“I assume you realize how close we are to it now,” Doron sighed. “A matter of hours, I suspect. They will hit us, or we will hit them. I guess I just wanted a familiar face around. I hope you don’t mind.”
“To the contrary,” Mordechai replied. “I am honored.”
Doron stared into his eyes for a long while, as if he were searching for something but could not find it. “Eli, let me ask you a question.”
“Anything.”
“You really believe this, don’t you — that God is going to supernaturally save us at the last possible second? Tell me this is an Andy Warhol moment, Eli, fifteen minutes of fame for a man who always lived in the shadowlands.”
“No, I am a true believer.”
“Why? I mean no disrespect, Eli. You have never come across as a religious fanatic, even when you first told me that you had become a follower of Yeshua. I have always considered you a serious man, a man of evidence and of extraordinary insight and wisdom. But you must admit, to many ears you do sound… well… not your usual self.”
“Actually, many are listening quite carefully.”
“They want hope. We all do. But false hope is no hope at all.”
“Is that what you think Jesus is, Mr. Prime Minister — a false hope?”
“Please do not take it personally, Eli. I am glad you have found something that makes you happy. God knows I wish I could do the same. I read your brief. I even enjoyed it. It got me to pull out the Bible my wife gave me on our wedding day. I did not read it then. And I had not read it since, until yesterday. And this is why, my friend. Nietzsche was right. God is dead, or impotent. I am not sure it makes much of a difference.”
61
“The president will see you now.”
It was a few minutes after midnight in Washington. Two Marine guards opened the door. Ken Costello straightened his tie and stepped into the Situation Room.
His heart almost stopped. He had requested to see MacPherson alone, but the first person he saw was his boss, Secretary of State Nick Warner.
It was a full house. The vice president was there, as were Defense Secretary Burt Trainor, CIA Director Jack Mitchell, National Security Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick, and Bob Corsetti.
Costello knew the situation was grave. The president had been working the phones all day with world leaders and the U.N. secretary-general, trying to find some way to resolve the situation, to no avail. Costello suddenly felt foolish for taking any of the president’s rapidly diminishing time.
“You picked a bad night for a visit, Ken,” the president said without looking up. “What have you got?”
Thick, black clouds formed on the horizon.
Though barely eight o’clock in the morning in Russia, it was now so dark that every car on the road had its headlights on.
But no one was heading north. Instead, a sea of humanity was heading toward them, away from the city. Whether they believed the Ezekiel prophecies or simply expected an Israeli missile strike, Bennett had no idea. Either way, no one in his right mind wanted to be in Moscow at the moment. Thousands were escaping from the city they feared would soon be ground zero.
“How much farther?” Bennett asked.
At the rate Hamid was driving, they had to be close. Bennett glanced at the speedometer. They were clocking in at well over 140 kilometers per hour.
“We’re about five or six miles out,” Hamid said. “We should see Moscow after that next hill.”
“What is it, Ken?” the president repeated.
Costello could feel the perspiration bleeding into his starched white collar. MacPherson didn’t have any time to play games.
“Mr. President, I’ve been reviewing—”
“For crying out loud, Ken, spit it out.”
Costello thought of himself as a careful, thoughtful man. He was a professional diplomat, after all. His whole life was built on delivering carefully chosen words at carefully chosen moments. He glanced around for a glass of water but realized he hadn’t the time to drink it. It was now or never.
“Mr. President, I’ve been reviewing the research behind ‘The Ezekiel Option.’…”
He could almost feel the oxygen being sucked from the room.
Hamid glanced in the rearview mirror and tensed.
“We have company.”
Bennett looked to his side mirror and saw the blue flashing lights. A Moscow police car was bearing down on them. “Can we outrun them?”
“To where?” asked Hamid. “We are heading toward heavily armed roadblocks, and even if we could lose this guy for a few minutes, we would alert the entire Moscow police force in the process.”
Hamid was right. Fatigue was clouding Bennett’s judgment. He glanced back again as the patrolman turned on his siren. They had no choice. They had to stop.
“I believe the prophecy is real, Mr. President.”
Costello heard the words come out of his mouth, but he didn’t remember deciding to say them. His head was telling him to bolt. But somehow he kept talking.
“All of the intelligence we’ve been gathering and sifting through over the past several hours supports Dr. Mordechai’s observations. It’s logical for us to consider that his conclusions may, in fact, be accurate as well.”
Hamid pulled the car over to the shoulder.
“Stall him,” Bennett said, unlocking the passenger-side door and sliding off his seat to the floor. He wiped the sweat off his hands and clicked off the pistol’s safety.
“What are you talking about?” said Hamid. “What are you doing?”
For the first time since the road through the Iranian mountains, Bennett heard genuine fear in Hamid’s voice.
“Roll down your window and stall this guy,” Bennett repeated. “And make sure the interior lights don’t come on. I’m getting out.”
“What? They will kill you.”
“There’s only one,” Bennett shot back. “Now shut up and pray.”
Hamid clicked off the interior lights and rolled down his window.
“Is he out of his car?” Bennett whispered.
“Not yet.”
“Probably running our plates. Tell me the minute he starts walking toward you.”
The DCI slammed down his phone.
“Mr. President, we’ve got a new problem.”
All heads turned from Costello to Mitchell.
“What is it, Jack?”
Mitchell directed the president to two new feeds from two American spy satellites. “Screen one is the live image of a KH-12 spy satellite hovering over a Russian strategic missile base in the Ural Mountains,” said Mitchell. “That one there.”
MacPherson blanched. “The Russians are getting ready to launch?”
“They are, sir. You’re looking down the barrel of an SS-18 Satan ICBM.”
“How many warheads?”
“Ten, sir, all nuclear.”
The single SS-18 could annihilate all of Israel in less than thirty minutes.
“Why are they readying two dozen more?” asked the vice president, looking at the other screen.
“They’re not, sir,” Mitchell responded. “What you’re seeing on screen two is an Israeli missile base in the Negev, home of twenty-five Jericho missiles, all of which are equipped with nuclear warheads as well.”
“They’re fueling all of them?”
“Not just those, sir. The Israelis are warming up all 253 of their ICBMs.”
“Who went first?” asked MacPherson.
“We’re not sure, Mr. President. NORAD picked up warning signs on the Russian bird first, but it’s not clear.”