The Last Day

her hint of a French accent captivating. She was teasing him, he decided.

Realizing he was still holding her arm with both hands, he self-consciously released her. Yet she paid no apparent heed and didn't retreat.

“What's your name?’ he asked.

“Anke Heuriskein.”

“And you're a graduate student at Tel Aviv University?”

“Working on my master's in international law.”

“Law? I should have thought journalism.”

“No. Journalism was my major as an undergraduate. Fun, but there's no real future in it.”

This came out matter-of-factly, and Feldman couldn't tell if she was really sincere this time. It must have shown in his face, because she gave him a sideways smile and poked him in the ribs with an elegantly tapered forefinger. He realized she had a knack for catching him off-guard and resolved to be more alert in the future. Turnabout was also fair play, he vowed to himself.

“So,” she said baitingly, “do you still think journalists should be nothing more than word processors, impersonally recording events?”

“You mean, am I still an advocate of impartial, unbiased, fair and honest reporting?” He'd been ready with this answer for a month.

“No. I mean, don't you feel that a journalist should have a social conscience? Bear some responsibility for the societal consequences of a story?”

“I don't believe it's a reporter's place to influence news, slant news or make news, if that's what you're asking,” he responded stolidly. “It's a reporter's job to report. Pure and simple.”

“But things are not always so pure and simple, now are they?” she purred, and averted her eyes mysteriously.

Feldman was more than charmed. As he loosened his crumpled tie for maneuvering room, his focus was interrupted by the reappearance of Hunter picking his way toward him from across the room. Feldman interpreted his partner's serious look and groaned audibly.

Hunter was at their side now; he leaned close to Anke and hooked a thumb toward Feldman. “Sorry to intrude, little lady, but Mr. Celebrity here is wanted back at the shop.”

Turning, he gripped Feldman by the right biceps. “I just got a call from headquarters. Things are heatin’ up.”

Feldman bit his lip, nodded and turned to find an amused look on Anke's perfect olive face. “Can I-” Feldman began.

“I'm out a lot,” she interrupted, “why don't I call you?” and proceeded to take Feldman's number in a small black phone book she produced from the pocket of her jacket.

Reluctantly departing with his colleague, Feldman watched helplessly as another slick-looking Don Juannabe promptly moved in to fill the void.

9

WNN news bureau, Jerusalem, Israel 11:56 P.M., Saturday, December 25,1999

Hunter and Feldman rolled back into WNN headquarters to find the cramped offices humming with activity.

Area news director Arnold Bollinger spied the two reporters immediately and motioned them aside. In his mid-fifties, Bollinger was the earnest type, a black man with superb news instincts, a stocky, sound build and short, graving hair. He had an open, honest face, with large, sincere eyes. While he may have considered Feldman and Hunter a bit too cavalier and undisciplined for his tastes, Bollinger nevertheless appreciated their work as intelligent and substantive. Hunter had a deserved reputation for risk-taking. Feldman was a stabilizing influence, if too easily tempted astray.

But Bollinger was ecstatic with their report on the desert installation attack, and he was more than willing to let them run with a major story that appeared to have legs.

“We're getting some interesting feedback, guys,” he explained, handing Feldman a selection of data sheets. “Especially this one.” He isolated one page in particular, pointing at two names.

“Dr. Kiyu Omato … and Dr. Isotu Hirasuma?” Feldman struggled with the note. “Japanese?”

“Two astronomers from Japan, running some sort of study out at that big observatory in the Negev,” said Bollinger. “We checked them out and they're legit. Strong credentials. They saw your newscast and they've been waiting here to see you. Claim they're eyewitnesses, and they'll only talk with you.”

“Actually,” Feldman wished aloud, “I'd like to find someone from inside that research center. And learn what the hell was so important that the Jordanians would risk war to take it out. Any new info, Arnie?”

Bollinger shook his head. “Not even U.S. intelligence sources have anything definitive. At least that's what they claim. Best anyone knows right now, it was a biotech lab. And though the Israelis are screaming it's the Jordanians, the State Department won't confirm it.”

Hunter joined the speculation. “Well, the Jordanians, or whoever, sure as hell weren't out to Scud some new improved carrot. Has to've been a military installation- chemical or biological weapons development.”

An irreverent voice behind them intruded. “Yeah, and you boys were out there just padding around in the contaminated debris, all exposed and unprotected.” It was Cissy McFarland, WNN project coordinator, overhearing the conversation as she passed by. She was always ready with an overdue payback jab at the two reporters. “Sassy,” Hunter used to call her. Full of herself for a twenty-three-year-old, Cissy was one of Arnold Bollinger's protegees, with a brilliant, summa cum laude mind and a promising future with WNN.

Meant as a joke, her comment about contamination nevertheless opened an unpleasant door.

“Not entirely exposed,” Hunter returned as she blew by, ignoring him.

“Yep, you're sure two dedicated, dumb news jocks,” she tossed back over her shoulder, red-blond hair bouncing, hips rolling smartly as she turned a corner in her pleated skirt, leaving them in a wake of mock scorn.

Hunter grinned, Feldman looked reflective.

“Okay, Arnie,” Feldman said, adjourning their meeting and heading off with his partner toward their offices. “Let's talk with these eyewitnesses before we call it a hell of a day!”

Feldman only wanted a moment to shed his sport coat, take a breath and settle in at his desk, but the two Japanese men awaiting him were too insistent. They recognized Feldman on sight and, elbowing Hunter aside in their haste, began bowing and rattling at the TV reporter in a flurry of unintelligibility.

With difficulty, Feldman got their identities: Kiyu Omato, a senior professor at Kyoto University, and his assistant, Isotu Hirasuma.

The elder man could contain himself no longer. “Not missile!” he declared to Feldman in a thick accent. “Meteorite!”

Feldman closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest in disappointment. He'd been anticipating insightful revelations into the attack on the laboratory. He looked up, first at Hunter, then back at the two very serious astronomers anxiously awaiting his response.

“Thanks, guys, I appreciate your professional opinion, but I don't think anyone, least of all the Israelis, is going to buy your meteor theory.”

“Not theory.” The earnest face showed concern, perhaps alarm. He pulled from his pocket a white handkerchief, opening it to reveal a blackened chunk of misshapen rock about the size of a baseball. “Meteorite!” he said again, shoving the object at Feldman while his assistant vigorously nodded his affirmation and held up a handkerchief of his own. “Not attack-accident! No war now!”

With that, the second astronomer also produced a satchel filled with more such fragments and explained, in much clearer English, “Four of us see meteorite from observatory. With own eyes we watch meteorite strike laboratory. On our way to impact site, we find survivor in desert.”