The Last Judgment (5 page)

“That was it? He kept referring to that idea:
The time is short?”

Bill and Esther nodded.

“Do you have a guess as to what he meant?”

After a few seconds of silence, Bill answered.

“Just this…whenever he would talk like that—”

“Yes?”

“Well, I could just sense it—like he was carrying this invisible burden. You could just feel that something was troubling his soul.”

Will studied the two parents as they sat there, hands folded in their laps.

He recognized the look on their faces. Will, now that he was a parent too, could understand it.

“When did you start to notice this change in Gilead?”

Esther spoke up after a moment. “I think it was after he came back from his trip last summer—don't you, Bill?”

Her husband nodded.

“What trip?” Will asked.

“Well…it was a short trip to the Middle East—Jordan, and Israel too, I think,” Bill replied.

Will leaned forward with interest. “What did Gilead do while he was over there?”

After a moment, Bill answered, with a puzzled look.

“You know, we really never could get a straight answer on that…”

5

I
N THE SMALL, DINGY APARTMENT
in the eastern section of Jerusalem, three men were finishing their tea, sipping from small cups. One of them, an Arab, was serving his two associates from a corroded samovar.

A Frenchman with blond hair in his early thirties, one of the other two, was continuing to press his point in their discussion, in low, hushed tones. Now he was on his feet, quickly walking over to the window to look out, and then stepping back to his spot on the frayed sofa next to the coffee table.

“So the point is,” the blond man said as he seated himself, “we don't know how closely we're being watched. I feel sometimes that there are eyes all around us here.”

The third man was a young American, with long, dirty brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore glasses, which gave him an odd, scholarly look. His pants were army fatigues, and he wore a frayed plaid shirt.

“So, Yossin,” the American said to the Arab man, “you're like the intelligence guy here. What's the deal?”

The Arab man paused. His wife, a delicate younger woman garbed in a dark brown burka, had quietly slipped into the room to check the samovar to see if it needed to be filled with more tea.

The Arab man nodded to her, and she bowed her head and retreated from the room. After she was gone, Yossin, the Arab man, answered.

“There is nothing new—nothing you haven't heard before. I keep a warm, open dialogue with the Christian groups. The Catholics, Greek Orthodox, the Coptic Christians…we talk. We share tea together. They invite me to some of their interfaith meetings. It's guarded, but friendly. I doubt any of them have any suspicions. Or concerns. I have no worries there…”

“And what about the Protestants? The evangelicals? I see them as a potential problem,” the Frenchman said. “Because they are without hierarchy. Loosely organized—you never know what's going to happen there. Don't you think?”

Yossin was weighing the question, tilting his head slightly one way then the other, before he spoke.

“I do not share your concern. I've studied them—the evangelicals—yes, they are loosely organized. And sometimes…it seems…that they blow with the wind. But they have zeal. And their mobility of thought, sentiment—that can be to our advantage.”

“So, you are now talking about—about
him?
” the Frenchman asked.

“Yeah,” the American added, “you're thinking now about the appearing of the al-Hakim, right?”

Yossin threw the American a displeased look and raised his hand to silence him.

“My friend,” Yossin said in a low whisper, “we must be cautious—very careful about
who
we talk about. And what we say.”

“What about other groups?” the Frenchman asked. “Are there any…questions being asked?”

Yossin shook his head.

“I know of none…the Muslims, the Palestinians, they are preoccupied right now with this new peace plan and the statehood initiative. Now they're all focused on what they see as an imminent victory in obtaining eastern Jerusalem as their capital. And securing the Temple Mount. They pay no attention to us.”

“And the Jews? What about them?” the Frenchman asked. As he did, he was on his feet again, heading over to the window.

“Yeah, like Israeli intelligence—the Mossad,” the American added. “That's really the bottom line here, right? I'm kinda stressed about whether they've got some infiltrators in our group…tapping our phones.”

“I'm not worried about the Mossad,” the Arab man said. “Recently there have been…developments. I've made my own inroads. I am working with some people of great influence. And power. And wealth. I assure you, the Mossad will not be a problem.”

The Frenchman was walking back from the window. His voice was tense, animated. He gestured vigorously with both hands.

“The timing is so critical. So monumental—a thousand years of waiting. And now we approach the consummation.”

“And because the Great Appearing is almost upon us, we must be very careful,” the Arab said with a sense of inner calm in his voice. He finished his tea and placed his small cup on the saucer. Then he stared at the American and continued.

“Which is why
you
must stop the frivolity. We do not want to be noticed—not until the very end.”

“What are you talking about?” the American said, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head.

“I'm talking about the T-shirts. I've heard that you've worn them—with our name inscribed across the front. You must stop that kind of childishness right now.”

“You're talking about one of these?” the American said with a big grin. He stood up and unbuttoned his plaid shirt to reveal a picture of a Latin cross on top of a hill with three pillars under the arch of the hill. And at the top of the T-shirt, across the chest, there were large block-printed letters: KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE MOUNT.

“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” the Arab said. There was fierce rebuke in his eyes and in the tone of his voice. The American sheepishly buttoned his shirt and shrugged.

“Fine. I'll stop wearing it.”

“Not good enough. I want you to get rid of them. Burn them. Every one of them. Do you understand?”

The American shrugged again and nodded.

“And so, we've prepared for the appearing of the last great Caliph.” The Frenchman was barely able to believe what he had just said. He thought for a moment and added, “How can we know for sure? How can we know that
he
is truly the One?”

“We wait. And we observe. We all know the signs. The three of us will verify the fulfillment of the prophecy. Just like the turning of the constellations in the sky. If all the lights line up, then we will know. And then we will strike. We will make our move.”

“Yeah. But just the same, it's got to be a bummer for you,” the American said, “that you weren't picked to be the One.”

“It's not a matter of being picked or not picked.” The Arab's lips tightened ever so slightly, and then he continued. “The choice is not mine. My father, Caliph Omar Ali Khalid, made that clear. We were all with him at his death. He did not specifically name me—so, we must believe it will be another.”

“Yeah, but still—”

But the Frenchman cut him off.

“So, we should stay here in Jerusalem? Rather than travel to the site of the First Appearing?”

“We stay here,” the Arab said to the Frenchman, “but you will go to the appointed place. If he shows up—then we will know.”

The Arab stretched back in his chair and eyed his two guests. Then he looked out through the dirty glass of the apartment window. He could see the spires and crowded limestone buildings of the Old City. Outside were the noises of passersby, children playing, and a few automobile horns far off in the distance where the traffic route circled Herod's Wall.

“And when that happens,” the Arab man concluded, his face like stone, “we shall all know the end is near. Very near.”

6

I
N THE JAIL CONFERENCE ROOM
, Will had just finished going over the facts with his new client, Gilead Amahn. Attorney and client were discussing what had occurred the night of the riot at the Islamic Center. Down the hall there were the usual jail noises—inmates yelling curses at one another and the echoing of heavy metal doors banging as guards moved from one cell block to another.

“What you need to understand, Gilead,” Will said, “is that the misdemeanor charge of disorderly conduct is sort of a catchall—it's a broadly worded offense that means that you've caused an undue public disturbance through other than privileged conduct.”

“And what do you mean by ‘privileged'?” Gilead asked.

Will studied his client for a moment before he continued. Whatever he had expected before meeting Gilead, he had been utterly surprised. Gilead did not seem to fit the typical picture of the thundering prophet. Rather, he was a soft-spoken, courteous young man with a quick smile and a keen mind. He was deferential to Will's advice, and was an accurate, detailed historian of information in response to Will's questions. He seemed to fit more the part of a quiet young scholar than a riot-provoking extremist. And he seemed exceptionally out of place in a jail more typically populated by drug dealers and car thieves.

“In your case,” Will replied, “ ‘privileged' has one application—that you were legally privileged—had a First Amendment right—to say what you said. Even though it ended up provoking a violent response.”

“So, you think that my conduct was constitutionally protected?”

“I do,” Will said. “I'm sure the Commonwealth attorney will argue that you were trespassing. But I don't think that's going to wash. You had a personal letter of recommendation from a Muslim teacher in Cairo, who knew your father before he converted. You came from a traditionally Islamic family, so your presence there was not a ‘trespass.' Of course, there's still the question of whether your words were so inflammatory that they constituted ‘fighting words.' In other words, that you should have anticipated your comments would cause a public disturbance.”

Gilead nodded in acknowledgement.

“There is something else you need to know, however,” Will added. “You know that your parents were willing to sign the recognizance bond for your bail. But the hold on you—the reason you're still in jail—really has little to do with the charges against you in the Commonwealth of Virginia state court. It's a hold placed on you by the federal authorities—the Department of Justice. They are apparently investigating your possible ties to a terrorist organization. Do you have any idea why the federal authorities are investigating you?”

Gilead shook his head vigorously.

“I have no idea. I mean…I'm an Arab—an Egyptian by descent—a former Muslim because my father was a Shiite Muslim. But I've been a Christian for a number of years, since I was eighteen years old. I reject terrorism in any form. And as a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, I believe that the peacemakers should be blessed—not the war makers—not the murderers who kill innocent civilians in the name of religion. So to answer your question, I really have no idea why they're focusing on me.”

Will studied his client. At that point, so very early in his representation, Will hesitated to draw any ultimate conclusion. But he was relatively certain about two things.

First, Gilead's recounting of the facts of the night of the incident at the Islamic Center was dead-on accurate. Will had
reviewed the report from the sheriff's department, and Gilead's account of that night corresponded, point for point, with the version contained in the supplemental reports of the law-enforcement agencies.

Secondly, and perhaps even more importantly, although this was Gilead's first arrest and his maiden experience as a prisoner in jail, he showed extraordinary poise. Even a sense of calm. He seemed to exude a kind of inner peace.

The jailer who had walked Will to the interview room had confided in him that Gilead had been taking quite a bit of verbal abuse from some of the other prisoners. Gilead responded, the jailer explained, by merely smiling and telling them that Jesus loved them, and no matter what they had done in the past, His sacrifice on the cross could take care of it.

But there was one last, lingering question that Will had.

“Another question…your parents, when they met with me, said that on a number of occasions before the night of the incident at the Islamic Center, you said, ‘The time is short.' Over and over—‘The time is short.' What did you mean by that?”

As Gilead paused for an instant, an inmate from a neighboring cell yelled out a string of profanities. Gilead seemed unaffected—he shrugged, smiled, and then answered.