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The Spear of Tyranny Page 3
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Isaac exhaled softly. The Israeli military had done little but clean up after the war. Eighty-four percent of the enemy army had perished while attacking Israel’s borders. The sheer number of bloated corpses, many of whom had perished from biological and chemical weapons, posed a dire threat to public health. The prime minister authorized the Israeli Defense Force to create mass graves—a practical solution that reminded Isaac far too much of the huge trenches in which the Nazis buried Jewish dead in the Holocaust. From January through July, every Israeli citizen was called upon to aid in the search for bodies strewn in the fields and mountains surrounding Israel. Civilians were not permitted to touch the possibly contaminated bodies, so whenever they found even a single bone, they were required to mark the site with a red flag and wait for IDF personnel to remove the remains. On one visit to the Jezreel Valley, Isaac saw a field transformed into a sea of fluttering red flags.
The news report broke for a commercial, reminding Isaac of the time. “Come, Sarah.” He nudged her again, more forcefully this time. “We’ll be late if you don’t get up. Don’t forget, Adrian Romulus is in Jerusalem.”
“I know.” The flat words were muffled through the blanket. Sarah sat up, the comforter falling away from her, and gazed at Isaac with bleary eyes. “I was up until two working on security details.”
“Care to fill me in?”
“Can’t. It’s classified.” With that, she rolled out of bed and stumbled to the shower. Watching her, Isaac noted a heaviness in her step that had not been there twelve months before. Even at her most exhausted with the demands of work and motherhood, Sarah had never worn the look of weary resignation that had recently imprinted itself upon her lovely face.
Sighing, Isaac left the bedroom and returned to the kitchen, where Lily was munching noisily upon her breakfast kibble. The dog glanced up at Isaac for a moment, then returned to her bowl, eager to clean it. Isaac suspected she wanted Sarah to think he’d forgotten to feed her. On more than one occasion Lily’s canine conniving had netted her two breakfasts.
Isaac sat down and skimmed the paper, finding nothing that particularly interested him. The front page featured a short story on Romulus’s arrival in Jerusalem. Isaac read that the prime minister seemed intent on making the European leader feel welcome. With the United States damaged, Russia decimated, and Israel and her Arab neighbors recovering from the devastation of war, the European Union had emerged from Gogol’s Invasion as the planet’s most powerful and economically healthy federation. And Adrian Romulus, as the acting president of the European Union and its Council of Ministers, had sworn to use his newfound influence for the cause of peace.
For the first several months after Gogol’s Invasion, Isaac had been too engrossed in Israel’s problems to pay much attention to international affairs, but a friend who worked as a Mossad agent assured him that Adrian Romulus had never been guilty of anti-Semitic actions or utterances. He seemed to be a true friend of Israel.
Lily swept the inside of her bowl with her nose, assuring herself that no bits of kibble remained, then she walked to Isaac’s side and gently rested her head on his thigh. Isaac lowered the newspaper and gave the dog a reproachful glance. “You’ve had enough, my little glutton. Now go lie down. Better yet, go tell Mom—Sarah—to hurry.”
The dog huffed softly, as if she couldn’t believe she’d been rebuffed, then turned and trotted toward the bedroom, her nails clicking rhythmically on the tile. Isaac made a mental note to trim her nails the next time he found her snoring at the foot of the bed.
After finding nothing of interest in the paper, he listened for sounds of Sarah’s progress and heard the roar of her hair dryer. She’d be at least another fifteen minutes.
He glanced at his watch and bit down hard on his lower lip, then turned on the countertop television in the kitchen. Nothing to do but kill time. He picked up his cup of coffee and set it in the microwave, then punched on the power. While the coffee heated, he pulled a bag of bagels from the refrigerator. Leaning against the counter, he folded one arm across his chest as he ate a cold bagel and stared at the television screen. The news reporter had disappeared, replaced by a shot of the Knesset pressroom. The blue-and-white flag of Israel hung on the wall behind the lectern, and a host of reporters fidgeted in the rows of chairs before the dais. An unfamiliar reporter provided insignificant chatter in a voiceover, then the sound stilled as the Israeli prime minister, Avraham Har-Zion, entered the room and stood behind the microphone.
“Citizens of Israel and friends of the world,” Har-Zion began, gripping the sides of the lectern, “it is with great pleasure that I announce the arrival of the honorable Adrian Romulus, president of the European Union Council of Ministers. He has come from far away with important news of great significance to the State of Israel.”
Without another word, the prime minister stepped back. Isaac swallowed and stared at the screen. Har-Zion never relinquished attention easily, and Isaac could not recall an instance when the prime minister had allowed another politician to share the spotlight at a press conference.
Adrian Romulus, a tall, charismatic, and elegantly groomed European, moved into the space Har-Zion had vacated. He did not cling to the lectern, but clasped his hands at his waist in a confident gesture and sent a smile winging across the room. “Citizens of the world,” he began, his baritone voice resonating throughout the room and over the airwaves, “it is with the greatest of pleasure that I approach you to announce a monumental achievement in the annals of human history. At the stroke of midnight last night, Prime Minister Har-Zion and Amir Ben Kalil Riyad, acting president of the Arab League, mutually pledged themselves and their nations to a seven-year treaty of peace.”
A wave of polite applause swept across the room. Isaac lifted a brow, wryly considering that a peace treaty now seemed like too little too late. The Arabs had been nearly obliterated in Gogol’s Invasion, so common sense virtually demanded that they accept Israel’s terms of peace.
Still, old hatreds and resentments died hard. And to the Arab mind, revenge was a dish best served cold. Seven years would be the minimum length of time they’d require to regroup and restrengthen.
He took another bite of the bagel and chewed it slowly. This peace treaty, though welcome, was certainly no surprise. So why did the prime minister look like a child about to burst from happiness?
Romulus waited until the applause died away, then he turned slightly and rested one arm upon the lectern. “For my part,” he continued, “I and the military strength of the Universal Force do hereby confirm and guarantee Israel’s security and peace. In return, Israel has agreed to respect the sanctity and significance of the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque located on the Temple Mount.”
A murmur rose from the crowd. As the victors in a war they did not initiate, Israel had every right to take possession of the Muslim holy sites. Indeed, for weeks the newspapers and politicians had been urging the government to oust the last of the Muslims from the Temple Mount.
Romulus seemed to train in on the camera; his face filled the television screen. “Last night, before I went to sleep, I read the words of the prophet Micah, who wrote that ‘many nations will come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the Temple of the God of Israel.” . . . All the nations will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. All wars will stop. . . . Everyone will live quietly in their own homes in peace and prosperity, for there will be nothing to fear.’”
Romulus paused, letting the silence stretch. “We have reached Micah’s time of peace,” Romulus finally went on, the camera focusing on his dark eyes. “The globe is uniting into one movement, with one government and one network. As one people, we shall all share in the prevailing peace. And so we all rejoice that the Jews have extended mercy and peace toward the Arabs with whom they share this holy land. In return for their act of respect and compassion, the Arabs have agreed to let the Jews of Israel build the Temple upon the Temple Mo
unt without damaging the beautiful Dome of the Rock. The foundation for the third Temple, the Universal Temple of the New Millennium, will be established within the month.”
For an instant Romulus’s announcement hung in an astonished silence, then pandemonium broke loose in the staid atmosphere of the pressroom. Within thirty seconds, Isaac heard the sounds of shouting and firecrackers on the street. Israel had waited nearly two thousand years to rebuild her Temple, and now the miracle had come—
“I can’t believe it.”
Isaac turned to see Sarah standing beside him, her gaze focused on the tiny screen of the black-and-white television. “I never dreamed,” she whispered, her dark eyes growing wet, “that we would live to see the Temple in Jerusalem.”
Isaac turned back to the television, where the camera revealed a horde of reporters crowding around Adrian Romulus. Several of the media personnel were unashamedly weeping, their faces shining with the silvery tracks of tears.
“Your father will be beside himself,” he remarked. When Sarah didn’t answer, he turned to see her staring at the television, a frown puckering the skin between her brows.
Sarah stared at the screen, seeing little but the image of Adrian Romulus. His photograph, plus those of his closest associates, had appeared on her desk last week, along with complete dossiers on each individual. The Israeli government had alerted her group that the European Union president and his entourage planned to visit Israel, and her job included learning anything and everything about Romulus that might pertain to national security. While Mossad gathered intelligence outside the nation, her division, Shin Bet, gathered information on people entering Israel.
Now she understood the significance of her supervisor’s request. Romulus had entered the country with only a small entourage, surprising for a man of such importance. She had reviewed and memorized crucial details about Romulus; his chief adviser, Elijah Reis; a personal servant, a Frenchman named Charles Renoir; and half a dozen Universal Force security officers, most of whom had been hired in Paris. Aside from the French butler’s fondness for several mistresses, nothing in any of the dossiers aroused her suspicion—and that fact alone drew her attention. Everyone had some sort of secret, but either the Mossad had found nothing interesting in Romulus’s record or someone at a higher level had offered him a measure of privacy and protection . . .
She leaned against the refrigerator as the telecast continued. The pandemonium in the pressroom stilled and faded to silence when Romulus held up his hand and gestured toward a rabbi standing at the back of the dais. Sarah recognized him immediately: Baram Cohen, one of the leaders of the haredim, or ultra-Orthodox. An air of isolation clung to his tall figure, and his black hat, long black coat, and long white beard only accented his aloofness. She would have recognized him even if she didn’t have a file on him in her desk drawer—Cohen was one of the leading spokesmen for the haredim, and one of the Kohanim, the descendants of Aaron and the priestly line.
The television camera played over the rabbi for a moment, then focused on a gleaming model of a Temple complex as an aide wheeled it into the pressroom. The assembled crowd, instead of cheering, seemed to falter in a silence that was the holding of a hundred breaths. Sarah realized that she had caught her breath. Could this Temple really rise from the ancient Temple Mount, or would some tragedy strike and put an end to the fledgling miracle in process? Ever since the conclusion of Gogol’s Invasion, several rabbis had predicted that the Messiah would soon return because the Holy One had stepped in to deliver the lives of his people, but she had seen no sign of a miracle . . . until now.
An audible murmur of approval rose from the assembled group as the camera returned to Romulus.
“At the request of your prime minister and the joint Arab leadership,” Romulus said, giving the camera a sincere smile, “my Universal staff and I will maintain a careful watch upon the building of the Temple to guarantee that the Arab holy sites are not harmed. The Universal Network will provide an international peacekeeping force to oversee Israeli construction and assist in negotiations, but we anticipate no major problems.”
He paused and turned toward the prime minister. “I know that your people have been waiting to rebuild the Temple for years, so all the preparatory plans are complete. It is with great joy, then, that I fully anticipate celebrating its dedication with you in less than twelve months.”
Again, pandemonium erupted. The reporters cheered and shouted and pressed closer, but Romulus backed away from the lectern, his hands uplifted, a look of understanding indulgence upon his face.
Sarah turned to find her husband watching her. “You don’t seem very excited,” Isaac said. “I would think that you—”
“I’m curious . . . and a little surprised, that’s all.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug as she opened the refrigerator. “I am thrilled about the Temple, of course. The project will do wonders for national unity and morale. But this Romulus— I’m a little baffled about why he’s here.” She pulled a bottle of orange juice from the shelf. “And why he’s so interested in Israel.”
Isaac moved closer, edging himself into her peripheral vision. “Perhaps he’s one of those romantics who believe Israel is the center of the world.”
“The last of those fools died off a long time ago.” She took pains to keep her voice light as she picked up a glass and poured the juice. She could feel his eyes searching her face, probing—and she wasn’t ready to endure the intensity of his stare.
“We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.” She took a moment to drain the small glass, then put the bottle back into the refrigerator, carefully avoiding Isaac’s gaze. She moved toward the bedroom and called to him over her shoulder: “I’ll be ready in a moment.”
FOUR
THE BLINKING RED LIGHT ATOP THE CAMERA DIED AS the director yelled, “We’re out.” As security guards herded the reporters through an exit door, Romulus said farewell to the prime minister, then extended his hand to Baram Cohen, the aged rabbi whose gaze remained fastened upon the shining model of the Temple.
“Don’t stare too long, my friend,” Romulus said, “or the glory of God will blind you. Isn’t that what happened to one of the Patriarchs?”
A flush rose to the rabbi’s cheekbones as he turned and offered Romulus a stern smile. “You are thinking of Moses, but he was not blinded. His face merely reflected the glory of HaShem, blessed be his name.”
“Well, then.” Romulus crossed his arms, a little disconcerted by the rabbi’s steady gaze. “I’m sure you would know more about such things than I. I am still confusing the legends of Medusa and Noah’s ark.”
The rabbi nodded, but his eyes had emptied—he had shifted the focus of his gaze to some interior field of vision Romulus could not see. Cohen’s voice hardened slightly as he answered, “The miracles of our God are more than legend.”
Romulus felt a sudden chill in his belly, as if he had just swallowed a chunk of ice. He had been troubled by these odd premonitions before, and on each occasion he had brushed up against a foe with real spiritual authority. This antiquated rabbi had power—but from where did it come?
Romulus shifted his weight and leaned away from the old man. “I would never want to cause offense, Rabbi.”
Cohen’s pupils focused and trained in on Romulus again, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a barely perceptible smile. “Thank you for your help with our Temple, Mr. Romulus. The Jewish people have been waiting a very long time for this day.”
Romulus felt the hair at the back of his neck rise with premonition, but he ignored the sensation and fixed the rabbi in a direct gaze. “Ah, but a better day is coming. One year from today, my friend, we shall walk into that Temple together. And on that day we shall truly rejoice.”
Isaac dropped Sarah at the nondescript office complex where her division of Shin Bet pretended not to exist, then he nosed the car back into traffic for the drive to the synagogue. Automatically, he minded the traffic signals and watched for pedestria
ns, but his thoughts circled around the sights and sounds of the morning.
Everyone knew the peace treaty was a fait accompli. The Arabs were in no position to make war, and a seven-year treaty would provide a breathing space for Arabs and Jews alike. The Jews would be able to establish their Temple on the Temple Mount without fear of interruption, and the Arabs could lick their wounds and let their surviving sons grow to maturity in peace. And even though the Arabs had historically and histrionically called for Israel’s expulsion from Palestine, the Jews did not wish to annihilate their Arab neighbors. After all, both nations were descended from Abraham, and the Jews themselves had suffered under the ruthless lash of genocide. They were not murderers. Every Jew who had grown up studying Talmud learned early on that “by three things is the world preserved: by truth, by judgment, and by peace.”
Romulus was a peacemaker, no doubt. He had earned a reputation for establishing peace in the war-torn hot spots within the European Union; he had offered hands of peace to the world. Now he was offering the military strength of his Universal Force to ensure the peace as the Jews fulfilled the dreams of a thousand lifetimes and rebuilt the Temple.
Peace was all Isaac had ever wanted. As a boy he had lain on the sandy beach at Tel Aviv and stared at the endless canopy of blue sky, seeking that same quality of serene stillness in his own life. Even while angry men shot at each other in the occupied territories, the sky was always tranquil, always pleasant, always far above the fray. As a young man, he had chosen one of Rabbi Hillel’s maxims as his personal guideline: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace.”
He loved harmony. He craved quiet. Why, then, was peace so hard to find?
A mocking voice inside his brain provided the answers: He could not find peace because his heart had broken when a terrorist bomb exploded aboard a Jerusalem bus and killed his mother. He could not rest because his soul had been torn asunder when his only son died in an earthquake some attributed to the forces of war. With a broken heart and a shredded soul, he could not love his wife as he once had, nor could he adore the God who had always seemed more image than entity . . .