A Premature Apocalypse Page 4

  Were the Americans going to pressure him into yet another Peace Process already, or had some new crisis arisen? Either way, he’d found the perfect excuse to brush off the Government Secretary. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Of course,” Rubi said, and trudged away.

  “Ambassador Smith,” Moshe said in English, closing the door of his office behind him. He shook the burly American’s hand and took his seat behind the Prime Minister’s desk. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

  The ambassador had presented his credentials to the new prime minister during Moshe’s first week in office. Smith had been cool and dismissive, but today the ambassador greeted him with a broad, eager smile, his cheeks flushed with ingratiation.

  “I am happy to bring Your Excellency an urgent message from the President of the United States.”

  “Wonderful,” Moshe said and swallowed hard. Here it comes.

  Smith’s smile threatened to split his face in two. “The President would like to remind you of the special bond between our great nations. As the only liberal democracy in the Middle East, Israel shares with the United States not only political interests but a cultural and moral heritage.”

  Moshe shifted on his padded seat. Such an introduction implied a very large ask. What could the President of the United States want from the Jewish State?

  “The President would also like to remind Your Excellency of the United States’ long history of friendship with and support for the State of Israel, both financial and political. From sharing intelligence and generous military funding to vetoing hostile resolutions at the United Nations.”

  Moshe fought the urge to interrupt. That “friendship and support” had often fluctuated with changing American administrations, and always came with a catch. Their demands for action—and inaction—often endangered Israeli lives.

  “Above all,” Smith continued, “the American People have always felt a deep connection with the Nation of Israel and concern for its fate.”

  Moshe was learning the complex dance of political statesmanship. The steps included demands cloaked in compliments and accusations dressed as gratitude. Translated into plain English, the president’s message meant, “You owe us big time and it’s time to pay up.”

  Fortunately, Moshe could dance too.

  “On behalf of the State of Israel,” he replied, “I thank the President for his kind reminder. Please let him know that we are very grateful and deeply appreciate his nation’s friendship and ongoing support.”

  He emphasized the word “ongoing.” Translation: what’s in it for us?

  Ambassador Smith drew a deep breath and gritted his teeth. Beneath the veneer of cordiality, the career diplomat resented having to dance with Moshe Karlin, the former unwashed civilian. But orders from the President were orders.

  “The President would like to formalize our special relationship by offering the State of Israel full membership in the federal republic.”

  Moshe must have misunderstood. “The federal republic?”

  Smith pursed his lips. “In short, he’s inviting the State of Israel to become a part of the United States of America.”

  “The fifty-first state?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow.” That was an unstatesmanlike thing to say, but Moshe couldn’t control himself. “But… we’re in the Middle East.”

  Smith shrugged. “Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Alaska is on the other side of Canada.”

  “Forgive me for asking, Mr. Ambassador, but why?”

  “The benefits are many. Any attack on Israel would be a declaration of war against the United States. The full force of the United States Army would stand behind you. Israel would no longer have to impose high taxes to fund its defense needs. Uncle Sam would take care of you. Your country would benefit from our international ties and credit rating. Israeli citizens would no longer require visas to visit or work in the United States.”

  “I understand,” Moshe said. “But what I meant was, what would the United States stand to gain?”

  Smith cleared his throat. “Of course, Israel would have to adhere to federal law. Israel would have to adopt the US currency and controls. Your Excellency would become the Governor of the State of Israel, and your government would integrate with the Senate and House of Representatives. We will make provisions to retain the unique character of the Jewish State as the homeland of the Jewish People.”

  Smith’s eyes darted to the table. The ambassador was dancing around the topic, and they both knew it.

  “But surely the United States doesn’t need another state? Israel has been targeted for extermination by Muslim countries. Wouldn’t this invite conflict?”

  Ambassador Smith pouted as he mulled his next words. “The President feels that this is the right thing to do. In addition, the United States would gain access to Israel’s resources.”

  A short laugh escaped Moshe’s lips. “We have no oil or precious minerals, and little natural gas. Our main assets are technology and human resources.”

  “Precisely,” Smith said, his mouth twisting into a knowing sneer. “In the Information Age, it’s those resources that count.”

  Moshe wasn’t buying it. The US already had access to the technology of Israel’s start-ups and military. This sudden desire to adopt the Jewish State must somehow be related to the Resurrection. Did the American government, like Reverend Adams and his Evangelical Christians, believe that the world was approaching the End of Days? Were they hedging their bets ahead of Armageddon?

  Smith seemed to have read Moshe’s thoughts. “The times are changing,” he said. “We expect that the State of Israel will be at the epicenter of that change. And, Your Excellency, we intend to be right there at your side.”

  Moshe had seen the posters with his portrait on the streets of Israel. “Welcome, King Messiah!” they read. Moshe hadn’t let that go to his head. He wasn’t the messiah; surely he would know if he was? With his rise to prominence, news of the Resurrection had spread across the world. Had the Americans contracted the same messianic fever?

  Moshe swallowed again. He would have to tread carefully.

  “Please thank the President for his very generous offer. Obviously, I’ll have to discuss this with my cabinet. The coalition agreement we hope to sign soon will make the President’s proposal much easier to implement. Please thank the President for his patience.”

  “Very well,” Ambassador Smith said. He rose to leave. “One more thing. The President would appreciate it if you’d keep this offer secret. We wouldn’t want other interested parties to create any obstacles.”

  “Of course.”

  Moshe shook his hand, escorted him to the door, and paced his office.

  The fifty-first state! The proposition would be a hard sell to the Israeli public. But was accession to the United States in Israel’s long-term interests? Moshe had hung his personal hopes on powerful friends before and paid the price; he did not want to repeat that mistake on a national scale.

  There was a knock on the door before it opened, and Sivan entered.

  “I’ve rescheduled both the coalition signing and the press conference for tomorrow.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And I think I’ve found the right spin for the developments in the south.”

  “The miracles never cease. What’s the angle?”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “The Sixth Aliyah.”

  As usual, Sivan’s marketing genius had nailed the solution. Since the late nineteenth century, Jews had arrived in the Holy Land in waves, each known as an aliyah—an ascension or immigration. Some immigrants came to lay the foundations for a future Jewish State, others to escape persecution in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia.

  By naming the recent influx of resurrected as the Sixth Aliyah, Sivan framed the phenomenon as the natural continuation of the first five mass immigrations. And why not?

  Besides, anything was better than Zombie Invasion, the phrase
that Gurion’s Opposition would use if they ever got wind of these new arrivals.

  “I like it!”

  “Thought you would. Great, that’s settled then. Now we just need to keep a lid on things until the coalition agreement is signed.”

  The intercom buzzed, and Moshe thumbed the speakerphone.

  “Yes, Ettie?”

  “The Russian Ambassador is here to see you, sir.”

  First the Americans; now the Russians? “I don’t suppose he made an appointment either, did he?”

  “No, sir. But he says it’s very urgent.”

  Chapter 9

  “You know what this place needs?” Irina said, over breakfast. She glanced at the peeling wallpaper of Alex’s kitchen.

  Alex looked up from his cornflakes, his ponytail switching behind him. “A bulldozer?”

  She laughed. His second-floor apartment in downtown Jerusalem had seen better decades, that was clear, but wasn’t ready for the wrecking ball yet. The three-room rental with the chunky plaster and noisy plumbing had an Old World charm. It was an apartment they would remember fondly after moving to the suburbs.

  “Flowers,” she said. “Some color.”

  Over the past weeks, Irina had spent more evenings at Alex’s apartment than her Dry Bones Society dormitory room; she’d come to think of the bachelor pad as home.

  “Good idea,” he said. He seemed relieved. Had he thought she’d planned to go through his wardrobe and discard his old T-shirts? Irina made a mental note to do just that later.

  She and Alex had grown close since their random meeting at the Dry Bones Society. Beneath the bulging muscles, she’d discovered a gentleman and a kind soul. There was still so much for her to learn about the new man in her life. The Russian tattoos hinted at a difficult past. She had yet to meet his friends and family. A thrilling thought struck her—had he met hers?

  Moshe Karlin and Rabbi Yosef had discovered her among the tombstones of the Mount of Olives Cemetery. Five months later, she still recalled nothing of her former life, and not for want of trying.

  Alex had enlisted his neurologist friend to crack the mystery of Irina’s sealed past. Despite the doctor’s unorthodox methods, which had involved a dentist’s chair, electrodes, and hypnosis, her former life remained a locked vault. “A lack of blood flow to the right temporal lobe, the seat of long-term memory,” Dr. V had explained. “Usually the result of head trauma.”

  Traffic accident, she assumed. She shivered at the idea of her violent first death and pushed thoughts of her demise from her mind. The possibilities in her new life were far more interesting.

  Alex finished his bowl of cereal. “Want me to drop you at the office?”

  He meant the Dry Bones Society. With Moshe’s move to the Prime Minister’s Office, Irina had inherited the reins of the charitable organization. She and Samira, the Arab girl she had met early in her new life, had taken over his corner office in the DBS call center. Moshe didn’t mind; running the country kept him more than occupied.

  “Not today,” she said. “I’m going south.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows. “South?”

  “Special mission. Hush-hush. I’m scouting out development cities with basic infrastructure.”

  “More new arrivals than usual?”

  “That’s the strange thing. The numbers have leveled out since we hit BCE. Something’s going on, but the details are still under wraps.”

  Alex looked at his wristwatch and downed the rest of his coffee. He grabbed his keys, kissed her goodbye, and stepped out.

  Irina put the milk back in the fifty-year-old fridge and washed the bowls in the ancient enamel sink. Out the window, buses hissed and growled along Shamai Street.

  A development town! Where would the returnees come from?

  Although she enjoyed her work at the Society, the outing would provide a welcome break in the routine of day-to-day logistics and troubleshooting. She missed teaching the training classes, a task she now delegated to other volunteers to clear her schedule for her new responsibilities. At their rate of growth, soon she’d need to delegate even more. She also missed having Moshe and Rabbi Yosef around the office. They still maintained a keen interest in the Society’s functioning, and the expansion into development towns might give them an excuse to get together.

  Irina changed into the fresh clothes from the shoulder bag she had brought along last night. She still had a half hour before she was to meet Samira at the Central Bus Station, so she turned her logistical talents to Alex’s wardrobe.

  Among the stacks of jeans and T-shirts, surprisingly few called for the trash bin. His winter shirts collected dust beside two sweaters on an upper shelf. Alex did not hoard clothing and he hardly used the hanging space. She pushed the jacket and pairs of corduroy trousers aside, clearing plenty of space for her own clothes. Moving in with him made sense, seeing how much time she spent at his place. She’d raise the topic tonight, make him think it was his idea.

  The floor of the closet might pose a problem. His pairs of sneakers, beach sandals, and a scuffed pair of leather boots took up most of the floor space. She’d need a separate closet for her own footwear, which, like the Dry Bones Society, displayed exponential growth.

  A crack between the boots drew her eye. Shoving the footwear aside, she touched the floorboard and a square panel shifted inward. Hello. A secret compartment? The panel lifted easily in her hands to reveal a white shoebox. Was this where he hid photos of his ex-girlfriends?

  Exactly how many young women had his bad boy looks reeled in? Judging from the weight of the box, quite a few.

  Fighting a pang of guilt for invading his privacy, she removed the lid, and the mischievous smile fled from her lips. Inside the box, a large black handgun glinted in the dull light.

  Chapter 10

  “Ambassador Gurevitch,” Moshe said in English. He shook the hulking Russian’s hand and took his seat behind the Prime Minister’s desk. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

  Sparks of déjà vu tingled down his spine. Back-to-back surprise meetings with the world’s superpowers were not the work of pure coincidence.

  Gurevitch removed his military visor hat and took his seat slowly as though performing a squat. A dozen medals covered his heart, pinned to his tight brown uniform blazer. He sized up Moshe without smiling, drops of sweat massing on his bulbous forehead.

  “Your Excellency has an urgent message from the President of the Russian Federation.” The ambassador dabbed at his brow with an embroidered handkerchief.

  “Wonderful,” Moshe said. The sparks of déjà vu exploded like fireworks.

  “The President would like to strengthen the ties between our great nations and invite the State of Israel to join the Russian Federation.”

  “Wow,” Moshe said, breaking protocol for the second time that day. What was going on here? “Forgive me for speaking frankly, Ambassador Gurevitch, but Russia has not exactly been a friend of the Jewish State. Russia has armed and funded our mortal enemies and stood against us in international forums.”

  The ambassador overcame his befuddlement. “Yes, but imagine how the map would look with us on your side!”

  “You’d abandon the Arab states?”

  “Absolutely!”

  The truth was well known: if Israel were to lay down her weapons, there’d be no more Israel; if the Arabs were to do the same, there’d be no more war. Peace in the Middle East—wouldn’t that be an achievement for Moshe’s first month in office! Peace in the Land was also an objective that Rabbi Yosef had assigned to the Messiah of David. Moshe swept the thought from his mind.

  But the ambassador’s offer raised questions. Was Russia willing to erase decades of power politics to bring Israel under her wing? And why were the world superpowers suddenly so desperate to adopt the Jewish State? This time he was going to get some answers.

  “Level with me,” he said. “This is connected to the Resurrection, isn’t it?”

  Gurevitch ran a tongue
over his teeth, seeming to sense that the talk was not going his way. “We have known of this Resurrection for some time, Your Excellency. And our recent analysis indicates that you are now weaponizing the undead.”

  Weaponizing the undead? Moshe didn’t even know what that meant, and he said as much.

  Gurevitch’s face whitened. “Soldiers that cannot be killed.”

  What was he going on about? “That’s ridiculous. We have no such weapons.”

  “Please, Your Excellency, do not insult our intelligence. Our satellites have spotted your recent military activities on the Gazan border.”

  “But the resurrected are not immortal.” Moshe had discovered this firsthand. He had suffered a second heart attack while in Mandrake’s custody, and the thugs had revived him with CPR. Moshe reminded himself to deal with the local Russian mafia while he could.

  Gurevitch rolled his eyes. “We waste time with these denials, Your Excellency. If these weapons of mass destruction should fall into the wrong hands, the resulting catastrophe could destroy the planet.”

  By “wrong hands” he meant the Americans, and now Moshe gazed on the full picture in all its crazy glory. The United States had satellites too, and they were not above spying on their allies. Noticing the military camps surrounding the streams of naked dead, their analysts must have reached the same outlandish conclusions.

  So much for “shared cultural and moral heritage.” The Americans wanted to adopt the Jewish State to obtain the new shiny toy in the Weapons of Mass Destruction store. Did all espionage think tanks employ wacko conspiracy theorists?

  Moshe bit his lip. How could he allay the ambassador’s fears without leaking news of the Sixth Aliyah—and without endangering his coalition agreement? So far, the Russian had seemed impervious to Moshe’s attempts at denying the claims.

  Or could that work in his favor?

  Moshe folded his arms on the desk. “I cannot comment on any of that.” Gurevitch leaned back in his seat, a self-satisfied smile creeping over his mouth. “Please thank your President for his generous offer. I will have to discuss this with my cabinet once we’ve solidified the new coalition.”