A Premature Apocalypse Page 7

  “Hello, cousin,” Hasan said. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Chapter 19

  Thursday morning, Galit Karlin reached into a brown packing box and withdrew a pink stuffed animal. Moshe had bought the teddy bear for the newborn Talya. If only she could reach back in time to that day and make things the way they were.

  In many ways their lives had improved beyond their wildest dreams; in others, they felt broken.

  “We need to close that, yes?” the mover guy said, in shaky Hebrew.

  “I’m sorry.” She dropped the bear back into the box. The team of strong Russians in dungarees worked fast and in silence. When they spoke, their Hebrew was stilted and accented beyond recognition.

  Galit stood in the center of the living room. Empty of furniture, their home on Shimshon Street felt like an empty shell. Like her life. And it was all her fault.

  Galit had believed Avi’s lies, believed that Moshe had cheated on her. Her stupidity had led directly to Moshe’s death. When he returned from the grave, she had fallen for other lies: Moshe was a ghost. No, he had faked his death and spent two years living it up with other women.

  Moshe had not given up on her. But after tearing down the web of deceptions, he had discovered her own shameful secret: her affair with Avi.

  She could blame Avi all she liked—and he had confessed his role in the drama to Moshe—but the damage was done. And she felt the difference. Although they shared a home and a bed, Moshe didn’t look at her the same way. Each day he buried his head deeper in his work. Did he still love her?

  So, she did the same. The move to Beit Aghion, the Prime Minister’s Residence on Smolenskin Street, had kept her occupied for a week. She called movers to pack up and store most of their old furniture. The renters were arriving next week, and they had been particular about finding the house “clean and empty.” Which reminded her, she needed to call the cleaning service to confirm their appointment.

  “Mrs. Karlin?” one of the Russians called to her from the kitchen. “The other dishes are where?”

  He held up Exhibit A, one of the few remaining dinner dishes of the set they had received for their wedding. The missing dishes had exploded against the walls of the kitchen and living room. She had thrown them, first at Moshe, then at Avi. Her cheeks burned with shame.

  “Those are all we have left,” she said. “On second thought, put them in the trash.” Their new home had its own set of crockery and her days of Frisbeeing dishes were over. For one thing, the security guards outside the fortified Prime Minister’s Residence would come running with machine guns. And Henri, the in-house chef, would use one of his carving knives on her if she dared to harm his precious kitchen.

  The thought made her laugh. She’d have to be on her best behavior from now on.

  The sound of knocking on the front door made Galit jump. After her experience in Mandrake’s torture warehouse, loud noises startled her. A Secret Service guy peeked in the front door, and she breathed a sigh of relief. So long as Moshe stayed in office, their security detail would keep them safe.

  “Mrs. Karlin? Some people are here to see you.”

  Had the renters arrived early? She did not want them to see the house in its current state of disarray.

  She strode to the doorway, and her jaw dropped.

  A smiling middle-aged couple stood on the steps, trailing four large suitcases. A bald patch glimmered on the top of the man’s head and the woman clenched her mouth tight, her eyes ready to stream. Behind them waited another family with three teenage children.

  “Mom, Dad,” she said. “What a surprise!”

  Chapter 20

  Ahmed froze to the spot. Hasan stared at him from behind the desk, his eyes filled with anger or disgust, Ahmed couldn’t tell which.

  A window stood open behind Hasan. Ahmed could dash across the room, dive through the window, and hope to break his fall on the heads of the waiting rioters. Sprawled across the chair and desk, Hasan would not be able to react in time, but the gunman at Ahmed’s back would.

  “Walid, is it?” Hasan said, a smirk spreading across his lips. “I like it. A fresh start. What do you think of my new digs?”

  Ahmed released the breath he had been holding. Hasan had not used his real name or outed him for his failed mission. Was he not the grudge-holding type, or was the small talk a distraction, a playful moment of torture before his execution, the way cats toyed with mice?

  Having no choice but to play along, he glanced at the walls of rough cement. “Could use some paint.”

  Hasan laughed, swept his legs from the table, and sat up. “I agree. Doesn’t look like much but looks can be deceiving. I’ve been expanding. Diversifying.” He got to his feet, stepped around the desk, and leaned against it. With a nod of his head, he dismissed the gunman, and Ahmed felt the tension ease out of his body.

  “You had me worried, little cousin.”

  “Worried that I wasn’t dead?”

  Hasan laughed. “There is that. I wondered what had happened to you, disappearing off the face of the planet.”

  “You’re not upset with me?”

  “It’s for the best. As it so happens, I have another opportunity for you.”

  “Another chance to kill myself?” The fear dissipated, and his anger at his cousin returned. Hasan had goaded him into killing himself. He was responsible for the pain Ahmed had endured and the impossible situation in which he found himself, and now he wanted to use Ahmed all over again.

  “No, Ahmed. I’m done with that.”

  “For the Germans?”

  He seemed surprised at Ahmed’s inside information. “For the Shepherds of our nation.” He meant the Imams, the spiritual guides of their community. Was this Ahmed’s ticket back into the fold?

  “What’s the catch?”

  “There is no catch, Ahmed. This time you will not die.” Hasan winked. “You’ll get filthy rich.”

  Chapter 21

  With his many flight hours at the podium, Moshe had thought he’d get over his public speaking jitters. As he entered the auditorium in the Knesset’s Negba Wing, he realized that he’d been wrong.

  Reporters and photographers packed the three hundred seats and every inch of standing room. In the front rows, Knesset members waited with folded arms and crossed legs. The event would not be easy for any of them. Restart ministers were surrendering their hard-won positions, and members of the Opposition would have to swallow their pride.

  Moshe had been ambitious. Too ambitious, according to Shmuel. Today, as he applied the final touches to his tower of cards, he only hoped that the whole thing wouldn’t come crashing down.

  Sivan met him halfway to the podium.

  “They signed?”

  She nodded and glanced at the piles of folders on a low table beside the podium. “You’ve done it. I can’t believe it.”

  “We’ve done it,” he said. “And to be honest, I can’t believe it either.” The tension of the last few weeks eased like steam from a pressure cooker. We’ve done it.

  He drew a deep breath and marched to the podium. Camera shutters clicked as he surveyed the assembled politicians and news people. In the front row, Isaac Gurion patted his oily comb-over and frowned. Moshe would have to get used to that frown at cabinet meetings. But at least he’d be on Moshe’s side of the table when the government passed the new legislation that the state so desperately needed.

  In the next seat, Avi Segal mimicked his boss’s expression. His last-ditch attempt to torpedo the coalition had failed. After all they had gone through together, he’d thought Avi would have had the decency to keep quiet and stop his machinations. Some people never changed.

  Rabbi Yosef, Shmuel, Savta Sarah—the rest of the cabinet and all one hundred and twenty members of Knesset waited with bated breath for his announcement.

  Keep it short; keep it simple.

  “My fellow Ministers,” he said, “Members of Knesset and the press. Thank you for joining us on this historic occasion
. Despite Restart’s dominance in Knesset, we have worked hard to form a new unity government, a broad coalition that includes all major parties, new and old.” He paused to let the gravitas of this moment sink in.

  “This was no small accomplishment. We’ve all had to put aside our personal agendas and grievances to come together as one for the sake of our beloved country. I have full confidence that together we will work hard to make life better for all our citizens.”

  A frenzy of clicking cameras set in during his final dramatic pause. “I call upon Isaac Gurion, formerly Head of the Opposition, and now a minister in our new unity government, to say a few words.”

  Gurion got to his feet and shuffled to the podium. As he gave Moshe a meaty double-handed shake, they posed for the cameras, and Moshe stepped aside.

  “I would like to thank Prime Minister Karlin for his generous offer,” Gurion said, following the scripted speech they had agreed upon. Then he lifted a folder from the pile of signed coalition agreements and opened it on the podium. Sivan sent Moshe a concerned look. This had not been in the script.

  Moshe gave his head a slight shake. Not to worry. Gurion wouldn’t do anything stupid; he had too much to gain.

  “He offered us power and money,” Gurion continued.

  Nauseating vertigo gripped Moshe, the “oh crap” moment of the cartoon coyote who has just stepped off a cliff. Gurion had abandoned the script altogether. Oh, no.

  Gurion extracted the stapled pages of the agreement and raised them in the air. What is he doing? But Moshe already knew, and he was powerless to stop him.

  “However,” Gurion continued, “our conscience won’t allow us to be a fig leaf for his corrupt government!”

  A hush swept over the auditorium as Gurion turned to glance at Moshe, and, with a smile like a snarl, he tore the agreement to shreds.

  Gurion let the scraps float to the floor along with the metaphorical cards of Moshe’s meticulously constructed tower.

  “Karlin spoke of a better life for all citizens, but he lied.” Gurion jabbed a finger at Moshe. “He lied to us all. This very moment he’s assembling an army of undead in the heart of our land. He’s preparing a zombie invasion that will take our jobs, our homes, and, if he has his way, our very way of life!”

  No, no, no! Moshe’s face moistened. Cameras clicked. Reporters grinned like sharks smelling blood in the water. What a scoop!

  Oh God, make him stop!

  But Gurion didn’t. “We will continue to fight for the common people against this unnatural—”

  Sivan came to her senses first. She dashed to the podium, shouldered Gurion out of the way, and grabbed the microphone. “That’s all for today,” she said. “We’ll take questions at another time, and provide details for the Sixth Aliyah, the new wave of returning Jews who are bolstering our country.”

  She disconnected and pocketed the microphone, and gathered up the remaining agreements, whatever good that would do. The coalition was dead.

  Sivan motioned for Moshe to follow her out of the room, but Gurion’s sneer transfixed him.

  “You just made a terrible mistake,” Moshe said. “It doesn’t have to end this way.”

  “Oh, this isn’t the end,” Gurion said, his face contorted with hate. “This is just the beginning.”

  Chapter 22

  Alex drew a deep breath and pushed through the glass double doors of the Technology Park tower. A man didn’t often enter a lion’s den voluntarily, but Alex had made his decision. Would he walk away unscathed?

  Down a short passageway, elevator doors opened, and Alex collided with a middle-aged man with a tweed coat and fluffy gray mustache. The man grunted an apology in Russian and made for the exit. He did not fit the hi-tech yuppie stereotype. Then again, neither did Alex. But despite his tattoos and ponytail, the techies wouldn’t give him a second glance. They’d write him off as a delivery man, not a criminal. Since meeting Irina, he no longer felt like a criminal either.

  The elevator doors opened again, and he followed the signs for Magitek.

  Irina remembered nothing of their shared past. That trick of fate had granted him that rarest of gifts, a second chance. The Girl had died, but Irina lived, and with her, he could build a future. But for that future to survive, Alex needed a miracle.

  He pressed the intercom button at a thin glass door.

  A redhead sat at the front desk of enamel white and studied her nails. Where’s Anna? The gum-chewing blonde had manned the gates of Mandrake’s headquarters for years. Had the boss moved again? Unpredictability was the crime lord’s signature. Alex should have called ahead and made an appointment.

  The receptionist blew a bubble, glanced up, and Alex realized his mistake. The door clicked open.

  “Love the new hair,” Alex said, in Russian.

  “Thank you,” she said, as though each word pained her like a tooth extraction.

  “Don’t blondes have more fun?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He walked toward the room at the end of the corridor. If things went well, he’d never have to speak with her again. If things went badly, he’d never see her again either.

  He walked through the hive of cubicles, where hundreds of young men jabbered into headsets, then he stared at the security camera above a white door.

  When the door clicked open, Mandrake was waiting for him with a broad smile.

  “Sasha, what a surprise.” His boss wore black jeans and a turtleneck. He placed a strong hand on the small of Alex’s back and guided him to the framed mirror on the opposite wall of the antechamber.

  “Were you expecting me?”

  “I’m always hopeful.”

  Closed-circuit television cameras. Of course.

  This time, the whoosh of the hidden panel didn’t startle him as the wall slid sideways, and they stepped through the black portal. Unlike last time, they were not alone in the darkened command room. Men in black uniforms manned the terminals, and the soft plastic patter of their keystrokes filled the air.

  Mandrake strode through the control room and opened another door. Inside, dim purple ambient light filled the office. His boss flopped on a low backless couch in the center, beside a low table with a laptop and a deck of cards. Mandrake’s office; the lion’s den.

  He patted the spot beside him on the couch. Alex preferred to stand, but he obeyed.

  “A drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Smoke?”

  Alex shook his head. Where to begin? How could he phrase his request so that his old comrade-in-arms would not take it the wrong way? Was there a right way?

  Mandrake lit up a cigar and blew a smoke ring. “You want out?”

  Alex blinked at him. How does he know?

  “How long have we known each other, Sasha?”

  “Since Korosten.”

  Mandrake’s smile widened. “Ah, the People’s Primary.”

  Alex choked up at the memory of the Soviet orphanage. “You saved my ass, that first night. Those stupid kids didn’t know what hit them.”

  They chuckled, two orphan boys standing up to a cruel, cold world. The Jew and his sidekick.

  “We’ve come a long way from Korosten, haven’t we?”

  For a moment, he wasn’t Mandrake, but Gennady, the tough kid with the hooked nose and love for all things magical.

  “We sure have.” Alex no longer knew the full extent of his friend’s dealings, nor did he want to. Since the Girl’s death, something had snapped within, and the old friends had drifted apart like continental plates, slow but inexorable.

  Mandrake frowned. “Your timing is terrible. New opportunities are sprouting up every day. You could run an entire division of the Organization.”

  Alex stared into the purple gloom and said nothing.

  “It’s the Girl, isn’t it?”

  The mention of her made Alex flinch. “No,” he said. “Not only that. It’s been a long time coming.”

  Mandrake took a long drag on t
he cigar and exhaled. Two perfect gray rings floated in the air, and the smaller sped through the larger. “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “We had a good run together. All things come to an end. No hard feelings.”

  Once again, his friend had shredded Alex’s expectations. “Thank you.”

  “Cigar?”

  “Sure.” Alex had walked through the lion’s den and emerged without a scratch.

  Mandrake lit the cigar from the glowing embers of his own and handed it over.

  “I just need one last favor.”

  Alex coughed, from both the cigar fumes and the condition. He had counted his blessings too soon.

  “What kind of favor?”

  “A simple one. And the perfect way to wrap up your career.”

  Alex had a bad feeling about this. “Who’s the target?”

  Mandrake blew another perfect ring. “Our good friend Moshe Karlin.”

  Chapter 23

  Thursday afternoon, Yosef planted his elbows on his desk and held his head in his hands. Calm down, Yosef! He closed his eyes and sucked in deep, long breaths. If Rabbi Emden’s visit last night had unsettled him, today’s two newsflashes had slammed into him like speeding freight trains.

  Lying in bed last night, Yosef had mulled over Emden’s tidings. Two messiahs? Yosef could not see the need. And the title “Messiah of Yosef” probably meant “a descendant of Yosef,” the Biblical Joseph, as with “Messiah of David.”

  This Armilus character sounded like the Devil, and Judaism had rejected such dualism. God reigned alone and supreme; no creation could oppose His Divine will. Add to that the world wars, the Leviathan—the legendary sea monster destined to be slain in the Messianic Era, its hide used to form a banquet tent for the righteous—and precious stones in the streets of Jerusalem, and the whole story moved beyond belief. The Messianic Era would not overturn the Laws of Nature, Maimonides had written, and Emden’s predictions of preternatural mayhem stretched even Yosef’s credulity.