The Branch
Page 18
“You know why!” snapped Jeremiah.
“Yes I do,” admitted Moore. “They seem to think that you’re the Messiah.”
“I am!”
Moore jabbed him gently with the point of the knife.
“Please don’t interrupt me. Now, it seems to me that if they didn’t think you were the Messiah, they wouldn’t be so all-fired anxious to do your bidding. Does that make sense to you, Jeremiah?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Simply this: if the people decided that you weren’t the Messiah, they’d stop listening to you. They wouldn’t want to kill me, they wouldn’t try to drive me out of business, they might even consider throwing down their weapons and going about their normal daily business. Do you agree?”
Jeremiah glared silently at him.
“Well, at least you don’t disagree. So while I appreciate the fact that you’re going to sign over half your treasury to me and order your people to leave me alone, the crux of the matter still comes down to this misconception the masses have about what you are.” He paused. “Now, who do you suppose can set the record straight? Certainly not me. If I tried to tell them you weren’t the Messiah, they’d probably shoot me down in cold blood before I got the first sentence out. Moira? No, I have a feeling that they wouldn’t believe her either.” He paused again.
“Who can we get to do it, Jeremiah? Who is the one person they might believe?”
“Never!” screamed Jeremiah. “I don’t give a damn what you do to me! Rip my eyes out of my head, it won’t make any difference!”
“Who said anything about your eyes?” asked Moore. “For one thing, you’ll need them to sign half of your money over to me. For another, we wouldn’t want you looking anything less than your best, since you’re going to be making a television address in a couple of hours.”
“That’s what you think!” snarled Jeremiah.
“Wrong,” said Moore, walking over to the fireplace and withdrawing the poker. “That’s what I know.”
The hideous screams that followed continued for almost forty minutes.
At last Moore, his face ashen, unlocked the door, walked out into the tunnel, and slammed it shut behind him. The security men backed away from him, and even Montoya seemed to regard him with a mixture of awe, disapproval, and terror.
“Give him about twenty minutes,” he told Pryor. “Then get him dressed and carry him upstairs to the house’s living room. How soon do the newsmen get here?”
“An hour or two.”
Moore nodded, walked to a makeshift bathroom, and vomited. He rinsed his face off and emerged a few minutes later.
“One of you men,” he said to the security team, “get a thin piece of wire about five feet long. Picture-hanging wire will do just fine. Then bring it to the living room.”
Pryor came out of the room, looking sick.
“My God, Solomon—what did you do to him?” he said shakily.
“Nothing he won’t recover from.”
“It’s awful!”
“Sometimes people have to do awful things.”
“But his body—it’s all …”
“It won’t be for long,” said Moore grimly. “When he gets upstairs, sit him in a stiff-backed chair so that he doesn’t slump, and use the wire you’ll find there to tie his legs to the chair so he can’t make a run for it.”
“Run?” repeated Pryor. “I don’t even know what’s keeping him alive.”
“Just do it, Ben.”
Pryor nodded numbly and went off to attend to Jeremiah. Moore rinsed his face again, waited a few more minutes to regain his color, then climbed up the basement stairs and walked into the living room, where Jeremiah sat motionless on a ladder back chair. The young man’s face was still unmarked, and a loose robe covered all traces of his recent ordeal.
Moore walked up to Jeremiah and placed a hand under his chin. “Can you hear me?”
Jeremiah nodded.
“Good,” said Moore. “Now, in a few minutes the press will be here. Do you remember what you’re going to tell them?”
“Yes,” whispered Jeremiah.
“Have you tried to walk?”
Jeremiah shook his head.
“Take my word for it: you can’t. I’m sure the thought has also crossed your mind to say something other than what we agreed upon. Let me assure you that if you do the story will never leave this building, and what I do to you afterward will make the last couple of hours seem like a Sunday-school picnic.”
Jeremiah nodded.
“Ben, have someone get him a little water to drink.”
Within a few minutes the color began returning to Jeremiah’s face, and ten minutes after that Moore was convinced that he was coherent enough to make the brief statement.
The press finally arrived, late as usual, and Moore waited upstairs while Pryor led them into the living room. There were two cameramen, who immediately went to work setting up their lights, and a reporter who kept dabbing powder onto his face.
“No questions tonight, please,” said Pryor. “Jeremiah has a brief announcement to make.”
The reporter looked disappointed, but stood back while the cameras were trained on Jeremiah. Finally one of the cameramen nodded his head.
“My name is Jeremiah the B,” said the young man, “and I want the world to know that I am making this statement freely and under no coercion from any quarter.” He stared directly into the nearer of the two cameras. “I am a fraud. I am not the Messiah. I was never the Messiah. I never believed I was the Messiah. I can no longer live with my conscience. I can no longer look at the worshipful faces of my followers without feeling guilt and remorse beyond measure. I apologize for what I have done. Such monies as I have accumulated will be distributed to those I have robbed and misled. Believe me, I meant no harm—but also believe me when I tell you that I am not the Messiah.”
He fell silent, and pandemonium broke loose.
“My God, what a story!” exclaimed one of the cameramen.
“Who’s forcing you to make this statement?” demanded the reporter.
“No one,” said Jeremiah.
“Why did you come to Cincinnati to make it?” persisted the reporter.
No answer.
“How are you dividing the money?”
Before Jeremiah could respond, Pryor had the security guards clear the room over the outraged protestations of the reporter, and then signaled Moore to come downstairs.
“Very good, Jeremiah,” said Moore. “I’m quite proud of you.”
Jeremiah, groggy from the effort of addressing the cameras, merely glared at him.
“We’re going to keep you under lock and key for about a week,” continued Moore. “Long enough for every television station, every radio station, and every newspaper to run that story over and over. After that you’re a free man.”
He walked out the front door, followed by Pryor. “I’m going back to Chicago. Keep him on ice until the story gets out.”
“And then?” asked Pryor. “Do you really intend to let him go?”
“Why not? Who believes discredited Messiahs?” Moore smiled. “Someday I’ll have Abe’s rabbi tell you the story of Sabbatai Zevi.”
“You’re the boss,” said Pryor, a troubled expression on his face.
“Relax, Ben,” said Moore confidently. “It’s all over now.”
But, of course, it wasn’t.
Chapter 19
From WHTB (Hartford): “So you now recant your recantation and claim that you are the Messiah? Is that correct?” The interviewer had a condescending smile on his face.
“That’s correct,” said Jeremiah, looking soulfully into the camera. “I was tortured into making a false denial.”
“You’re telling me that God allowed His Messiah to be tortured?” scoffed the interviewer.
“If you’re a Christian, you believe that God allowed His Messiah to be crucified,” said Jeremiah with a smile.
“But really …”
And, instantly, the rain came.
Jeremiah looked wildly at the camera. “How do you like them apples, Moore?” he bellowed.
From KPTO-TV (Denver): “This is Jeremiah the B. You know who I am and what I am. Senator Caldwall Burke would deny me. He runs for re-election the day after tomorrow. He has publicly stated that I am not the one true Messiah. Can you guess what I want you to do?”
Burke lost by half a million votes.
From BBC-3 (London): “And you’ve been blind from birth?” asked Jeremiah, standing at center stage of the New Palladium.
“Yes, Lord,” said the old woman.
“And you will pledge your everlasting fealty to me and turn all your worldly goods over to me for the gift of sight?”
“Yes, Lord.”
He laid his hands on her eyes. “Then so be it.”
He removed his hands and the woman slowly, fearfully, opened her eyes. She blinked a few times, and then a torrent of tears burst forth.
“My God, I can see!”
“Take that and stick it in your ear, Moore!” shrieked Jeremiah, his face flushed with triumph.
From WQRQ-TV (New York): “Who am I?” he cried to the wildly cheering throng of people who had gathered in Times Square.
“JEREMIAH!”
“And what am I?”
“THE MESSIAH!”
“The day is fast approaching when the Messiah must lay claim to his throne. Will you help me?”
The answer was so loud that it blew every circuit in WQRQ’s sound system.
From WLKJ-TV (Miami): Jeremiah looked up from the burn victim, whose skin was already starting to heal.
“Who am I, Moore?” he gloated, grinning into the camera.
From UBS Radio (Network): “Do you hear me, Moore?” he screamed into the microphone. “Calling a sheep’s tail a leg doesn’t make it one, and torturing the Messiah into renouncing doesn’t make him any less a messiah! I am the Expected One, and nothing else counts! Blow it out your ass, Moore!”
From KFD-TV (Seattle): “I don’t need your support, but I do want it! The Messiah is a law unto himself, but those who support me will be remembered and rewarded—and those who oppose me will be remembered even better! Start saying your prayers, Moore—I’ll be listening!”
Chapter 20
Take a look,” said Moore, tossing the handwritten letter onto Pryor’s desk.
* * *
Dear Solomon: I am not ungrateful for all the years I have worked for you, but it seems to me that the handwriting is on the wall. I am a Jew, and I can no longer oppose the man who seems to be the living culmination of my religious beliefs.
I have been in constant contact with Moira Rallings for the past week, and have been granted an amnesty of sorts in exchange for my pledge of allegiance to their cause. This I have freely given.
I shall divulge none of your plans to which I am privy, nor will I give them any details of your past actions in reference to Jeremiah.
I wish you well, but urge you to call off your vendetta before it is too late. I know you are a resourceful man, but face facts, Solomon—he is the Messiah! Abraham Bernstein
* * *
“Not exactly a surprise,” commented Pryor, putting the letter down.
“I suppose not,” admitted Moore. “But damn it, Ben, I hate to lose another of our insiders to Jeremiah!”
“I know. How long do you think he’ll keep his word about playing dumb?”
“Twenty minutes, tops,” said Moore. “It doesn’t matter. He can’t do us any harm. Get Piper Black on the phone for me.”
Moore returned to his office, pacing the floor restlessly until the light atop his telephone flashed.
“Hello, Piper,” he said.
“Solomon.”
“How are things coming along at your end?”
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?”
“I’m quite serious,” responded Moore. “We’ve got a PR campaign to begin.”
“Come off it, Solomon,” said Black. “You had that son of a bitch in your hands and you turned him loose. Not only that, but he’s saying that you tortured him until he signed over half his money to you.”
“It’ll never stand up in court,” said Moore. “I just did it to tie up his funds while we’re fighting him.”
“Sure you did, Solomon,” said Black. “Listen to me, you bastard! We had an agreement, and you broke it by trying to cut me out. Fight him yourself!”
“All right, Piper,” said Moore. “I tried to cut you out. So what?”
“What do you mean, so what?”
“What’s changed?” asked Moore. “Is your business any better? Is Jeremiah any less of a threat? We’ve still got to work together, unless you expect him to just up and vanish.”
“Oh, we can still work together, Solomon,” said Black. “But this time I make the bargain.”
“Name your terms,” said Moore.
“Forty for me, twenty for you, and forty for the rest of them.”
“Done.”
“What did you say?”
“I agree.”
“Too fast, Solomon. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” answered Moore. “Maybe I just want to break him more than I want to break you.”
There was a long pause.
“Okay. I can accept that,” said Black at last. “But you tell that little bloodsucker Pryor what we agreed to. I’ll have my brother get in touch with him tomorrow and take care of the details. It’s all going to be recorded and put under lock and key—and God help you if you try to pull anything fancy.”
“God isn’t exactly who I’m worried about,” said Moore, breaking the connection.
Chapter 21
Moore sat in a leather wingback chair in his apartment atop the New Atlantis. He stared at the fish in the viewscreen for a long moment, marveling at how they seemed to preen for the camera, then turned back to his associates. Naomi Wizner had been here before, but it was his first meeting with General Josef Yitzak of the Israeli Army.
“So he’s definitely on the move,” said Moore at last.
“There’s no question about it,” replied Naomi Wizner. “He’s got about a quarter of a million volunteers in Egypt and Lebanon, and probably five times that many just across the Mediterranean.”
“They’re not very well organized,” added Yitzak. He paused thoughtfully. “Of course, there is no reason for us to have supposed that they would be. Nothing we’ve been able to learn about Jeremiah indicates that he possesses any knowledge of the techniques of modern warfare.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” said Moore. “What’s harder to fight, General—five trained soldiers who want to live to fight another day, or one untrained fanatic who wants to die for his cause?”
Yitzak nodded. “This has been our most serious problem—the knowledge that they’re going to be vying with one another for the privilege of throwing themselves in our line of fire.”
“What kind of firepower has he got?”
“Strictly conventional,” replied Yitzak. “But we’re not here to discuss military strategy with you. The Israeli Army is quite capable of taking care of itself.”
“If the Israeli Army was capable of taking care of itself, you wouldn’t be here,” Moore pointed out. “Now, what can I do to help you?”
“I must know more about him,” answered Yitzak, electing to ignore Moore’s comment. “You know him better than anyone else who opposes him. You may have some knowledge of how his mind works that could prove useful to us. Who knows—you may even be able to suggest a weakness.”
Moore laughed. “He was my prisoner six weeks ago. Does it appear to you that I’ve discovered any weaknesses in the man?”
“Why did you let him go?” asked Naomi.
“Why not? Since I couldn’t kill him, I tho
ught that I could at least discredit him. As it turned out,” he concluded dourly, “I was mistaken.”
“Then you can suggest nothing?” said Yitzak.
“Not at the moment,” admitted Moore. “I keep coming back to the notion that if you can’t stop him—and it looks like you can’t—then you ought to concentrate on unconverting his followers.”
“How do you unconvert an army of religious fanatics that is massing on your border?” asked Yitzak ironically.
Moore shrugged. “I wish I knew.”
“Can you give us any other information that might help us prepare for Jeremiah’s attack?” asked Naomi.
“Not a thing,” said Moore. “You probably know more about the disposition of his army than he does.”
“This is no time for levity,” said Yitzak sternly.
“I’ll let you know when I’m joking,” replied Moore. “Jeremiah has no interest in learning how to deploy his forces, nor will he especially give a damn if ten million of his followers must die to get him what he wants.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Moore. “But if Jeremiah thought and acted like a normal man, he wouldn’t be knocking at the door to your city. By the way, exactly where is he now?”
“We aren’t sure,” admitted Yitzak. “We know he’s not in Egypt or Lebanon, but we haven’t been able to pinpoint him yet.”
“You probably won’t, until he decides to attack,” replied Moore. “He can stay hidden better than any man I’ve ever known.”
“Then in your opinion he’s just going to magically appear at the proper psychological moment to lead his troops to victory?”
Moore shook his head. “You still don’t understand him. My own guess is that he won’t appear until after Jerusalem has fallen. Why should he be a target if he doesn’t have to be?”
“Your advice, then, would be to make Jerusalem all but impregnable?” persisted Yitzak.