The Last Day (5 page)

Only one thing could have improved this exceptional day, and suddenly she materialized. For the briefest moment before she was blocked from view, Feldman caught sight of his fantasy. In an adjoining reception room, talking and laughing. Even more beautiful than he remembered.

Her hair was different now. Instead of the long cascade of soft dark curls he had admired previously, it was a raven's nest of wild ringlets. But those eyes and that perfect olive complexion were unmistakable. Before she was again obscured from sight, he appreciated that she was tall, slender and impeccably dressed.

Impatiently, Feldman worked his way in her direction. He experienced an unfamiliar sensation of mild panic when, amid the frustrating distractions, he realized she was no longer in the side room. But a quick reconnaissance found her off in a hallway, in intimate conversation with an affected, self-important-looking Middle Eastern business Turk. The newsman positioned himself to catch her eye, but she was absorbed in her conversation.

Feldman waited patiently in idle chat with a few fellow reporters, then, sensing the moment, he uncoupled perfectly to exchange glances with Miss Mystery.

He knew exactly how he wanted to handle this. In feigned anger he stood with hands on hips, pressed his lips tightly together, squinted one eye while arching the opposite brow and then pointed an accusing finger at her. “You!” he mouthed, widened both eyes in stern recognition, held it for just the right amount of time, and then lapsed into a disarming grin.

She returned the smile. Full of white teeth and self-assurance. She moved toward Feldman and offered her slim right hand. It was a signal of dismissal for the Turk, who faded bitterly away.

Feldman grasped her by her elbow and her smooth, cool fingers, drawing her firmly to him in a manner that said he had something personal to convey. She did not resist.

To overcome the din of surrounding conversation, Feldman brought his lips to her ear. She smelled fresh and wholesome, without perfume. He whispered, “I've just had my testosterone level all topped up, so you have to be nice to me now.”

She laughed appreciatively, but offered no apologies. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered back into his ear, “After today, I should think your ego's all topped up as well!” Again, there was no bite. Her voice was playful, and her hint of a French accent captivating. She
was
teasing him, he decided.

Realizing he was still holding her arm with both hands, he self-consciously released her. Yet she paid no apparent heed and didn't retreat.

“What's your name?’ he asked.

“Anke Heuriskein.”

“And you're a graduate student at Tel Aviv University?”

“Working on my master's in international law.”

“Law? I should have thought journalism.”

“No. Journalism was my major as an undergraduate. Fun, but there's no real future in it.”

This came out matter-of-factly, and Feldman couldn't tell if she was really sincere this time. It must have shown in his face, because she gave him a sideways smile and poked him in the ribs with an elegantly tapered forefinger. He realized she had a knack for catching him off-guard and resolved to be more alert in the future. Turnabout was also fair play, he vowed to himself.

“So,” she said baitingly, “do you still think journalists should be nothing more than word processors, impersonally recording events?”

“You mean, am I still an advocate of impartial, unbiased, fair and honest reporting?” He'd been ready with this answer for a month.

“No. I mean, don't you feel that a journalist should have a social conscience? Bear some responsibility for the societal consequences of a story?”

“I don't believe it's a reporter's place to influence news, slant news or make news, if that's what you're asking,” he responded stolidly. “It's a reporter's job to report. Pure and simple.”

“But things are not always so pure and simple, now are they?” she purred, and averted her eyes mysteriously.

Feldman was more than charmed. As he loosened his crumpled tie for maneuvering room, his focus was interrupted by the reappearance of Hunter picking his way toward him from across the room. Feldman interpreted his partner's serious look and groaned audibly.

Hunter was at their side now; he leaned close to Anke and hooked a thumb toward Feldman. “Sorry to intrude, little lady, but Mr. Celebrity here is wanted back at the shop.”

Turning, he gripped Feldman by the right biceps. “I just got a call from headquarters. Things are heatin’ up.”

Feldman bit his lip, nodded and turned to find an amused look on Anke's perfect olive face. “Can I—” Feldman began.

“I'm out a lot,” she interrupted, “why don't I call you?” and proceeded to take Feldman's number in a small black phone book she produced from the pocket of her jacket.

Reluctantly departing with his colleague, Feldman watched helplessly as another slick-looking Don Juannabe promptly moved in to fill the void.

9

WNN news bureau, Jerusalem, Israel 11:56
P.M
., Saturday, December 25,1999

H
unter and Feldman rolled back into WNN headquarters to find the cramped offices humming with activity.

Area news director Arnold Bollinger spied the two reporters immediately and motioned them aside. In his mid-fifties, Bollinger was the earnest type, a black man with superb news instincts, a stocky, sound build and short, graving hair. He had an open, honest face, with large, sincere eyes. While he may have considered Feldman and Hunter a bit too cavalier and undisciplined for his tastes, Bollinger nevertheless appreciated their work as intelligent and substantive. Hunter had a deserved reputation for risk-taking. Feldman was a stabilizing influence, if too easily tempted astray.

But Bollinger was ecstatic with their report on the desert installation attack, and he was more than willing to let them run with a major story that appeared to have legs.

“We're getting some interesting feedback, guys,” he explained, handing Feldman a selection of data sheets. “Especially this one.” He isolated one page in particular, pointing at two names.

“Dr. Kiyu Omato … and Dr. Isotu Hirasuma?” Feldman struggled with the note. “Japanese?”

“Two astronomers from Japan, running some sort of study out at that big observatory in the Negev,” said Bollinger. “We checked them out and they're legit. Strong credentials. They saw your newscast and they've been waiting here to see you. Claim they're eyewitnesses, and they'll only talk with you.”

“Actually,” Feldman wished aloud, “I'd like to find someone from
inside
that research center. And learn what the hell was so important that the Jordanians would risk war to take it out. Any new info, Arnie?”

Bollinger shook his head. “Not even U.S. intelligence sources have anything definitive. At least that's what they claim. Best anyone knows right now, it was a biotech lab. And though the Israelis are screaming it's the Jordanians, the State Department won't confirm it.”

Hunter joined the speculation. “Well, the Jordanians, or whoever, sure as hell weren't out to Scud some new improved carrot. Has to've been a military installation— chemical or biological weapons development.”

An irreverent voice behind them intruded. “Yeah, and you boys were out there just padding around in the contaminated debris, all exposed and unprotected.” It was Cissy McFarland, WNN project coordinator, overhearing the conversation as she passed by. She was always ready with an overdue payback jab at the two reporters. “Sassy,” Hunter used to call her. Full of herself for a twenty-three-year-old, Cissy was one of Arnold Bollinger's protégées, with a brilliant, summa cum laude mind and a promising future with WNN.

Meant as a joke, her comment about contamination nevertheless opened an unpleasant door.

“Not entirely exposed,” Hunter returned as she blew by, ignoring him.

“Yep, you're sure two dedicated,
dumb
news jocks,” she tossed back over her shoulder, red-blond hair bouncing, hips rolling smartly as she turned a corner in her pleated skirt, leaving them in a wake of mock scorn.

Hunter grinned, Feldman looked reflective.

“Okay, Arnie,” Feldman said, adjourning their meeting and heading off with his partner toward their offices. “Let's talk with these eyewitnesses before we call it a hell of a day!”

Feldman only wanted a moment to shed his sport coat, take a breath and settle in at his desk, but the two Japanese men awaiting him were too insistent. They recognized Feldman on sight and, elbowing Hunter aside in their haste, began bowing and rattling at the TV reporter in a flurry of unintelligibility.

With difficulty, Feldman got their identities: Kiyu Omato, a senior professor at Kyoto University, and his assistant, Isotu Hirasuma.

The elder man could contain himself no longer. “Not missile!” he declared to Feldman in a thick accent. “Meteorite!”

Feldman closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest in disappointment. He'd been anticipating insightful revelations into the attack on the laboratory. He looked up, first at Hunter, then back at the two very serious astronomers anxiously awaiting his response.

“Thanks, guys, I appreciate your professional opinion, but I don't think anyone, least of all the Israelis, is going to buy your meteor theory.”

“Not theory.” The earnest face showed concern, perhaps alarm. He pulled from his pocket a white handkerchief, opening it to reveal a blackened chunk of misshapen rock about the size of a baseball. “Meteorite!” he said again, shoving the object at Feldman while his assistant vigorously nodded his affirmation and held up a handkerchief of his own. “Not attack—accident! No war now!”

With that, the second astronomer also produced a satchel filled with more such fragments and explained, in much clearer English, “Four of us see meteorite from observatory. With own eyes we watch meteorite strike laboratory. On our way to impact site, we find survivor in desert.”

Feldman's eyes widened. Hunter looked up from a random meteorite chunk he was inspecting. “Survivor?” they asked in unison.

“Yes. Young woman from desert laboratory.”

Hunter and Feldman had already decided that the junior astronomer with a better grasp of the King's English was the preferred interviewee. Feldman pulled out a microphone and Hunter switched on his camera.

Clearing his throat, Hirasuma began again. “Three of us leave observatory to follow meteor. But just outside laboratory grounds, we come across desert people—”

“Bedouins?” Hunter suggested.

“Older man and woman—with injured survivor.”

“So you actually saw this meteor hit the center?” Feldman backed them up to reexamine their story.

“Yes.”

“How close were you?”

“Maybe fifteen kilometer away, but night very clear. We see through binoculars big explosion and follow in car.”

“Tell me more about this survivor,” Feldman said.

“She young woman. Maybe twenty year old.”

“She bleeding bad and in shock,” the older man interjected. “Clothes blown off. She smell like smoke. Not talk, not walk, just make horrible sounds. Eyes not focus.”

“What did you do with her?” Feldman wanted to know.

“We give first aid,” Hirasuma said. “Man and woman not let us take her to hospital. We help put her in cart and cover with blanket. We give man and woman first aid kit, food, money. They leave and we go look for meteorite sample.”

“When we see you on TV news,” Omato added, “we know we must tell you facts.”

“Dr. Omato expert,” the younger astronomer insisted. “He not make mistake. Meteorite, not missile. No war!”

“Do you think you can find again the location where you discovered the survivor?” Feldman asked.

“Yes,” both men answered.

Feldman and Hunter took addresses and phone numbers and thanked the two scientists, promising to get back to them tomorrow.

Apparently not satisfied that they'd convinced the reporters, the two astronomers were slow to leave. “You tell world?” the older man was compelled to ask one more time.

“We'll see,” Feldman replied noncommittally, shaking their hands and returning bows as they backed away.

He held his thoughts until the two astronomers were out of sight, then turned to his partner with a skeptical expression. “What do you think?”

Hunter, who'd been staring vapidly into space, tossing a chunk of meteorite in the air, shrugged his big shoulders and replied nonchalantly, “I think it makes for a bell of a follow-up story. I'd love to get a crack at their survivor— anyone who knows what was going on inside that installation.”

10

Meeting chambers of the IDF Command Center UVDA Israeli military airfield, southern Negev Desert 1:37
A.M
., Sunday, December 26, 1999

A
t an Israeli Defense Force center located approximately forty-five kilometers south of the destroyed Negev laboratory, the troubled high command had convened to receive debriefings about the incident. The IDF chief of staff, Major General Mosha Zerim, a distinguished, straight-shouldered man of sixty-four, had been listening in sober silence as the last officer finished his report.

The general then cleared the room of all but a handful of his confidential advisors, sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Gentiemen, I don't have to tell you how serious this is,” he opened. “Defense Minister Tamin is absolutely furious. If the prime minister or the Knesset find out what was going on, it will be our heads.
All
of our heads!”

After a long pause, he asked of one colleague, “Ben, you've heard the reports, what do you think caused the explosion?”

Brigadier General Benjamin Roth looked up from his notepad and sighed audibly. “It has to have been an attack, Mosha.”

“But there's nothing to prove that, Ben,” argued Intelligence Commander David Lazzlo, a trim, middle-aged man of medium height with neatly combed, short, graying-blond hair and blue eyes. “There is no explosives residue. No missile or bomb casing fragments. Our intelligence systems and American reconnaissance satellites can confirm no launchings, no aircraft in the vicinity. Nothing.”