The Last Judgment (16 page)

“Look around you,” Gilead said. “Where are you now? You're in the state of Israel. And you don't think that shows the fulfillment of the events prophesied by God's Holy Word?”

“All right,” the young man countered, “maybe yes, maybe no. But the creation of the state of Israel—that's a political act. The
UN. The community of nations getting together and deciding that the nation should be created.”

“The hand of God,” Gilead replied. “We see immediate causes and effects on the stage of current events. But we fail to see God's providential hand behind the scenery.”

“And how long do you wait?” the man said, persisting. “After two millennia you're still waiting?”

“With God,” Gilead answered, “a thousand years is like a day—and a day is like a thousand years. If He has delayed it's because He is giving the world, and each of you, every opportunity to understand the choice you have, and the decision you must make. God is merciful. It is not His will that anybody should perish…”

A young woman with a backpack and long straggly blonde hair, leaning against the wall at the opposite end of the room, raised her hand and began talking energetically.

“I'm not quite sure why I came here. But I heard about it…I was interested because for years my family—they're Orthodox—they fed me the Torah. We were observant. But now, I just can't accept that anymore. I respect my parents. I respect their beliefs. But I really don't care about the Torah. I don't care about what you'd call the Old Testament. So if I don't care about the Old Testament of my parents' religion, then why should I care about both the Old Testament and the New Testament of your religion?”

Gilead smiled and paused a minute. And then he answered.

“If it was a matter of my religion, I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to take on something that seems even more burdensome than the religion that you've already rejected. But it's not my religion. It is either God's revealed message, shared to you in a written communication that bears the personal autograph of His mercy and love, or it's not. And it's not about a burden. Or regulations. It's about God's grace. And let me venture an opinion about something else…”

The girl now had her arms crossed in front of her and was tilting her head with a combination of suspicion and curiosity.

“I believe that you're here tonight because of a reason—not coincidence. You're here because God moved the circumstances of your life to bring you here. He wanted you to hear the message. He wants you to make a decision. God says now…today is the day of salvation. Not yesterday, which is come and gone—you can do nothing about it. Nor is it tomorrow, because tomorrow may be too late. You do not know what tomorrow holds. But you do know where you are today. And I believe today you are here because God has set eternity in each of our hearts. If that eternal place in our hearts is not filled with God, then it will be a hollow and empty place. It will continue to haunt us—like the sound of the wind whistling through the desert.”

In the corner of the room, by the doorway, Yossin, the Arab leader of the Knights of the Temple Mount, gestured subtly to the blond Frenchman, who was sitting shoulder to shoulder with the crowd on the floor next to him.

Yossin discreetly slipped through the doorway, followed by the Frenchman. They walked down the narrow stairway and exited past a small grove of white plastic tables and chairs where some of the local inhabitants were conversing, drinking tea, and eating dessert.

“What do you think?” the Frenchman asked.

“It is as I had expected,” Yossin answered.

“But I spent time with him in Cairo and on the trip up to Jerusalem,” the Frenchman said. “I didn't want to press it too much, but we did a lot of talking. I listened to him tonight. It's the same thing. I've described it as…how could I say this…traditional orthodoxy. You know, the same old evangelical or fundamentalist Christian–type theology. So, I just have to ask myself—”

“Whether he is the real al-Hakim?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you doubt my judgment?”

“No, that's not it,” the Frenchman said, slight irritation in his voice. “It's just that I think we have to be absolutely sure. So much depends on this…”

“You saw the audience we had today, didn't you?” Yossin asked calmly. “Secular, nonobservant Jews. Some former members of Greek Orthodox churches. I think there is also a handful of secret Muslims up there. The point is, that I am not surprised at his approach. Remember, my mother was a Jew and my father was an Arab. And they were both practicing members of the Druze religion. There has to be some syncretism—some bringing together of people with diverse backgrounds. All this is expected.”

“And when do we put the question to him…you know, about who he is—who he
really
is?”

“We don't. We don't force the question. I believe he is the one. I've told you that. And it will be revealed by him at the perfect time. He will give us the signal. You will see—that's the mistake the zealots made when they dealt with Jesus. Remember what we've studied and read? If the zealots would have worked on Jesus' timetable, rather than forcing Him to work on their political timetable, the kingdom could have arrived back then. But instead, the world has to wait for the appearing of the Great Caliph al-Hakim. And that time is now.”

“And how about the other things—you know—the preparations we were talking about?”

“Oh, those are continuing. I've made several contacts. And we are in the final stages of the great event. I'll bring you into it when you need to know. Not until then.”

The blond Frenchman nodded, taking in what Yossin had just told him.

“Meanwhile, let's go upstairs. When the meeting breaks up I'm going to do a follow-up with the girl with the backpack against the wall. I want you to zero in on the young man on the floor who was asking the other questions. I think we should be able to reap a number of good prospects from this group.”

Yossin motioned for them to start back up the stairway.

“Just make sure you report back to me,” Yossin added as they mounted the stairs. “I want names, contact numbers, addresses. Employment background. Family connections. You know what we need. Remember the significance of what we're doing here. We're building the new army of light. The righteous ones. The rulers of the new kingdom…”

24

T
HE
C
ENTER FOR
C
OMPUTER
-I
NTELLIGENCE
R
ESEARCH
for the Republic of Maretas had been built specially for Orville Putrie. It was a room with walls lined with lead, and no windows or access to the outside world. Within the gray room, there were two walls filled from floor to ceiling with state-of-the-art computer and satellite equipment.

Putrie was seated before the massive computer console, facing three oversized computer screens. He had set up the menus and was ready for his demonstration. Now all he could do was wait.

He ran his hands through his hair nervously, spun three-hundred-sixty degrees in his console chair, then put his hands on both sides of the keypad and began madly drumming his fingers on the computer desk.

Then he heard a sound at the door.

Outside, Mr. Himlet had inserted the index fingers of both his right and left hand into the fingerprint identification ports. After a second, the screen flashed “Identification Secured,” and the electric door opened slowly. Himlet walked in with, as always, his titanium briefcase. And, as always, he was wearing a black suit, black tie, and white shirt.

And he brought with him, predictably, his usual no-nonsense expression. He adjusted his glasses and pulled a chair up to the computer console.

“Mr. Putrie, I'd like you to begin.”

“Yes, sir. Okay, okay,” the computer expert said. “Here's my first menu…”

And with a few keystrokes on the keyboard, the screen flashed with a box that read “RCS,” and under that the words “Reflective Cipher System.”

Orville tapped in the address for the site he had already run successfully on his own.

After twenty seconds the screen downloaded a page of text in Hebrew. And at the top of the page, on the right-hand side, there was a replica of the Israeli national flag.

He then keyed in his text-translator program, and in a matter of seconds, the Hebrew text disappeared, and English text appeared in its place.

Now, at the top of the page, across from the Israeli national flag, it read, “THE INSTITUTE FOR INTELLIGENCE AND SPECIAL TASKS,” and under that, “MOSSAD.”

Himlet bent forward, his eyes scanning the computer screen.

He turned to Orville and remarked simply, “Good. Very good, Mr. Putrie. Continue.”

Putrie then typed in the key words “INTELLIGENCE BRANCH—TERRORIST ORGANIZATIONS—MONTHLY MONITOR REPORTS—DOMESTIC UNIT.”

Himlet smiled.

Putrie paused for a minute to expand on his own achievement.

“No one understands…” Putrie explained in a nervous titter. “You know, everyone is so interested in breaking quantum encryption…but they don't understand that first, you have to do a really good…I'm talking, a really sweet hacking job…to even get into the system. And you have to get into the system in a way that you're not going to be detected. So you don't send up a lot of flares and warnings, and trip a lot of the traps.”

“Please continue,” Himlet said.

Putrie tapped in the address for the subject index for the intelligence department reports and waited.

“Come to Papa…come to Papa…oh yeah, come to Papa,” he muttered as he waited for the text to emerge.

After fifteen seconds, there it was. Following the instructions given by Himlet, Putrie had broken the quantum encryption record of the Mossad internal intelligence reports. He selected, pursuant to Himlet's lead, those reports which described the monitoring of known or suspected terrorist organizations.

The English list began with the “A's”: al-Aqsa Brigade…al-Aqsa Jihad…

Putrie scanned down slowly, glancing nervously at Himlet, who gestured for him to continue scrolling down.

Then they reached the “H's.” Hamas…Hezbollah…and then the “K's.”

At the “K's” a name appeared on the screen, and Himlet reached over and grasped Putrie's wrist so firmly that he cried out.

“Stop right there…” Himlet said. And then he pointed to the name of an organization under the “K's.”

The screen read, “Knights of the Temple Mount.”

“I want you to access that,” Himlet said, reaching a long index finger to the computer screen and touching the words.

Putrie clicked his cursor onto the organization's name, and then onto the monthly reports, ending with the latest one. At the side of the screen there was a box, and next to it the text “Digest of Daily Reports.”

“Click on that,” Himlet commanded.

Putrie complied, and a terse memorandum appeared on the screen:

AGENT: JKA

TERR. ORG.—KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE MOUNT

SUSPECTED LEADER YOSSIN ALI KHALID

IDEOL.—SUBSECT OF DRUZE RELIGION. APOCAL., SYNCR., ISLAM + CHRIST. MYST. + JUD. CULTIC

OPERATIONS—DATA NOT COMPLETE

“Good. Very good, Mr. Putrie.” Himlet rose from his chair and leaned down over the computer desk, his face only inches from the computer screen. He pointed to the last entry, where it indicated “DATA NOT COMPLETE.”

“I will, of course, be reporting this to Mr. Mullburn. I'm sure he will be quite pleased.”

Putrie's face beamed.

“Now, for the next phase,” Himlet said, placing his hand on Putrie's shoulder. “That is going to be perhaps even more challenging.”

“What are we talking here?” Putrie squinted through the thick lenses of his glasses.

“I need you to rearrange this data a bit. Take out a line of text. And then imbed another line of text. Without leaving a trace. Without leaving a clue behind.”

Putrie paused for a moment, considering Himlet's directive. He smiled, removed his thick-lensed glasses, and wiped them on his shirt.

“I assume this project is very important…this is critical information…Mr. Mullburn told me how important I was in our meeting together.”

“And your point is?”

“A little financial incentive…some bonus action.” Putrie started rambling. “If I'm able to complete this project exactly the way that you described it. I would expect that there would be some really big-time, juicy remuneration for me.”

But Himlet was already halfway across the room, heading for the door.

He spun on his heels and made one last comment.

“That next project needs to be completed in seventy-two hours. And then after that…we'll talk about one additional, much
different computer application…also a rush. Good day, Mr. Putrie.”