It was well after dark when Feldman, Hunter and Cardinal Litti rolled up to the small hillside villa WNN had reserved for them on the western side of the Mount of the Ascension. Crossing the border had actually been less difficult than the trip to Jerusalem. The roads north were choked with pilgrims, militants and military convoys, and there were signs of destruction and outbreaks of violence continually along the way. Once, shots had even been fired at the trio's car when they refused to stop for a group of marauding Gogs.
Upon arrival, they found Jerusalem little changed, yet entirely different. Many of the buildings damaged in the earthquake more than three months ago were still in a state of disrepair. Apparently there had been too much civic disturbance to attend to these details. The famous Golden Gate of the Old City, Feldman noticed, was still partially disassembled, covered with scaffolding, many large stones stacked on pallets around its base.
The millenarian shantytowns, which were now separated into pro-Jeza and anti-Jeza sections in a futile effort to restrain the incessant quarreling, had grown to prodigious proportions outside the walls of the city. Israeli military were everywhere, and the crowded markets were rife with altercations.
The hillside villa Feldman and company would occupy was not too far from where he and his associates had witnessed the night of the millennial transition. It was closer to the bottom of the mount, with a balcony that faced toward Jerusalem this time, offering a splendid view of the Old City.
Concerned about Anke's safety in these uncertain conditions, Feldman attempted to contact her at both her Jerusalem town house and Tel Aviv apartment, getting nothing but voice recorder. He left a contrite message, promising to call again soon, but gave no number, not daring to disclose his whereabouts.
103
Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 8:58 A.M., Sunday, April 16, 2000
In this dream, Feldman was clinging naked to the trunk of a lone, skinny tree at the top of an otherwise barren hill. He was hanging on for dear life, only a wisp above the snarling jaws of a pack of vicious yellow curs. They were hellhounds. Filthy, matted fur. Crimson, crazed eyes. Maws slinging the foam of hydrophobic madness. And Feldman's grip was loosening, his vulnerable, exposed bottom inching ever closer to those snapping fangs. He hiked himself up again and again, but with each enervating effort his fingers cramped a little sooner and the cycles grew shorter.
From somewhere off in the distance, he could hear Hunter's voice calling enthusiastically, “Hey everybody, get a load of this! Where's my camera?”
Feldman came to, panting, safe in his own bed, his fingers still desperately clutching the rungs of his headboard. Hunter's voice rang out again. “Hey, you gotta see this-you won't believe it! Hurry!”
Rolling out of bed stark naked, Feldman staggered to his feet, grappling with glasses and pants. Hunter was still hollering, and Feldman made it a duet when he caught himself with his zipper. Swearing and stumbling from his room into the glaring light of a gorgeous spring morning, the newsman squinted to spy Hunter out on the balcony. Telephoto video camera in hand, Hunter had been joined by the disheveled-looking Cardinal Litti, who was also overcome with excitement.
“Jon!” The cardinal beckoned Feldman with a repetitive, circular motion of his forearm. “Look!”
Shading his eyes with his hand, Feldman leaned over the balcony and peered out toward the bottom of the mount. A caravan of Bedouins on camels and mules was winding its way from the desert around the base of the Mount of Olives along a dirt path into the city. In reception, a crowd was gathering near the Old City walls. From a nearby shantytown, people were scurrying out on foot to meet the arriving travelers.
At the forefront of the caravan, a small, lone figure, mounted on a mule, was being led along by a walking nomad. Even at a distance, it was obvious from the sharp contrast of dark hair and white skin who this celebrated rider was. Feldman fished a pair of binoculars out of a duffel bag and zoomed in on the spectacle.
“I'm an idiot!” Litti declared to himself, smacking his forehead repeatedly with the butt of his hand. “A complete fool!”
Hunter was too absorbed in his camerawork to react. Feldman responded without removing the binoculars from his eyes. “How do you mean?”
“She's fulfilling prophecy again!” Litti exclaimed. “Following in the footsteps of Christ and fulfilling an Old Testament prediction. Do you know what day this is?”
Still unable to take his eyes away, Feldman shook his head, smiling to himself as the prophetess passed among the cheering throngs toward the city.
Litti chirped, “It's Palm Sunday, of course!”
Feldman's smile broke into a broad grin as he reveled in Jeza's triumphant return to the Holy City. The steadily expanding crowd of spectators was jubilant, dancing, singing and shouting, liberated in joyous celebration.
But momentarily, Feldman detected a disruption on the periphery of the crowd. Training his field glasses on the disturbance, his grin abruptly vanished. “Hunter!” he called to his friend, concern edging his voice. “Look to the left.”
Hunter panned his camera and immediately picked up the source of Feldman's alarm. Unquestionably, the initial gathering of well-wishers had been composed of pro-Jeza supporters. It would appear, however, that word had quickly spread to the opposition camps, and a sizable contingent of vigilantes was now converging on the crowd. As yet, there were no Israeli soldiers or police in sight to protect the defenseless caravan. Fighting had broken out, and two cars of armed guerrillas were plowing through the panicking masses, heading in the direction of the Messiah.
Litti emitted a sinking groan and Feldman's grip tightened on his binoculars. From this distance there was nothing they could do. The attackers would reach their quarry in a matter of seconds, long before the three men, unarmed though they were, could have scrambled down the hill to Jeza's defense.
They watched in desperation as the caravan began to scatter. The hysterical crowd pressed against Jeza's mule, forcing it off the path to stumble sideways, clumsily toward the walls of the Old City. Jeza turned to see the approaching vehicles, which apparently had also spotted her. A passenger in one of the cars rose up through an open sun roof and rested a rifle on the top of the jostling vehicle.
Feldman's heart was racing. Jeza was trapped against the walls and the scattering throngs were yielding to the oncoming vehicles. Pressed back toward the Golden Gate, the desperate Bedouins hurried Jeza toward the pallets of stone stacked under the construction scaffolding. But this limited cover had already been claimed by scores of frantic people. With nowhere else to go, Jeza slipped off her mount and stood to face her adversaries. The car was well within rifle range now and the sharpshooter leaned forward, taking aim.
Calmly, Jeza turned in Feldman's direction. Through his binoculars, it appeared as if she were staring directly into his eyes. He could not watch this, and he buried his face against his shoulder.
The sound of repeated rifle fire popped in the distance.
“Oh my God!” Hunter cried, and Feldman clenched his fists in bitter anger. “Son of a bitch!” Hunter shouted and Feldman slumped to his knees.
“She disappeared!” Hunter bellowed in glee. “She escaped!”
This failed to register on either Feldman or Litti.
“Hey guys.” Hunter wouldn't spare them a glance, but he gropingly thumped the cardinal on the top of his head. “It's okay. Get up. Look!”
Unbelieving, Feldman and Litti rose slowly and peered out over the edge of the balcony. They saw that the attacking car had pulled up near the pallets of wall stone and the occupants were out investigating the rubble under the scaffolding.
“What happened?” Feldman gasped, his voice barely audible.
“She squeezed in through a gap in the wall they're repairing,” Hunter explained in wonderment. “She's so small, she just slipped through a tiny opening there and left them all sucking air.”
“I'll be damned,” Feldman exhaled.
“Another miracle, more or less,” Hunter decided.
