might be delayed a bit, maybe you'd consider sticking with us a few more days to help us sort through this new development.”
“Fine,” Feldman graciously agreed. “I don't start until next Thursday, anyway.” Besides, he didn't mind an excuse that would buy him a little more time with his new acquaintance.
Hunter stood next in line to talk with Feldman. “So, you're hangin’ with us awhile longer, eh? Great! We're gonna need you until all this dust settles!”
“Only for a few days,” Feldman confirmed.
Hunter nodded. “Look, you go ahead in the Rover and get Anke home, I'll take Cissy in her car. And, uh, I may be late to the meeting tomorrow.”
Feldman thought he understood and nodded. He'd noticed for some time the coalescing relationship between Hunter and Cissy. And he loved the way they teased one another mercilessly with underlying affection.
But there was more behind the intent, introspective look on the cameraman's face. This was not about Cissy.
It took Feldman over an hour to drive Anke the two and a half kilometers to her home, picking their way carefully down the mount through the throngs and around fallen debris in the streets.
Feldman was continually impressed with this remarkable woman. She had recovered quickly from her initial alarm and had worked relentlessly with the rest of the team in whatever capacity asked of her to get them back on the air. Now she sat quietly, interrupting her private thoughts occasionally to give a brief smile and point directions.
Fortunately, there appeared to be little damage to the northern section of town. When they arrived in front of Anke's contemporary white villa, it looked untouched.
Anke turned to him in her seat and put her hand on his. “Jon, please don't take this the wrong way …”
Here it came. He felt his gut knotting as he looked into that exquisite face. This sounded like the intro to a permanent farewell. It wasn't often that he'd been on the receiving end.
“But”-she dropped the other shoe-”I live by myself and I'd just prefer not to be alone right now.”
He was traveling the wrong wavelength and her words didn't register right away. He said nothing and she felt compelled to elaborate. “You see, there's a loft upstairs, and if you don't mind a pull-out bed, I'll wake you in time for your meeting and fix you a nice breakfast, and you can leave whenever-”
Feldman was up to speed finally, and so was his pulse. “Oh, absolutely, I wouldn't consider leaving you alone right now!” he insisted, quickly bolting from the car and slinging his carry-all over his shoulder.
20
Somewhere in Jerusalem, Israel 3:41 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Out in the disrupted city streets, Hunter had no thought of sleep. He'd dropped Cissy off at her apartment, resisting her persistent, tempting offer to stay and ride in together for the eight o'clock meeting. Instead, he'd decided to fight the impossible road conditions back to WNN headquarters, alone, promising Cissy to return with break-fast and her car in time to make the meeting.
After several hours, Hunter arrived at the WNN offices to find the building relatively undamaged but the electricity out. Switching on emergency backup batteries, he sat at an editing bay reviewing his videotape of the moments leading up to the earthquake-particularly the segment featuring the interview with the odd Satanist, Astarte. Hunter's interest focused on the electrical storm in the background, and he used the special Advanced Definition Optics of the editing system to zoom in on the vicinity and enhance the image.
In his opinion, the storm was peculiar. Very intense and very concentrated. Stationary over one location for an extended period. Yet, while he hadn't been paying particular attention at the time, he could recall no trace of the storm after the earthquake. It was as if it simply vanished with the tremors. All this stirred unreconcilably in his mind as he carefully inspected the video footage.
Finally, as the first light of morning arrived, it dawned on him. Hunter slapped the table. Pausing the tape, flashlight in hand, he hustled over to a large map of Israel suspended on the far wall of the room. Locating the Mount of the Ascension, he attempted to orient the view he'd had from the villa balcony. Before he could accomplish this, he was distracted by the gradually increasing sound of pounding on the door of the front office.
Hunter tolerated interruptions poorly. But his irritation evaporated quickly as he opened the door to a very striking young woman flanked by two seemingly unworthy male companions. It was one of the WNN support teams, hurriedly arrived from Cairo, he learned. They'd come in style, traveling in a fully equipped, self-sufficient, forty-foot mobile video RV.
21
Romema Ilit housing development, Jerusalem, Israel 5:50 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
In his dream, Feldman was a child again. He was studying his catechism with his beautiful, dark-haired mother. But try as he might, he couldn't remember any of his lessons, and it disappointed her greatly. He sighed and stared down at his text once more, but it had changed.
Instead of catechism, it was the Talmud. He looked back up into his father's face this time. His father was frowning, speaking to Feldman sternly in Yiddish, but Feldman couldn't understand. Feldman closed his eyes, crying, and he heard his mother's voice, soothing now, comforting. “Jon, Jon, it's okay, shush.”
He opened his eyes and the face was now Anke's. Her hair was down around her bare shoulders, a thin- strapped nightgown falling delicately across her breasts. She was smiling and whispering. “You were having a nightmare, Jon. I heard you all the way downstairs.”
The moon was up now and half full, infiltrating the room with a creamy light. Feldman was embarrassed. “What did I say?”
Anke laughed softly. “You were calling for your parents. First ‘Mama!’ Then ‘Papa!’ ”
Feldman smiled ruefully and shook his head, attempting to dislodge the uncomfortable, long-buried emotions his dream had resurrected. “My mother was Catholic and my father Jewish,” he explained. “They each wanted me raised in their own faith and it used to create a lot of tension between them. I was reliving an episode, I guess.”
“So how did your parents resolve their conflict?” Anke asked, sitting next to him on the side of the bed.
“They didn't,” Feldman answered. “They divorced when I was nine.”
“You were an only child?”
“Yes.”
“That must have been terribly hard on you.”
He stared out the window toward the divided moon. “For years I felt totally responsible. My legacy, from being the offspring of the two most guilt-inducing religions on earth.”
“So what faith did you end up?”
“Neither. I finally gave up both religions and went independent. Agnostic, actually. But I wonder what triggered these memories tonight. It's the first time I've thought about this in a decade.” And the first time, he realized, that he'd ever discussed this issue anywhere other than on his psychiatrist's couch during his difficult adolescence.
“I bad troubled dreams, too,” Anke whispered, tenderly smoothing Feldman's hair as he had done for her hours earlier. “With what we went through last night, it's any wonder we slept at all.”
Feldman sat up, more awake now, but still very tired. Anke's warm, lithe presence close to him in her slight gown was distracting. He fought for a gentlemanly comment to counter his thoughts. “I'm … I'm sorry I woke
