A Premature Apocalypse Read online

  Chapter 79

  Eli descended the ramp to the Sultan’s Pool that morning, a bottle of oil in his hand and a fire in his heart. How dare Gurion!

  Eli detested false prophets. Fame motivated some, fortune others. Some were simply off their rocker. All three factors seemed to apply to Isaac Gurion. Eli Katz was the last true prophet, and Gurion would pay for his brazen lies.

  A thrill of déjà vu made him shiver. This was Mount Carmel all over again. The result would probably be the same. The common folk enjoyed a good show. Rain fire and brimstone, and they’d fall to their knees. Tomorrow, they’d return to their old idolatrous ways.

  That didn’t absolve Eli of his task, and this time should be easier. At Mount Carmel, he had stood alone against two hundred prophets of Baal. Today, he’d face only one opponent. If only Noga could see it.

  He had left her in the doctor’s care after borrowing an ill-fitting set of clothes and a wad of cash and set out to meet his destiny. At a corner store on Hebron Road, he’d picked up the rectangular bottle of Yad Mordechai virgin olive oil. After confronting the false prophet, he’d anoint the true Messiah. He’d work out the details on the way.

  The common folk had packed the stadium in the small valley to capacity. They didn’t seem concerned about the asteroid threat, and he understood why. Trust in the news outlets had eroded in recent years as conflicting editorials muddied the waters of truth.

  Today, the People of Israel would find clarity. He felt it in his bones. Not the certainty of the Thin Voice, but a very human sensation in his gut. The Boss had a plan. Eli had learned his lessons. The world was worth saving, and the End of Death was within grasp. The Grandmaster had positioned the pieces for the final checkmate, and Eli stepped onto the board, ready to play his part. This time would be different. It had to be. Maybe this time, when the smoke cleared, the people would learn their lesson too.

  Spectators overflowed from the seats and perched on the rocky slopes of the Hinnom Valley. Thousands of years ago, the valley had glowed red with the pyres of human sacrifice. Humanity had progressed since then, but today the valley would burn once more.

  Eli halted in the main aisle between the rows of crowded seats. A black square monolith dominated the stage, rising fifty feet into the air like an alien spaceship. No sign of Gurion, or Karlin for that matter. He scanned the sea of spectators. They watched the stage and chatted among themselves.

  The path ahead was clear: confront the prophet, anoint the Messiah. But where were they?

  “Hey!” said a voice, and a hand waved at him a few rows back.

  The man with brown curls had a rounded, pudgy face. Eli didn’t know him. Was he another player in the Divine game? Eli drew near.

  The man held out a fifty-shekel note. “We’ll have two Maccabees,” he said. “And make it snappy; the show’s about to start.”

  “Two what?”

  Did he say “Maccabees”? During the Hellenistic Era, Eli had avoided the guerrilla warriors. Look at them the wrong way and they’d accuse you of being an Antiochus sympathizer and relieve you of your head.

  This pudgy man, however, seemed uninterested in ancient Jewish rebellions. He gave Eli an “are you deaf or just stupid?” look, and said, “Beers. Two of them. And a large popcorn too.”

  Eli glanced at the bottle of oil in his hand and understood what had happened. “I’m not selling anything.” The man frowned and looked around for another vendor. “Tell me,” Eli added, turning the interaction to his own benefit, “have you seen Isaac Gurion?”

  “Not since we got here. Only the Prime Minister.”

  “Moshe Karlin?”

  The question won him another “yes, stupid” look. “The one and only. He walked into the black box. Haven’t seen him since. Pretty lame teaser, if you ask me.” He glanced at the stage and chuckled. “Looks like his security guard didn’t get the memo.”

  Eli turned to look at the large black structure. Sure enough, a military type in a dark suit jacket walked around the black box, testing the walls for a way in, and scratching his head.

  Eli’s gut writhed. The false prophet had stood him up, and a large black box had just devoured his only Messiah candidate.

  Then voices murmured, and arms pointed toward the ramp. Two men entered the valley, their entourage of white kaffiyehs following at a respectful distance. One of the vanguards wore a white flowing robe; the other sported a black suit and familiar brown beard. Rabbi Yosef Lev!

  Hands clapped, and people stood to get a better view of the Vice Prime Minister and his Arab companions.

  “Finally,” the pudgy man said. Then he swore. A woman screamed, and a dozen hands pointed at the sky.

  Eli looked up. In the blue dome above burned a star, bright and large. The celestial light waxed larger every second, and a short tail stuck out behind, as though the star was heading right for them.

  Not a star. An asteroid!

  More voices joined the cry. Men and women launched from their seats, pushing and elbowing as they charged for the exits. Eli stepped aside and dodged the trampling herd.

  He lost sight of Rabbi Yosef in the pandemonium, but as the spectators surged up the ramp and hurried out of the valley, the field cleared. Among the abandoned seats, strewn with popcorn boxes, spilled drinks, dropped shoes and scarves, three men remained at the base of the black box.

  Eli joined them.

  The rabbi turned at the sound of his footfalls, and his eyes widened.

  “You,” he said. “The biker.” A short burst of joy escaped his lips. “You survived.”

  Eli raised the bottle of oil. “My jar of quality stuff didn’t, so this will have to do.”

  The rabbi looked from Eli to the bottle of olive oil, and his eyes widened further.

  “Are you a part of the coronation?” asked the security guard.

  “I’m not with Isaac Gurion if that’s what you mean, but his phony event has pushed up our schedule. We haven’t been formally introduced.” He put out his hand to Yosef. “Elijah of Anatot.”

  Rabbi Yosef released another gasp. He accepted Eli’s hand, his fingers cold and thin. “I thought you’d never arrive.”

  “Same here.”

  The rabbi’s lips moved as he pieced the information together. “That day at the Mount of Olives—you were there for Moshe?”

  Eli gave the rabbi what he hoped looked like a wise and mysterious grin. He still was not one hundred percent sure of anything.

  “I’ve been through a lot since then, as have we all.” He looked up at the asteroid burning overhead. “And we’re running out of time.”

  The rabbi shook his head as if waking from a trance. “This is Ahmed.”

  The Arab shook his hand, his expression distant, sad. “We must warn Moshe not to come here,” he said. “The coronation is not what he thinks.”

  “Too late. He’s already inside.”

  Ahmed turned back to the sealed black box. “Inside—but how?”

  As if in answer, a panel at the front of the box fell outward like a drawbridge and slammed onto the floor of the stage with a heavy wooden thunk.

  They stared at the black hole. Although not exactly inviting, the passageway had placed only one option on the table.

  Eli had waited two thousand years for this moment, the reason for his existence. The box held the future Messiah and, probably, the last false prophet. What other surprises waited within?

  The way ahead would be dangerous. His weapons included a bottle of oil and centuries of experience. But the situation was unfit for mortals.

  “You three go home and take cover. I’ll take this from here.”

  “Try to stop me,” said the security agent. “The Prime Minister just disappeared on my watch.”

  Rabbi Yosef straightened. “Moshe might need my help. He’d do the same for me.”

  “No,” Ahmed said. “None of you belong in there.” He pulled a golden envelope from a fold of his robe. “The Shepherd invited me, not you. I have b
lood on my hands, but you don’t. Save yourselves.”

  Eli sighed. “OK then.” He turned toward the black doorway. “After me.”

  Chapter 80

  Samira raced a wheeled trolley down the corridor of the DBS fourth-floor dormitory, peering in the doorways and distributing extra blankets. She had ten minutes to finish her rounds and take cover before the asteroid hit.

  The DBS had heeded Moshe’s warning and made preparations, while the rest of the country dashed for cover in panic.

  A volunteer named Nir ran toward her. “There’s chaos in room 439,” he said, pointing down the corridor. “The monkey-men are tearing bags off the windows!”

  “Here.” Samira reached into her canvas shoulder bag and dumped a pack of crayons. “Let them draw on the walls. They love it!”

  “Great idea!” Nir sprinted off.

  “Irina’s,” Samira said. “Works like a charm.”

  Thanks to Irina’s stroke of genius, a hundred prehistoric humans scrawled animals and stick-figure hunters on the dormitory walls instead of causing their usual havoc.

  She hadn’t seen her friend and partner since early that morning. Samira hoped she had taken cover already. They had drawn up a set of instructions for DBS Absorption Centers around the country. Now they could only wait and hope that Moshe pulled off another miracle.

  Moshe had saved them from physical slavery, redeemed them from bureaucratic limbo, and catapulted their cause to the pinnacle of power. He had also coordinated an astounding recovery from an earthquake of unprecedented devastation. If anyone could deal with a speeding asteroid, he was the man.

  Out of blankets, she dumped the trolley in a corner and took the stairs to the third floor. She’d make one final round of the Call Center to check for stragglers, then crawl under the cot bed in her own room, arms over her head, and brace for impact. The asteroid would hit Jerusalem, Moshe had said, but there was no time or resources to transfer the many DBS residents to other cities.

  In the Call Center, she checked the cubicles and peered through the glass window of the corner office. All clear. As she made to leave, a man blocked the doorway of the Call Center. The Arab wore white robes and a kaffiyeh, and for a moment fear nailed her to the spot. Had her father discovered that she was alive? Had he hunted her down to restore his tainted family honor?

  She recognized the face. The man was neither her father nor a relative, but Ahmed’s new friend, Dara. Now other emotions struggled in her heart.

  In Ahmed, she had found a friend and true confidant. Violence had snuffed out their short first lives, and they had endured the same trauma of exploitation in their second. He had treated her with warmth and concern and given her gifts. She had imagined a future together, an escape from the terrors of her past. Together they would build a new family for their new lives. That dream had exploded into a thousand shards the moment Shmuel had identified him and pummeled him on the floor of the DBS. Her Ahmed, a murderer? That couldn’t be! But Ahmed had not denied the accusation; instead, he had run away. From his crimes. From her.

  She had thought of him often. Her Ahmed was no cold-blooded murderer. And yet, every day, ordinary men and women committed unimaginable violence. Who knew that better than she did? Had Ahmed fallen prey to the death machine that lurked in the shadows?

  She had wondered what had become of him. Had he found a new home? Had the slave driver, Boris, and his frightening musclemen found him and hurt him? Was he dead already?

  The answers had turned up on the doorstep of the DBS a few days ago. Ahmed was alive! He had new friends and a new name but had he learned nothing. She had seen through the money and the fancy new clothes and found the same death machine.

  Now, Dara had turned up again, alone. She studied Dara’s eyes for clues. Had the machine sucked Ahmed into the grinder again?

  “Is he alive?” she said.

  Ahmed’s friend seemed surprised at the question. “Yeah, he’s alive. Today is his coronation.” He rolled his shoulders, a gesture of arrogant self-assurance, the fool. “He wanted me to give you this.” Dara held out a letter.

  A prickle of hurt registered inside. “Is he too important to speak to me in person?”

  “Take it,” Dara said. “Please. This is very important to him. If he could deliver it in person, he would have. He made me swear to hand this to you and only you.”

  Samira sighed. She had no time for games.

  “Whatever,” she said. She took the letter and shoved it into her canvas shoulder bag. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

  Chapter 81

  Alex saw his own death before his eyes. He writhed in the thug’s iron embrace, kicking his legs in the air, while Boris smiled and trained the barrel of the gun at his chest. If he fired, the bullet might pass through him and hurt his henchman, and for the moment that had worked to his advantage.

  The muscleman pressed his hands forward, shoving Alex’s head downward and pulling his arms back. Bolts of searing pain pierced his neck and shoulders like electric shocks. He stopped struggling, and the pressure eased. Resistance was futile.

  A month ago, Alex had sat in the front seat of a black Mercedes on King George Street. A motorcyclist had aimed a handgun at the windshield while a brown van had screeched to a halt in the opposite lane. In the rearview mirror, a masked thug had pulled Moshe Karlin from the backseat like a baby from a crib, then walked behind the car, holding his captive in the same immobilizing grip.

  These were Mandrake’s men. They would act without hesitation or mercy. He had seconds to turn the situation around.

  He’d bargain with the gunman, beg him to let Irina go—Alex was the one Mandrake wanted, not her—and he’d use the diversion to surprise them. Alex opened his mouth to speak, but Boris beat him to the punch.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” he said. “My name is Boris.” The gun relaxed in his hand, the barrel resting on his leg. “We share an employer.”

  Alex didn’t fall for the friendly words. Boris had borrowed a page from Mandrake’s playbook. Alex should expect the worst, but for now, he’d play along.

  “Is this how you greet all your coworkers?”

  The mustache shifted again as he smiled. “My apologies. Igor, please.”

  The muscleman released his grip, easing Alex to the floor, and he slid the gun from the floor.

  How much had Mandrake told him? And how much of that had Boris told Irina? Had she had learned the truth? He feared that more than Boris’s bullets.

  His eyes flitted to Irina. She was breathing heavily, her lips pressed together, terror reflected in her eyes.

  He could rush Boris. With luck, he’d overpower him before he could fire his weapon, but that hulking Igor would be close behind. Alex could handle himself in a fight, but alone and unarmed, the odds were against him. And Igor would make short work of Irina. If she was lucky.

  “I’ve come for the girl,” Boris said. “She didn’t deliver the goods so she’s outlived her utility. Which is where I come in. I have a little debt to settle here too. Irina and I go way back. But,” he added, “not as far back as you two.”

  Irina’s brow wrinkled as her eyes searched his. “What is he talking about?” they asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Boris continued, his mustache askew over his smile. “I only met Irina in her second life. But you two go back even further, don’t you?”

  Chapter 82

  Moshe hovered in the dark like a hummingbird. Or an angel.

  His arms were wrapping his body, and his legs had fused. An appendage pulled at his back between his shoulder blades. Did he have wings?

  Was this the Spirit World that Rabbi Yosef had mentioned—the immaterial dimension between lives?

  The back of his head stung. He had stumbled in the dark of the black box when something had struck him. Was this real pain or the memory of his physical body, the itch of an amputated limb?

  A switch clicked, and a spotlight blinded him. Heavy footsteps approached. This was not the S
pirit World; this was Gurion’s web.

  Moshe prepared to negotiate with his nemesis. He would offer him the world. He would beg and plead. Whatever it took, he’d get Gurion to send the civilians outside to safety.

  The footsteps halted in front of him. But when Moshe hazarded a peek through his shuttered eyelids, his heart sank. His field of vision filled with a beak nose and large, sensitive eyes. This was not Isaac Gurion; this was his worst nightmare.

  “Welcome back, Moshe,” Mandrake intoned in his Russian accented baritone. This time, his bald abductor sported a thick handlebar mustache and a tuxedo, complete with frilly dress shirt and bowtie. The madman looked both ridiculous and terrifying. He grinned. “Did you miss me? I missed you.” He stalked off into the shadows of what appeared to be a stage.

  Moshe had to escape and fast. He used the respite to take in his surroundings. A white straitjacket pinned his arms to his chest. Heavy, bulky pads wrapped his legs together. The long, taut rope that suspended him from his back disappeared into the darkness above.

  “Get ready for the show of a lifetime,” Mandrake continued from the shadows. He chuckled. “Well, your lifetime.”

  Mandrake returned to the spotlight. A cape of black satin fell over his back, and a top hat sat at a rakish angle on his head. He adjusted the mustache beneath his nose and rapped the wooden floor twice with a silver-pommeled walking cane.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this day. So many preparations. Things never turn out quite as one plans, do they? We’d hoped for a larger turnout, but we’ll make do with this small private audience.”

  With a flourish of the cane, he indicated the gloom behind him. Beyond the black wooden planks of the stage, a row of three shadowy figures shifted in the darkness. Tied to their seats and gagged sat Alon, a stranger with thick hair, and… was that Rabbi Yosef? What was he doing here?

  “Unfortunately,” Mandrake said, “due to time constraints, we’ve had to trim the program down. Shall we skip to the grand finale?”

  He gave the cane a sharp switch to the side, and the bottom flew off to reveal a long thin blade.