Mercury Falls (5 page)

"What do we have for Christine other than these Apocalypse characters?" he asked Troy.

"I thought she was going to be interviewing that Galileo person," said Troy, peering skeptically at Christine.

"He'll have to wait," said Harry, trying to sound like he was making a sacrifice on Christine's behalf. In reality, the Mercurians—as they were being called—had just popped up on his radar that morning and thus far hadn't done anything particularly newsworthy. It would probably be premature to send Christine to Berkeley at this point.

"Well," said Troy, "I suppose she could interview Katie Midford."

"Katie Midford," repeated Harry. "You mean the waitress who wrote those satanic children's books?"

"Young adult fantasy, yes," said Troy. "She wrote the Charlie Nyx series."

"Ugh," said Christine, who was vaguely familiar with Midford's books. Her objection to them wasn't so much that they were satanic as that they were childish and trite. At least, that was the impression she had gotten from skimming one of the book jackets and a review in the
Times
. If she were perfectly honest with herself, she would have admitted that she was not a little resentful of Midford's success. While Christine was struggling to survive as a journalist, a talentless hack like Katie Midford was making millions from fabricated garbage about troglodytes and vampires. The only thing worse in her mind than the Charlie Nyx mania that was sweeping the nation was the anti–Charlie Nyx movement that was being spurred on by Christian publications like the
Banner
.

"Isn't that whole thing sort of played out by now?" she asked hopefully. "I mean, she's on what, book five of the series? I would think that by now the lines are pretty well drawn between the pimply, socially inept dorks in favor of the books and the humorless, self-righteous dorks who are against them. Did a prominent dork switch sides or something?"

"I take it," said Troy, "that you haven't heard about Midford's latest marketing gimmick."

Christine flashed Troy a look that managed to convey both impatience with Troy's roundabout way of making a point and preemptive disdain at whatever that point might turn out to be.

"Get this," said Troy. Troy was the only person Christine knew who began sentences with a dramatic use of the phrase "Get this." He went on, after a suitably dramatic pause, "Midford's marketing people held a contest to select the
Antichrist
."

"Oh for Pete's sake," muttered Christine. "And now we're going to send a reporter to Katie Midford's house and ask her absurd questions about whether she really was once a high priestess in a voodoo cult, and how she responds to allegations that she wrote the original manuscripts of the Charlie Nyx books with the blood of an infant." She turned to Harry. "You realize they're manipulating you, right? They
like
it when you demonize them. It helps them sell more books. And movie tickets, and action figures, and God knows what else."

"Be that as it may, Christine," replied Harry, "it's still a story. We're obligated to report on it. And she's right here in LA. No need to get on a plane for once."

"I won't do it," said Christine, shaking her head obstinately. "Besides the fact that it's a completely manufactured story with no intrinsic value, I meant it when I said no more Apocalypse stuff. Armageddon, the Four Horsemen, the Antichrist. . .I don't want anything to do with any of it."

"This is what's happening in the world," said Harry. "You can't pick and choose what news stories—"

"No,
I
can't, but
you
can," said Christine. "And you
have
, for the past three years. For some reason you've decided that all I'm good for is interviewing these apocalyptic nutcases, and if that's the case, then I need to find another line of work. Or start my own cult, maybe. After all, I know all the pitfalls. For crying out loud, Harry, just give me a real story."

Harry regarded her sternly. After a moment, he turned to Troy. "What about the olive branch thing?" he asked.

"What?" yelped Troy. "No, she can't. . .she's never. . ."

"What olive branch thing?" asked Christine.

"I thought we were sending Maria on that," said Troy. "She's supposed to be flying out of Afghanistan any day now. . ."

"She's still hemmed in by that damned warlord blocking the road to Kabul," said Harry. "The earliest she'd be able to get to Tel Aviv would be Friday. If things continue to escalate, that may be too late."

Troy's brow furrowed. "Still, I think we're better off taking that chance. Maria has experience with this sort of thing. Or we could send. . ." Troy trailed off, unable to come up with an alternative.

"What sort of thing?" asked Christine, becoming frustrated. But neither man answered.

A recent spate of violence across the globe had strained the
Banner's
admittedly limited resources. Despite his belief in an imminent Apocalypse, Harry had taken his time in staffing the Banner's overseas bureaus, stressing—as he said—quality over quantity. He was particularly concerned with the quality of the Middle East bureau, to the degree that it currently consisted of precisely one high-quality individual—who was now over a thousand miles away from the scene of the violence in Israel, covering an insurgency in Afghanistan. The Afghanistan correspondent was in Somalia, filling in for another reporter, who had been pulled to South Africa.

"There's no one else," said Harry. "And you have to admit, Christine has earned this. She's been writing about the end of the world for three years now. Maybe it's time we send her there."

"Send me where?" demanded Christine. "Dammit, what are you two talking about?"

"Israel, Christine," Harry answered. "There's been an incident in the West Bank, and things are starting to get messy over there. Messier than usual. Most likely it will blow over by the time you get there, but there's also a chance that things could really get out of hand."

"Messy how?" asked Christine, knowing that there was only one kind of messy that was likely to get Harry's interest.

"Fighting," said Troy. "Between the Israelis and the Syrians. Maybe the Iranians, too."

"You mean," Christine said, "like an actual war?"

"Yeah, Christine," said Harry. "Like an actual war. Don't worry, we'll be pulling Maria out of Afghanistan if the fighting drags on, but I want to get someone on the ground as soon as possible to get a sense of what's going on over there."

"I don't. . ." started Christine. "That is, I'm thrilled to have the opportunity, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. . ."

"Don't worry," said Harry. "Thanks to the
Banner
's history of support for Israel, we've got some pretty good connections over there. General David Isaacson, for one."

Christine nodded weakly. She was certainly no expert on the Middle East, but she knew that name.
Everybody
knew that name.

"You. . .want me to interview. . ." she began.

"Yes, Christine. I want you to interview the guy they're calling the Architect of the Apocalypse. I hope you'll forgive this violation of your new policy."

She nodded again.

"Troy," said Harry, "finish briefing Christine and then get her on the first flight to Tel Aviv."

On the Mundane Plane, as you know, every name has an origin. Before Armageddon was an event, it was a place, like Kent State or Altamont. Unlike Kent State or Altamont, Armageddon was an event almost as soon as it was a place, and it continued to be that event over and over, until everybody knew the event and almost nobody remembered the place.

The mountain of Megiddo—sometimes called Har-Mageddon, or Armageddon for short—has been the site of a lot of really big disagreements throughout human history. This is a rather surprising fact, as on first glance there wouldn't appear to be anything near Megiddo worth disagreeing
about
. Megiddo is devoid of nearly everything that commonly causes violent disagreements among people, such as petroleum deposits, waterfront property, and soccer matches.

In actuality, the disagreements generally occurred elsewhere—often hundreds or even thousands of miles away—but no matter how vehemently the involved parties disagreed about whatever it was they were disagreeing about, they somehow always managed to agree to duke it out at Megiddo. The Battle of Megiddo is sort of the Superbowl of geopolitical conflicts—not so much a single event as a recurring contest featuring the two strongest teams of the current season.

The Battle of Megiddo was first fought in the fifteenth century BC between the armies of the Egyptian pharaoh Thutmose III and a large Canaanite coalition led by the rulers of the city-states of Megiddo and Kadesh.

The Battle of Megiddo was next fought in 609 BC, between Egypt and the Kingdom of Judah.

The Battle of Megiddo was again fought in 1918 between Allied troops led by General Edmund Allenby and the Ottoman army.

The Battle of Megiddo was about to be fought again.

Armageddon, the place, was scheduled to become Armageddon, the event, one last time, just days from the date of Christine's linoleum installation. Christine had no way of knowing this, of course. She was, however, starting to feel very uneasy about her linoleum, for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint.

So this is it, Christine thought.
Armageddon
.

She looked around, trying to take in the spectacle. I should get a T-shirt, she thought. She supposed they offered a nice selection in the gift shop—maybe something along the lines of "I was at Armageddon, and all I have to show for it is this lousy T-shirt."

Below the terrace, the sheer walls of the Jezreel Valley fell away. It was midmorning, but much of the valley was still in shadow. Christine tried to picture massive armies clashing in the ultimate battle for the fate of the world below. Unfortunately, Christine didn't have much of an attention span, and her thoughts drifted back to her linoleum. It had been less than a day, and already she was having trouble picturing the pattern in her mind. She wondered if that was normal.

What am I even doing here? she wondered. I'm not qualified for this. I should be teaching high school English, not covering a war in the Middle East. I should be in the land of predicates and infinitives, not Predator missiles and
intifadas
. True, she had agitated for a "real assignment," and they didn't get much more real than this. But she had envisioned a happy medium between First Prophet Jonas Bitters and General David Isaacson of the Israeli Defense Force. Maybe a public official embroiled in some sort of sleazy sex scandal or, conversely, a porn star running for office.

She had brushed up on the details of the situation on the plane ride over. This particular crisis had begun with the deaths of several Palestinian teenagers at the hands of Israeli soldiers in the West Bank. Harry's disclaimers notwithstanding, the story had not blown over while she was in transit to Tel Aviv. In fact, it had done whatever the opposite of blowing over was.

So here Christine stood, on the brink of Armageddon, thinking about needless carnage and her linoleum. The Olive Branch War, they were calling it. Well, except for the BBC, which insisted, as a matter of principle, on calling it the "so-called Olive Branch War." She wondered what the point of it all was. She wondered why it was necessary for so many to suffer and die. She wondered if she would still like the pattern when she got home. She wondered why, five thousand miles away from her condo in Glendale, she couldn't get her brain off her floor. Linoleum, she thought. That's a funny word. Linoleum. Li-no-lee-um. Linoleumlinoleumlinoleum.

Precisely at ten a.m., she was met by a clean-cut man in a khaki uniform who showed her some credentials that could have been purchased from a vending machine for all she knew, and informed her that he was to escort her to the general. She was helped into the back of a Lincoln Navigator, blindfolded, and then driven for nearly an hour along a circuitous route that seemed to be designed to hit every pothole in the Middle East. Finally, having reached the "undisclosed location" that was playing host to General Isaacson, she was led out of the vehicle and escorted inside some kind of building. Only then was the blindfold removed.

The building was an unremarkable concrete block house. In place of ordinary home furnishings there were the hastily assembled trappings of an Israeli military headquarters: folding chairs, tables, laptops, and telephones all tethered by a chaotic mass of wires that fed into a conduit running through the wall to a generator humming in the next room. Elite armed guards stood watch on the front porch. Israeli soldiers patrolled the alleyway outside. In the distance were the sounds of explosions and men shouting.

At a folding table before her, engrossed in paperwork, was a stout, gray-haired man. Christine recognized him from pictures as General David Isaacson, but he seemed smaller and less threatening than she expected. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

"Do you ever get the feeling," said Isaacson, looking up from the papers, "that you're being manipulated by forces beyond your understanding?"

The question unnerved Christine. Of course she had felt that way. In fact, it had never really occurred to her that there was any other way to feel. What was more disturbing was that this man, General David Isaacson, was arguably one of the most powerful men on earth.

"No," she said. "Have you?"

"Not until about three weeks ago," said General Isaacson.

Even before the start of the Olive Branch War, thought Christine. "Why, what happened. . .?"

"I apologize," said the general, shoving his chair back and snapping to his feet. "I'm being rude. My name is David Isaacson. You must be the reporter from the
Banner
."

"Christine Temetri," said Christine, shaking the general's hand.

"Please, have a seat," said the general. He gestured to another chair across the table.

Christine sat down, and the general took his seat.

"So," said the general. "So how is Harry Giddings?"

Christine involuntarily clenched her teeth and then forced a smile in an effort to counteract this display of pique, catching a glimpse of the unflattering result in a metallic briefcase on the general's desk. She looked, she thought, like an otter whose head had been crushed with a mallet.

It wasn't that she didn't like Harry. She didn't, but it wasn't that. Mostly she just disliked being asked about him, in the way that famous people's children dislike being asked about their parents. Christine's usual tactic was to turn the question around on the questioner. This, in fact, was her method of dealing with most questions, which is one of the reasons she wasn't a very good substitute English teacher.

Christine had learned years ago, as most journalists do, that the main drawback to asking so many questions was that questions tended to provoke answers. After all, it is difficult for a journalist to formulate a coherent narrative when subjects keep providing information that is, by and large, irrelevant to the point one is trying to make.

The question that came out of her mouth was not one she had rehearsed on the plane ride over.

"How well do you know Mr. Giddings?" she asked.

"We met at that conference in Norway a while back. We've had occasional contact since." The general added, after a moment, "He seems very sincere in his love for the land of Israel."

Christine frowned. "It doesn't bother you that Harry's interest in Israel stems from his belief that Israel is destined to play a pivotal role in the Christian Apocalypse?"

The general shrugged. "I'm a soldier, not an ideologue. I take allies wherever I find them." He went on, "It's quite a vote of confidence that Harry sent you here to cover this story. I must admit that I'm not familiar with your work. Have you been to the Middle East before?"

"Er," said Christine. "Not exactly. In college, I came very close. . ."

"How close?" said the general, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"Portugal."

"I see," said the general, clearly unamused.

Christine felt a sudden tickling of sweat down her left side. The initial pleasantries having concluded, the interview was going badly. The general waited stolidly, his stone gray eyes seeming to stare through her. Christine was used to feeling morally and intellectually superior to her subjects, but Isaacson made her feel silly and insignificant. She wished very much she hadn't said that thing about Portugal. Had she offended him? Forget it, she told herself. Just press on. Make your next question count.

"I understand," she said, "that Israel is often referred to as the Portugal of the Middle East."

The general, his face still expressionless, said nothing.

A bead of sweat trickled down her right side as well. She shivered involuntarily and then tried to hide it by coughing. The dusty air caught in her throat, and she broke into an authentic coughing fit. Good lord, what am I doing? Christine thought.
Get a hold of yourself.

When she finally recovered, she said, "To tell you the truth, General, I really don't know why Mr. Giddings sent me here."

"But you have covered a war before?"

"In a sense," said Christine.

"What sense?"

"Well, in the sense that a three-day takeover of a Circle K by seventeen inbred mountain people calling themselves the Army of Heaven can be considered a war."

Christine's thoughts drifted to a kid she knew growing up named Steve. Steve was both mentally slow and exceptionally large for his age—a combination that frequently resulted in people looking at him the way General Isaacson was looking at Christine now.

"The fact is," Christine said, "I'm out of my league on this assignment. Normally I do what we call 'fluff' pieces. I mean, our readers don't consider them fluff pieces because, well, they're mostly a little insane, but between you and me I haven't done much serious news. You remember that guy who claimed his dog was channeling Nostradamus? I covered that. Oh, and I broke the story about the Toltec prophecy that said the world would end on August thirty-first of last year. I probably would have gotten a Pulitzer for that one if the awards had been given out before Labor Day."

"No matter," said Isaacson. "You must be sure to make it to Jerusalem."

Christine was somewhat heartened by the fact that Isaacson didn't seem ready to dismiss her entirely despite her performance. She could only guess that he appreciated her honesty. "I would certainly like to," she said, "but I'm not sure how much longer I'll be here. I expect to be replaced by the first string in a day or two."

The general smiled wryly. He was either warming to Christine or had at least decided to find her amusing. He looked about the dim room at the hastily assembled trappings of the Israeli force's headquarters. Isaacson seemed pleased at the humble appearance of the nerve center guiding this arm of his nation's massive incursion into Syria.

"It's a shame," he said.

"What is?"

"That you won't be here for a few days longer."

"Why?"

The general took another drag on his cigarette. Christine noted that the pack, lying on the table next to the case, was labeled
Lucky Strike
. "You're going to miss the end of the war."

Christine was skeptical. "The end of the war? I'm certainly no military expert, but everybody seems to think you're hopelessly bogged down in Imtan. . ."

"We're keeping three divisions of Syrian troops occupied in Imtan."

"And how many divisions have you deployed there?"

"Three."

"Ah. Forgive me for questioning your military genius. Remind me of the strategic importance of Imtan again?"

"It has no intrinsic value as a strategic target."

"Then why are you attacking it?"

"A better question would be, 'Why are they defending it?'"

"If I had to guess," Christine said flatly, "I'd say it was because you are attacking it."

The general's lips pursed in mild irritation.

"A valid reason, but not a sufficient explanation in itself," the general said. "If the target had no strategic importance, one would expect the enemy to put up little resistance."

"So," Christine began, "you're attacking Imtan. . ."

"Because the Syrians are defending it. Precisely. Also. . ." The general paused, his stony facade failing to conceal his eagerness to tell more.

General Isaacson was nearly seventy, but he looked twenty years younger. This, Christine reasoned, was God's way of compensating him for the fact that he was brutally ugly and had looked to be on the verge of middle age since his bar mitzvah. He had been born with a full head of bristly white hair matted by amniotic fluid and meconium—an aspect which he seemed to have taken pains to maintain over the years as he had bounded up the ranks of the Israeli military. He looked the same in every picture Christine had seen of him. The hideous scar running from his left temple to his upper lip, which she had at first taken for a war injury, was present even in his school pictures. During the course of her hurried background work on him, she had learned that it was the result of an accident that occurred at the age of ten, when he was helping his father build a horse barn just outside of Bethlehem. He had fallen from a ladder and his face had caught on an exposed nail. Tetanus nearly killed him, and the scar healed irregularly so that although it had faded over the years, even today it looked like a river that had flooded its banks. This event, along with a series of other carpentry-related mishaps, ultimately prompted David Benjamin Isaacson to swear off construction and pursue a career as an officer in the IDF.