by Dan Sofer
“Mother!”
But Dara had taken her place. “Ahmed, is it?” he said. He was still wearing his filthy street clothes. “So, you hid your real name and the fact that you’re a Shaheed. A resurrected Shaheed! Sorry, I didn’t know. Otherwise, I would have bowed and kissed your hand.”
“Knock it off.” His mother’s words had broken the spell. “This whole situation stinks.” He glanced around for Hasan.
“What do you mean? You’re a hero. You’re the man!”
Ahmed spotted his cousin, who wore a fancy suit and handed one of the organizers an envelope.
Ahmed stormed over to him. “What’s going on?”
Hasan smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Great job, cuz!”
“Cut the crap! I’m the One—what does that mean?”
Hasan herded Ahmed aside, the smile still painted on his face. “Calm down. This is a good thing for you, and it comes from the very top.”
“Imam Basel?”
“Higher. From the Shepherd himself.”
“The Great Imam?”
Hasan nodded. The spiritual leader of the Palestinians had gone into hiding years ago. The Great Imam had said that he, Ahmed, was the One!
“What does that mean?”
“You, my cousin, are the long-awaited Mahdi.”
“Who?”
Hasan lowered his voice. “You know, the Guided One.”
Ahmed still understood nothing.
“The Redeemer who appears at the Resurrection and destroys evil. Got it?”
What had Hasan been smoking? “You’re crazy. I’m not a redeemer.”
“Don’t look at me. This comes from Above.”
Ahmed wasn’t buying it. He wasn’t special, and Hasan had lied to him before. “Give me my money, and I’ll be on my way.”
Hasan gave him a charming smile. “You’ll get your money. There’ll be so much, you won’t be able to carry it all. You’ll wipe your ass with hundred-shekel notes. But what’s your hurry?” He slung his arm around Ahmed’s shoulder. “Stick around. Trust me, you do not want to miss the after-party.”
Chapter 30
Late that afternoon, the tycoon exited her private gym on the twentieth floor. Radiating heat and soaked to the bone, she marched toward the elevator. She’d told Itai, her personal assistant, to have her helicopter ready in an hour, and so she did not have time for the balding man in the tacky suit who waddled toward her.
“Shirley, my darling!” Isaac Gurion crooned, his smile wide enough to swallow her whole.
She glared at Itai, who threw up his hands in a mime of defeat, and mouthed the words, “He wouldn’t leave.”
Gurion leaned in for a kiss.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, without breaking her stride, “I’m sweaty.” Thank goodness for small mercies.
Gurion jogged beside her to keep up. “Now I know that you’re very busy,” he said, and he made her laugh. Busy, indeed; the slimy politician had no idea.
That morning she’d met with her lawyers to sign the contract for an apartment complex on prime Tel Aviv property. The luxury tower project—her third that year—had posed zoning challenges, and she’d deployed an extra set of incentives and kickbacks to get the mayor on board.
In the afternoon, a museum opening had moved her to tears, dedicated as it was to the memory of a dear friend. That left an hour for TRX with her personal trainer before the gala dinner that evening. She wasn’t sure why the Whatever Organization was honoring her with the Whatever Prize, but awards always meant that said organization required more donations.
“But,” Gurion continued, “this matter is both urgent and of great interest to you.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s what I love about you,” the politician gushed. “Always to the point.”
“You were saying?” The elevator doors were only a few meters away. Gurion had her ear for ten seconds, tops.
“A new joint venture,” he said.
The little man sure had a nerve! “As I recall, our last joint venture flushed a truckload of money down the toilet.”
“Karlin stole that election!” he cried, red in the face.
She pressed the button for the elevator and chuckled. “Tut-tut, Isaac. It’s not like you to lose your cool. He beat you fair and square.”
A spiteful fire burned in the silly man’s eyes. “And now he’s set his sights on you!”
Her smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
“He wants to open the markets and increase competition. Level the playing field.”
Level the playing field. Demagogues had been threatening to make life difficult for decades. Once in power, they always came around to her way of thinking. But Moshe Karlin was not your garden-variety politician, and he didn’t come from money either. He’d be a problem.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere.”
She swore under her breath. Even fat little silly men had their purpose in the grand scheme of things. “How much do you need?”
Gurion smiled, and the image of a penguin in an oil slick rose in her mind. “I knew you’d understand.”
Chapter 31
Ahmed could not believe his eyes. Platters of fish and meat covered the tables in the garden of the mansion, along with a dizzying variety of cold drinks, cakes, and fruit. Steam rose from the swimming pool and into the crisp night air. On the deck and lawns, young, beautiful people smiled and danced, their bodies swaying to the enchanting beat of the sensual music. Had he finally entered Paradise?
A luxury car had carried Ahmed to the mansion in Bethlehem, and for the first five seconds, he had stood at the edge of the garden and gaped. The revelers did not appear to be martyrs or saints. Especially not the girls. Clad in frilly underwear that barely contained their curves and high-heeled sandals that drew his eye to the shapely contours of their bare legs, they gyrated to the rhythm, raising their arms and kicking back their heads. There were so many of them!
A hand draped his shoulder and snapped him out of his trance. “Welcome to Paradise, cuz!” Hasan said. He had taken off his suit jacket and swirls of chest hair peeked through his unbuttoned shirt. “How do you like your new home?”
“I can stay here?”
“For as long as you want. Look at those girls.” He leaned in to whisper in Ahmed’s ear. “A little secret—they’re not virgins.” He laughed as Ahmed’s cheeks burned. “Trust me, cuz, it’s better that way. Here, have a few of these.” He held out a bowl of yellow M&Ms, and Ahmed scooped a handful. “Easy! Just one or two. Knock ’em back.”
“What are they?”
“They’ll help you relax, enjoy yourself.”
“Drugs?” Hot anger rose within him again. He knew this was too good to be true! This was a trap.
“Chill out, Ahmed.” Then he raised his voice. “Hey, everyone! The Mahdi is in the house!”
The revelers turned to them and cheered. Some raised beer bottles and wine glasses in the air. “Drugs,” Ahmed hissed, “and alcohol?!” Islam outlawed all intoxicants.
“You worry too much, cuz.”
“Hey!” Dara came up behind them, smelling good and dressed well. Hasan had sent him upstairs for a shower and change of clothes. “What did I miss?”
Hasan ignored him and waved to a tall young woman, who smiled and sashayed over to them. “This is Fatima,” he said to Ahmed. “She’ll take care of you.”
Fatima bowed her head. “It is an honor to meet you, Mahdi.” Her voice was soft and sensual.
Ahmed was about to say that he was not the Mahdi, but she drank him in with those deep, dark eyes and his tongue forgot how to form words. Instead, he swallowed the pills in his hand.
“Be gentle,” Hasan said, a smile in his voice. “It’s his first time.”
“Then we’ll make it memorable.”
We? Ahmed’s legs turned to jelly. He used all his willpower to stop his eyes from stealing a glance at the rest of
her.
“Go on,” she whispered. “Don’t be shy. Feast your eyes. But we won’t stop there.”
Ahmed obeyed and glanced down the length of her. The porous clothing left little to the imagination. His breath came fast and shallow. The small part of his brain that could still think made an observation. She had said it again, hadn’t she? We.
Fatima glanced to the side with a smile, and two more divine beauties strode up beside her. Taking his hand in hers, she led him into the house.
“Hey, what about me?” Dara called, but nobody was listening.
Fatima led them up a set of stairs. The other two girls fell in beside him and rested their hands on his waist.
Ahmed’s heart thumped in his ears. The music swirled around his head and grew softer as they reached the upper level. He floated on air.
Soft red light filled a bedroom. The girls pushed him back onto a bed of soft linen.
Fatima smiled down at him, while the two girls climbed onto the bed.
“I’ve never served a Mahdi before,” said one. Her voice was flowing honey. Her fingers caressed his chest, sending goose bumps over his flesh.
“We’re so lucky,” said the other. Her hands loosened the buttons of his shirt.
Ahmed was the Mahdi. Everyone was saying it. And why not? He had died a Shaheed and awoken from death. I am the Mahdi.
Their fingers traced a path from his torso to his trousers.
He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye, a different girl stood over him. Her smile was warm and welcoming.
Samira.
The demure girl at the Dry Bones Society had snuck back into his thoughts, the way she had stolen into his heart. She must hate him now, knowing what he had done. The moment she had discovered his crime, heartbreak had glazed over her kind eyes, and Ahmed had fled from her sight.
But the girls on the bed didn’t hate him. They adored him. In their eyes, he wasn’t a murderer, but a redeemer.
I am the Mahdi. One day, Samira would see that too.
Ahmed’s clothes melted away. The mattress shifted and fabric ruffled as the girls undressed.
Their soft hands were on him again, exploring and soothing. He pretended they were Samira’s hands.
Yes. Samira would understand now. She’d give him a second chance.
Chapter 32
“Is this a joke?”
The middle-aged woman pulled her shopping cart up Jaffa Road on Monday morning, no doubt on her way to the Machaneh Yehuda open-air market. She had paused when Eli had walked up to her, flashed his charming smile, and handed her a flyer.
How times had changed. Eli had spent centuries avoiding direct human contact, interacting only enough to keep his ear to the ground for changes in culture and language. Relationships would only blow his cover and compromise his Divine mission. Today, however, he mingled with the common people.
“Not at all,” he said. “This is based on a scientific genetic study.”
“Oh.”
She glanced again at the flyer’s title, “Have We Found the Ten Lost Tribes?” After hooking the reader’s attention, the flyer pushed the reader down a slippery slide. “New scientific research has discovered the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel in the most unexpected of places.”
Eli said, “Be sure to visit our website, and see for yourself.” He pointed to the URL in large letters at the bottom of the flyer: TheTenLostTribes.org.
Her eyes brightened. “I’ll ask my grandson to find that for me. He’s a wizard on the computer. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.”
He moved on to the next passerby.
Web design. Copywriting. Internet marketing. By creating the OpenGen website, Eli had inadvertently acquired the exact skillset he would need for his grassroots campaign to spread the word of the Ten Lost Tribes. Perhaps he had lost the Thin Voice because he no longer needed it? The Boss sure worked in mysterious ways.
Noga approached at a brisk walk.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Great. I need more flyers.”
Eli reached into his shoulder pack for a fresh pile of color leaflets.
“The website really adds a lot,” she said.
“Authority building,” he said. “Just like the photos.” They had selected stock images of white-coated scientists and the familiar double-helix of DNA. The website created the impression that established research institutes backed the study.
“How are the ads doing?”
Eli consulted the Facebook Ads app on his iPhone. “Picking up. So far we’re popular with millennial men and middle-aged women.”
Noga laughed. “I can’t believe this is actually working.”
“Neither will Hannah,” he said, and Noga laughed again. The idea of distributing leaflets to the masses had appalled her doctoral supervisor.
It was so good to see Noga happy again. He said, “The world has never been smaller. Soon everyone will know.”
“And then the media will come calling?”
“If we can’t go to the Prime Minister…” He trailed off.
“Then he’ll have to come to us!”
She looked at the handful of flyers. “I’ll need more of these. It’s crazy down there.” She pointed toward the side street that led to the pedestrian mall on Ben Yehuda Street.
“Have they come here to learn about the Ten Tribes?”
She laughed again. “I wish. There’s an event.”
His interest piqued, Eli escorted her back through the alley. She had not been kidding. A river of humanity, tourists and locals, pooled from the side street tributaries and flowed down Ben Yehuda toward Zion Square.
Above the heads of the crowd on the small square rose a platform. A podium with a microphone stood empty on one side of the dais, a dressed table on the other, beneath a banner that read, in large golden letters: “Welcome, Kings of Israel!”
Behind the table sat a royal panel of three men with serious beards and large golden crowns on their heads.
“What the hell?”
Chapter 33
Avi jogged down Ben Yehuda Street toward Zion Square. He was late and empty-handed. Gurion did not react well to the failures of his underlings, and if he suspected that Avi was collaborating with Moshe, this failure would only confirm his suspicions.
He waded through the thick audience toward the stage in the middle of the square. Spectators covered the sidewalks and overflowed into the streets, and police officers redirected traffic.
Gurion must have serious connections and money to pull off the event. For Avi’s own anti-zombie demonstration a while back, he had leaned on Boris and his murky underworld ties and still received a smaller turnout.
He spotted the politician beside the dais and called to him from the barrier of yellow police tape. Gurion waved to an officer to let him through.
Gurion smiled as he considered the crowd, in a good mood. “Where’s Theodore?”
“He wouldn’t come.”
“My instructions were clear—”
“He’s cracked. Barely understood what I was saying. Kept going on about ‘five years’ or something. Trust me, you wouldn’t want him here, anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gurion said. “I found something better.”
He nodded toward the stage where three bearded guys sat at a dressed table. They wore flowing purple robes and golden crowns. The name tags on the table read “King David,” “King Saul,” and “King Solomon.” “You found them—the actual kings of Israel?”
Avi had heard of historical personages returning among the resurrected—Herzl had been one of them—but he was sure major biblical characters would have made the evening news.
Gurion sneered through his teeth. “No, you idiot. I wouldn’t bring actual kings here. We need famous names that will win popular support but won’t turn around and elbow us out of the way later. Maimonides didn’t take the bait—he prefers his books—so I had to improvise. I took three drunks off the stre
et, cleaned and dressed them up, and promised them a crate of wine for their trouble. They look pretty convincing if I do say so myself.”
Avi swallowed. Gurion’s mad plan was starting to make sense. He’d use the kings of yore to breed discontent with the current government, then step into the vacuum when Moshe stepped down.
Avi had to warn Moshe. Had he heard of the gathering already? A Channel Two news van straddled the curb on Jaffa Road. Moshe would know how to counter Gurion’s deception. He glanced around but saw no sign of the Prime Minister or his cabinet members. Avi had to stall the event, to buy Moshe some time.
“What about Karlin?” Gurion gave Avi a quick, searching glance, so he added, “What if he shows up and interferes?”
“I wouldn’t worry about your old friend.” Gurion grinned with renewed enthusiasm. “Right now, his hands are very, very full.”
Chapter 34
Monday morning, Galit rolled over in bed to find Moshe’s side empty and cold. He had left early and without saying goodbye. Last night, he had come home late and hardly said a word to her.
Her stomach cramped. Her worst fears were materializing. He hates me.
She lay in bed for a while. Being First Lady had its advantages and sleeping in was her favorite. The housekeeper made sure Talya was awake and fed before the Secret Service dropped her off at kindergarten. Now that she had cleared out and cleaned up their home on Shimshon Street, she had to deal with her visiting family.
Galit climbed out of bed and freshened up in the adjoining bathroom. She had eaten breakfast in her pajamas in her old home—her own home. In the Prime Minister’s Residence, she had to dress up.
In the kitchen, the chef whipped batter in a baking tub.
“Morning, Henri,” she said.
“Good-a-morning, Mrs. First Lady. Pancakes?”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Our new guests, of course,” he said. From the subtle sneer with which he said the word “new,” he made known his disapproval of the interlopers. “They have quite an appetite. This is their third batch.”
