whenever you are,” he signaled.
Feldman cleared his throat adjusted his tie, and reeled off a brief update on the situation. After he finished, Hunter motioned the pilot to descend and then augmented their bulletin with amazing video of the endless car lights below: more than a million millenarians, they estimated, in a mass crusade toward a rendezvous with their Messiah.
30
Mount of the Beatitudes, Israel 4:46 A.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000
Visible from more than five kilometers away, the mount was more a tall hill, easy to spot, lit up with huge halogen lamps. As Feldman and company approached overhead, they could make out an enormous, elevated, altarlike stage setting at the summit, upon which the bright lights were focused.
If there were any questions in their minds where the Samaritans had found the capital to produce such an elaborate event, they were soon answered. Plastered across the front of the stage and at strategic points all around were insignias of proud sponsors: IBM, Coca-Cola, Sony, Ford, Nike.
Separated by about forty feet from the sizable crowd that had already assembled, the altar was protected by a tall electrified fence.
“Do we put down, or do we stay in the air?” the pilot wanted to know. Other aircraft in the vicinity seemed to be holding their distance.
“Let's keep the other helicopter aloft to cover crowd scenes and panoramic shots of the stage,” Sullivan suggested, “and let us try to set down inside the fence. We'll see if we can get clearance for some close-ups and maybe even an interview.”
They picked a space as far removed from the center of the stage as possible, concerned about overhead wires or that the downdraft of the blades might topple some of the lighting towers or staging equipment. But that was the least of their problems. Once the Samaritans discovered what was about to happen, a dozen burly men scurried out from beneath the stage brandishing heavy nightsticks.
The pilot pulled up and looked back at Sullivan for instructions.
Glancing around at everyone and shrugging his shoulders, Sullivan exclaimed, “They can only tell us to leave! Let's try a landing, shall we?”
The pilot defiantly set the chopper down virtually on top of the guards, sending them scattering. With the helicopter safely on the ground, Feldman realized that the angry security force would only hold back until the blades had slowed. But he had an idea.
“Nigel,” he shouted in Sullivan's ear, “keep the rotors close to lift-off speed. Meanwhile, let me go out and talk with them while Hunter takes some footage, just in case.”
Sullivan hadn't a better idea, so they popped open the door and Feldman staggered across the neutral zone like a man in a hurricane. He was hopeful that his newfound celebrity status might gain him an entree here, and he did detect a note of recognition in the eyes of at least one guard, whom he approached.
“Jon Feldman, WNN News,” he bellowed in the wind and flashed his media credentials. “I'm here to meet with Richard Fischer.” This was a gamble. For all Feldman knew, Fischer wasn't even here.
“Nobuddy's allowed in here,” the big man countered in a thick, American Dixieland drawl. “Nobuddy. We waved all the other choppers off, but y'all set down anyways.”
“Well, I talked with Reverend Fischer by cellular phone patch not fifteen minutes ago,” Feldman lied, “and he said he'd see me if I could get here right away.” Turning back to the helicopter, Feldman signaled for the pilot to cut the engine, pointed to Hunter and waved for him to come over.
The guard blinked and looked at a fellow guard, who was no help.
“Y'all stay right here and I'll go ask Mr. Fischer,” he decided and started off.
Feldman quickly grabbed Hunter, directed his camera on the second guard, and in his most pronounced stage voice shouted, “Okay, we're here live at the Mount of the Beatitudes broadcasting worldwide with an interview of the official Samaritan security detail. Take it, Breck Hunter!”
The video camera and prospects of worldwide exposure momentarily froze the guards. Hunter picked up immediately on the ruse and launched into a barrage of flattering, personal questions as Feldman slipped off, tailing guard number one under the enormous stage.
There was a labyrinth of framework and modular scaffolding under the twelve-foot-high platform above them. Within the maze were a number of mobile trailer units, one of which, Feldman presumed, held the reclusive Messiah.
Feldman caught up with the guard just as the panting man arrived at a trailer and rapped at the door. “First Rev'rend Fischer,” he called out, “I think we got us a problem!”
The door opened and Richard Fischer's portly shadow filled the entranceway. “What is it, Mr. Granger? We're busy.”
‘I'll represent myself, thank you, Mr. Granger,” Feldman asserted, and moved out into view.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Feldman?” Fischer frowned in surprise. “No media's allowed behind the fence!”
“I need to talk with you, Reverend, it's important!”
Fischer nodded to Granger, who stepped aside, but Fischer neither left his post at the door nor invited Feldman in. “Make it quick, Mr. Feldman, I've only got a few minutes.”
“We want to video the appearance, Reverend Fischer. This is an event of international importance and it deserves a better representation than images taken fifty feet away through a chain-link fence!”
“We've already made arrangements for complete, professional video, Mr. Feldman. We hired our own private production crew. This time, if you want a good look at our Messiah, you'll have to acquire it from me and not some amateur. Our costs will be reasonable, of course.”
“If it's compensation we're talking about here, sir, be assured, we'll not only pay for the footage we shoot, we'll make complete copies available to you for your unlimited use. Besides, I didn't see any video crew outside. What if they don't show, or what if their work doesn't turn out? At the very least, wouldn't it be wise to have professional backup?”
Fischer had perked up at the mention of compensation. “How much of a contribution are you suggesting, Mr. Feldman?”
“I'd need to get authorization, but I think I could speak for maybe, uh, ten grand?” Feldman was fishing.
“This is the Messiah we're talking about here, Mr. Feldman!” Fischer barked, insulted. “No less than three hundred grand! And I want exclusive rights on all footage after your first telecast. Take it or leave it.”
Feldman scratched the back of his head and made a desperation decision. “I tell you what, I'll take your deal on the three hundred grand, but give us a break on the video rights. If we can't have full use of the tapes, they're worthless to us.”
Fischer looked at his watch. “Okay,” he decided. “But I want a written contract to that effect before you shoot a single frame. Deliver it to Mr. Smead in trailer number seven. And keep your people out of the way. No closer than fifteen feet to the Messiah. And absolutely no questions or conversation! Understood?”
“Perfectly.” Feldman shook Fischer's hand.
“Granger,” Fischer instructed his guard, “you go with Mr. Feldman and mind that he does
“Yessir, Mr. Fischer.” Granger gave Feldman a hard look, and Feldman quickly jogged back to the helicopter.
Granger followed close behind, out of bream and red-faced, to assume watch over the WNN operation. He ordered his men back to their posts, charging them to use their handguns, if necessary, to ward off any other landings.
Feldman trotted up to where Sullivan and Bollinger were anxiously waiting.
“I hope I didn't overstep my bounds,” Feldman explained, “but I committed us to a
