111
Dyan IDF military base, Jerusalem, Israel 4:13 A.M., Sunday, April 23, 2000
Feldman and Hunter sat naked and cold on the wet floor of their cell, clutching their knees tightly, trying to maintain body warmth. It had been a long, disgustingly unpleasant and humiliating night. In addition to their untreated wounds, both men were suffering from extreme dehydration as a result of their repeated purgings.
Even in this lower-level, windowless dungeon, they could hear the sounds of military engagement emanating from outside. The heavy prattle of gunshots had been incessant, all night long.
“How are you holding up, Breck?” Feldman called out from between his knees.
No answer.
Feldman turned to observe his cell mate, who was hunkered next to him in a tight, brooding ball. “Come on, guy,” Feldman encouraged, “you gotta snap out of it. Why don't you channel your anger into helping me find a way to get out of here?”
“’Cause we ain't gettin’ outta here, man,” came the snarling answer. “At least not alive we're not.”
“That's the spirit!” Feldman berated him.
“Goddammit!” Hunter's pent up rage broke loose. “I swear to God I'd give my immortal soul for just five minutes with that goddamned son of a bitch Goene!”
Feldman sighed, hard pressed to offer any meaningful solace under the circumstances. “Come on, man, it isn't worth-”
“Goddamn that son of a bitch!” Hunter roared again, pounding the cell floor with a powerful fist. “I swear to God, Jon, if we get out of this, I'd hunt that bastard down if it takes me to the bowels of hell. And so help me God, I'd kid him!” Hunter looked up at God through the ceiling of his cell. “Just give me one chance-that's all I ask-and you can have my damned soul. Just one chance!”
Hunter's raving had attracted the attention of one of the guards. “Shut up in there or I'll turn a hose on you!” he snapped.
“Please,” Feldman pleaded, “can somebody tell us what time it is?”
“A quarter till five,” the guard called back.
Sunrise-and the firing squad-were rapidly nearing. Once more, Feldman tried to penetrate the guards’ resolve. “Any chance we could get some hot coffee and a blanket now? You know we don't have anything hidden on our bodies. And there's sure as hell nothing left inside us anymore!”
The two guards, who were seated at a table outside the cell, exchanged looks. There was a rumbling of conversation and a couple of old, dirty linen sheets were tossed into the cells. A few moments later, two cups of steaming brew were slid through the bars. Swaddled in their sheets, the two men shuffled stiff-leggedly over and bolted down the coffee, gratefully thanking their keepers and begging for more. Their pleas were granted, along with two hard rolls. Their last requests, Feldman presumed.
His musings were quickly answered. As they finished their meal, the moment they'd been dreading arrived: multiple footsteps hurrying down the stone stairs, keys jangling. The sounds of their approaching executions.
112
Hadassah Hospital, Jerusalem, Israel 4:47 A.M., Sunday, April 23, 2000
Cardinal Litti knelt on the hard, cold concrete floor outside the vault where Jeza's body lay in state. Like matching bookends on either side of the closed vault door, two immobile, armed Israeli sentries were posted to ensure that Jeza's body remained undisturbed through the long night.
In response to Lira's incessant begging, Commander Lazzlo had finally relented and allowed the cardinal access to the restricted area. Litti had been here since dusk, in prayerful observance, faithfully awaiting the anticipated Resurrection. The long vigil hadn't been easy on the poor man's old bones. The aging cleric felt cramped and chilled and deeply fatigued. But he was only too pleased to suffer these minor inconveniences. To witness this ultimate triumph over death and evil was the greatest honor God could bestow upon man.
Yet, as the hour of dawn now drew near, Litti grew increasingly nervous. Throughout the night, with muffled gunfire and violence raging above him, the cardinal had held steadfastly to his certitude about the Messiah. This, despite nagging doubts deposited into the far reaches of his soul by a cunning devil.
Litti's only other distractions came from Commander Lazzlo, who stopped in occasionally between breaks in the offensive outside. Sharing Litti's heartfelt hopes about the Resurrection, the officer kept abreast of the situation.
This visit, however, was not social. The cardinal heard a commotion advancing down the had and a flushed Lazzlo rounded the corner with several of his troops. “Your Eminence, I'm sorry,” he panted, a look of distress creasing his face. “The Gogs have breached the west wing. You must leave now until we secure the corridor.”
Litti turned white with alarm. “Leave now? It's unthinkable! We're so close to dawn!”
“I realize, Cardinal, and I share your feelings, but if we don't secure this corridor, there may be no Resurrection. The Gogs aren't like Goene's forces. They want to destroy Jeza's body. They'll use explosives. You must leave until we can secure the area again. I'll have you back as quickly as possible. We still have half an hour till dawn.”
Lazzlo motioned to the guards at the door and they grasped the desperate Litti under his armpits, assisting him to his feet. “I beg of you, Commander!” the cardinal wailed, but it was too late. Lazzlo was off and running toward the west wing with his men.
Indeed, Litti and his escorts had barely made the stair-well when an explosion coursed through the halls. The cardinal said a prayer as the support walls of the substructure vibrated menacingly.
113
Dyan IDF military base, Jerusalem, Israel 5:15 A.M., Sunday, April 23, 2000
Outside Feldman and Hunter's cell, there was an excited exchange of Hebrew between the guards and the four soldiers who'd just arrived. The animated discussion continued for several minutes.
Above them and outside, they could hear a great deal of troop movement, but the sounds of battle had ceased. Then, abruptly, one of the guards unlocked Feldman's door and announced flatly, “You're free. You're being released.”
Unceremoniously, Feldman and Hunter were liberated as the four soldiers trotted off and the guards hastily began gathering up personal belongings as if they were vacating the premises.
“Please,” Feldman implored. “What's going on?”
Without looking up from his packing, one of the guards explained, “We are under martial law. The Knesset met in emergency session earlier this morning and the IDF has been dissolved. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Defense Minister Tamin and General Goene.”
“Waaahooo!” Hunter yelped with joy.
“What are they being charged with?” Feldman asked.
“Treason, conspiracy and complicity to murder, among other things, I'm told. The both of you were ordered released by direct command of the Knesset. Goene and Tamin have fled. We've been ordered to surrender the base and submit ourselves for review.”
Astounded at their timely reversal of fortunes, Feldman and Hunter stumbled upstairs to the first floor, down the main hallway and hobbled for the nearest exit. Caked with dried mud, blood and filth, still clad in nothing but their soiled linen sheets, Feldman and Hunter stepped out of the barracks into the bright rays of a gorgeous sunrise.
