The Last Day (7 page)

Jewish tradition had it that when the Messiah came to Jerusalem on Judgment Day, He'd pass over the Mount of the Ascension/Olives, gather the dead buried in the Valley of Cedron and enter the Old City of Jerusalem through the Golden Gate. In defiance of such notions, however, the Arabs had sealed up the gate with stone many years ago.

This was the afternoon of the Day. Hunter, Feldman, Cissy and a full WNN crew had set up their equipment in a second-story apartment near the top of the mount. They were fortunate to have acquired these headquarters, as there were few residential areas and commercial structures here. The majority of buildings on the sparsely developed mount were religious sites, scattered among the Aleppo pines, olive trees and wizened scrub. They included sacred shrines, tombs, churches, temples and various ruins dating from the times of King David up through the Crusades and the Knights Templar.

WNN had rented out an entire flat for the night, paying an outrageous sum to temporarily dislodge its residents. From the vantage point of the apartment's balcony was an unobstructed view of the highest point on the mountain, the imposing Tower of the Church of the Ascension, about fifty meters to the left. It was precisely at this tower that Christians believed Jesus made His triumphant Ascension into heaven. Logically, then, it was here that most millenarians felt Christ would return.

From the courtyard area at the base of the Ascension Church and Tower, the assembled multitudes of millenarians spilled down the slope directly in front of the WNN apartment, across the Cedron Valley and all the way to the ancient city gates below. The crowd also included a considerable number of Muslims—Christians and Jews holding no monopoly on the terminal significance of this mountain. Islam also predicted that Judgment Day would occur on this spot.

“Not exactly Times Square, is it?” Hunter quipped as he trained his video camera on the crowd.

“No,” Feldman responded, “more like Apocalypse Central.”

Earlier in the day, Feldman and company had been down among the pilgrims, sending candid footage of millenarian interviews via satellite back to hungry audiences all over the world. Now, as the crowd grew too dense for comfort, Feldman had elected to retreat to their apartment above the fray to set up for the “climactic” evening.

Even before the godsend of the Negev laboratory disaster, WNN had been steadily priming its worldwide audience, shrewdly building toward this moment. And for tonight, WNN's executive producers had fashioned a special program. Cleverly, the coverage would be coordinated with the time zone changes. Once midnight had uneventfully passed in Jerusalem, the WNN coverage would shift to Rome for a live telecast of the Millennium Eve happenings there. Then, after doomsday failed to materialize in Rome, coverage would jump to New York, and on to Salt Lake City where the last bastion of millenarians would be crossing their fingers. By capitalizing on the time changes in this way, WNN would ensure itself a rotating, worldwide, prime-time audience.

All of which had given Feldman butterflies. The prospect of hosting potentially the largest live audience ever was intimidating. This surprise honor had been bestowed on him abruptly this morning when the intended announcer, who'd flown in yesterday from New York, had come down with a sudden flu. Honor or no, because Feldman was reasonably certain nothing apocalyptic was going to happen tonight he had to contend with the fact that he'd be presiding over the largest theatrical letdown of all time. A hell of a send-off for his last official day with WNN.

“Worse than Geraldo Rivera and his Al Capone vault,” Hunter insensitively suggested.

But, as WNN had calculated, the magnitude of the inevitable disappointment would itself be newsworthy. There'd be ample backpedaling, rationalizing millenarians to keep the story interesting. Irrespective, Feldman could content himself with the knowledge that, shortly afterward, he'd be off to Washington, D.C., and a whole new life in the preeminent world of U.S. political news coverage.

Outside WNN's rented apartment, it was beginning to drift into evening. Looking beyond the balcony across the mountainside and off into the ancient land of the Israelites, Feldman was taken with how quickly this harsh, drought-stricken country softened in the pink and purple twilight. If ever there were a night for a religious experience, this would be it. But not for the destruction of the world. More for a quiet, divine social visit.

Except for the gathering of a few clouds far off to the southwest, the sky was clear, starlit and still. Peaceful but for the singing, chanting and sermonizing of the millenarians attempting to solidify their positions with God.

Feldman donned a sweater and returned to the balcony with a black coffee. Inside, their preparation work finished, Hunter and Cissy were making sport of one another again while Bollinger talked with the home office and the rest of the crew wandered downstairs for a break. Yawning and stretching, Feldman couldn't be sure he'd heard someone call his name.

There it was again. It had come from somewhere down below. Leaning over the second-floor balcony, he scanned the crowd, before finally doing a double-take on the alluring, upturned visage of Anke Heuriskein.

“Am I disturbing your final meditation?” she called up.

“Wait there, I'll be right down!” he shouted back, and he was gone, depositing the coffee cup so hastily on the rail it spilled over the side onto a turbaned, semitoothless man below. The poor victim, his black, angry eyes searching the mysteriously vacant balcony above him, swore profusely in an acerbic Middle Eastern tongue.

Feldman was thrilled at his good fortune. Although Anke had taken his phone number at the embassy party, he'd never heard from her. So he'd impatiently searched for her number in both the Tel Aviv city phone book and Tel Aviv University directory, to no avail. Finally, with the help of a university professor friend, he'd gotten what he'd been looking for. Only to be greeted by the beep of an answering machine.

He'd left three messages: asking her to call; asking her to dinner; asking her to meet him this evening for the televised finale, given that Millennium Eve would be his last official day with WNN and he'd be leaving for the States shortly. His last invitation was days ago and he'd heard nothing. Yet, he'd sincerely believed he'd made a favorable first impression. He'd
felt
the chemistry.

His feet were in no way as light as his heart as he tripped over squatters in the stairwell, nearly taking a nasty fall. Undaunted, he pressed his way out into the square, fearful he'd lost her in the crowd. But there she was, waiting for him, smiling with those appealingly full and sensual lips. He reached through the last barrier of people and drew her safely to him. Wrapping his arm snugly around her shoulders, he worked their way back to safety, shielding her protectively from the buffeting crowd.

Struggling once more past the loiterers in the stairwell, at last reaching the sanctuary of the makeshift WNN news room, he closed the noise and turmoil behind them. Turning to her inside the door, his eyes were aglow with delight and adrenaline.

“I didn't think you'd gotten any of my messages,” he said, still out of breath from his exertion.

“I hadn't until yesterday,” Anke explained. “I live in Jerusalem, you know. I was here all week.”

This was good, Feldman concluded. She hadn't been ignoring him. “It's great to see you, Anke, you look wonderful!”

And she did. Her thick hair was straight now, pulled back loosely and held up with a simple clip. It didn't appear as if she were wearing makeup, not that she had any need. Hers was that exceptional complexion with the healthy gleam of a natural tan.

It intrigued Feldman how each time he saw her she looked so different and yet so gorgeously the same. There was a versatility to her beauty that slipped dimensions. Tonight, she exhibited a more casual, girlish demeanor. As he looked into her face, he saw a sweetness, almost an innocence, that made her feel far more familiar than their brief acquaintance gave him any right.

“So you live here in Jerusalem?” Feldman confirmed. “Where?”

“Yes. On the North Side, but I keep an apartment in Tel Aviv when I'm attending classes.”

A rather expensive arrangement, Feldman surmised. “How did you find me here in this crowd?”

“When I got your messages”—and she laughed at this, perhaps finding Feldman's somewhat awkward invitations amusing—“I tried to reach you at your office and they told me you'd be out all day. They were kind enough to give me your location here.”

From over Feldman's shoulder came the mischievous voice of Breck Hunter. “So, Anke, you decided to come spend the last hours of planet earth with us?”

Anke looked past Feldman and smiled. “Sure. You seem to have the best seat in the house.”

“Catered, too,” Cissy McFarland added, and was introduced holding a bulging paper sack. She invited their new guest to join them in some kosher box dinners.

On the way to the dining room to join the rest of the crew, Cissy held back, elbowed Feldman's side and whispered up to him, “She's gorgeous! Where did you find her?’

Feldman shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly with a sly smile.

Over bagels and sandwiches, and thanks to Hunter and Cissy's unrestrained curiosity, Feldman was able to fill in some important gaps about his new acquaintance.

“So tell us a little about yourself, Anke,” Cissy suggested.

“Yeah,” Hunter intruded, grinning, “the standard stuff. You know: age, weight, measurements.”

Cissy shot the brash cameraman a scowl.

‘I'll give you a partial answer.” Anke laughed, taking no apparent offense. “Twenty-seven.”

“And are you married, engaged or otherwise attached?” Hunter persisted.

“Give her a break, Hunter!” Feldman protested.

“None of the above,” Anke responded with a good-natured laugh.

Cissy rescued her. “Where are you from originally, Anke? Do I detect a French accent?”

“I'm from Paris,” she said. “My mother's French, my father American.”

“So what brought you to Israel?” Hunter would not be elbowed aside.

“I came here in ‘97 to take an assistant professorship at Tel Aviv University. I'm working on my graduate degree.”

Hunter stole a quick, sideways glance at Feldman. “Let's see now, Anke,” he summarized, “we've established that you've got looks, personality, brains—probably money, too, eh? So, what I can't figure out,” and he gestured with his coffee spoon toward Feldman, “is what you see in this underfed, underpaid, diehard news geek!”

Bollinger and the other crew members burst out laughing.

Nodding slightly, pursing her lips to restrain a smile, Anke regarded the uncomfortable man next to her. “Well,” she teased, “I should think he has promise as a reporter, if only he'd show a little more social conscience.” She paused at the look of objection on his face. “But then again,” and her eyes locked into his, “there was the wonderful report he did about that meteorite destroying the Negev Institute. Now,
that
was worthy journalism. Who knows, Mr. Feldman”—she smiled at him admiringly— “you may have even prevented a war.”

The timing and sincerity of the compliment caught Feldman quite off-guard. He felt his cheeks grow warm.

“Okay,” Cissy stepped in once again, “I think our guest has endured about enough of our keen interviewing skills for one afternoon.” She turned to Anke, apologetically. “You'll have to excuse Hunter's retarded social graces. You see, he spent his formative years in solitary confinement at a home for unwed fathers and he simply doesn't know any better.”

Anke laughed. “I see now why Mr. Hunter operates behind the camera instead of in front of it.”

This unleashed an appreciative chorus of scorn directed at Hunter, who accepted his comeuppance with a broad-faced grin.

As they finished their meal, Bollinger had one final question of Anke. He wanted to know if she was unduly concerned about the prospect of the world ending in the next three hours and thirty-five minutes. She replied that she was not.

Outside on the mountain, however, it was an entirely different story. Escalating noise drew Feldman and his associates onto the balcony where they observed increasingly strange activities underway.

The rising tensions and close quarters had apparently pushed several incompatible cults into open opposition. In some instances, what began as civil disagreements in theology had degraded into shouting matches and even fist-fights, pitting zealot against zealot in a battle of the self-righteous.

“There, I think God likes that guy's style.” Feldman facetiously pointed to an open circle of fighting where one defender of the faith ran up and smashed a folded lawn chair over the head of another.

“Yeah, skull-cracking for Christ,” Hunter snorted, and Anke looked disapprovingly at both reporters.

“Oh, over here!” Hunter shouted. “Where are the field glasses?”

To their right, a small group of men and women had shed their clothes and were prancing before a bonfire to a poorly played pan flute.

“Yes,” Hunter intoned in a bad W.C. Fields imitation, “naked unto the Lord!”

The Israeli police were kept busy trying to quietly extract the troublemakers without aggravating conditions, and more than one millenarian would experience the rapture of jail tonight.

As the sweet smell of marijuana came wafting up to the balcony, Bollinger clapped his hands and announced, “Okay gang, let's get some of this on tape, shall we?” The crew, who'd been standing around entranced by all this, snapped to and hustled off to gather their gear while Hunter, way ahead of them, was putting a telephoto lens on his camera to zoom in on the nudists.

Feldman scanned the turbulent assembly, feeling better about the evening's potential newsworthiness. “Well, Anke, this should be a New Year's party unlike any we've ever seen!” She looked down on the crowd with a wry smile and shook her head disbelievingly.

16

Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 10:00
P.M
., Friday, December 31, 1999

P
romptly at ten
P.M
. Jerusalem time, live from New York City, WNN International began their worldwide news segment
Millennium III.
As Hunter readied himself and his camera crew for the impending signal to go live, Anke and Feldman moved over to one of several TV monitors positioned just inside the balcony.