They called family and friends around the world. They surfed the Internet, e-mailing each other with the latest news or gossip, anything to stay and feel connected. Israeli newspaper Web sites in Hebrew, English, and Russian saw traffic surge to all-time highs. Two of the smaller Israeli news sites crashed, but most were linked through massive server farms and huge broadband pipes that shipped their material to the uttermost parts of the earth with little or no disruption.
No discos were open, nor were theaters or most restaurants. The entire economy had basically come screeching to a halt. No oil was being refined. No stocks were being traded. Grocery stores were almost empty, cleaned out by a nation preparing for war.
By nightfall, air-raid sirens began going off constantly. Israeli fighter jets streaked across the sky.
It was almost midnight when Mordechai finally dropped into bed. He could sense the nation’s tension mounting. His appearances on Israel’s leading talk shows were big news. It seemed everyone in Israel was talking about Ezekiel’s prophecies.
Most accused Mordechai of losing his mind.
Few breathed any easier.
McCoy awoke early on Wednesday morning.
She hated sitting and waiting. She hated listening to police scanners and Gogolov-dominated radio news. She hated being away from Bennett. Was he still alive? Did Jibril really have him? How much did he know about what was about to happen?
The Zorogins had explained the Ezekiel prophecy to her during the past few days, but she had so many questions and so little time.
The U.N. deadline was just two days away. Russia and the world now braced for war.
McCoy desperately needed a phone line out of the country, but there were none to be found. Mikhail and Karenna Zorogin were risking their lives to give her food and shelter; she was risking her life by staying.
Suddenly the news she had been dreading was broadcast over the police scanner.
She jumped up and frantically knocked on the Zorogins’ bedroom door.
“We can’t stay here anymore,” she said as loudly as she dared.
A moment later, the door opened.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mikhail, his voice raspy with fatigue.
“The FSB just found the car I stole.”
“How? Where?”
There was fear in Karenna’s eyes.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re searching an apartment row two blocks from here. It’s only a matter of time before they enlarge the perimeter. Do you have a car?”
Mikhail shook his head. “No.”
“Can you borrow one?” McCoy pressed.
“No, no, almost every believer we know has left the city. They’re going to their dachas, or to friends’ or relatives’ homes, anywhere so long as they’re not in Moscow when the judgment comes.”
McCoy studied Karenna. Her eyes seemed to plead with her husband, but for what? Mikhail looked away from them both and paced. He’d been the calmest of the three over the past few days. But suddenly something had changed.
“It’s time, Misha,” Karenna whispered. “We don’t have a choice.”
For a few moments the two were silent.
“You are right,” the pastor finally said. “Come, we must hurry.”
Hadassah three-one-four?
Even after a day’s discussion, Bennett and Hamid were bewildered by Mordechai’s mysterious sign-off.
The news about McCoy was encouraging. But if she was alive, Gogolov’s forces were hunting her down. Or maybe it was all a lie. Even if it was true, how were they supposed to find her in time — if they could find her at all?
Bennett was convinced there was something Mordechai was trying to tell them. The question was, what? Hadassah was the name of a hospital in Jerusalem. Actually, there were Hadassah hospitals all over the world. Was there one in Moscow? Whom could they ask without giving themselves away?
Bennett told Hamid to power up the satellite phone again, tap into a wireless Internet account, and do a search for “Hadassah and Moscow.” Over twenty thousand entries came up. A skim through the first few dozen led nowhere.
Hamid did another search for “Hadassah 314.”
That brought up over two thousand entries, starting with St. Louis area phone numbers for former Hadassah Hospital personnel and grant recipients.
“What does Hadassah mean, anyway?” asked Hamid as Bennett pushed the minivan through mountain curves at speeds that made even Hamid nervous.
“I have no idea. Look it up.”
A moment later, Hamid said, “It means Esther.”
Esther 3:14? Could it be that simple?
Hamid logged on to an online Bible search site and entered “Esther 3:14.” When the verse popped up, he read it to Bennett.
“I don’t understand,” said Hamid. “What does that mean?”
Bennett couldn’t help but smile.
So, the old man had taken his advice after all. He’d given “The Ezekiel Option” to Marcus Jackson. Bennett just wished he could see the expression on the president’s face when the story broke. And on his mother’s.
The couple worked quickly.
They straightened the small apartment, making it look as though they might be away on holiday. Then Karenna pulled out an already packed suitcase from underneath their bed, stuffed several duffel bags with boxes and cans of food from the pantry, grabbed a couple of flashlights from a drawer, and followed her husband into the hallway, motioning McCoy to stay quiet and follow close behind.
The trio took the back stairwell rather than the elevator.
Nineteen flights down, they pushed through a fire door and found themselves in the basement. All three turned on flashlights, communicating only through hand signals.
Mikhail led them down a narrow hallway, then into a musty storage room draped in cobwebs. As McCoy stared in amazement, the couple pushed aside an old soda machine, revealing a trapdoor that looked like the front of a bank vault.
“It is a bomb shelter,” Mikhail whispered. “They built it in the fifties when they put up this building. No one knows it is here. I used to play down here all the time, and I never found it. But my father was in the politburo. He had all kinds of privileges. He never had to fear a nuclear war in the same way others did. Just before he died, he brought me down here. He told me I might need it one day and swore me to secrecy. I thought he was crazy.”
McCoy descended into the steel and concrete cavern.
The walls held shelves fully stocked with foodstuffs and large bottles of water. There were three sets of bunk beds, clean sheets and towels, gas masks, and weapons, none of which looked more than six months old. There was even a Geiger counter, though it was by far the oldest item in the room.
“You’ve been planning for this, haven’t you?” McCoy asked.
“The prophecy is very clear, Miss McCoy,” Mikhail agreed, locking the vault door above them. “Ezekiel 38:7 says, ‘Be prepared.’ That should not just apply to Gog, should it? I have been teaching my congregation about this prophecy for months. I have been telling them to get ready. We need to be alive and prepared when millions of Russians become followers of Christ.”
Then Mikhail opened a drawer, and McCoy’s eyes went wide.
59
Costello had devoured the Times and Drudge stories.