The Last Day (12 page)

Bollinger, his anger completely quashed, looked as relieved as he did pleased. “Breck,” he said, exhaling deeply, smiling broadly, “WNN has been on my butt all day for details on our follow-up, and all I could do was promise them ‘something big.’ Thank God you delivered, you asshole.” He had obviously known Hunter had been ignoring his calls.

“Now,” the bureau chief said, rubbing the palms of his hands together briskly, “let's see if we can find that boy!”

23

Bethlehem, Israel 7:17
A.M
., Sunday, January 2, 2000

I
n a café early the next morning, Hunter and Feldman didn't even touch their breakfasts. They were absorbed with sections of today's and yesterday's London
Times,
electronically transmitted by satellite link directly to a copier in the WNN RV.

In an article from the bottom half of yesterday's front page was a story entitled: “False Alarm Breeds Doomsday Panic,” with the subhead: “Jerusalem Earthquake Heralds New Millennium.”

In today's paper, however, the story graduated to top front page: “World Jolted by Reports of New Messiah!” It was accompanied by lengthy accounts of religious unrest and sidebars detailing the strange developments in Israel and around the globe. Feldman was relieved to find that at least no major rioting or violence had reerupted.

Virtually the entire main news section was devoted to the story. Religious organizations everywhere were in a state of confusion. Official responses differed widely, from outright denunciation by the Catholic College of Cardinals in Rome, to complete embracing by such denominations as the Seventh Day Adventists and Mormons. Most religious leaderships, like the Jewish Rabbinical Council, took a wait-and-see approach.

An interesting anecdote, Feldman noted, was a report of a mild tremor in Rome with minor damage to a priceless Michelangelo fresco in the Sistine Chapel, and a fracture in the main altar stone of St. Peter's Basilica. There had been, however, no such “supernatural” occurrences reported in Salt Lake City.

Another small notice caught his eye and he called Hunter's attention to it. Joshua Milbourne, spiritual head of the Jehovah's Witnesses, who had been viewing the WNN Millennium Eve program from his hospital bed, had died that night of a massive heart attack. Death occurred, the article said, at one minute past midnight Mideast time as Milbourne witnessed the beginning of the climactic earthquake.

“Well,” Hunter observed dryly, “I guess you can say he made it to the Second Coming and fulfilled the old prophecy. That ought to keep the Jehovah's Witnesses in business a while longer!”

As Hunter and Feldman arrived at the morning staff meeting held outside the WNN RV, they made the nodding acquaintance of a familiar-looking executive in an expensive European suit and tie, standing at Bollinger's side. Bollinger, oblivious to their arrival, continued his monologue to the crew. But the new visitor detached himself and approached them around the edge of the gathering.

Feldman finally recognized who this was, gripping the firm hand of Nigel Sullivan, WNN's European bureau chief. Though they'd never met, Feldman knew and respected the man largely responsible for WNN's millenarian coverage and Feldman's current position. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.”

Sullivan smiled warmly and also shook Hunter's hand. He motioned the sleepy-looking newsmen to the last row of chairs. “Please, no need to be formal with me. I'm Nigel to you and to everyone else, as well,” he said with the aristocratic accent of an English nobleman. But there was no stuffiness or distance to it. “I'm delighted to finally meet you lads. As I've been telling Arnie and your associates, you've done an outstanding job here. Simply outstanding.”

‘Thank you, sir,” they both responded, neither quite able to drop the formality yet.

“Have you heard how the world's responding to last night's newscast?” Sullivan asked.

“Just what we've read in the morning papers,” Feldman answered.

Sullivan sat back in his chair and looked them squarely in the eyes. “For the last two nights, I'm pleased to tell you, WNN, with your team's outstanding contribution, has dominated world news ratings beyond anything ever achieved. A seventy-one percent share! And that's global, gentlemen. A seventy-one percent share! Not only un-precedented, virtually inconceivable!”

Feldman and Hunter looked at each other in disbelief, and then broke out in wide grins.

“This has happened so quickly, and become so large,” Sullivan continued, “it's caught everyone quite by surprise. At this time, no other network is even within shouting distance of us. But believe me, gentlemen, after the last two nights, every one of them is mounting a major thrust to catch up.”

That much was obvious. From where they sat they could see as many as twelve competing network vehicles queued up around the quadrangle where there had been none ten hours ago. A number of news helicopters, Sullivan's among them, rested in a pasture nearby.

“Jon.” Sullivan turned to Feldman and placed a hand on the newsman's shoulder. “I understand you've accepted a new position back in the United States. And while I realize it may be too late, I'd like to persuade you to reconsider. I'm prepared to offer you a new contract with an open term, quadrupling whatever compensation package you've been afforded.” He turned to Hunter. “And I'll be extending the same provisions to your current contract as well, Breck.”

The two reporters looked at each other and blinked.

“We want to expand our coverage of this development,” Sullivan explained, “yet we wish to preserve the unique chemistry and style that your team has created here. We'll put several additional teams at your disposal for developing the lead story on the boy Messiah. And, we're turning the Jerusalem office into a regional news center, expanding operations into three additional wings of office space and conference rooms. I'm here to see that you gentlemen get what you need—everything you need. It's one bloody big story, lads. Handled properly, it could well be the story of the century. The millennium!”

Twenty feet beyond them, Bollinger had just been delivering commendations to his troops and now called over to Nigel Sullivan to address everyone.

Sullivan rose and the two journalists followed suit. “We'll have lunch together today, if you're available, gentlemen, and we'll continue our discussion then?”

They nodded, thanked him, and he strode to the front of the meeting area to apply his congratulations and encouragement to the rest of the crew. Turning toward each other, Feldman and Hunter were mirror reflections of restrained enthusiasm.

“Holy shit, Feldman!” Hunter whispered.

“Holy shit, Hunter!” Feldman whispered back.

It was finally dawning on Feldman the potential measure of his circumstances. He'd stumbled into a world-class opportunity. A place where Pulitzers and legends were made. A place that generated books and speaking engagements and professorships with honorary degrees at hallowed Ivy League colleges. This was heady stuff. There was simply no way he could refuse this break, despite the embarrassment of having to renege on a plum position he'd fought so hard to win.

And yet, while he decided to accept Sullivan's generous offer, in the few seconds it took for all these grand permutations to ricochet through his mind, from somewhere Feldman found the foresight to focus on the larger picture. Whatever his good fortunes, he knew he must not lose sight of his need to
understand
what was happening here in the Holy Land.

Feldman was yanked from his reflections by a tug at his shirt sleeve. A flushed and elated Cissy McFarland had stolen up on the two reporters from behind.

“I'm glad I caught you bozos before you had a chance to slink off,” she deadpanned. “Guess what?” She pulled a pink telephone slip from inside the neck of her shirt and waved it in their faces.

“Your hooters have a message for us?’ Hunter ventured.

She gave him a withering look and turned to a grinning Feldman as the only semirational alternative. “I've gotten a confirmation from the Samaritans. They'll meet with you in one hour at the Bethlehem Star hotel. Here's the room number and the names of the leaders there. Maybe you can finagle an exclusive with the Messiah boy and we'll have ourselves another scoop!”

24

Bethlehem, Israel Sunday, 11:28
A.M
., January 2, 2000

T
hree pompous-looking Samaritan disciples had met with Feldman and Hunter for nearly an hour. Things were not going well for the two reporters. The main obstacle was the head Samaritan himself, the First Reverend Richard Fischer.

A dogmatic, arrogant, portly man with wavy gray-brown hair, bulbous nose and acne maculations on his face and neck, the Reverend had done most of the talking. He took obvious delight in the attention he'd been receiving, and in the power he now wielded as custodian of the hottest media property on earth.

“Boys,” he addressed the frustrated reporters, “while I'll grant you WNN may be the best-followed network covering this particular story, as directors of the Samaritan movement, we, the Leadership Council, must refrain from showing any partiality. All we're able to tell you at this time is that the Messiah
will
be making a public appearance in the near future. Where and when I'm not disposed to say, but you and all your fellow media people will be apprised in due course.” He rose, extended his damp, fleshy hand and summarily dismissed his guests.

Once the reporters had left, one of the disciples turned to the First Reverend and exclaimed in a chagrined voice, “Reverend Dick, I don't get it. You let Brother Leroy sell our videotape of the Messiah to WNN an hour ago. Why did we have to keep that a secret? And you sold it for a pittance! If we'd just waited, I bet that Feldman would've paid us a fortune!”

Fischer presented his cohort with a knowing smile. “Brother Gerald, you miss the tactics entirely. Leaking the tape to WNN is the best investment we could make. No one must know it came from the Leadership Council. As long as WNN believes they finessed it from one of our lower-level brethren, we preserve the tape's credibility. You've got to appreciate the cynicism of the media, Brother. They're a suspicious lot and will surely question the tape's authenticity anyway. If it came directly from us, that would only deepen their skepticism.”

Reverend Fischer was getting through to his less savvy associate. “Consider the fact that WNN now has the greatest world audience of
any
network,” he continued. “Once they air that tape, the Messiah is assured of a global congregation. We'll have no problem interesting commercial sponsors in our upcoming venture. And, we'll be guaranteed maximum compensation here on out from all the networks, each of which will be forced to bid generous contributions for access. That, Brother Gerald, is precisely what will give us the finances we need to properly expose the Messiah to the world!”

As the two reporters pulled out of the hotel parking lot, Cissy called on their car phone and urgently summoned them back to the RV. Feldman informed her of their failed mission, but she wasn't disappointed. “Forget it,” she consoled him. “Wait'll you get a load of what we just got our hands on!”

Met by Bollinger at the door, Feldman and Hunter were ushered into the RV to view a freshly acquired amateur video. “This,” Bollinger announced with unabashed excitement, pointing to a dark picture appearing on the largest wall monitor, “is our next exclusive.”

Secured at minimal expense, Hunter and Feldman were told, this unique prize had been secretly furnished by an underling from within the Samaritan camp. Not of great quality, the tape had been taken at night in the light of pole mercury lamps. But both reporters knew instantly what this was. Shaky, shadowy, grainy, then turning completely white in response to sporadic lightning strikes, this was a video recording of the Millennium Eve phenomenon at the Bethlehem commons.

Shot from a distance of some thirty feet, the figure in the video was of slight build, robes thrashing wildly in the wind at its back, face impossible to discern. Each time the lightning flashed, the image bloomed white and the camera operator was momentarily blinded, lost his framing in the viewfinder, then awkwardly regained it.

As the form reached the stone steps of the temple and began its ascent, the camera zoomed in. Off screen you could hear the crowd above the screeching wind, counting down the seconds toward the twenty-first century. Topping the steps, the figure turned toward the camera, into the wind, raised its slim arms heavenward and faced the Well of David across the courtyard. At last there was a brief, vital moment of fulfillment when the face was illuminated by lightning and finally visible to the camera.

At that instant, the crowd countdown reached midnight, a tumultuous cheering began, and then the video was purged by a violent shock of bright light that shorted out the image, leaving only a blank, snowy screen. The audio, however, continued unaffected, a hellish uproar of shrieking wind, terrified screams and resounding thunder. And then a deep rumbling, which Feldman judged to be the earthquake.

“Rewind a bit and go to the ADO Plus,” Hunter requested, pointing to an instrument cluster of special effects on the video control board. “Isolate on that shot of the face, ADO in and enhance the image.” But Hunter couldn't restrain himself long enough for the editing engineer to enact his instructions. Excitedly, he pressed forward to take the controls himself.

Feldman shared his enthusiasm and watched intently as Hunter skillfully located the exact frame he was searching for—the moment when the face was at its best angle, turned about three quarters to the camera, the instant before the image was lost to the lightening flash.

Through the magic of electronic manipulation, Hunter magnified the image and a whisper of awe escaped the lips of the viewers. Although the enlargement blurred the face at first, it was still discernible. Very pale and alien-looking. With each adjustment, the visage became sharper and better defined until, at last, all the features were reasonably distinct.