The Last Day (26 page)

Quite by coincidence, the frantic woman ran right into Jeza, who stopped her with an outstretched hand and said, “Woman, why do you weep?” The poor distraught mother, unable to answer, simply held out the child, described as blue and limp. In the crowded market, a ring of onlookers quickly collected.

Jeza was said to have taken the child in both arms, clasped it to her breast and closed her eyes, praying. Then, abruptly, the child spasmed, coughed and came back to life! The crowd, recognizing Jeza, fell to its knees and declared her a prophetess of Allah. Jeza was returning the child to its mother just about the time the WNN crew arrived on the scene.

The rest of what happened, Feldman was able to view right there in the marketplace on videotape replay. He saw the now familiar glowing face of Jeza turning to address the gathering. The translation of her comments, from the Arabic:

“Why do you marvel? What profits this child if his body is awakened but his mind is asleep? I say to you, the Word is alive, but there are those who would smother it. Open your mind to the Word. For inside each of you is a resurrection. The power and the glory and the understanding!”

And then she slipped away into the crowd.

Vintage Jeza.

51

National Ministry of the Universal Kingdom, Dallas, Texas 6:30
P.M
., Sunday, February 6, 2000

T
he Reverend Solomon T. Brady returned home from the convocation with mixed feelings. He had, however, not come away dissatisfied. He'd brought with him an intriguing idea that just might assist him in his struggle to shore up flagging contributions.

The concept was originated by a fellow evangelical out of Raleigh, North Carolina, during a seminar entitled “The Impact of New Religious Dogma on Congregational Unity.” This gentleman, a radio talk show minister, had found success in dealing with the turbulent events of the moment by using the situation to continually challenge and stimulate his flock. Rather than fighting the growing distraction of the popular Messiah, he exploited it.

Via call-ins, the minister would solicit different perspectives about the prophetess and her message from his listeners. Taking no sides, he'd comment on the viewpoints and add a sense of moderation and authority to the topics discussed. The resourceful preacher found that his callers were also willing to contribute funds for the opportunity to vent their spiritual spleens, everyone seeming to have a strong opinion to share about the prophetess. Although this format was a radical departure from the standard evangelical approach, it nevertheless helped to keep the coffers full. It was a strategy the Reverend Brady thought he'd try.

This idea of a Messiah Hotline was itself worth the cost of the convention. Not that Brady hadn't found the rest of the sessions interesting, if worrisome. After learning so much more about this Jeza person, he was nagged by suspicions that she just might be genuine.

There were some persuasive points expressed: Jeza
did
fulfill many ancient prophecies relevant to a Messiah and the Second Coming. She also satisfied many modern prophecies, both secular and religious, that had been proclaimed over the years regarding the new millennium. Nostradamus. Edgar Cayce. The rabbis Menachem Schneerson and Haim Shvuli. All foresaw the appearance of a world religious leader at the turn of the twenty-first century heralding the end of the world. And Jeza was clearly the only qualifying figure on the scene at the appointed time.

However, at the end of the convocation, no consensus could be reached regarding the true nature of this unusual young woman. Brady consistently sided against a Mormon-sponsored proclamation to declare Jeza a true Anointed One. As did the majority of attendees. It was as if by voting against her, Brady might somehow help make Jeza go away. Or at least lessen her impact on him and his ministry.

The only thing the attendees could agree upon was to hold a second convocation to continue their work, four weeks hence, same place.

52

WNN regional headquarters, Cairo, Egypt 9:00
A.M
., Monday, February 7, 2000

F
eldman received an urgent call at his desk and flew out the door, stopping only long enough to snatch Hunter from his office. “Jeza!” he shouted to everyone within earshot. “She's about ten minutes away from here at the Eastside Christian Mission, preaching. Come on!”

Arriving in record time, Feldman and Hunter were flagged over by the meritorious female staffer who had called in the sighting.

“She's been in there about twenty minutes!” the beaming woman exclaimed, pointing through a tall wrought iron gate behind her. “And, uh, we owe this kid over here one thousand dollars for contacting me.” Next to the staffer, a young boy of about ten grinned and held out a grimy hand.

“Okay,” Feldman agreed, looking over at the high wall and stone buildings that bordered the mission grounds. “Hang on to him and we'll settle up afterward. Where is she?”

“In the courtyard inside, in front of that old stone church.” The woman pointed in the general direction.

“Fine,” Feldman said. “But this time, we're going to be clever about things. I don't want to frighten her off. Only Hunter and I are going in. I want the rest of the crew positioned at every gateway and door. When she does bolt, I want to find out where she goes—and how she manages to escape so easily.”

Selecting a light, inconspicuous camera and cordless microphone, the two reporters pulled the Rover next to the wall and used its roof for a step-stool. Hunter reclined on top of the wall with his camera while Feldman dropped down stealthily inside.

Jeza was speaking to a group of about fifty people in a small courtyard. Stealing his way casually through the crowd, Feldman donned his sunglasses and pulled his ball cap lower to make himself less recognizable. Finally insinuating himself between a burly man and a large woman in a dirty apron, he found himself not five feet away from the elusive young prophetess.

A nun was asking the Messiah, “Do you claim to be the Daughter of God and the Sister of Jesus?”

Jeza answered, “Jesus is my Brother and God is my Father.”

“Do you only hear God, or do you see Him, too?” another nun asked.

“Mostly, God speaks to me. But when I meditate, and when I pray, I see Him.”

“What does He look like?” the same nun asked, following up her first question.

“He is all beauty and goodness and fills up my spirit with gladness,” the Messiah said.

Feldman stole a look back at Hunter and pointed to his ear. Hunter signaled thumbs-up that the audio was coming in loud and clear.

“Are you the Messiah of the Apocalypse?” a woman asked nervously, cradling a sleeping child in her arms. “And is the end of the world coming soon?”

“I am the Messiah of the New Light,” Jeza responded, “and an end is coming!”

“Armageddon or the Rapture?” the increasingly alarmed woman wanted to know.

“First there was the Old Testament,” Jeza told her, “wherein man was taught to claim an eye for an eye and to see God in fear. Then there came the New Testament, wherein man was taught to turn the other cheek and to see God in love. Now there is a Newer Testament. A testament wherein man shall raise himself up to see God in a New Light.”

A quiet buzz of alarm spread through the crowd. “The Rapture! The Rapture!” they concluded.

Although he knew it would be risky, Feldman could no longer resist. He cleared his throat. “And how shall we raise ourselves up?” he asked her.

Jeza turned slowly and laid her invasive, indigo eyes on the reporter. Despite his being prepared for it, once again it was like a vacuum sucking the consciousness from him. He grabbed the shoulder of the burly man next to him, who, although annoyed, nevertheless tolerated the impertinence. Feldman steadied himself and quickly shook the giddiness. The sunglasses had been no help.

Jeza still hadn't responded. She knit her brow, studying Feldman, as the crowd turned to see the cause of the interruption. Feldman, fully recovered now, swore to himself, thinking he'd spoiled the session. But finally Jeza's brow smoothed.

“Describe for me your God,” she said.

Feldman was taken aback and searched through his mind for his early catechism training. “Uh, God is all knowing. He is, uh—He is all powerful, all good. Right?”

“Then go, and be likewise,” she directed.

“But how, Jeza? How do I become like God?”

“By all means,” she replied. “If you strive to be all knowing, all powerful and all good, you can violate no law of God in your pursuit.”

Feldman realized she was starting to back away, going into her disappearing act again, and he sought for a way to stall her. “Yes, I think I understand, but can you be more specific?”

He appeared to be too late. She was off now, moving toward the front gate. But she slowed, stopped, turned to him and leveled that piercing gaze once more. “You investigate, but you do not learn. You ask, but you do not hear. You knock, and when the door is opened, you turn away. Blessed are they who are given no answers, yet find understanding.”

It was not said with malice, but it still stung.

“Please,” he pleaded, “there's so much more I want to know!”

“The time is not yet come,” she answered, and was off again, the audience following after her. Feldman called quickly into his remote mike to alert the staff. Over the heads of the people in front of him, he could make out a keeper swinging wide the front gate, with the WNN crew scurrying up into position on the other side.

If the Messiah saw what was developing, she paid no heed. With a dozen cameras whirring at her, she marched steadily ahead, past them, through an alley, down a flight of stairs, headlong out into the rushing traffic of a busy thoroughfare. Feldman and crew were chasing pell-mell, trying to keep up, but the onslaught of cars, buses, trucks and bicycles was too menacing. It was suicide to follow. She was gone.

53

The Oval Office, Washington, D.C. 9:00
A.M
., Wednesday, February 9, 2000

T
he usually implacable Allen Moore, forty-third president of the United States, was nervous. Yesterday's New Hampshire primary had delivered him a totally unexpected setback.

Moore's official reason for delaying his entry into the presidential race had been to concentrate on the important responsibilities of his office and remain aloof from campaign distractions. The idea was to assume a detached, “presidential” posture.

New Hampshire was a state his ticket had carried easily in the last election, and it had been simply assumed Moore would fare well there in this primary, without any direct, personal involvement. The polls supported this thinking. Such a laid-back victory, the theory went, would have positioned him as confident and unstoppable in steamrolling toward his party's renomination.

So, on the advice of his manager, Moore had withheld himself from the presidential race until late January, and withheld himself physically from the state of New Hampshire, not campaigning there personally at all. This allowed a hard-running young upstart Democratic senator, Billy McGuire of Maryland, to set up camp in New Hampshire and earn many a pragmatic New Englander vote.

Not that Senator McGuire really won. He'd received only thirty-eight percent of the vote to Moore's forty-three, with the balance allocated to various favorite sons.

But even getting close to the heavily favored Moore was a win for the ultraright McGuire. The media were now casting Moore as “vulnerable.”

“A goddamn fluke.” Presidential campaign manager Ed Guenther defended himself and consoled his president at the same time. “We'll cut McGuire off at the knees in March on Super Tuesday and be rid of him!”

President Moore nodded, wanting to accept this scenario, but remaining keenly aware that the ill-timed Mideast instabilities could well work against him if events continued to impact the precarious U.S. economy.

Brian Newcomb, Democratic Presidential Reelection Committee chairman, who called this meeting, was less forgiving. He was well aware that the influential new phenomenon in his party, the rapidly growing millenarian bloc, was an unstable lot. “Unfortunately, Ed, things aren't quite so pat. Now, the millenarians are going to draw encouragement from this. And we can't risk another reversal. We've got to regain our momentum, which means now we'll have to commit some of autumn's earmarked campaign funds to these primaries. It's a disruptive, costly change in our game plan.”

Newcomb left an obvious political maxim unspoken: once lost, that special, magical aura of invincibility is never truly regained.

Moore, a moderate, was annoyed with this unexpected turn of events. After all, he was reasonably popular, he was presiding over a stable economy—at least until the advent of this strange Messiah woman—and he was considered eminently reelectable by the majority of his party. The Republicans, on the other hand, had fielded a particularly unexciting batch of candidates this election year.

Moore realized that now, even if he sailed through the rest of his primaries, his New Hampshire “loss” would certainly be resurrected by the media periodically to add drama to the race—a dark cloud that could follow him all the way to November.

54

Cardinals’ Chambers, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 7:00
A.M
., Thursday, February 10, 2000

A
lphonse Litti pushed his chair back from his desktop computer and watched with trepidation as the final page of his report shuddered from the printer. He'd been up all night, but he defied his fatigue with the stubbornness of a driven man. Never in all his life had he felt so centered in his purpose. And so alone in his forlorn hope.

Since returning from the convocation, Litti had studied transcriptions of every known word or phrase uttered by the prophetess. He'd sequestered himself in his chambers, consulting and cross-referencing scripture against the Jeza record. At the end of the two days, the cardinal had developed what he felt was an emerging understanding of the young Messiah's message. Alphonse Bongiorno Litti saw a message that spoke forcefully and personally to him.