A Premature Apocalypse Read online

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s all over the news. And you—they just love you.”

  At least somebody does. Moshe decided not to burden his father-in-law with his recent governmental failings. Things always looked better from the outside.

  Ice cubes floated in the honey-colored sea in the glass, like icebergs waiting for the Titanic. This is only the beginning, Gurion had said. The bulk of that iceberg lay beneath the surface. Moshe would have to steer clear and chart a course into calm blue oceans.

  “You look tired,” Miki said.

  “Running the country is tiring work.”

  Miki opened a box of cigars on a side table and lit up. Moshe, the non-smoker, declined his offer to join him.

  “Take it easy,” Miki said. “You’ll wear yourself out if you keep on like this.”

  “I suppose I could do with a vacation.”

  “Vacations don’t last forever. All that weight on your shoulders. You need to delegate if you’re going to last a full term.”

  Finally, Moshe understood where the conversation was going. “You mean, by hiring helpers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Like you?”

  His father-in-law smiled. “You can always trust family.”

  “It’s not that simple, Miki. Restart promised to get rid of cronyism, and the Opposition is already crying corruption. I can’t just hand out jobs to my in-laws.”

  “Sure you can. You’re the Prime Minister—you can do what the hell you like.”

  Moshe chuckled but shook his head. If only that were so.

  But as the heady vapors of single malt whisky numbed his mind, his father-in-law’s advice sounded less crazy. Do what the hell you like. Maybe he was right.

  Chapter 26

  Conflicting emotions crashed inside Alex as he parked his car between the gloomy stilts of his apartment building Thursday evening.

  Soon, he would be free. Against all expectations, Mandrake was cutting him loose. Alex would start life anew.

  The path would not be easy. He’d have to find a new career. A legitimate career. His days of swindling were over. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

  In a way, he had become like Irina. The thought comforted him. They would reinvent themselves together. Despite the difficulties, the sight of freedom on the horizon calmed him. Any struggle was worth that second chance.

  He turned off the ignition.

  Only one hurdle lay between him and that new life, and that final magic trick put everything at risk.

  He got out of the car, locked the doors with the remote, pushed through the door of the apartment building, and climbed the stairs.

  He’d find work in sales or start his own company with the money he’d stashed away over the years. Irina deserved a better home than the dingy two-room apartment in downtown Jerusalem.

  He knocked and turned the key in the door of his apartment.

  Irina sat at the kitchen table, her shoulders tense and her face drawn. She looked up as he entered, her eyes damp and bloodshot. A bad day at the Dry Bones Society? She had seemed edgy that morning.

  A sudden suspicion wrenched his guts. Had memories of her past returned? No, that was impossible. “Retrograde amnesia,” Dr. V had said. “Caused by a lack of blood flow to the right temporal lobe, the seat of long-term memory.” The horrors of that first life had been sealed away forever. Or had they? He searched her eyes for clues.

  “Hey,” he said and placed his shoulder bag on the shelf by the telephone. She didn’t reply. “You OK?”

  Her voice strained and accusatory, she said, “What’s this?” She raised her hands from her lap. In them, the Glock looked large and menacing.

  Alex exhaled his relief. She had found his spare gun, that’s all. “That’s for self-defense.” That was no lie. In his line of work, that need arose very often.

  “Hidden in your closet with boxes of bullets?”

  Alex sat down opposite her and smiled. He could handle this. “Many people have guns,” he said. “This is the Middle East.”

  His words were not having the desired effect. What was really on her mind?

  “Shouldn’t this be in a safe?”

  Alex laughed. She was overreacting, that’s all. “This is a rented apartment. I’m not going to invest thousands in a safe, and the landlord won’t either, believe me.”

  His words had no effect.

  “What do you do, Alex?”

  The change of topic unsettled him. “I told you, I work with cars. Buying and selling.”

  She looked him in the eyes. “At the Malcha Technology Park?”

  Oh, crap. The gun had stirred her suspicions, and she had followed him. “No,” he said. “That’s our head office. I meant to tell you about that. Today I quit my job.”

  Her eyes teared up, and she shook her head. “Stop lying to me!”

  The hurt and fear in her voice startled him. He’d do anything to save her from pain. That’s why he had risked everything this morning. “It’s true, I spoke with my boss, and—”

  “With Boris?”

  “Who?”

  “Boris.”

  “Who’s Boris?”

  Irina gave him a brief sarcastic smile. “Gray hair. Mustache. Tweed jacket.”

  Alex remembered. The Russian guy with the self-satisfied smile had jostled him on his way out of the elevator.

  “He runs the slave labor camp in Talpiot,” she continued. “Shmuel, Samira, and I would still be trapped there if Moshe hadn’t saved us.”

  Double crap. The older Russian had seemed out of place in the hi-tech park. Alex had almost collided with another of Mandrake’s foot soldiers, and the coincidence had made him guilty by association.

  Lies lined up in Alex’s mind. He didn’t know what she was talking about, and he had nothing to do with this Boris. Feigning insult, he could turn the conversation against her. She was paranoid or taking out her work frustrations on him.

  The tactic would work. She’d feel bad, and he’d get off scot-free. But he couldn’t do it. He’d told her enough lies, and it had to stop. This morning, he’d taken the first and hardest step, and if they were ever going to live happily ever after, he’d have to come clean. Well, not completely clean. If she knew the whole truth, she’d never want to look at him again. It was a thin rope to walk, but he had to try.

  “You’re right,” he said. She shifted back, away from him, so he added, “But not the way you think.” His words seemed to have calmed her, or at least prevented her from fleeing out the door. She still believed in him; otherwise, she would have left before he came home and avoided the confrontation.

  He took a long, slow breath. Here goes. “I do work with cars, or at least I did until this morning. The work wasn’t completely honest. For years I’ve worked for a criminal organization. The boss is my oldest childhood friend. We met in an orphanage in the Ukraine. I don’t know Boris, but I suspect he works for the same organization.”

  She frowned, and a tear slipped down her cheek.

  “I haven’t been fully honest with you, I know, but I’m changing that. That’s why I quit today. I’m done with all that.” He reached over and grasped her hands in his. “I want a new start, to build an honest, new life together, the two of us.”

  Irina stared into his eyes, still suspicious, but she did not withdraw her hands. “And your friend is just going to let you go, no hard feelings?”

  A laugh escaped Alex’s lips. No hard feelings. Mandrake had used the exact same words. “It wasn’t easy,” he said, “but he knows I’ve been uncomfortable for a long time. And there’s a small catch.”

  “What catch?”

  “He’s given me one last job.” Alex swallowed hard. “And to get it done, I need your help.”

  Chapter 27

  Sunday morning, Avi’s dress shoes squelched in a muddy patch of grass beside the Menachem Begin Expressway. “A treasure hunt,” Gurion had said, before dispatching him to the highway that cut through Jeru
salem from north to south. More like a wild goose chase.

  Was this a joke—or payback? Gurion knew everything about everyone. Had the Opposition leader learned of Avi’s attempt to warn Moshe Karlin of the planned betrayal?

  A lot of good that had done. Moshe had not listened. Why should he have? He’d dismissed Avi’s risky gesture as a clumsy ploy to bury the coalition before it was born. Despite Avi’s best efforts, his dream of joining with Moshe had died with the coalition, and he was stuck doing Gurion’s bidding.

  Avi glanced behind a bush beside the fence of Gazelle Valley, the urban wildlife park. Nothing.

  Beyond the fence, a baby gazelle eyed him and chewed grass.

  “Yeah, I know,” Avi said aloud. “This is stupid.” He made for the next turnpike and groaned as mud seeped into his socks.

  Maybe Moshe would listen to him next time. If there was a next time. Gurion kept his cards close to his chest, telling Avi only what he needed to know. This time he had only told him where to go and what to say. Even if he found his target, what did Gurion hope to gain? If anything, the move would push him further from the seat of power.

  Moshe would know what Gurion was up to. But would he believe Avi if he told him what Gurion had instructed him to do?

  Avi halted. In the shadow of the turnpike, a figure crouched.

  Avi drew closer, picking his way through the twigs and autumn leaves. The man huddled over a small campfire. The letters DBS appeared on the back of the grimy bathrobe that had once been white. A thick mane of dark hair hung low over his back.

  At the crackle of a leaf under Avi’s shoe, the man turned. He had a long, thick beard and large, dark eyes. Smoke and the sweet scent of roasting meat wafted from the stick in his hand, which ended in a skinned rabbit.

  Well, what do you know? Gurion had been right.

  “Good morning, sir,” Avi said. He was to be polite and persuasive. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  The man stared at the intruder. “Five years,” he mumbled. “Five years!”

  Whatever. The hobo met the description but appeared to be out of his mind.

  Avi kept to the script. “A great statesman such as yourself should take up his true calling.”

  The man cocked his head to one side like a chicken. Had the words gotten through to him?

  “Five years!” Theodore Herzl cried. “Five years too late!”

  Chapter 28

  “There’s a leak,” Sivan told the ministers at the round conference table. “I know it.”

  “Don’t look at us,” Shmuel said.

  Moshe interceded. “Nobody’s making accusations.”

  He had called the urgent cabinet meeting in the Government Room of the Knesset building Sunday morning to discuss their new plan when Sivan had aired her suspicions.

  “Somebody talked,” she said. “How else did Gurion find out about the tunnels?”

  “Any of those soldiers could have told family and friends,” Shmuel said.

  “Unlikely. The IDF blocked cellular communications for the entire area and canceled all home visits. The Chief of Staff or the intelligence chiefs are to blame. They owe their positions to the previous administration. We should replace them all!”

  Moshe sighed. “It might not be their fault. A rogue staff member could have leaked. We’ll weed out the bad guys in time, but for now, we need damage control. Sivan?”

  She said, “As you know, we’re calling it the Sixth Aliyah.”

  “Nice!” Savta Sarah said. She turned to Moshe. “She’s good!”

  “Indeed. Sivan will present the details to the public this afternoon and try to calm things down. The Dry Bones Society has stepped in to help and located absorption towns for the new arrivals. But that’s not why I called you together. I wanted to discuss our new way forward.” He glanced around the table. “Where’s the Minister of Defense?”

  The assembled ministers shrugged. Rafi’s unscheduled absence was never a good sign, but Moshe had to push on. He’d update him later.

  “Our coalition efforts failed. Fine. We’ll drag them into the future, kicking and screaming.”

  Calls of agreement rose around the table. Do what the hell you like.

  “We don’t need their votes. It’s time we got down to business and drafted our new legislation. This is our chance to fix the State, and it might be our only chance, so let’s make it count. Minister of Finance?”

  Savta Sarah cleared her throat and shuffled a stack of papers. “Our team did the research you requested, Moshe. The situation is appalling. Our deficit is at an all-time high and growing. Half the country lives in overdraft, and ninety percent of the wealth belongs to ten tycoons. It’s shameful!”

  “As we suspected,” Moshe said. “What can we do about it?”

  “We can use common sense. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Spend less than you earn and pay off your debts. We studied other economies, as you asked, and the data backs this up. In addition, we need to open the market, encourage competition, and incentivize small businesses.”

  “Excellent. Move on to a proposal. Talking of opening the market, Minister of Foreign Affairs?”

  Shmuel said, “We need to strengthen our economic ties with other countries. Asia and Africa are hungry for our technology. Our back-channels indicate that Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and Yemen want to normalize diplomatic relations too.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Sivan said, “It must be the Resurrection. There’s nothing like a monopoly on life after death to win new friends.”

  “But that goodwill won’t last forever,” Moshe countered. “Shmuel, move forward with those trade agreements. We’ll need to schedule diplomatic visits to solidify our new friendships and—”

  The door opened, and Rafi entered, breathless. “Sorry I’m late.”

  He stepped up to Moshe and whispered in his ear. Oh, no. Moshe had been expecting something like that, but not so soon.

  “What’s the matter?” Sivan asked.

  Moshe let Rafi share the tidings.

  “We’ve sighted an American aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean, ten miles off the Haifa coast.”

  “No harm in that,” Shmuel said. “They’re an ally.”

  “At the same time,” Rafi continued, “a Russian aircraft carrier has moved into the Gulf of Aqaba and is heading for Eilat.”

  Moshe sighed. There was no way around it now.

  “There’s something you should know.” He told them about his urgent meetings with the ambassadors, their offers and their unshakable belief that the Jewish State had turned the resurrected dead into weapons of mass destruction.

  “But we’ve done no such thing, have we?” Sivan said.

  “Of course not. But nothing will convince them otherwise. Each side wants to get their hands on our imaginary weapons before the other superpower does.”

  “Should we be worried?” Rabbi Yosef asked.

  “Things don’t turn out well when superpowers think you’re hoarding weapons of mass destruction. Just ask Saddam Hussein.” Around the table, the ministers shifted in their seats. “We’ll keep stalling and hope they come to their senses. Meanwhile, we’ve got work to do. Where were we? Minister of Interior, what can we do to cut bureaucratic red tape?”

  Rabbi Yosef opened his mouth to speak when knuckles rapped on the door and two uniformed police officers entered the room.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Prime Minister,” one officer, a young man, said, his cheeks red with obvious discomfort. He must have drawn the short straw.

  “We’re in the middle of a confidential meeting.” Where were the Knesset security officers when you needed them?

  “I understand that, sir. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

  “What?”

  The officer handed Moshe a document printed on official stationery. “This warrant comes straight from the Attorney General. We need you to come with us for questioning.”

  “Right now? That’s ridiculous!” Surely the Prime Minister had
rights too. “On what charges?”

  The officer’s lips trembled. “There’s a list.”

  Chapter 29

  Ahmed watched in awed silence from his seat of honor at the main table on stage. Men gawked at him from the packed rows of the event hall in Bethlehem. He wore a new suit beneath a white robe and a kaffiyeh of distinction on his head. Beside him, Imam Basel sang his praises into a microphone. Had the martyr promises finally come true?

  No! He had committed a vile and cowardly crime and cut short innocent lives. The hell he had crawled through in his second life wouldn’t atone for a fraction of his guilt. This event was a show, a charade. Hasan had told him nothing of his new job, only freshened him up, changed his clothes, and deposited him at the hall. Once again, he was a tool in cruel hands. He was sure of it.

  And yet… this felt so good.

  “A hero,” the Imam declared, “and a warrior. Our son returned to us at this critical time to fulfill his destiny. He is a sign from Above of comfort and consolation. Of redemption!”

  In the crowd, men smiled, and their eyes sparkled with hope. Because of Ahmed. After months of suffering, the lost sheep had returned to the warm embrace of the fold.

  The speech ended. Imam Basel hugged him. Well-wishers lined up to shake his hand, then drifted to the tables laden with food and drink. Ahmed’s cheeks hurt from smiling, his elbow from countless handshakes.

  When the line ended, a short, rotund woman in a black burka drew near, the corners of her eyes wrinkling through the slit. The only woman at the gathering, she had sat at the edge of the table of honor, and now she pounced on him and squeezed the breath from his lungs.

  “My Ahmed!”

  “Mother?” He choked on the knot of emotion in his throat. At the end of their last meeting, when he was friendless and alone, she had turned him out onto the street.

  “I knew you would return, my boy,” she said. “Forgive me for not letting you stay. How was I to know that you are the One?”

  The knot of emotion dropped to the pit of his stomach. “The One? Mother, what do you mean?”

  She gave his chest a playful tap. “Always so humble. I must hurry off. See you soon!”