An Accidental Messiah

by Dan Sofer

  “Much better!” Mandrake laughed again. His henchmen chuckled as well, while Vitaly attached the handle of the strainer to the belt of Moshe’s jeans with a large safety pin. They had planned the routine ahead of time and were enjoying every moment. This was a joke. A prank. After they’d had their fun, they’d unstrap him and let him go. They would all go free.

  Mandrake flipped the knife in the air and caught it by its sharp, silver tip. Vitaly scampered out of the way. White spotlight danced off the blade.

  “Are you ready, Moshe? To be honest, I’m a bit nervous myself. I’m not used to performing in front of a crowd.”

  Sweat trickled into Moshe’s eyes. He tried to weave a plan in his mind, but his thoughts scattered.

  Mandrake raised the knife in the air, and Moshe’s muscles tensed, the straps biting into his wrists.

  Mandrake lowered the blade. “You’re right,” he said, his face contorted with sudden doubt. “This is scary. Too scary. Vitaly, please. A blindfold.”

  The henchman reappeared at Moshe’s side and tied a red bandana over his eyes. The world went dark.

  “That’s better,” Mandrake’s voice said.

  Vitaly’s feet shuffled away. Moshe moved his head, trying to find an angle that allowed him to peek through. The sound of his own breath—quick and shallow— filled his ears, along with the pounding of his heart. He was afraid to move, afraid to speak.

  “Ready?” Mandrake called, his voice loud and distorted through the balloons at Moshe’s ears.

  Ready for what—to die?

  His muscles squirmed. No. He won’t do it.

  “Three!” Mandrake counted out loud.

  He can’t. Galit squealed and the feet of a chair scraped the floor.

  “Two!”

  He’s just trying to scare me. More shifting noises and grunts of protest. Even Avi’s growl had joined the commotion.

  “One!”

  Moshe froze. He didn’t dare breathe.

  Crack! Thunder exploded an inch from his left ear, the deafening sound of metal slicing through a balloon and plunging into wood.

  CHAPTER 80

  From the sidewalk opposite Clal Center, Ahmed scanned the windows of the third floor. Some of the faces he recognized from his stay at the Dry Bones Society. Most he did not. And none wore a green hijab.

  People had stared as he walked past the Old City. At Jaffa Gate, a young woman in a green Border Police uniform had looked him over, her machine gun slung at her waist. Could she sense the explosives beneath his light jacket? Would she tell him to stop for inspection? He walked on without incident.

  It was his hair. The mane of peroxide blond had made them stare. “Another weirdo kid,” they must have thought. Hasan knew his job well.

  Ahmed walked on and on until he reached the light rail shelter opposite Clal Center. Television vans pulled up at the corner and camera crews entered the building.

  Election Day. A day of rejoicing for the Society. Their leaders were expected to enter the new government. Would Samira join the celebrations? Had she forgotten him already? Surely she despised him. How could she do otherwise?

  And yet, here he stood, a lone outsider once again, hoping to steal a glimpse of the girl with the warm smile. Had he expected her to sit at the window, waiting for his return? To rush across the street in order to speak with him one last time?

  He had tasted Heaven in this new life for one brief moment, and he deserved not even that. She was right to hate him. His evil actions had stained his soul forever. There was no redemption for him, only death.

  Ahmed was running his thumb over the detonation button, when an old man bumped against him and almost set off the explosives.

  “Pardon me,” the old man said.

  A group of commuters grew around him at the shelter. Sons of pigs and monkeys. Killers of prophets.

  No. Hasan was wrong. Rabbi Yosef had taken Samira in, and Moshe Karlin had bought her freedom. Did they deserve to die?

  With one flick of his finger, the fires would ignite. The screws and ball bearings would shred his flesh and shatter his bones, and the projectiles would mow down all those around him.

  He shuddered at the memory of his first death. The shifting of the bus underfoot. The pain, momentary but excruciating. Then he had woken up an instant later, naked and alone on the Mount of Olives. Would Boris be waiting for him a second time?

  No. This time, he would not come back, he was sure of it. He would not enter Paradise either. The promises of Heaven and eternal pleasure were fictions created by cruel men to get fools like him to do their bidding.

  This time he would end his life but not for the promise of pleasure or to erase his shame. He glanced at the third-floor window of Clal Center one last time. For you, Samira. This time he would die to set her free of him forever.

  CHAPTER 81

  She hadn’t eaten all day, so she stopped at a shawarma store and bit into a pita stuffed with slivers of steaming turkey. Galgalatz Radio played on speakers in the corners of the pokey fast-food joint, and the news broadcast summed up the exit polls. For a change, Noga followed the election results with interest. Restart had received no mandates. Strange. Their promise to sweep clean the political establishment was supposed to have won a lot of popular support. Were Moshe Karlin and Rabbi Lev the wrong partners for her after all?

  The meal revived her spirits. No wonder the rabbi had dismissed her as a lunatic. She had rushed over to Restart without any hard evidence in hand. In his shoes, she would have done the same. The evidence lay on her laptop in Eli’s apartment, and she was not going back there.

  Although he hadn’t quite lied to her, Eli had hidden the truth. Worse yet, he had let her walk out the door. He hadn’t run after her to bring her back. She was a pudgy teenager again, the plain girl none of the boys had given a second glance.

  He didn’t want her? Fine. She didn’t need him either. Let him keep her laptop and her phone. She’d replace them, just as she’d replace him. Let him rot in his penthouse with his money. She’d push on without him. The world needed to know, and she would tell all.

  She poured tehina from a ketchup bottle onto her half-eaten shawarma. No matter which political influencer she turned to in the end, she would need her data. If she hurried, she might take care of that today.

  She bunched up the shawarma wrapper, emptied her can of Diet Coke, and prepared to move on, when the news reader interrupted with another election update. The real vote counts were rolling in, and this time, Restart emerged with an early lead.

  Noga laughed. The obituaries in the media had arrived prematurely; the party of resurrected Israelis refused to stay dead.

  She tossed the empty wrapper into the trash bin and hit the street. Boarding the Red Line at City Hall, she found a seat at the back of the train.

  Her hand found Sarit’s flash drive among the change in her pocket, the remains of the money her friend had lent her. She’d obtain another copy of her research data from the hospital, transfer it to the USB, install her software on Sarit’s laptop, write up her paper, and publish the discovery with Hannah.

  The train slowed at the Davidka station outside Clal Center. Soon, Rabbi Lev, you’ll believe me. You’ll have no choice.

  A fresh group of passengers made their way down the carriage and found their seats. The punk with the blond Mohawk caught her eye. Haven’t seen one of those in years.

  The strip of peroxide blond clashed with the olive scalp of his shaved head. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he moved down the aisle, his arms folded over his chest in his thin black jacket, his eyes roving, self-conscious.

  She averted her eyes. Poor kid, she thought.

  CHAPTER 82

  Moshe felt the vibrations through the wooden tabletop as the knife shuddered in the target.

  I’m OK! He hit the balloon!

  In his dark, sightless world, relief turned to horror. Oh my God—he threw it! He actually threw the knife!

  Mandrake laughed. “Ha-ha!
That was close, Moshe. My hand is shaking. I wish you could see it. One down, four more to go.”

  Four more?! His body convulsed.

  “No,” he cried. Think, Moshe, think! What will make this madman stop? “Please let us go.”

  “We’re just getting started, Moshe. Which one should I do next? Never mind—it’ll be a surprise. Three!”

  Galit and Avi bleated, trying to cry out despite the rags in their mouths.

  “Two!”

  Oh God, save me, please!

  “One!”

  Crack-thrung-ung-ung! The balloon at his right ear burst, the knife vibrating from the force of the impact.

  “Two in a row! We’re on a roll, Moshe. Whoo-hoo!”

  Nnn-gggrhh-mmm!

  Galit’s groans turned to sobs. This was too much. He had to make it stop. Did their torturer want to feel power over his victims? Moshe would give him what he wanted.

  “Please, Mandrake, sir! Let them go. You can have me, but please, just let them go.”

  “What a man,” Mandrake said, with awe. “Even in his final moments, he’s thinking of others. Which reminds me, Moshe. Seeing that this might be our last opportunity to chat,” he chuckled, “in this lifetime, I want to pick your brain. Tell me, one magician to another, how did you do it?”

  He’d just thrown two knives at Moshe and now he wanted to chat? “Do what?”

  “You know, that trick where you die and come back to life?”

  Was he serious? “That’s not a trick,” he mumbled, knowing that his captor would not like his answer. “It just happens.”

  “I’m disappointed, Moshe. I thought we were friends. You’ll have to learn to trust me. Luckily, I can help with that. Three!”

  “No, please.”

  “Two!”

  A familiar sharp pain seared inside his chest.

  “One!”

  Cr-rack! Thrung-g-g-g!

  The knife buried into the wood between his legs, catching the edge of his trousers.

  “Three in a row! I never get three in a row. Moshe, you’re my lucky charm.”

  Moshe’s stomach churned. His fingers felt cold, the blindfold wet with perspiration. The pain in his chest subsided, and he gulped air. How much more could he take?

  “I know, I know. This doesn’t seem fair, but think of Boris. You know Boris. Poor old Boris. He had a thriving business until you decided to play the hero.”

  Helping the new arrivals had involved a risk, Moshe had known that from the start, but he couldn’t stand idly by as Boris roped thousands of unsuspecting men and women into slavery. Had he really thought that he could get away with it?

  “Tell you what,” Mandrake’s voice said. “I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you one more chance.”

  “Oh, thank you. Yes. Please. I’ll do anything you want.”

  Galit no longer whimpered. Had she passed out?

  “Here it is. You can either die here in front of your lovely wife, or you can let us kill your old traitorous friend here, Avi Segal. A life for a life. What do you say?”

  Moshe said nothing. He had been willing to do anything—to shut down Restart and the Dry Bones Society, to stay out of public life. To hand over his worldly possessions. But this—this was murder. To fight in self-defense was one thing, but to kill someone else to save his own skin?

  “A quick death, I promise. Over in a second. You won’t have to pull the trigger. Then you and Galit go home to sweet Talya.”

  Mandrake seemed intent on turning Moshe into a killer. Was that some evil rite of passage or just another deception? Would he carry out the order? Nothing was certain with this man.

  Moshe hung his head.

  “OK,” Mandrake said. “It’s your funeral. No hard feelings. I wanted to break my record anyway. Four in a row would be awesome. Just thinking of it makes my hands shake. Here goes.”

  Moshe braced his body for impact, sucking in air with feverish gulps like a woman in labor, his limbs shaking.

  “Three!”

  Moshe’s head swam in the blackness. His mother glanced down at him and patted his hair. His father handed him a heavy silver watch. This is yours now. He rested his hands on young Moshe’s shoulders as they smiled at the cameras outside the brand new offices of Karlin & Son. A Karlin never quits…

  “Two!”

  Galit met his eyes across the dance floor of Hangar 17. “You’re late,” he said to her. She smiled. “I got here as fast as I could.” Then her face crumpled with effort and she squeezed his hand. She lay on the hospital bed in the Shaare Zedek labor ward, perspiring with the effort, and he felt a rush of joy as Talya burst into the world.

  “One!”

  CHAPTER 83

  Daylight faded over the Talpiot industrial zone as the black Mercedes cruised down Pierre Koenig. Alex had not had time to clean out the rental car before Irina had settled onto the passenger seat. Any moment now, she might blow his cover.

  A loaded Glock lay in the glove compartment above her legs, and the trunk contained reams of plastic sheeting, a bundle of rope, and a pack of cable ties. He’d have trouble explaining away the equipment, which he had packed in case the abduction of Moshe and his wife veered from the script.

  Irina dialed a number on her phone and thumbed on the speaker. “Any luck?”

  “No,” Rafi’s voice said. “Nothing yet. I’ll let you know as soon as we do.” CB radio static roared on the other side of the line. Across the city, friends of the Yemenite driver, in cabs and shuttles, scanned the streets of Jerusalem for a brown GMC.

  Alex had given an accurate description of the vehicle used by Mandrake’s extraction team. Eyewitness accounts would surface later anyway.

  Irina pointed to a side road of old, derelict buildings. “Let’s look over there,” she said.

  He turned the wheel.

  “That’s it,” she said. “Stop here.”

  They idled outside a nondescript warehouse of corrugated fiberglass.

  “You know this place?”

  “I wish I didn’t. We lived here for a few days—Moshe, Samira, and I—after we left the rabbi’s home. Our first job, or so we thought. We had a roof, two square meals, and a contract that made us their slaves. The place is a trap for refugees and illegals, anyone without the right papers. That’s where we met Shmuel. Moshe got us out.”

  Alex grunted in sympathy and stared at the decrepit warehouse, yet another tentacle in Mandrake’s ever-growing empire. He knew what Irina was thinking: Moshe had crossed the slave drivers before, so maybe they had returned to collect their dues. She was right, of course, but she had no idea just how long and grasping those tentacles had grown. Neither did Alex.

  “No brown vans here,” he said.

  “Let’s try the streets nearby.”

  They did. There was no harm in humoring her. Mandrake was holding Moshe and Galit far away, but Alex couldn’t take her there. Not until Mandrake was done with them, and by then it would be too late.

  Irina slapped the armrest in frustration.

  It pained Alex to see her suffer. She cared for Moshe, her friend and guide in difficult times, and Alex was grateful for that.

  Had Irina and Moshe been more than friends? Unlikely. Moshe was too clean and by-the-book. Again, he felt that stab of jealousy. One thing was sure: he did not envy Moshe Karlin now. Alex had advised restraint, but there was no guessing how far Mandrake would go. He had learned that lesson early on and a world away, in Korosten.

  The linoleum floor and whitewashed walls of the People’s Primary had reminded the young Alex of the hospital where his father had died. On his first night after lights out, the other boys had wasted little time in welcoming the newcomer.

  “That’s a nice suitcase,” said the leader of the pack, a stocky blond kid with crooked teeth. The night light, a naked bulb above the door, cast a ghostly glow over the long row of cot beds in the dormitory.

  Alex hugged the case to his chest. “My father gave it to me.”

  The boy
smirked and cast a glance at the thugs behind him. “And now you’re going to give it to me, Jew-boy.”

  Alex had closed his eyes and tensed for the worst. He didn’t remember the boy’s name, but he’d never forget the expression of disbelief on his face when, three seconds later, his tormentor was sprawled on the shiny floor, touching a trembling finger to his tender, bloody lip.

  A stranger stood over the pack, the cruel boys crumpled at his feet in varying states of pain. “That’s no way to welcome our new friend,” the stranger said, his bare hands pressed together in a polite gesture that was at once adult and ominous. The wolves scattered.

  The savior remained at the side of his bed and grinned.

  “How did you do that?”

  The boy put a finger to his lips and winked. “It’s a kind of magic.”

  Alex stayed close to him from that day on. They shared their meals and exercised together in the training yard. His name was Gennady but behind his back the other boys called him The Jew. Strangely, he seemed to like his nickname. Nobody messed with The Jew. Only later did Alex learn about knuckle busters and the virtues of lead piping hidden up a sleeve.

  A year later, as Chernobyl burned and the authorities evacuated Korosten, the two Jewish boys set out on their own, leaving behind the world of cold institutions and hateful rules. They were thirteen years old.

  As Gennady honed his repertoire of street magic, the two friends found early successes and had a few close brushes with the law. When the Soviet Union collapsed, opportunities for energetic men with the right skillset sprouted from the ruins. The local criminal networks, however, guarded their turf with iron fists and limited their expansion.

  The Middle East beckoned, drawing them with the sweet scent of lawlessness, and the free one-way tickets offered by the Jewish State, an oriental fruit, ripe for the picking. They learned the new turf and language, and quietly set the stage for a new, improved show. In Israel, no one called them Jew-boys.

  Irina’s phone rang.

  “Any luck?” Rabbi Yosef asked on the speaker. The hubbub of voices in the background made his voice hard to hear.