The Last Day (67 page)

Feldman shouted at Goene with loathing, “You cowardly son of a bitch!”

“Your turn.” Goene pointed to Feldman, and Feldman's guard raised his rifle, threateningly.

From between clenched teeth, Hunter spared his friend. “We went to view Jeza's remains.”

“Hunter,
no!”
Feldman hissed.

“We've got nothing to gain from hiding the truth,” Hunter groaned. “Just tell them!”

Goene relaxed a bit in his chair and Tamin nodded his head with satisfaction, staring down at Hunter with a distant, detached expression.

“Did Commander Lazzlo invite you?” the minister asked.

“Yes,” Feldman answered, reluctantly taking over.

“And the flew you in by helicopter early this morning? Tamin did not look at Feldman, but continued to state at the crumpled Hunter with the blank, uninterested face of a bureaucrat.

“Yes.”

“Did you view the remains?”

“Yes”

“And at that time, had the body been autopsied?”

“No”

“How do you know?”

“Because, as I said, I viewed the body.”

“That is not definitive,” Tamin declared flatly.

“And I viewed an enhanced PET scan of her.”

This seemed to have Tamin's full attention. He turned to Feldman with a trace of emotion creeping into his voice. “That's a preliminary to an autopsy. Then a postmortem
was
performed!”

“No. They halted the process after the scan.”

Tamin looked shrewdly at the newsman. “They halted the process? Why?”

“Because they discovered from the scan that there were no microchips in her brain after all.”

Goene leaped to his feet, enraged
“You lie!”
He motioned again to the guard and Feldman went down with an excruciating below to his lower back. His entire body was racked as if a jolt of electricity had passed through it.

From somewhere beyond the periphery of his agony, Feldman could hear Hunter swearing profusely. Tamin chastised Goene. “That's enough, General, I'll handle this in my own fashion first.”

As the waves of pain subsided, Feldman detected some-one's presence nearby. It was Tamin, kneeing down close to his face.

“Mr. Feldman, I apologize about that. I don't believe the general thinks you're being completely honest with me.”

Grimacing, Feldman spit back, “I'm just telling you that I saw nothing unusual in the scan. I'm no physician!”

“Of course. So you say you saw the internal images of her brain, and there were no indications of any microcircuitry or writing?”

“That's right,” Feldman exhaled, gingerly testing his limbs, which felt numb and tingly.

“How do you know the microchips weren't already removed or that you weren't viewing the brain of some other body?”

Feldman pulled himself up on the elbow and glowered at the minister with restrained hatred. “Because the scan was comprehensive. It was seamless. It covered the entire body from all sides and angles in three dimensions. And it showed every internal organ, taking us inside the body, layer by layer, to view everything at whatever magnification we chose. Without questions, it was Jeza's body I saw.”

But how can you be certain the chips weren't already removed?”

“I got a close-up view of the face and skull. At the very least, I would have seen incisions. She was completely normal. No incisions, no chips. Nothing!”

Tamin rose to his feet, reflecting on this, and walked back to lean against the desk again.

“He's lying!” Goene cried. “They're in collusion with Lazzlo. I'm certain it was Lazzlo who tipped them off about the January raid. And most certainly it was Lazzlo who leaked the diary to the Vatican. He's been conspiring against us all along, playing both sides of the street. And now the traitor has the chips, and these bastards are in on it with him!”

As if armed with a new thought, Tamin walked back to stand over the two prostrate men.

“Did Commander Lazzlo give you anything that you took with you from the hospital?”

“No,” Feldman lied.

Tamin bent toward Feldman, his hands on his knees. “Think carefully,” he cautioned Feldman. “Did anyone give you a package of any kind? An envelope? A magazine? Anything?”

“Nothing!” Feldman asserted.

“Do you know the whereabouts of the microchips?”

“I'm telling you,” Feldman protested, “there are no microchips!”

Tamin straightened once more and turned away toward the door. “Yes. And I suppose Jeza's ability to speak a hundred different languages and her vast wealth of knowledge are simply manifestations of her divinity? Correct?”

Feldman said nothing.

Goene moved to Tamin's side. “We're checking out the other casualties from the crash and the helicopter itself right now.”

The minister nodded. “Very good, General. The prisoners are yours. If they're concealing the chips, I want them found. Do whatever is necessary.”

Tamin left and Goene turned toward his prisoners with an expression of absolute supremacy. He grinned sinisterly as he addressed his guards. “Take them below. Strip them completely and have every square millimeter of their clothing unraveled thread by thread. Take apart their shoes, their watches, everything. Search their bodies. Every crevice, every orifice. I want them under constant guard. Feed them emetics and run their vomit through a sieve. Give them laxatives and check every bowel movement to the last particle for the next twelve hours. Whether or not you find the chips by dawn tomorrow, take them into the courtyard and shoot them as spies. Then incinerate their corpses. And I expect complete discretion!”

Goene walked over, dropped to a squatting position and leaned low above the two broken, disbelieving men. His mouth spread wide in a brutish sneer. “In the final analysis, gentlemen, I should think that the sword is, in fact, mightier than the pen. Wouldn't you agree?”

111

Dyan IDF military base, Jerusalem, Israel 4:13
A.M.
, Sunday, April 23, 2000

F
eldman and Hunter sat naked and cold on the wet floor of their cell, clutching their knees tightly, trying to maintain body warmth. It had been a long, disgustingly unpleasant and humiliating night. In addition to their untreated wounds, both men were suffering from extreme dehydration as a result of their repeated purgings.

Even in this lower-level, windowless dungeon, they could hear the sounds of military engagement emanating from outside. The heavy prattle of gunshots had been incessant, all night long.

“How are you holding up, Breck?” Feldman called out from between his knees.

No answer.

Feldman turned to observe his cell mate, who was hunkered next to him in a tight, brooding ball. “Come on, guy,” Feldman encouraged, “you gotta snap out of it. Why don't you channel your anger into helping me find a way to get out of here?”

“’Cause we ain't gettin’ outta here, man,” came the snarling answer. “At least not alive we're not.”

“That's the spirit!” Feldman berated him.

“Goddammit!” Hunter's pent up rage broke loose. “I swear to God I'd give my immortal soul for just five minutes with that goddamned son of a bitch Goene!”

Feldman sighed, hard pressed to offer any meaningful solace under the circumstances. “Come on, man, it isn't worth—”

“Goddamn that son of a bitch!” Hunter roared again, pounding the cell floor with a powerful fist. “I swear to God, Jon, if we get out of this, I'd hunt that bastard down if it takes me to the bowels of hell. And so help me God, I'd kid him!” Hunter looked up at God through the ceiling of his cell. “Just give me one chance—that's all I ask—and you can have my damned soul. Just one chance!”

Hunter's raving had attracted the attention of one of the guards. “Shut up in there or I'll turn a hose on you!” he snapped.

“Please,” Feldman pleaded, “can somebody tell us what time it is?”

“A quarter till five,” the guard called back.

Sunrise—and the firing squad—were rapidly nearing. Once more, Feldman tried to penetrate the guards’ resolve. “Any chance we could get some hot coffee and a blanket now? You know we don't have anything hidden on our bodies. And there's sure as hell nothing left inside us anymore!”

The two guards, who were seated at a table outside the cell, exchanged looks. There was a rumbling of conversation and a couple of old, dirty linen sheets were tossed into the cells. A few moments later, two cups of steaming brew were slid through the bars. Swaddled in their sheets, the two men shuffled stiff-leggedly over and bolted down the coffee, gratefully thanking their keepers and begging for more. Their pleas were granted, along with two hard rolls. Their last requests, Feldman presumed.

His musings were quickly answered. As they finished their meal, the moment they'd been dreading arrived: multiple footsteps hurrying down the stone stairs, keys jangling. The sounds of their approaching executions.

112

Hadassah Hospital, Jerusalem, Israel 4:47
A.M.
, Sunday, April 23, 2000

C
ardinal Litti knelt on the hard, cold concrete floor outside the vault where Jeza's body lay in state. Like matching bookends on either side of the closed vault door, two immobile, armed Israeli sentries were posted to ensure that Jeza's body remained undisturbed through the long night.

In response to Lira's incessant begging, Commander Lazzlo had finally relented and allowed the cardinal access to the restricted area. Litti had been here since dusk, in prayerful observance, faithfully awaiting the anticipated Resurrection. The long vigil hadn't been easy on the poor man's old bones. The aging cleric felt cramped and chilled and deeply fatigued. But he was only too pleased to suffer these minor inconveniences. To witness this ultimate triumph over death and evil was the greatest honor God could bestow upon man.

Yet, as the hour of dawn now drew near, Litti grew increasingly nervous. Throughout the night, with muffled gunfire and violence raging above him, the cardinal had held steadfastly to his certitude about the Messiah. This, despite nagging doubts deposited into the far reaches of his soul by a cunning devil.

Litti's only other distractions came from Commander Lazzlo, who stopped in occasionally between breaks in the offensive outside. Sharing Litti's heartfelt hopes about the Resurrection, the officer kept abreast of the situation.

This visit, however, was not social. The cardinal heard a commotion advancing down the had and a flushed Lazzlo rounded the corner with several of his troops. “Your Eminence, I'm sorry,” he panted, a look of distress creasing his face. “The Gogs have breached the west wing. You must leave now until we secure the corridor.”

Litti turned white with alarm. “Leave now? It's unthinkable! We're so close to dawn!”

“I realize, Cardinal, and I share your feelings, but if we don't secure this corridor, there may be no Resurrection. The Gogs aren't like Goene's forces. They want to destroy Jeza's body. They'll use explosives. You must leave until we can secure the area again. I'll have you back as quickly as possible. We still have half an hour till dawn.”

Lazzlo motioned to the guards at the door and they grasped the desperate Litti under his armpits, assisting him to his feet. “I beg of you, Commander!” the cardinal wailed, but it was too late. Lazzlo was off and running toward the west wing with his men.

Indeed, Litti and his escorts had barely made the stair-well when an explosion coursed through the halls. The cardinal said a prayer as the support walls of the substructure vibrated menacingly.

113

Dyan IDF military base, Jerusalem, Israel 5:15
A.M.
, Sunday, April 23, 2000

O
utside Feldman and Hunter's cell, there was an excited exchange of Hebrew between the guards and the four soldiers who'd just arrived. The animated discussion continued for several minutes.

Above them and outside, they could hear a great deal of troop movement, but the sounds of battle had ceased. Then, abruptly, one of the guards unlocked Feldman's door and announced flatly, “You're free. You're being released.”

Unceremoniously, Feldman and Hunter were liberated as the four soldiers trotted off and the guards hastily began gathering up personal belongings as if they were vacating the premises.

“Please,” Feldman implored. “What's going on?”

Without looking up from his packing, one of the guards explained, “We are under martial law. The Knesset met in emergency session earlier this morning and the IDF has been dissolved. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Defense Minister Tamin and General Goene.”

“Waaahooo!” Hunter yelped with joy.

“What are they being charged with?” Feldman asked.

“Treason, conspiracy and complicity to murder, among other things, I'm told. The both of you were ordered released by direct command of the Knesset. Goene and Tamin have fled. We've been ordered to surrender the base and submit ourselves for review.”

Astounded at their timely reversal of fortunes, Feldman and Hunter stumbled upstairs to the first floor, down the main hallway and hobbled for the nearest exit. Caked with dried mud, blood and filth, still clad in nothing but their soiled linen sheets, Feldman and Hunter stepped out of the barracks into the bright rays of a gorgeous sunrise.

Out on the field grounds, resident troops were assembling and lining up in submission to new superior officers. Freshly arriving military teams and vehicles were pouring into the base in a flurry of activity.

“I can't believe it's over,” Hunter breathed.

“Something tells me it's not,” Feldman answered.

Directly in front of the reporters, a commanding officer, whizzing by in a jeep, spied Feldman and yelled to his driver, who slammed on the brakes and reversed back up to the doorway. The officer barked an order in Hebrew to a platoon and the two newsmen were instantly surrounded.

“God!” Hunter moaned. “Not again!”

But this time, instead of a cell, the two men were taken to the base infirmary where they were given fluids, a hot shower and hot breakfast. Their injuries dressed, they were administered antibiotics, supplied fresh clothing, and quickly ushered before the desk of the commanding officer who'd discovered them.