A Premature Apocalypse Page 5

  “Of course.” The Russian got to his feet and strutted to the door. “And Your Excellency?”

  “I know,” Moshe said. “This will be our little secret.”

  With another self-satisfied smile, the ambassador closed the door behind him.

  Weaponizing the undead. Moshe would never have thought of such an abomination. They think we’re monsters. For centuries, haters had accused Jews of the worst crimes imaginable: poisoning wells, murdering Christian children to bake their blood into matzo bread. Never mind that the Jews drank from the same wells and that Jewish law forbade the eating of blood. Haters project onto their victims the evil in their own hearts.

  A knot formed in Moshe’s innards. He was a poodle caught between two snarling Rottweilers. How long could he hold them off?

  Chapter 11

  Avi followed Moshe Karlin into the men’s washroom and prepared to burn his bridges. Again.

  “Psst, Moshe!” he hissed.

  Moshe spun around. In his eyes, surprise turned to suspicion. He leaned against the counter of wash basins.

  “What can I do for you, Avi?”

  Avi checked under the doors of the toilet stalls. They were alone. He had spent the entire morning walking past Moshe’s office and avoiding eye contact with his secretary. He didn’t want his meeting with Moshe to appear in the visitors’ log. So, he had floated in the corridors, watching the bureaucrats of the Prime Minister’s Office come and go, until finally, he managed to steal a moment alone with Moshe. Thankfully, the Secret Service didn’t shadow Moshe in the men’s room.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” he said, keeping his voice low. His eyes darted to the entrance door, which could open any moment and destroy the opportunity. “Gurion is going to double-cross you.”

  Moshe folded his arms. “How so?”

  “I don’t know the details, but he’s going to make sure the coalition fails.”

  “Before or after he joins?”

  “All I know is that he’s setting a trap. He said he’s going to bring down the government.”

  Moshe glanced at his shoes. “And in return you want…?”

  Avi shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “A seat on the Restart list? My eternal gratitude?”

  The thought of switching to Moshe’s camp had crossed Avi’s mind. But Moshe had a majority in Knesset. He had no use for a turncoat MP. No, Avi was more valuable to Moshe behind enemy lines. He said, “I just want to help.”

  Moshe laughed. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

  The implied accusation stung. “I don’t blame you for thinking that.” He didn’t need to list his offenses: deception; turning Galit against him; dragging Moshe’s name through the sewers. “But, honest to God, I’ve changed. I’m risking everything by speaking with you now.”

  “Unless Gurion sent you. If I withdraw the agreement, then I’m the bad guy, and the Opposition finally has a fact to use against me.”

  “Gurion doesn’t know I’m here. He’d fire me if he did.”

  Moshe frowned and shook his head. He wasn’t angry, just sad. “Thanks, Avi,” he said. “But I’ll take my chances.”

  Chapter 12

  “Where to, sir?” said Baruch from the driver’s seat.

  “Home,” Yosef said. He ran his fingers over the leather upholstery of the backseat for possibly the last time.

  Of all the perks due to a minister, Yosef would miss his personal chauffeur the most. Baruch, with his flannel fedora and perfectly groomed pencil mustache, seemed to have stepped out of an era when shoe polishing was an art and trouser length an exact science. He kept the black Audi in pristine condition, the air within redolent of lavender.

  “Very good, sir,” Baruch said.

  The car pulled off, leaving the government precinct in Givat Ram and gliding toward the German Colony. As the light faded over Jerusalem, the world beyond the spotless windows floated by, quiet and peaceful.

  “Cyndi?” Baruch asked.

  “As always.”

  The driver’s eyes smiled in the rearview mirror, as he pressed a button to play Yosef’s favorite CD, Cyndi Lauper’s Greatest Hits.

  Yosef would miss Baruch. With the signing of the coalition, his driver and car would fall to the new minister. Yosef would have to make do with the pool of ministerial cars and drivers, or simply drive himself to work. To think that only months ago he had been content with his old white Subaru, which had run on hopes and prayers in addition to gasoline. How quickly one adjusted to the comforts of life.

  Shedding his governmental responsibilities would provide another major advantage—the peace of mind to focus on his own spiritual growth. The Jewish High Holidays approached: Rosh Hashanah, the awesome Day of Judgment; Yom Kippur, the hallowed Day of Atonement; and Sukkot, the joyous Festival of Booths, when the righteous celebrated their favorable Divine verdict. Between political campaigning and the interminable chores of government, Yosef had little attention left over for the things that really mattered.

  After months of obsessing about messiahs, resurrections, and politics, he longed for the simplicity of his personal religious regimen. Say your prayers, keep the Sabbath, and watch what you eat; God will take care of the rest. The world had ticked along well enough before fate had thrust Yosef into Knesset; it would continue once again without him. “The righteous,” the Sages said, “have their mundane affairs handled by others.”

  Safely ensconced in the four cubits of his religious inner world, he wouldn’t have to face the cracks in the mirror of external reality. He wouldn’t have to wrestle with Divine justice and the other ogres of incongruous theology. Once more, he’d walk the Earth wrapped in God’s invisible armor.

  “Aba! Aba!” Simcha and Ari cried, as Yosef walked through the door of his single-story home on Shimshon Street. They jumped up and down in the living room, their earlocks flying, and their skullcaps of black velvet slipping from their heads.

  Yosef didn’t merit that hearty welcome every day, but today was no ordinary day. He planted a kiss on each little forehead, opened his briefcase on the dinner table of scratched wood, and handed each boy a sealed pack of laminated trading cards. Instead of soccer heroes, each card displayed the portrait and name of a famous rabbi.

  “Thanks, Aba!”

  Thank Ram, Yosef thought. His new secretary had gotten hold of the new editions on behalf of the Vice Prime Minister.

  The boys tore open the nylon packaging and riffled through the cards with glee.

  “Aba,” Ari said, pouting with disappointment. “Where’s your card?”

  “Apparently, I’m not that important.” Yosef didn’t know who printed the cards, but they fell under the umbrella of the Great Council’s influence.

  “But Aba, you’re the boss of the whole country!”

  Yosef chuckled. “Democracy doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to tell everyone what to do. Being in government just means that everybody hates you.”

  He made the rounds, distributing kisses. Uriel did his homework at the dinner table, and little Yehuda, in pajamas, tested the flight capabilities of his favorite toy car.

  “Yossi,” said Rocheleh. Her head wrapped in a new flower print head covering, she pored over a thick brochure from Semel Kitchens on the counter. “What looks better—granite or Corian?”

  Upon receiving his first ministerial salary, Yosef had signed a hefty twenty-year mortgage and purchased a larger property down the road. For the first time in their lives, the boys would sleep in separate bedrooms. Rocheleh had selected the seven-room house and was designing her new kitchen, which, Yosef suspected, would require a second mortgage.

  Yosef glanced at the brochure. The kitchen counters looked identical to him. “Whatever you prefer,” he said.

  Rocheleh groaned. “You’re no help at all!” But she smiled and gave him a delicate hug.

  Their marriage had changed beyond recognition. Gone were the dismissive comments and accusatory stares. What a difference a comfor
table salary made to shalom bayit, household peace! And how good it felt to say yes not only to their material needs but quite a few of their wants.

  Whatever coalition agreement Moshe struck, at least Yosef would keep his ministerial income.

  A knock at the door snapped him out of his pleasant reverie. He peered through the peephole, and a very different emotion bubbled in his gut. Yosef opened the door, a hot flash of anger surging through his body.

  Emden stood on the dark threshold, his shoulders hunched and his trademark bowler hat missing from his head.

  “Call my office if you want to speak,” Yosef said, skipping the usual friendly formalities. After all he had done, how dare he bother Yosef at home?

  Emden gave Yosef a quick, guilty look. His eyes were red and sunken as though he hadn’t slept in days. There was something both pitiful and disturbing to see the once proud and regal rabbi in this disheveled state. He looked sad. No, not sad. Frightened.

  “This is a personal call,” he said, his voice shaky, defeated. “May I come in?”

  Yosef seethed. Emden had threatened him before in the guise of friendship. “If this is about the coalition, it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Emden flinched at the implicit rebuke. “No, Yosef. It’s not that. I’ve resigned from Knesset.”

  The news caught Yosef off guard. Emden had held his eminent position at Torah True for years. Why would he resign?

  “I’ve come to warn you, my friend,” he continued. “Your life is in danger.”

  Chapter 13

  Moshe followed his security detail into the Talpiot Police Station. How the tables had turned! During his previous visit, he had languished for hours behind the bars of a holding cell. Today he would call the shots.

  The two receptionists stood at attention. Perky and Bored, as he had labeled them, sported identical blue uniforms and dark ponytails. This time they displayed broad toothy grins as well.

  “The Commissioner is waiting for you,” said Perky—or was it Bored?—and pointed at a long corridor of office doors.

  Moshe nodded and smiled. This time he did not have to present his identity card.

  As he passed the doors of offices, his presence of mind faltered. Prime Minister or not, the tables could always turn again. He had learned that lesson well. While Moshe was tied up in a dark abandoned warehouse, Mandrake had put a gun to his head and threatened to turn him into either a murderer or a corpse. Moshe’s next move would place him in direct opposition to the sadistic mafia boss.

  He knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, stepped inside, glanced at the Commissioner, and did a double-take. The large policeman with olive skin and barrel chest got up from behind the desk to greet him. “Mr. Prime Minister.”

  “Commissioner Golan, congratulations on your promotion.” The name had sounded familiar. Months ago, Golan, then a homicide detective, had assisted Irina and Moshe in their attempt to discover her identity. They had failed, but Officer Golan had offered his calling card and sympathy.

  His grip was warm and firm. “Thank you, sir. Any luck with our mutual friend? Irina, wasn’t it?”

  “Irina, yes. Still no leads and no memories.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yes, it is. But she’s doing good work at the Dry Bones Society.”

  After the exchange of pleasantries, Moshe asked his security guards to close the door of the office, and he took a seat.

  Again, he weighed the wisdom of prodding the sleeping bear. Only this bear was no longer sleeping.

  “What can you tell me about a man known as Mandrake?”

  Golan’s Adam’s apple jumped. “Russian mafia. Moved in a few years ago. Displaced the local cartels in Jerusalem and the rest of the country. Real nutcase. We’ve been itching to lock him up, but so far, we have nothing solid on him. Why do you ask?”

  “What would it take to reel him in and dismantle his network?”

  A smile spread across his face. “Organized crime? We’d need a new undercover program and better equipment. A lot of our resources are deployed to prevent suicide bombs and knife attacks.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Moshe said. “So I made a special provision in the new budget earmarked for fighting organized crime. It’s time we made that a priority.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. We’d like that very much.” His eyes lingered on Moshe. “You’ve met this Mandrake, haven’t you?”

  Moshe’s fingers trembled at the thought of the warehouse, and he wasn’t sure how much information he should share.

  “I’ve heard enough to know we can’t ignore him.”

  Golan nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Moshe had set the wheels of justice in motion; now he could only wait.

  He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “One of his operations runs in a warehouse off Pierre Koenig Street. They rope illegals into forced labor. The manager’s name is Boris. Start there.”

  Chapter 14

  In a dark chamber deep within the Malcha Technology Park, a red notification light flared. Mandrake placed his deck of playing cards on the glass table and turned to face his laptop. The cards helped him think. He’d done that a lot these past few weeks. Thinking and waiting. Now, it seemed, the time for waiting had ended.

  A large, red letter A filled the screen as an encrypted call connected.

  “Mandrake,” said an electronic voice, the human qualities of the speaker garbled beyond recognition by distortion software.

  “Yes, my lord,” he said. The voice commanded respect. The voice had given, and the voice could take away.

  “We have encountered some unforeseen developments,” said the voice. “Proceed with Plan B.”

  A thrill shot through Mandrake’s body, and his shoulder twitched. Plan B. He had hoped for this result.

  “I understand.”

  The electronic voice spoke again. “Name your target.”

  Mandrake said the name out loud.

  The voice repeated the name, seeming to savor each syllable despite the electronic garbling. “How appropriate.”

  “Preparations are already underway,” Mandrake said. His foresight had paid off, and now was the time to ask for a favor. “One request, my lord, if you will?”

  “He’s yours,” the voice said, reading his mind. “When the End Time arrives, he’s all yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  The screen faded to black as the call disconnected, and the red notification light bled out.

  Mandrake smiled with anticipation. He’d had the pleasure of the target’s company once before, and he had enjoyed bending him out of shape. This time, he’d break him.

  “You’re mine,” he said in the dark. “Moshe Karlin, you’re all mine.”

  Chapter 15

  Eli offered the older woman a box of Kleenex.

  “Thank you,” Hannah said, and she blew her nose.

  Noga’s doctoral advisor sat on Eli’s living room couch, wearing sensible slacks and smelling of a gender-neutral perfume. She had dropped by the penthouse with the letter she had received from Nature Genetics. There was something heartrending about watching the professor cry.

  Noga said, “Did they explain why?”

  Self-doubt flickered in his girlfriend’s eyes. Noga had triple-checked her data and searched her conclusions for weaknesses. “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence,” Noga had said, quoting Carl Sagan. Eli had doubted the theory too, at first. Are Palestinian Arabs the Ten Lost Tribes? The results of her genetic research strained the limits of credulity.

  Hannah blinked her eyes clear. “They didn’t bother. They just called the idea ‘ludicrous, sensational, and unworthy of serious consideration.’”

  “Didn’t they review the data?”

  Hannah’s short laugh sounded like a cough. “They probably didn’t even read the whole paper.”

  “So much for academic neutrality,” Eli
said, but his attempt at humor failed to lighten the mood. Eli knew how they were feeling. He had been on the other end of incredulity. Crazy. Delusional. The condemnations hit harder than sledgehammers. He had succumbed to those pressures too, giving up his identity to win Noga’s love. Would Noga give up on her convictions too? Right now, she needed his support.

  “We can submit to other journals, can’t we?”

  “Academia is a closed, tight group,” Hannah said. “Word has spread by now. We’re the talk of the town. No self-respecting journal will touch our paper after that resounding rejection. My name is a joke. Appealing their decision will only make matters worse. I could lose my post at Hebrew U.”

  Guilt stabbed Eli’s conscience. He had warned Noga of the scorn and derision she could expect for sharing her theory with the academic world. Then Hannah had supported her analysis and even found corroboration in the oral traditions of Arab tribes in the West Bank. Eli had hoped that the growing mountain of evidence would force skeptics to take them seriously. He had been wrong.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Hannah shook her head. “Nothing. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is too charged a topic. The same goes for anything that might appear to support Biblical prophecies. You can’t reason with emotion. We can only wait, let things quiet down, and hope that someone might reevaluate the paper without prejudice.”

  Noga sat beside him like a wilted flower. If the first step of their plan had failed, there was no way they were going to share their discovery with the Prime Minister. The Ten Tribes would remain secret, the Messianic potential unrealized, and the Final Redemption out of reach. How long would the cosmic window of opportunity stay open this time? Waiting was not an option.

  Eli had not spent his years fostering contacts in politics or academia. He had spent the last decade developing skills that were much more mundane. Could that too be part of the Divine Plan?

  “What if we tried a different approach?”