The law also allowed them to return home, desecrating the holy day a second time. Otherwise, they might not have embarked on the sacred mission. Did the same apply to Yosef today? If Ahmed was right, another life depended on his mobility—the Prime Minister of Israel.

  Yosef raced after the receding entourage. “Hold on,” he cried. “Wait for me!”