A Premature Apocalypse Page 6

  Noga perked up at his words, and Hannah glanced at him with interest for the first time. Did the boyfriend have something useful to contribute? Noga and Eli had decided not to tell her supervisor about his identity. They already had one extraordinary claim to prove; adding to the list might tempt the scientist to flee for the hills.

  “We’ve been aiming for a top-down solution. Convince the academics in their ivory towers and the information will drip down to the masses. But what if we started at the bottom?”

  Hannah laughed again, scornful. “Science by press release?”

  “No, not the media. Not at first. That’s just another set of gatekeepers we’d need to pass. No tabloids either. We don’t want people to group us with alien abductions and conspiracy theories. We want credibility, but of a different kind.”

  “What is he going on about?” Hannah said to Noga. The prospect of losing her job had shortened her fuse. His idea would not help her with that either, but they were beyond worrying about academia. Their goals aimed far higher.

  Understanding blossomed in Noga’s eyes, and she smiled. “I think I know where you’re going with this,” she said. “It’s worth a shot.”

  Chapter 16

  Yosef faced his former mentor across the dinner table, his shoulders tensed. Rocheleh had cleared the living room and herded the boys off to bed.

  Emden sat there, his eyes lowered to the table, his hair unkempt beneath the black skullcap. By all appearances, he was a broken man, and pity muddied the hurt in Yosef’s heart. Pity and fear.

  Your life is in danger. The warning had gotten Emden through the door, and it had better not be another cynical ploy.

  “I owe you an apology,” Emden said.

  “You’ve apologized before.” The olive branch Emden had extended during the elections had been a political stick disguised as a carrot.

  “You’re right. I’ve made many mistakes over the past months. First and foremost, I was wrong to betray you. That is my deep and everlasting shame.” He let the words float in the air, disarming Yosef. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope at least to make it up to you in some small way. You see, I made another mistake, and in this, I joined the entire rabbinical leadership. We did not believe that the Final Redemption was upon us. We explained away the resurrected, so comfortable we were and set in our ways.”

  Yosef shifted in his seat. The resurrection on the street did not meet all the expectations of Jewish tradition, he would admit that. The flaws bothered him too. But what was Emden driving at?

  “But since yesterday,” Emden continued, “there can be no doubt.”

  Now Emden had surprised him. “The coalition?” he said. Had Moshe’s offer changed the religious establishment’s worldview?

  “No, not that.” Emden raised his gaze for the first time and studied Yosef. “Moshe hasn’t told you? He must have his reasons. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Find out what?” Was Moshe keeping secrets from him? Or was this Torah True’s way of pitting Yosef against his dear friend and partner to create a rift in the Restart party? Divide and conquer. Yosef’s shoulders tensed again.

  Emden explained. “The teachings of the Final Redemption fall into three categories, Yosef. Restorative traditions predict a return to times of yore: The scion of David will rule again, reinstate the Temple sacrifices in Jerusalem, and ingather the Lost Tribes.

  “Utopian traditions take this a step further: The Messianic Era will raise society to unprecedented levels. Food will be aplenty. Precious stones will cover the streets of Jerusalem. The Third Temple of Fire will descend from the Heavens. The nations of the world will grasp the tassels of our clothes in their thirst to learn our Torah, and the righteous will feast. In the end, we shall defeat even Death.”

  Emden swallowed hard. “But there is a third set of traditions, Yosef—the Apocalyptic. These traditions are the reason that the sages, even though they yearned for the Redemption, prayed that the birth pangs of the Messiah would not appear in their lifetime. A terrible war will rage, and the mighty armies of Gog and Magog will amass in Jerusalem. Natural disasters will rend the Holy City asunder. The monstrous Leviathan will roam the ocean depths, and the evil Armilus will attack the Messiah. Many will die; many more will wish they were dead. And the Lord Almighty will judge them all.”

  Yosef shuddered. He had heard many of the claims about the Messianic Era, but they had sounded far away and exaggerated. Coming from the usually calm and collected Emden, the predictions sent shivers through his every bone.

  “Two messiahs appear in our ancient writings. The Messiah of David, the rightful King of Israel. But a second messiah will stand at his right hand. His life will be difficult, his sufferings many. He will die in that perilous time, so that the Messiah of David may live. It is because of the Second Messiah I seek you out now, my friend.”

  Yosef had seen the posters on the streets. “Welcome, King Messiah!” The banners carried the portrait of Moshe Karlin, the Prime Minister of Israel. But, after his recent embarrassing experiences with popular belief, Yosef had not taken the posters seriously.

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Moshe Karlin is the Messiah of David?”

  “Look around you, Yosef. The dead are rising. The Jews are returning. And, only months after his resurrection, a political unknown controls the government and promises social justice?”

  Yosef had searched long and hard for the Messiah. He had hoped to find him among the sages of the Great Council. Once upon a time, he had even considered Emden as a candidate. Yosef had cold-called hundreds of potential messiahs in the Bezeq Online Directory. He had rushed to the Old City’s Western Wall to greet a self-proclaimed Messiah only to watch him plummet to the ground and leave on a stretcher. Yosef had exhausted all possibilities until he had toyed with the inevitable heretical conclusion that the Messiah was a comforting fiction invented by generations of miserable Diaspora Jews.

  Had the True Messiah stood right in front of him all along? But if Moshe was the Messiah of David, who stood at his right hand if not the Vice Prime Minister? Yosef felt sick to his stomach.

  “Please, my friend, listen to me. You must flee!”

  “Flee where?”

  “As far away as possible. Here.” Emden withdrew a stack of airplane tickets from his pocket. “I’m leaving tonight with my family. I urge you to do the same before it’s too late!”

  Yosef read the destination on the tickets. “Hawaii?” This was insane. Emden had lost his mind. “You can’t be serious!”

  Emden held his gaze. “I quit the government and left Torah True. I have never been more serious.”

  “But why me? Even if I’m the Vice Prime Minister, surely the Second Messiah could be anyone?”

  “Because, my friend, the Second Messiah has a name. He is also known as the Messiah of Yosef!”

  Chapter 17

  “Is everything OK?” Alex asked over breakfast, Thursday morning.

  Irina forced a smile. “Yes,” she lied.

  Early in her second life, she had gone undercover, sneaking into a Zumba class to meet Galit Karlin. Adopting another persona had come so easily to her that she’d wondered whether she’d been a spy in her forgotten first life. The idea of living a lie seemed less exhilarating now.

  Last night, she had slipped into bed early and pretended to be asleep when Alex came home. She had not wanted him to touch her before she discovered the truth about him, and today she would do just that.

  Alex chewed his cornflakes and considered her. He did not seem convinced by her answer, and for once she wished the tough guy exterior had not come with an extra dose of emotional intelligence. “How was your trip to the south—did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Far more than I expected,” she said. While she and Samira had traveled by bus to Ofakim and Mizpeh Ramon, dusty development towns on the edge of the Negev desert, the large black gun had filled her mind. Why did a car salesman hide a scary handgun in his
closet? And boxes full of bullets? Many people carried guns in Israel but in the open and on their person, in case of terrorist attacks.

  Who was Alex Altman? She hadn’t met his friends or family. Suddenly, the ponytail, biceps, and tattoos seemed to be hiding more than a sensitive soul. Sometimes appearances did not deceive. In her desperation to find love and belonging, had she overlooked the obvious?

  Alex took his bowl to the sink and found his car keys. “Can I give you a ride?”

  “I’ll go in later. I have to run an errand or two.” That was true enough.

  “OK.” He kissed her on her forehead, seeming to sense that more than that would not be welcome. “Have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  The moment the door closed behind him, she shot to her feet, returned the milk carton to the fridge, and grabbed her handbag. She listened at the door, waiting for Alex’s footfalls to fade in the stairwell before she eased the handle down and slipped outside.

  The engine of his car turned as she left the apartment building. She walked away from the sound, turned a corner, flagged down a white taxi cab, and got in the back seat.

  “Follow that car,” she said.

  “The black Hyundai?”

  “Yes. But don’t get too close.” Always stay two cars behind. She had learned that from a movie.

  The driver chuckled, and they pulled off down Shamai Street. The cabbie wore a black leather jacket, and his hair gel smelled of fish. His eyes crinkled in the rearview mirror. “Checking up on your husband?”

  She groaned within. A chatty driver was the last thing she needed but shutting him up would not improve her chances of success. “He’s not my husband.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should dump him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If he hasn’t married you by now, then he’s stupid. I’d marry you right away.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Irina had to smile. The black car turned again, flowing through downtown Jerusalem. They climbed Agron, passing Independence Park, then crossed the busy intersection at King George, descending into the tree-lined streets of Rechavia.

  Most car dealerships had shops in Talpiot to the south, but Alex was heading west. Where was he going?

  “So, what’s this about—another girl?”

  “No. It’s… complicated.”

  Irina felt a pinch of guilt for following Alex. She’d never suspected him of cheating on her. He truly cared for her. Then why was she tailing him in a taxi? Silly girl. His morning detour was nothing diabolical. Alex ran errands too. She’d probably catch him red-handed at Home Depot buying plastic flowers for their apartment, to please her. Shame on you for doubting him.

  The black Hyundai barreled down Herzog Boulevard, then slowed as traffic thickened, waiting in line to turn left toward the Malcha Mall.

  Malcha Mall had a Home Depot. Her cheeks warmed with shame. But the mall didn’t open until ten o’clock. Was he moonlighting at a department store?

  The Hyundai slipped across the intersection just as the light turned red, leaving the taxi stuck in the line of cars.

  “Don’t worry,” the driver said. “We’ll find him. I have a sixth sense for finding people.”

  Irina rolled her eyes. She considered calling off the search and heading for the DBS when the light changed, and they rolled over the intersection and into the Malcha valley.

  The square mall loomed to their right, no black cars in sight. The parking section had multiple floors, and, although the bays were still mostly empty, they’d waste a lot of time searching them all.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I think we lost him.”

  “Just a minute.” The cabbie overtook an Egged bus, passing the entrance to the parking bay, and rounded the traffic circle.

  He made a left instead of a U-turn and said, “Voila!”

  A black Hyundai had parked on the side of the road opposite the Technology Park.

  “What did I tell you—I have a sixth sense. There’s your man.”

  He pointed. Across the street, Alex walked through the gate toward the tall main tower of the office buildings.

  Alex, at the Technology Park? The sight reignited her curiosity. “Can you wait a few minutes?”

  “I’m right here.” The cabbie turned off the meter. “This one’s on me. Anything for a damsel in distress.”

  Irina didn’t have time to argue. If the slick cabbie thought he would get her number in return for his efforts, he was dreaming.

  She crossed the street and headed for the gates, keeping the glass building of the guard station between her and Alex, in case he glanced behind him. The security guards checked the trunks of cars but paid no attention to the lone woman with the handbag.

  Slipping through the gates, she made for a tree and peeked around the trunk. Alex was following the path that cut through the well-trimmed lawns and manicured hedges.

  What was he doing here? Did he pick up cars from customers at their workplace?

  Man-sized sculptures of Hebrew letters in reflective metal dotted the lawns. Irina followed, darting from an oversized Dalet to an arch-shaped Chet. If the engineers in the buildings peered out the windows at the gardens they’d think a crazy woman had broken into their Technology Park.

  Alex walked full steam ahead, his gait rigid, without turning around once. If he had spotted her behind him, he gave no sign of it. He walked through the glass doors at the base of the main tower. Signs in the windows read The Open University and the names of a dozen other technology companies.

  She waited in the cover of a large Vav and was about to dash toward the entrance when the doors opened, and a man stepped out. Irina’s breath caught in her throat. She knew him.

  His tweed jacket looked out of place in the Technology Park, as did the gray hair and mustache. He belonged in an abandoned warehouse in seedy Talpiot where the hopeless traded their freedom for a roof and two meager meals.

  Irina had found herself among those lost souls until Moshe had risked his life to set her free. The man who had ruled the slave labor camp now shuffled down the path of the Technology Park with a smug expression on his face. His name was Boris.

  Chapter 18

  Ahmed broke into a sweat when he saw the line of dusty men. The unpaved street in the heart of Silwan was the last place on earth he wanted to hang out. Here in his old hometown, people would recognize him. His mother, or worse yet, Hasan.

  “C’mon,” Dara said.

  “Can’t you go for me?”

  “You have to collect in person. Those are the rules. C’mon, it won’t take long.”

  Against his better judgment, Ahmed stepped forward. The line led into the doorway of a low building. The men exiting the next door smiled and patted their pockets.

  A dozen other men stood in line behind Ahmed and Dara. They met his stare, then looked away. Just another rioter collecting his wages. They didn’t recognize him.

  His mother’s house lay two roads down. Would she acknowledge him if she saw him on the street? She had refused to let him stay. “You have your palace and your wives,” she had said, as she’d shoved him out the door. “Enjoy your eternal reward.” His visit had upset her picture of the world and threatened her newfound prestige as an Um-Shaheed.

  Hasan had parked his yellow Mercedes sports car by the prefab hangar at the top of Silwan. Any moment now he might pass by and identify his traitorous cousin.

  The line inched forward. Inside, he saw no Germans. The gruff man behind the table had a thick mustache and barked questions—“Name? How many stones? Any injuries?”—and handed out crumpled fifty-shekel bills. The Arab’s manner had something of Boris, the Russian slaver, despite the Arabic and the rough worker’s hands. Both men lined their pockets with the lives of desperate men.

  Behind the money man, a younger, muscular Arab stood and ogled the advancing line of men. A large gun stuck out of his belt.

  Ahmed lowered his eyes. This
was a mistake. He would not let Dara talk him into doing this again. But who would employ a former suicide bomber with no identity card? The doors of the Dry Bones Society had closed to him. Never again would he bask in Samira’s warm smile. A new name wouldn’t change that.

  “Hey, kid,” Gruff Mustache said. “I said, ‘Name?’”

  “Walid.”

  He checked the name off a list. “How many?”

  “Um, five.”

  “May as well have been none,” Dara said, laughing. “His aim is crap.”

  Ahmed gave him a “what the hell are you doing?” glare, and Dara covered his mouth with his hand.

  Gruff Mustache didn’t seem to care. “Injuries?”

  “Only his pride.” Ahmed would beat Dara well and good when this was over.

  The Arab held out a fifty-shekel note, and Ahmed snatched the money.

  “Next!”

  “You,” said the gunman at the back. One hand touched his ear, the other rested on the handle of his gun. “Come here.”

  Ahmed’s heart skipped a beat. The gunman was staring right at him. “Me?”

  “I was just kidding,” Dara said, the smile an old memory. “About the stones. He threw them, I saw it.”

  The gunman pointed at Dara. “You stay.”

  Ahmed stepped forward, his limbs stiff, as though walking in a dream. Did the man know him? What does he want with me?

  “This way.” The gunman walked up a set of stairs at the back.

  Ahmed followed, his limbs trembling. He climbed the steps, sweat slipping from his brow and down his cheeks. His senses intensified. Each passing second seemed like an eternity. The spiral cord of an earpiece sprouted from Gunman’s left ear. The gun shifted in his belt as he moved, the back of his shirt damp with perspiration.

  Ahmed was back on bus number eighteen, his backpack heavy with rusty screws and ball bearings dipped in rat poison. Any moment, the explosives would roast his sinful flesh in a ball of fire. Only this time, the end would arrive in the form of a bullet to the head.

  The steps ended in a cement shell of a room. The only furnishing was a wooden desk. A man lounged in a chair, his legs and boots crossed over the desk. His hands rested on his head of wavy dark hair spiked with gray, his elbows pointing to the sides.