Mission

by Patrick Tilley

  McDonald’s face puckered thoughtfully. She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Okay, it’s a deal.’ She stood up and shouldered her bag. ‘Thanks for talking to me.’

  Although I was quietly pleased she had swallowed my glib explanation, I hadn’t expected her to give up so easily. The girl was a lot sharper than I’d bargained for. I could only hope that I had stopped her dead in her tracks. In fact, I was pretty sure I had. It was rather sad to see the light die in her no-nonsense slate-blue eyes. The crass commercialism of TV network deals and publishing tie-ups was something she could accept and understand only too well but it lacked the noble white-knight enchantment of the impenetrable mysteries of the spirit, the miraculous laying on of hands, and ecstatic visions. But then, it was a cruel world. It was no longer the bravest and the strongest that survived but the sharp-witted and the nimble-tongued. I got Linda to take down McDonald’s office number and sent her on her way.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ asked Linda.

  ‘Strong and black,’ I said.

  She brought it into my office a few minutes later. ‘I can’t bear the suspense. Are you going to be on TV?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘She was more interested in Mr Sheppard. The lady that followed you from the dry cleaning store has been going around telling people he’s Jesus Christ.’

  She took the news with a straight face. ‘I see … I guess it must be the beard.’

  ‘And the robe,’ I said. ‘She must have spotted the two of you when you went out shopping.’

  Linda thought it over. ‘Yes … So what did you say?’

  ‘To McDonald? I told her that I’d known Mr Sheppard for some time and was confident that this lady, whoever she was, was making a big mistake and probably needed her head examining.’

  ‘And did she believe you?’ said Linda.

  Looking back, that was a curious question but at the time, I took it in my stride. ‘If she didn’t, I’ve been wasting my time, and she’s about to waste more of hers. How long was she here before I called you?’

  Linda raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, uh, about ten, fifteen minutes.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ I sipped my coffee and watched her mouth. She always loses control of it when she’s telling less than the whole truth.

  ‘Oh, gee …’ Linda tried to remember. ‘She asked me where I lived, how much the rent was on my apartment, how big it was – that kind of thing. She’s sharing a place at the moment and wants to move out on her own. I gave her the name of a couple of good rental agencies and, er – asked her how she liked working in television.’ She shrugged. ‘And that was about it.’

  Did you tell her you’d worked for Universal?’

  Her mouth held firm. ‘Yes, I mentioned it in passing.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ I raised my cup. ‘I needed this.’

  Linda started for the door then turned to face me. ‘You needn’t worry. I didn’t say anything about Mr Sheppard.’

  ‘Did she ask?’

  ‘No,’ said Linda. ‘Do you think she might?’

  I shrugged. ‘You know what reporters are like.’

  She nodded. ‘What should I say if she does?’

  ‘Whatever you like,’ I said. ‘Just remember that Mr Sheppard is now one of our clients.’

  The news surprised her. ‘Since when?’

  ‘This afternoon,’ I replied. ‘He asked me to act as his attorney just before he left for Israel.’

  ‘Ah, that’s good,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll open a file. Do you have an address for him?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll get him to give you one next time round.’ I slumped back in my chair with an audible sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. How long, I wondered, was I going to be able to keep this up? I could not remember lying with such agility since, at the age of fourteen, I began hanging out on street-corners with shiksas instead of going to schule. I felt like one of those jugglers with thirteen plates spinning on top of long thin poles. It only needed one thing to go wrong to bring everything crashing down around me.

  Now that The Man had back-tracked to first-century Jerusalem, life took on, outwardly at least, some semblance of normality. I managed to coax Miriam out of her white coat and into a little restaurant within bleeping distance of the hospital. She listened to my account of McD’s visit, told me I’d done a good job, turned down my offer of a country weekend and was called away before the dessert. Undeterred, I drove up to Sleepy Hollow, made myself comfortable and read the books I’d bought from cover to cover. It was an amazing experience. Page after page confirmed The Man’s story of the struggle between the Empire and ‘Brax. Consider, for example, the ideas developed in the sixteenth century by Isaac ben Solomon Luria from the Zoharistic Kabbala.

  Luria’s theosophical vision centred on the idea that during the withdrawal of the Divine Light from the physical universe, a catastrophic event occurred during which luminous particles became trapped in shells of matter (qelippot) – a kaballic term that was also used to designate evil powers. The ‘withdrawal’ could be interpreted as the Empire’s retreat during the Second War of Secession and Luria’s ‘luminous particles’ could be an off-the-target description of the trapped Ain-folk; the twelve Celestial entities that had shaped the Earth colony during the Second Age.

  Luria’s mythical construct went on to posit the necessity of a rescue of the imprisoned particles and a return to their former state of being. This rescue, or ‘restoration’ (tiqqun) was to be accomplished by the Jewish nation through strict observance of the traditions of the Torah, a rigorous asceticism, and an exemplary life founded on mystical prayer and contemplation. In this way, harmony, or ‘unification’ (yihud) with the God of Israel, the transcendent power behind the universe, would be achieved.

  Luria also reaffirmed belief in the successive reincarnations of the soul and its perfectibility through a life of mystical contemplation, and he emphasised the need for an unceasing struggle against the powers of evil.

  Once again, I was struck by this recurring theme of eternal conflict between the opposing forces of Light and Darkness that echoed the teachings of Zoroaster, the great reformer of religious thought in Persia, in the sixth century BC. Zoroaster urged the abandonment of polytheism and revealed to his followers the identity of the supreme spiritual being – Ahura Mazdao – who was locked in conflict with Ahriman, the leader of the forces of evil. Zoroaster proclaimed that Ahriman’s influence upon the world manifested itself in the negative aspects of human existence and behaviour.

  The same idea was expressed in the beliefs of the Essenes; a closed Jewish community whose activities had come to light with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Essenes who, according to the information released by Biblical scholars with access to their writings, lived a bleak, celibate existence, were believed to have flourished between the second century BC and the first century AD. From the documents published to date, it appeared that they lived in daily expectation of the final cataclysmic battle in which the angelic Forces of Light would triumph and the chosen few would be saved – notably the Essenes themselves.

  Apparently, they were wrong on both counts. Two thousand years later, the world was still waiting for the big event and, far from being saved, it was generally accepted that the Essenes were wiped out when the Romans steam-rollered the Jews into the ground during the general uprising in 66 – 73AD which brought about the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the last-ditch epic at Masada, and the end of our hopes for unfettered nationhood.

  But, as ‘Brax knows, and as the opponents of civil rights learnt in their turn, you cannot kill an idea whose time has come. Especially when it contains an eternal truth. The ideas of Zoroaster and the Essenes had resurfaced in the teachings of the Gnostics; the hugely influential Christian splinter group that had flourished in the first three centuries AD before its supporters were branded as heretics and its books burned by the agents of the early Roman Church in the best Nazi tradition.

  It w
as the far-reaching impact of this event that led me to ponder the possibility that ‘Brax might have been cunning enough to infiltrate the early Christian network as part of a long-term strategy to gain control and pervert The Man’s original message. After all, the Russians had only just missed getting their man Philby into the top job with the British Secret Service. Why not a ‘Braxian Pope? No one could deny that, once Theodosius had declared Christianity to be the official religion of the Roman Empire, the bishops who had risen to positions of power via the Apostolic Succession had ignored The Man’s injunction to “love thine enemies” and had proceeded to put the boot in with a vengeance.

  But despite the tortures and the burnings and the massacres of sects like the Albigensii and the ever-mysterious Order of Knights Templar, they had not been able to suppress The Truth. The Word had been passed on from mouth to mouth. Clues had been inserted in written documents, paintings and carved inscriptions, camouflaged by intricate codes of mind-blowing complexity whose key was held by a select band of initiates whose sole task was to ensure that the ideas were handed on to the next generation.

  The current Western standard-bearers of the Lurianic Kabbala were the Hasidim; Jewish communities like the Lubavitchers, over the bridge in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. The Hasidim, who drew their inspiration from the legendary doctrine of the itinerant, untutored eighteenth-century Polish rabbi Ba’al Shem Tov, believed that it was the duty of all Jews to aspire towards devequt – ‘being with God’ – in every aspect of their daily lives. Ba’al Shem Tov held that true religion was not an ascetic withdrawal from the world but a knowledge of the immanence of God in all creation. The Hasidim placed great emphasis on the inner life of the believer and a close-knit, inter-dependent community life. Group leadership was provided by the tzaddiqim, the Just, or Righteous Ones, and the ‘wunder-rebbi,’ the ‘miracle-working rabbie.’ There was also a belief which corresponded closely with what The Man had said; namely that the tzaddiqim contained a special ‘divine spark’ and possessed super-human faculties.

  On top of which, let me add a brief historical footnote: of all the Jewish groups persecuted by the Nazis, it was the Hasidim that came the closest to being totally wiped out in the Holocaust. Whatever one might think of ‘Brax, you had to give him credit for trying.

  Hasidism was an attractive theory but, although their rigorous observance of Jewish ritual and the purity of their beliefs was above reproach, they were regarded with less than total enthusiasm by their more liberal Talmudic brethren. Even if groups like the Lubavitchers were on the right route to spiritual liberation as defined by The Man, their particular brand of self-denial was hardly likely to lead to the lightning conversion of the average fun-loving atheist.

  I thought again of The Man’s evasive reply to my question about the Jews’ fundamental belief that they were the chosen people and wondered if their persecution throughout history had been the work of ‘Brax. Instead of being destined to suffer because they had not recognised Jesus as the Messiah, it could have been because they still possessed – albeit unknowingly – an inner awareness of The Man’s true identity and his relationship with the worlds beyond this one.

  Was this the hidden truth that ‘Brax wanted to suppress? The secret weapon that could bring his carefully constructed dreamworld crashing round his head? Had the anti-Semitic measures of the later Roman Emperors, the medieval monetary proscriptions against the Jews, the Inquisition, the Cossack-led pogroms in Poland and Russia which had culminated in the creation, then the destruction of the ghettoes of Eastern Europe, and the final horror of the death camps – had that been the work of Secessionist einsatz-gruppen?

  And was the orchestrated hostility against the post-war state of Israel, whose prideful intransigence only served to increase the ever-present threat of its total destruction, yet another stage in ‘Brax’s Final Solution?

  Why had the Jews, apart from a few periodic yawns of disinterest, clung doggedly throughout untold centuries to the idea of the One True God when greater and more powerful races – Babylonians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Indians, Greeks, Romans, Celts, Mayas, Aztecs, Norsemen and Teuton – had worshipped overpopulated pantheons of anthropomorphic deities whose violent, sex-laden lives had provided the material for the world’s first soap-operas?

  Since even our worst enemies would find it hard to deny that we were a creative people, our addiction to monotheism could hardly be ascribed to a lack of invention. It could only be explained by the fact that we Jews had been spiritually on the ball ever since our ancestors began the long march from Atlantis. If that is true, and I am right about ‘Brax’s part in all this, it goes a long way towards explaining why we have been forced to exchange our prayer shawls for flak jackets and may yet end making a last stand with our backs to the Wailing Wall.

  My return to Manhattan on the Monday brought an abrupt descent from the world of the spirit into that of the flesh. Some of which belonged to a guy called Ken Myers; a client who I had arranged to have lunch with at Perigord. Impressed with my handling of an industrial claim, Myers now wanted me to handle his divorce. I told him it was a pity he hadn’t chosen to get divorced before I’d won him the million dollars because he now stood to lose a large slice of it in the settlement. Myers told me that he was so keen to get rid of his wife he’d be happy to give her the whole bundle. But then, he was on his third martini. I reminded him that since he was technically the guilty party, the problem was how to stop her asking for more.

  Myers had become pixillated with, of all things, a leggy English showgirl whose father was a retired Army major living in Berkshire and who went to Ascot for the races. Her mother had been one of the famed Bluebell girls – whoever they were. The name of this love-object was Edwina. Myers insisted on detailing her youthful anatomy and it was clear from his pain-racked face that her Cindy-doll waist, boyish ass and athletic thighs were causing him a great deal of distress.

  Edwina, in true stage-door tradition, was playing Myers like a marlin on a line. She had blown his mind with a private audition during a ski-lodge weekend at Vail, Colorado, but had refused a repeat performance without a ring and a written contract. His wife, on the other hand, had vowed to take him for everything he’d got. I learned that Edwina was twenty-three. Ken Myers was over fifty. He said she made him feel young again but his story put years on me. I mentally resolved that if it ever happened to me, I would have my dong cut off and stuffed upright in a sealed pickle jar to remind me of better days. But I couldn’t tell him that. What I did was turn down the job with as much tact as I could muster and picked up the tab for lunch.

  My conversation with Myers left me feeling vaguely depressed for the rest of the day but it ended with one small triumph. I twisted Miriam’s arm and persuaded her to come with me to see my favourite double-feature – Dirty Harry and Magnum Force. Clint may not provide much for the Cahiers du Cinéma crowd to agonise over but, for the real cognoscenti, this is what it’s all about.

  ‘Come on now, be honest,’ I said, as we came out on to the street. ‘You’ve got to admit those were two really great movies.’

  She looked at me and shook her head. ‘It’s at times like this that I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to do anything with you.’

  The news that she intended to remodel my character failed to dampen my enthusiasm; or my subsequent, silver-tongued ardour. At least there were no complaints about that. Monday then, finished on a high note. Which was just as well, because Tuesday was a day to remember.

  Chapter 13

  I woke at half-six with a pang of anxiety about the outcome of the case and decided to jog it out of my system. As you’ve gathered, I didn’t have a fixed daily routine but I usually managed to make four days out of seven. It was part of my drive to give up smoking. The trouble was I needed a cigarette after the exercise to make me feel better. The squash, which I made an effort to play on the days I didn’t jog, helped me work off my aggression. Football and baseball I got from TV. So much for spor
t.

  As I was on the return leg, heading for the exit on Central Park West near 75th Street, a beige Chevy cruised up from behind, matched my pace for a few yards, then pulled ahead and stopped. There are only two kinds of vehicles allowed in this section of the park; those belonging to the service department, and to the police. My stride faltered as I saw Detective Frank Marcello get out from behind the wheel and flag me down. As I trotted up to the car, he opened the door to the rear compartment. My friend Lieutenant Dan Russell was sitting in the back. He beckoned me to join him. Marcello regained his seat behind the wheel and sat with his back against the door where he could see me.

  I eyed him then turned to Russell. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘I just wanted to have a little talk,’ said Russell. ‘You know what offices are like. Telephones, interruptions.’ He glanced casually out of the windows. ‘I thought you might prefer some-place where we couldn’t be overheard.’

  I wondered what he meant by that but decided not to pursue it. ‘Is this going to take long?’ I asked. ‘Because I’m due in court this morning and I have a cab picking me up at eight.’

  ‘Relax,’ replied Russell. ‘Catch your breath. You can be home from here in five minutes.’ He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window on his side. He had the air of a man about to play a cat and mouse game.

  I decided to hurry things along. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  Russell inspected his cigarette as if he’d never seen one before. ‘I’m hoping it’s you who will do the talking, Mr Resnick. I’d like you to tell me why a lawyer of your standing has felt it necessary to be less than honest with me.’

  This was the moment I’d been dreading. ‘About what?’

  Russell’s voice changed gear. ‘Don’t fuck around, Resnick. You and your lady doctor friend have already made a monkey out of me. I could book you both on a conspiracy charge. You could both end up out on the street. So think about that.’