The Last Day (24 page)

Back in the editing suites, Cissy and a relieved crew began emerging from their niches like woodland creatures after a storm, recovering tapes and other work-in-progress from hastily created hiding places.

A relieved Hunter pinched Bollinger's ample jowl. “Bingo! Struck another nerve, didn't we, Arnie?” he gloated, only too delighted to see the military thwarted.

But unfortunately, as Bollinger explained, the phone call to WNN's sympathetic connections at the Knesset was not reassuring. With the rise of the increasingly unstable millenarian movement, the dynamics of Israeli politics were changing. The perceived threat to public safety and security had created a vacuum in which Shaul Tamin had been successfully maneuvering. The defense minister had been quietly, steadily expanding his powers, asserting more independence, successfully usurping civil authority from the Ben-Miriam administration. Word was, WNN could well be on thin ice if this new report proved destabilizing.

Sullivan gathered the troops for a quick meeting, related the circumstances and informed them of the possible consequences should the program air as planned. The staff was unanimous in their support, with the exception of Robert Filson.

“I've got a bad feeling about all this, people,” Filson opined. “If the real issue here is rating points, consider what happens if they close us down. No future Messiah coverage means
no
ratings. Not to mention the extremely unpleasant consequences of dealing with the legal system in a foreign country on
treason charges!
I seriously recommend we delay the broadcast in order to study the situation.”

There was dead silence in the room for a moment, and then Hunter stood, held up his arm and said, “Everyone who thinks Filson is an anal-retentive chickenshit, raise their hand.”

Filson was the only one to abstain.

The crews went back to their work, continuing straight through the night, finishing up early Sunday morning. Tired but satisfied, Feldman, Hunter and Erin Cross returned to Feldman's apartment to rest fitfully and await the broadcast later that evening.

Despite her major contributions to the project, Anke, who drove in from Tel Aviv to join them, wouldn't be mentioned in the credits. Feldman, grateful though he was, didn't want to risk involving her, given the recent actions of the Israeli Defense Force.

Having viewed the report
ad nauseam
in editing, when the special program finally did air, Feldman and Hunter tended to judge it more from a technical standpoint and had lost some confidence in it. It could have been the lack of sleep, but it struck them as contrived and absurdly unbelievable.

They couldn't have been further from the truth.

The newscast would ultimately win WNN a Pulitzer. The heavily promoted, anxiously anticipated program would become the most watched, rewatched, listened-to, talked-about, studied, analyzed, debated, deplored and praised piece of television newscasting ever aired.

When the lengthy broadcast ended, the couples collapsed in Feldman's living room, too drained and numb to make the trek to the bedrooms. Feldman switched off the TV with his remote.

After a few moments, Hunter whispered out into the darkened room, “You know, if somebody was out to really mess up the world, he couldn't ’ve picked a better time than the millennium or a better vehicle than some pseudo-Messiah figure. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it? So what are we dealing with here, guys—Messiah, or Frankenstein monster?”

Maybe they were already asleep, but nobody answered.

46

Brookforest subdivision, Racine, Wisconsin Noon, Sunday, January 30, 2000

H
a! What did I tell you!” Tommy Martin taunted his sister from a far end of the couch as WNN's much-anticipated
True Origins of the New Messiah
TV special wound to its disturbing conclusion. “Jeza's nothing but a fraud! A hoax! Shelley, you are sooo gullible!”

“And you're the expert?” the daughter said, sneering. “Maybe if you read the Bible once in a while instead of surfing the Internet with your moron friends, you'd know better. That report doesn't prove anything. There was nothing in it that contradicted Old Testament prophecies about the Second Coming. It didn't say what Jeza
is.
All it told us is where she came from.”

“Tommy, have you been sneaking onto that damn Internet again instead of doing your homework?” Tom Senior wanted to know.

The boy scowled at his sister and said nothing.

Michelle Martin switched off the TV and sided with her daughter. “Shelley's right, Tommy. You can't fault the woman for where she comes from. Nobody can help how they came into this world.”

Tommy snorted. “Get real, Mom! That research center wasn't like, you know, the Garden of Eden or something. The woman didn't come from God. She's a prefab, lab job.”

Mrs. Martin frowned, not wanting to accept the logic. “I don't know, there's just something special about her. The way she looks. The way she speaks and moves and holds herself. Her power. She's so—so
spellbinding.
It's like she's… from another world or something!”

“I don't care if she's from Mars,” Shelley declared. “Jeza's got a heck of a lot more to offer than any other preacher I ever heard!”

“Yeah,” the son snipped. “I'd put her right up there with David Koresh and Marshall Applewhite!”

Mrs. Martin looked back and forth between her arguing offspring, confused.

The father impatiently grabbed up the remote control and switched the TV back on.

47

Ben-Gurion apartment complex, Jerusalem, Israel 2:12
A.M
., Monday, January 31, 2000

H
e stretched out his long tanned legs and looked down the narrow track at the sand pit beyond. A crowd lined the runway. The judges stood at the end with their tape measures, awaiting him. He dug his spikes into the asphalt for a secure grip and mentally anticipated his approach.

Feldman knew this was a dream, but he couldn't get out of it. He was back in college, in the middle of an athletic competition, about to vent his youthful angst in the all-out sprint and explosive release of the long jump event.

The crowd was getting impatient. Behind him, Feldman heard Hunter's voice urging him on. “Hurry, Feldman, hurry!”

Feldman felt uncharacteristically nervous as he started his approach. But his legs, which carried him to college on a four-year track scholarship, were as quick and strong as ever. They launched him into a spectacular leap. Above him, low clouds roiled dark and menacing. Below him, the sand pit had turned into a deep, wide abyss of flames and tormented souls, and he flailed wildly in panic.

Feldman awakened in a sweat. Curled next to him on the inside of the couch, lost down among the pillows, Anke breathed slowly and evenly. Her long, soft hair lay tousled in her face, only her mouth showing, full lips parted slightly. Feldman smiled and lightly kissed those lips.

Carefully extracting himself, he got up to use the bathroom. But as he crept past his phone it began to ring loudly, startling him. He snatched up the receiver in an instant, hopeful of saving the others’ sleep. On the opposite end came a man's voice, serious, deliberate, insistent.

“Jon Feldman?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Please listen to me very carefully. You have only about thirty minutes to clear out of your apartment. A detachment of militia from the Defense Force is on its way to arrest you and your associates.”

“What?”

“Listen to me, you've got to clear out right away and you've got to leave Israel now. Don't use the airports or the trains. Take Highway 1 to Route 30 east to Jordan. That's your quickest way out. Amman is only about a hundred kilometers. With a little luck you should make it in a couple of hours.”

“Who is this? How did you get my number?”

By now the others were stirring and Hunter was up, groping for the light switch.

“I'm a friend and I'm trying to help you. Please listen to me, you haven't much time.”

“What about Nigel Sullivan, and Arnold Bollinger and the rest of my WNN crew? What's happened to them?”

“They're going to be rounded up, too.
Don't
call them from your apartment. Wait until you're on the road and use your car phone. I can't do any more than I already have. Trust me and go. Good luck!”

“Wait a minute! Who are you, and how do you know all this?”

Feldman heard nothing more but dial tone.

“Come on, guys,” he called to the others, “we're gettin’ the hell out of here,
now!”

Gathering only their essentials, the couples bolted from the apartment into Feldman's Rover and tore off through the night. Hunter, sitting next to Feldman in the front, began punching in numbers on the car phone to pass along the alarm.

“Anke”—Feldman looked into her eyes in his rearview mirror—”you don't have to leave with us, you know. You're still in the clear. They don't have anything to connect you with me yet.”

She leaned forward and squeezed his shoulder. “I'm too involved to quit now. I want to be with you to help, if I can. If you'll let me.”

Hunter interrupted. “I got hold of Sullivan, guys. He says for everyone to stay calm and head for the Ambassador Hotel in Amman. He'll meet us there to decide what we'll do next. Probably send us all down to Cairo for a while until this thing blows over.”

He tried to reach Cissy next, but her line was continually busy.

“Something's wrong,” Hunter decided. “Turn around, Jon, we gotta go back for her!”

Feldman hit the brakes and made a sharp U-turn. Ten minutes later, the car was rolling slowly and quietly past Cissy's flat with its lights off.

They were too late. There, parked around the side, was an Israeli military jeep. Feldman slipped the Rover into an alley and pulled over to deliberate.

“Shit,” Hunter exhaled briskly. “They've got her!”

“There was no one in the jeep,” Erin observed. “They must still be up in her apartment.”

“Come on, Feldman,” Hunter urged, “let's take a look.” And he got out of the Rover, fishing a loose tire iron from under the boot in the back.

Feldman was right behind him, pausing only long enough to hand Anke the keys and suggest she move up into the driver's seat. “If we run into trouble, you guys get the hell over to Amman and contact Sullivan. He'll know what to do.”

Outside the apartment building everything was quiet. There were no lights on upstairs.

“This is weird, Jon,” Hunter decided. “It could be a trap.”

“Yeah, if her line's busy, why are her lights out?” Despite the potential threat, there was no talk of turning back. They made their way softly up the stairs that led to a small landing and Cissy's front door.

“I can't see shit,” Hunter whispered, cupping his hands over his eyes, face pressed against the glass of the sidelight. “I'm gonna knock.”

“What?”

“Yeah, hell, let's do it! Here!” Hunter handed Feldman his tire iron and Feldman flattened himself against the stucco beside the doorway.

Hunter rapped lightly at first and waited. There was no answer. A bit harder. Still no answer. Finally, he smashed his fist hard against the wood and he heard a cry of complaint from inside. The porch light flickered on, the door opened and a squinty-eyed Cissy peered out over the chain-lock.

“Cissy!” Hunter whispered.

“Hunter, is that you?” Cissy called out. “What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? Are you drunk?”

“Cissy,” Hunter whispered again. “Quiet! Listen to me, we're in big trouble. The military's after us. They've got warrants for all of us, we gotta split now! Right away!”

From inside the apartment, they heard the muffled, accented voice of a man. “Hey Cissy, what is it? Everything okay?”

Hunter looked baffled and Feldman stepped forward, lowering his weapon.

“Feldman?” Cissy was still squinting from the light. “Are you in on this, too?”

“Cissy, listen to me,” Feldman whispered insistently. “Hunter's right. We think the IDF is after us for the broadcast. We got to head out of here quick. Just grab a few things and let's go, please!”

Hunter was still mentally scratching his head as a large, shirtless, bristly-chinned young man unlatched the door and slipped an arm around Cissy. “What's going on?” he asked again. “What do these clowns want?”

“None of your business, pal,” Hunter shot back. “She works with us and this is confidential. Take a hike.”

The man wasn't backing off. “You take a hike, asshole.” He reared himself up and pulled open the door, giving Hunter a threatening shove to the chest.

“Answer me one question, dude.” Hunter held his ground as Feldman fingered the tire iron. “Are you IDF?”

The man puffed himself up even more and announced proudly, “Sergeant first class, asshole!”

Like a rocket, Hunter fired a short, devastating right to the chin and the soldier toppled backward, landing in an unconscious heap.

Cissy was incredulous and kept looking back and forth between the two combatants, sputtering. Hunter grabbed her by the shoulders, looked her dead in the eyes and hissed forcefully, “I'm not gonna say this again. Tamin's after our asses and we're gettin’ out of here. Stuff some clothes in a bag and let's go!”

Cissy screwed up her face at Feldman, who nodded emphatically, and then she quietly gave in.

Two minutes later, Hunter took her bag in one hand, her arm in another and hurried her through the door. On her way out, she looked back mournfully over her shoulder at her fallen soldier, sighed and hustled off with her two escorts into the night.

48

Ambassador Hotel, Amman, Jordan Monday morning, January 31, 2000

A
ll but one of the WNN crew managed to escape Tamin's grasp. Arnie Bollinger had risked returning to his office to retrieve some important papers, but the IDF had been lying in wait and promptly arrested him.

Feldman, Anke and the remaining WNN staff, meanwhile, had made it safely to Amman, Jordan. En route, Feldman had thought to make a precautionary phone call to Anne Leveque. His warning, however, came too late. To his great anger and dismay, Feldman learned that the widow had already received another visit from Goene. The general had come armed with a search warrant this time, tearing apart her home until he found and confiscated her late husband's incriminating diary.