An Accidental Messiah: A Novel (The Dry Bones Society Book 2)

by Dan Sofer

  “Mazel tov, Moshe!” This time Rafi’s rasping voice had interrupted Moshe’s speech. At this rate, he’d have to ad lib at the podium, which would probably make for a far shorter speech. There was a bright side to everything.

  The Yemenite taxi driver gave his hand a vigorous shake. “Your father would be so proud.” Moshe’s father had jump-started Rafi’s career decades ago, and now his replenished fleet of transport vans shuttled the newly resurrected to the Dry Bones Society’s Absorption Center every morning.

  Moshe found a quiet corner and studied his cue cards. To become equal participants in society. He pulled a pen from his pocket and tagged on the words “once more.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said a voice. Irina had sidled up to him.

  Moshe sighed. “I hope I’ll do us justice.” He was used to speaking to a roomful of employees but he had never addressed government ministers on television.

  “You already have. Today is a big deal.”

  A sadness had crept into her smile, and he knew what she was thinking. Three months had passed since her resurrection and still she remembered nothing of her former life, not even her real name. Having no clear identity, she could not apply for an identity card at the Ministry of the Interior.

  “Your turn will come soon enough,” he said. “I’m sure the minister will work something out for you.”

  Her eyebrows rose and fell without conviction. “I hope so.”

  “Moshe,” called Rabbi Yosef from a nearby cubicle. He held a desk phone to his ear and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. His trademark ecstatic grin split his face.

  “Donors,” the rabbi said, “from the United States. They flew in this morning especially to speak with you. They’re on their way to Jerusalem now. When can you meet with them?”

  Foreign donors—another first. Word of the Dry Bones Society was spreading across the globe. “In an hour or so. After the ceremony.”

  Rabbi Yosef nodded and spoke into the receiver. “Alo,” he said in heavily accented English. “Dis morning. Yes. Yes!”

  Moshe fled to his corner office and returned to his speech. His change of tactic worked. He rehearsed the full text twice without interruption, then pocketed the cards and walked over to the large office windows. The ceremonial table stood at the ready. The microphones and cameras waited in position. Only one very significant detail was missing.

  He pulled out his mobile phone, property of the Dry Bones Society, and read the time. 9:07 AM. He had pawned his wristwatch—the Rolex that his grandfather had handed down—to escape the slave labor camp run by Boris, a Russian mobster. Now he got by with his phone.

  He stepped out of the office, glanced at the assembled reporters, volunteers, and onlookers, and gave them reassuring smiles.

  Shmuel walked over, an edginess in his gait. “Is he on his way?”

  “I’m sure he’s just stuck in traffic.”

  Shmuel frowned and paced the room.

  Moshe’s shirt collar itched against his neck. He opened the top button and loosened his tie. Minister Malkior had been friendly and cooperative in their meetings. He had shown genuine interest in the plight of their new and unlikely demographic. He wouldn’t stand them up, would he?

  At 9:11 AM, Moshe dialed the minister’s personal mobile number. After ringing twice, the call cut to voicemail. He dialed the office number.

  “Mr. Karlin,” said Tzippi, the minister’s helpful young receptionist, “I was just about to call you.” Her voice, usually casual and friendly, had become formal and defensive in tone.

  “We’re all good to go here. Is everything all right?”

  She drew an audible breath. “The minister regrets that he won’t be able to join you.”

  The floor fell out of Moshe’s stomach. “I’m sorry to hear that. Would he prefer this afternoon?”

  Silence on the line. “I’m afraid not,” Tzippi said. “He won’t be able to participate. Not today. Not ever. I’m sorry.”

  She ended the call.

  Moshe stood there for a few moments, then slipped his phone back into his pocket, his cheeks cold, his forehead damp. A room full of anxious faces watched him in silence.

  “The minister won’t be joining us today,” he said. “Sorry for all the trouble.”

  The camera crew exchanged glances and began to dismantle their equipment.

  Shmuel whispered in Eran’s ear, then marched over. “What happened?”

  Moshe kept his voice down. “He backed out.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Where does that leave us?” Samira asked. Fear flickered in her eyes and in the eyes of the half-dozen Society members who now gathered around Moshe.

  He had given them hope, he had promised them a future—but now the iron doors of government bureaucracy blocked their path and refused to budge. They didn’t deserve this. At a minimum, they deserved an explanation.

  “I don’t know,” he said, balling his hands into fists. “But I’m going to find out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Moshe stormed down the corridor of the Ministry of the Interior, the letter of intent in hand and a fire in his heart. Malkior would sign the agreement today, as he had promised, press conference or not. Too many lives depended on the wave of his pen.

  Shmuel and Irina followed him in a V formation. Rafi had dropped them off at the government buildings on Safra Square. Over the last few weeks, they had gotten to know those corridors well and this time they were not going to leave empty-handed.

  At the sight of the charging delegation, the minister’s secretary placed a hand on her desk phone. One wrong move and she’d call security.

  “Tzippi,” Moshe said, his voice calm and amicable. Angry words would not help them here. He glanced at the large wooden door behind her. “We just need a few moments with the minister to understand why he changed his mind. I’m sure we can work things out.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, and her mouth tightened. This was difficult for her. She had always spoken kindly with them. “He can’t see you today. He’s in meetings.”

  “That’s OK. We’ll wait.”

  “You’ll be waiting a long time.”

  “We don’t mind. We’re right over here.”

  They settled on the set of four joined chairs opposite. Bureaucrats strolled the corridor, holding documents and paper cups of coffee, and glanced them over.

  After all he had experienced in his second life, Moshe should be used to the floor disappearing beneath his feet.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “More registered citizens means more taxes. More grateful voters. Elections are a month away. It’s a win-win deal.”

  “The whole thing smells rotten,” Shmuel said.

  Moshe had to agree.

  “But he seemed so understanding,” Irina said. “He seemed to really care about us.”

  “All politicians do,” Shmuel said. “When it serves their agenda. As a reporter, I saw that a lot.”

  They cooled their heels for half an hour before the door handle turned. A dozen men in black suits, hats, and gray-streaked beards left the office, chuckling and nodding. The tallest wore a silky suit and tidy bowler hat. When his eyes met Moshe’s, he smiled and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Oh, no,” Moshe said.

  “You know him?” Shmuel said.

  “Rabbi Emden, Rabbi Yosef’s old mentor. He introduced us to the Great Council.” They had appeared before the rabbinic aristocracy within the immense Belz Synagogue in the heart of Chassidic north Jerusalem. The frenzied chant of the horde of followers still rang in his ears. Sitra Achra! Sitra Achra!

  “The ones who claimed we’re the evil Other Side?”

  Moshe nodded. He had a bad feeling about this. “Let’s go.”

  They rushed forward and slipped through the door before Tzippi could protest.

  Framed photos of the Prime Minister and the President hung on the walls of a richly decorated office, the office of a man who intended to stay there a ver
y long time. Minister of the Interior Dov Malkior looked up from his large wooden desk.

  “Moshe,” he said, rising from his seat as though greeting a long-lost friend. He shook his hand, then frowned at circumstances beyond his control. “I am truly, deeply sorry for having to cancel.”

  “Not as sorry as us,” Shmuel said.

  Moshe motioned for Shmuel to stand down. “Dov,” he said. They had moved to first names early on. “We’d like to understand what your concerns are. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Malkior returned to his seat behind the large wooden desk. “These are difficult times, Moshe. Elections are close. The coalition is in disarray. Let’s speak again in a few months and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Moshe smelled an evasive maneuver. Cab operators had used the same tactic when he approached them to sign with Karlin & Son while other dispatch agencies were courting them. “It’s the rabbis, isn’t it?”

  Malkior blew air through his lips and threw up his hands. “What can I say? You’ve made some powerful enemies.”

  “Let me guess—if you drop the agreement with the Dry Bones Society then they’ll join the new government?”

  Malkior continued to smile but said nothing.

  Moshe leaned his knuckles on the desk. “People are suffering, Dov. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Us included. We can’t rent an apartment or support our families or even see a doctor. Some of us are being roped into slave labor, right now, as we were. You can help them.” He placed the document on the desk. “All you have to do is sign.”

  Malkior leaned back in his puffy leather chair as if to distance himself from the agreement. “My hands are tied. Let’s speak later, after the elections have blown over.” He chuckled. “If I’m still in this office. This isn’t personal, Moshe. It’s just politics.”

  The deal was done and Malkior would not budge. Moshe turned to leave. “It is for us.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Boris Poddobni was used to fear and panic. Usually, he elicited those responses in others, but as he waited outside a private home in the quiet suburbia of southwest Jerusalem, his pulse galloped. Depending on how his meeting went, today he might breathe his last.

  In the valley below the row of houses, rose the square of the Malcha Mall and the towers of the Malcha Technology Park. Birds sang in the trees. The house betrayed few clues to the dangers that lay within. The front door of carved white wood had a silver knocker shaped like a grasping gloved hand. A security camera eyed him from a corner.

  He patted his bushy gray hair and moustache and knocked twice.

  Boris avoided meetings with the boss. The man was a genius, yes, and Boris had learned much from him, but he could never predict his next move. The boss had little tolerance for failure, and Boris’s tidings would not make him happy.

  The door opened.

  “Pree-vee-et,” Boris said. Hello. From here on, he would speak Russian. The bald man in the doorway was built like a cement truck and wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. Boris regretted having to leave his own muscleman, Igor, in the car, but not even Igor could save him in here.

  The bald man looked Boris over, his face expressionless, a nasty, jagged scar down his left cheek, and indicated for him to enter with a jerk of his head.

  Marble covered the entrance hall, white and shiny. The life-size statue of a young woman greeted him. A blindfold covered her eyes, but she had cocked back her head to steal a peek, and her cheeky breasts pushed through the folds of her flowing toga. In one hand, she held a square tablet, a raised lance in the other, a gesture of defiance. Or warning.

  The door closed behind him.

  Boris turned to the doorman. “Is The Jew here?” Boris said.

  “Downstairs. And I wouldn’t call him that anymore.”

  “No?” The nickname had commanded respect in the Russian underworld. When The Jew had moved to Israel, he had quickly swallowed up the local gangs to rule the largest network of organized crime in the country.

  “He goes by Mandrake now.”

  “Mandrake. Like the magician? A fitting name.”

  The henchman glared at him.

  Boris nodded. He passed the statue woman and her raised lance, glimpsed a well-furnished living room with large windows facing the mall, the technology park, and Teddy Stadium, and descended the rounded staircase to the basement.

  His shoes squeaked on marble tiles as he sank deeper into the dark belly of the house, then plastic sheeting crinkled underfoot as he stepped onto the landing. A spotlight fell on an overturned wooden table at the far end of the basement. Black tape outlined the crude shape of a human form on the round red surface, like chalk marks at a crime scene.

  “Boris, my friend,” a sonorous voice said.

  As his eyes adjusted, a bald man emerged from the gloom. He stood in the middle of the den, his back to the stairs. Muscles bulged on his shoulders beneath his black T-shirt.

  The friendly tone did not comfort Boris. Cheer and sympathy could turn to violence in an instant.

  The man reached into a small briefcase on a stool and withdrew a large knife. Grasping the tapered blade between two fingers, he raised the knife in the air. Then, with a movement as fast as a striking viper, he flung the knife, burying the blade between the eyes of the outline with a metallic twang.

  “Business is booming, from what I hear,” Mandrake said, without turning.

  By “business” he meant the labor camp that Boris managed in the Talpiot industrial zone. In return for manual labor, he offered illegal aliens, ex-cons, and other unemployables board and lodging in his warehouse facility. The workers soon found themselves buried in debt for expenses hidden in the fine print of their contract.

  The promise of deportation helped keep them in line, along with the threat of grievous bodily harm. Revenues had skyrocketed three months ago thanks to the sudden crop of resurrected Israelis that sprung up each morning at cemeteries around the country, providing a glut of easy prey.

  Boris cleared his throat. “It was, sir, until recently. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  Mandrake lifted another blade from the box. “Continue.”

  No turning back now.

  Boris spoke and Mandrake listened, the blade hovering beside his ear.

  “So,” Mandrake said, when Boris had finished, “you collect these dead people as they wake up in the cemetery each morning?”

  “Yes.” Boris swallowed hard. He had not believed the tale either at first. Would Mandrake? “They are real. They’ve appeared on television. We picked them up by the busload until the Dry Bones Society came along.”

  “The Dry Bones Society?”

  “A bunch of do-gooders led by Moshe Karlin, a resurrected Israeli himself. They get to the new arrivals before we can and take them in.” He did not mention that Moshe Karlin had once worked for him and that Boris had let him buy his way out. Unflattering details like those would not aid Boris’s chances of survival.

  Mandrake held the next throwing knife in the air for a few seconds. Then his arm became a blur and the blade slammed into the wooden target, piercing the outline’s heart.

  The plastic sheeting crinkled beneath Boris’s shifting feet and a sudden thought made him freeze. The knives. The plastic sheeting on the floor. The red paint of the target. He’s already seen the numbers! Mandrake had been expecting him, and only one scenario required covering the floors in plastic sheeting.

  Boris braced for the worst. There was no running from a man like Mandrake. Not for long. He only hoped that Mandrake had run out of throwing knives, and would opt for a quicker and cleaner death by gunshot.

  Mandrake reached down and lifted a third blade from the box.

  Derr’mo! Crap!

  Boris closed his eyes.

  “Do you believe in magic, Boris?”

  Boris opened one eye. The knife still hovered at Mandrake’s ear. What was the right answer? What kind of magic did his boss have in mind? Boris closed his eye again. Hi
s answer wouldn’t matter. He knew the drill. Any moment, Mandrake would spin around and skewer him for his failure.

  Three long seconds passed, however, and he was still breathing.

  Bam!

  Boris clenched up but felt no pain. He opened his eyes. The third knife quivered hilt-deep in the groin of the outline.

  “I’d like to learn this magic trick,” his boss said. “The leader of this Society, this Moshe…?”

  “Moshe Karlin, sir.”

  “We should get to know him better. Find out how he operates. From the inside. And then”—he raised his hand and curled the fingers into a fist—“we will crush him.”

  Boris exhaled a pent-up breath. We. He might survive the meeting after all.

  “Sir,” he said, hoping that he was not pushing his luck. “Karlin knows me and my men. I’ll need fresh faces to get close.”

  Mandrake turned to face him, and Boris swallowed the knot of fear in his throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He should never have opened his mouth.

  Mandrake considered him with a pair of sympathetic eyes above the largest hooked nose Boris had ever seen.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “I have just the man for the job.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Eli lay in bed Tuesday morning, listening to the sounds of his new life. A girl showered in his en suite bathroom. The mattress felt warm where she had slept and her sweet scent clung to the sheets. The murmur of traffic far below seeped through the windows.

  He had everything a young man could desire: an amazing girlfriend, a penthouse, his own business, and more money than he could spend.

  Then why don’t I have the energy to get out of bed?

  Was he still adjusting? Sharing his apartment took some getting used to, as did his new identity, and the idea that he was, one day, going to die.

  How did people do it? Wake up each day. Brush their teeth. Get dressed. Go to work. It seemed like a lot of effort when your life was going to end in a few years. Mortality sucked.

  As Elijah the Prophet, he had had—literally—all the time in the world. The fate of humanity had depended on him. Eli Katz the man of flesh and blood, on the other hand, had numbered days and questionable purpose. But he did have one thing that even Elijah the Prophet would envy. He had Noga Shemer. Without her, he would have stepped off the window ledge a long time ago.