The Last Day

by Glenn Kleier

  “And insofar as the miraculous cures that occurred, again, it could all quite feasibly be part of an elaborate fraud. Nevertheless, let us assume for the moment that some of the claims are valid. That some of these individuals were truly disabled and truly cured.

  “Psychosomatic illnesses aside, you'll note that many of the alleged cures seem to center around motor and neurological difficulties. Medical history is replete with incidents involving victims of accidental high-voltage charges—including lightning strikes—instantly and inexplicably cured of afflictions such as these.

  “However, Cardinal Litti,” the prefect allowed, “I'll admit to you that there is one aspect in all of this for which I find a logical explanation elusive. My quandary lies with the timing and location of the earthquake in Bethlehem. Although I wouldn't rule out the possibilities of a hoax, I frankly don't believe such an occurrence could have been man-made.”

  Litti lightened somewhat, wondering if di Concerci might actually be opening his mind for once. But his hopes were immediately dashed.

  “Nevertheless,” di Concerci redressed himself, “granting that the timing and location of the quake would be an amazing coincidence, it is not out of the realm of natural possibilities. In any given year, there are more than one million separate, measurable seismic occurrences that take place across this planet. One million! And the Holy Land is squarely within one of the more active fault zones in the world.”

  “Your knowledge of science is remarkable,” Litti interjected sarcastically.

  “I confess, Alphonse,” di Concerci offered a soothing tone that smacked of condescension, “I, too, have been troubled by the implications of recent events. And as a consequence, I've devoted considerable time to researching the circumstances. As I first stated, there are viable alternative considerations which should be explored before we risk further alarming the faithful and propelling more of our followers into the ranks of these irrational millennialists.”

  This last point registered visibly with Nicholas.

  Di Concerci again addressed the pope directly. “Papa, if there's a sign in any of this, it's certainly not a clear one. We must be extraordinarily careful in how we respond or we could find ourselves overreacting to one of the most embarrassing, albeit well-crafted hoaxes ever perpetrated upon the Church. I fervently believe that we must take a strong stand, and I highly recommend that we issue immediate reassurances to the public elaborating upon the contentions I've just made. To delay further is highly dangerous and threatens the solidarity of our congregation.”

  Litti sensed the influence di Concerci's arguments were having. In desperation he rose to his feet and appealed to his pope. “Papa, surely after two thousand years of anticipation and preparation for an event of this nature, the Catholic Church, above all others, must recognize the signs of God! This young boy could well be a John the Baptist, come to prepare the way for—”

  The pope froze him with an outstretched hand, leaned back in his heavy chair, closed tightly his eyes. At length, he turned to di Concerci.” You are right, Antonio. I, too, have allowed my emotions to overwhelm my reason. Please, move quickly on this. I ask that you prepare a papal letter to be submitted to me for release by tomorrow afternoon.

  “Alphonse, I'd like you to initiate repairs immediately on the fresco and altar. Supervise the work personally and have if completed as quickly as possible.”

  Litti was appalled. “But Holiness, what if the damage is truly a sign from God? Should it not be preserved, at least temporarily—”

  “Éfinito, Alphonse!”

  Nicholas's look and tone of suppressed anger were manifestations Litti had never witnessed in his pontiff before. Shaken and embarrassed, the cardinal bowed his head, both in acquiescence and to avoid what he presumed would be the triumphant expression of his opponent.

  A fatigued and troubled Pope Nicholas VI dismissed his advisors and retired to his chambers. Before preparing for bed, he sat himself in his study at his large, ornate desk. The same desk from which his predecessors had directed the course of nations and kings, launched Crusades, rid the world of evil, apostasy and heretics.

  Cupping his chin in his hand, the pope lost himself to his thoughts, reflecting on the reassuring points of di Concerci's argument Neither di Concerci nor Litti could have known how close the pontiff had come to sharing with them a very sacred, long-standing secret. A grave confidence passed down to him from many decades before. How he longed to unshoulder the great burden he'd been carrying. But the prefect's words of hope had given him cause to reconsider. Perhaps di Concerci was correct. Perhaps Nicholas hadn't the need to break faith with this inviolate trust. Not yet. It might not prove necessary.

  He fished his spectacles from his pocket and positioned them on his nose. From a braided chain attached to his waist, Nicholas located a large, intricate gold key. He carefully inserted it into a lock on a side door of his desk, feeling it smoothly turning the heavy tumblers inside. The door unlatched and from within its dark vault, the pope withdrew a faded leather-bound portfolio secured by leather thongs. He laid the parcel on the desk in front of him.

  Releasing the strings, he opened the case to reveal three collections of yellowed documents. Removing the third collection and holding it reverentially in his fingertips, he drew back into his chair, reading it closely, his brow deeply furrowed by its terrifying contents.

  28

  WNN news bureau, Jerusalem, Israel 11:15 A.M., Wednesday, January 5, 2000

  The rumors had been filtering in since early morning, and by now Bollinger was convinced they were accurate. Direct from the millenarian grapevine, it was said that the Messiah would finally be making a long-awaited public appearance. Having fasted and meditated for four days and nights in the deserts north of Jericho, the Messiah would give an address near the resort town of Tiberias, on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. Tomorrow morning, at dawn.

  Feldman, Hunter, Erin Cross and a production crew were dispatched immediately to Tiberias by WNN helicopter to prepare for whatever eventualities might develop. Sullivan, Bollinger, Cissy, Robert Filson and more crew were to fly up in a second helicopter later to join them.

  29

  Tiberias, Israel 3:30 A.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000

  Feldman was up early, breakfasting on fresh dates, figs, pomegranates and orange juice. He was accompanied by Arnold Bollinger, Nigel Sullivan, Cissy McFarland and the swarthy, gregarious lady of the farmhouse where WNN had been extremely fortunate to find quarters. By the sullen looks of Cissy, Feldman figured she'd also noticed Erin Cross and Hunter slipping off last night for a lengthy stroll along the nearby seashore.

  Feldman hurried his meal and excused himself to wander outside in the fresh ocean air. Rounding the side of the house, he spied Hunter whistling contentedly, busily stowing his video gear aboard one of the helicopters. Erin Cross was nowhere in sight, and Hunter's hair looked as if it had been combed with an egg beater.

  “Hey, bubba,” Hunter called, spying Feldman over his shoulder as he squatted to hoist a case.

  “Hi, guy,” Feldman called back. “Looks like you had a rough night.”

  Hunter flashed a telling grin and went about securing the last piece of equipment.

  Feldman placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. “Hey, man, I think we got a problem developing.”

  The cameraman looked at him questioningly.

  “It's Cissy. This thing with you and Erin's got her all torqued.”

  Hunter sighed, slammed the door of the hold and turned two pained eyes on his partner. “God, believe me, Jon, I don't want that.”

  “I know you don't,” Feldman commiserated. “But I thought you and Cissy, you know, had something going there. You were good together.”

  Hunter shrugged. “I love her, man. I swear, she's great. But it's just a little too close to home, you know? Not in my own backyard. Too constricting. Besides, Bollinger would kill me. Cissy's his protégée, for chrissakes!”

  Feldman w
as disappointed. Not that this was any of his business, but he'd always had a certain fondness for Cissy. A big-brother appreciation of her moxie and dependability. Not to mention the abiding loyalty and support she'd selflessly given him and Hunter.

  “And Erin's not in your backyard?” Feldman questioned.

  “Well, next door, maybe,” Hunter sidestepped with a grin. His rationale not eliciting any sympathy, he turned indignant. “Jesus, Feldman, this thing with Erin doesn't have legs! How long do you think a camera jockey like me is gonna hold on to a lady like her? I'm just ridin’ the ride, man!”

  Feldman was quiet, studying his friend thoughtfully, without comment.

  Hunter took another tack. “Why would you want to wish me on Cissy, anyway? I'm no good for her. Hell, Feldman, if anyone should understand, you should. Neither you or me can endure a relationship. I get bored and you get scared. Either way, we're fated to be bachelors, man. Right now, we both got ourselves a couple of choice babes—so let's eat, drink and make Mary while we can!”

  Feldman found this cynical philosophy familiar, but surprisingly depressing. Somehow he'd always assumed, sooner or later, they'd both find die right women who could help them overcome their respective shortcomings. His own phobias aside, Feldman knew Hunter was better than what he allowed himself to be. But the big cameraman was probably right. He wasn't ready for a serious relationship.

  “Yeah. I guess I do understand, Breck,” Feldman conceded. “Just make it as easy for Cissy as you can, right?”

  Hunter nodded perfunctorily and headed off to the farmhouse for coffee.

  Feldman shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out along the footpath that overlooked the Galilee, alone with his thoughts. Directly, he heard someone calling his name and he trotted quickly back up the path to where a crew member was summoning him. The helicopters were idling, ready for the morning's reconnaissance.

  Feldman ran into the house for his shoulder bag and dashed back out to join Sullivan, Bollinger, Hunter and Erin in the passenger compartment of the first chopper. The engine throttled up and they tilted off into the predawn sky with the second chopper close behind.

  Below them were the lights of thousands of boats moored at the edge of the sea. And along the shore, tens of thousands of campsites stretching out for miles. They'd hardly begun their surveillance, however, when the crowd showed signs of general commotion. Lights were corning on everywhere. Horns and shouting could be heard even above the staccato of the helicopter blades.

  “What's happening down there?” Bollinger wanted to know. It was a few moments before a decipherable pattern emerged, but as evidenced by migrating headlights, it appeared that the masses were inclined in a northerly direction. Many boats had pulled up anchor and were making off hastily up the coast.

  “Radio back to the mobile units and see if they know anything,” Sullivan directed.

  The report came back: the Samaritans had made a public announcement on Israel Radio that the Messiah would be appearing about thirteen kilometers to the north, on a mountain known as Beatitudes, located directly off the highway that followed the shoreline.

  As the pilot pivoted the helicopter in the desired direction, Hunter left his seat and zipped open an equipment bag. He withdrew a large, bulky Steadicam, a special gyroscopic camera that enabled smooth video to be taken even aboard a jarring helicopter. Placing it on his shoulders, he flipped on a light, illuminating Feldman. “Ready whenever you are,” he signaled.

  Feldman cleared his throat adjusted his tie, and reeled off a brief update on the situation. After he finished, Hunter motioned the pilot to descend and then augmented their bulletin with amazing video of the endless car lights below: more than a million millenarians, they estimated, in a mass crusade toward a rendezvous with their Messiah.

  30

  Mount of the Beatitudes, Israel 4:46 A.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000

  Visible from more than five kilometers away, the mount was more a tall hill, easy to spot, lit up with huge halogen lamps. As Feldman and company approached overhead, they could make out an enormous, elevated, altarlike stage setting at the summit, upon which the bright lights were focused.

  If there were any questions in their minds where the Samaritans had found the capital to produce such an elaborate event, they were soon answered. Plastered across the front of the stage and at strategic points all around were insignias of proud sponsors: IBM, Coca-Cola, Sony, Ford, Nike.

  Separated by about forty feet from the sizable crowd that had already assembled, the altar was protected by a tall electrified fence.

  “Do we put down, or do we stay in the air?” the pilot wanted to know. Other aircraft in the vicinity seemed to be holding their distance.

  “Let's keep the other helicopter aloft to cover crowd scenes and panoramic shots of the stage,” Sullivan suggested, “and let us try to set down inside the fence. We'll see if we can get clearance for some close-ups and maybe even an interview.”

  They picked a space as far removed from the center of the stage as possible, concerned about overhead wires or that the downdraft of the blades might topple some of the lighting towers or staging equipment. But that was the least of their problems. Once the Samaritans discovered what was about to happen, a dozen burly men scurried out from beneath the stage brandishing heavy nightsticks.

  The pilot pulled up and looked back at Sullivan for instructions.

  Glancing around at everyone and shrugging his shoulders, Sullivan exclaimed, “They can only tell us to leave! Let's try a landing, shall we?”

  The pilot defiantly set the chopper down virtually on top of the guards, sending them scattering. With the helicopter safely on the ground, Feldman realized that the angry security force would only hold back until the blades had slowed. But he had an idea.

  “Nigel,” he shouted in Sullivan's ear, “keep the rotors close to lift-off speed. Meanwhile, let me go out and talk with them while Hunter takes some footage, just in case.”

  Sullivan hadn't a better idea, so they popped open the door and Feldman staggered across the neutral zone like a man in a hurricane. He was hopeful that his newfound celebrity status might gain him an entrée here, and he did detect a note of recognition in the eyes of at least one guard, whom he approached.

  “Jon Feldman, WNN News,” he bellowed in the wind and flashed his media credentials. “I'm here to meet with Richard Fischer.” This was a gamble. For all Feldman knew, Fischer wasn't even here.

  “Nobuddy's allowed in here,” the big man countered in a thick, American Dixieland drawl. “Nobuddy. We waved all the other choppers off, but y'all set down anyways.”

  “Well, I talked with Reverend Fischer by cellular phone patch not fifteen minutes ago,” Feldman lied, “and he said he'd see me if I could get here right away.” Turning back to the helicopter, Feldman signaled for the pilot to cut the engine, pointed to Hunter and waved for him to come over.

  The guard blinked and looked at a fellow guard, who was no help.

  “Y'all stay right here and I'll go ask Mr. Fischer,” he decided and started off.

  Feldman quickly grabbed Hunter, directed his camera on the second guard, and in his most pronounced stage voice shouted, “Okay, we're here live at the Mount of the Beatitudes broadcasting worldwide with an interview of the official Samaritan security detail. Take it, Breck Hunter!”

  The video camera and prospects of worldwide exposure momentarily froze the guards. Hunter picked up immediately on the ruse and launched into a barrage of flattering, personal questions as Feldman slipped off, tailing guard number one under the enormous stage.

  There was a labyrinth of framework and modular scaffolding under the twelve-foot-high platform above them. Within the maze were a number of mobile trailer units, one of which, Feldman presumed, held the reclusive Messiah.

  Feldman caught up with the guard just as the panting man arrived at a trailer and rapped at the door. “First Rev'rend Fischer,” he called out, “I think we got us a problem!”


  The door opened and Richard Fischer's portly shadow filled the entranceway. “What is it, Mr. Granger? We're busy.”

  ‘I'll represent myself, thank you, Mr. Granger,” Feldman asserted, and moved out into view.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Feldman?” Fischer frowned in surprise. “No media's allowed behind the fence!”

  “I need to talk with you, Reverend, it's important!”

  Fischer nodded to Granger, who stepped aside, but Fischer neither left his post at the door nor invited Feldman in. “Make it quick, Mr. Feldman, I've only got a few minutes.”

  “We want to video the appearance, Reverend Fischer. This is an event of international importance and it deserves a better representation than images taken fifty feet away through a chain-link fence!”

  “We've already made arrangements for complete, professional video, Mr. Feldman. We hired our own private production crew. This time, if you want a good look at our Messiah, you'll have to acquire it from me and not some amateur. Our costs will be reasonable, of course.”

  “If it's compensation we're talking about here, sir, be assured, we'll not only pay for the footage we shoot, we'll make complete copies available to you for your unlimited use. Besides, I didn't see any video crew outside. What if they don't show, or what if their work doesn't turn out? At the very least, wouldn't it be wise to have professional backup?”

  Fischer had perked up at the mention of compensation. “How much of a contribution are you suggesting, Mr. Feldman?”

  “I'd need to get authorization, but I think I could speak for maybe, uh, ten grand?” Feldman was fishing.

  “This is the Messiah we're talking about here, Mr. Feldman!” Fischer barked, insulted. “No less than three hundred grand! And I want exclusive rights on all footage after your first telecast. Take it or leave it.”

  Feldman scratched the back of his head and made a desperation decision. “I tell you what, I'll take your deal on the three hundred grand, but give us a break on the video rights. If we can't have full use of the tapes, they're worthless to us.”