by Jill Gregory
“Self-preservation makes a quick teacher,” David rejoined.
“Did you get your passport?” Yael asked him.
He shook his head. “I never got to see Wanamaker. The UN’s in lockdown. Power’s still out everywhere.”
“So I’ve noticed.” She dabbed at the perspiration filming her face. The room had to be at least eighty degrees.
“But there is some good news, David. Avi has a passport for you. I don’t know how he manages,” she added with a small smile at the other man, “but he always does.”
David caught the admiration in her tone and it annoyed him for some reason he didn’t understand. He had to admit though, the passport the Israeli handed him was perfect. Totally indistinguishable from the one he’d left in his bedroom, the one that had disappeared.
“Sign it.”
Imperious, isn’t he? David thought as Avi handed him a pen from the desk.
“Now all we need is for JFK to reopen,” Yael said.
“And for the damned cell phones to start working again.” David tucked the signed passport into his duffel. “Did your second team reach my daughter yet?” he asked Avi.
The Israeli took a seat in the room’s only chair, next to the table where he’d set down his gun. “Not yet. They should reach Flagstaff sometime early tomorrow. My last communique said that Newark was closed—it seems the power failed in New Jersey first—so they had to take the longer route, from Tel Aviv to London and then to Phoenix, at least a twenty-one-hour trip.”
David’s heart contracted with frustration. “And then they still have to make the drive to Flagstaff?”
“Yael told us your man out there is pretty competent.”
“Very.” But David was wondering if Hutch could fend off a descending flock of Dark Angels. They don’t know where Stacy is, he reminded himself. But then, he’d thought they didn’t know where he and Yael were either. He took a turn around the stifling room, feeling as if his veins were going to explode.
“David.” Yael seemed to have been reading his thoughts. She touched his arm. “Your job right now is to complete your book of names—and ours. We don’t have all the names. There are numerous fragments of Adam’s Book still missing, buried in the caves and the desert. But if those same names are locked in your brain, we can get them out.”
“It’s the only way to defeat the Gnoseos,” Avi added, his dark eyes boring into David like a laser. “We have to keep as many Lamed Vovniks alive as possible. And only you can tell us who they are.”
David stared at the floor. All he wanted to do was get out of New York and get to Stacy. But he couldn’t chance leading danger right to her. He felt sweat dripping down his ribs and it wasn’t from the sweltering room.
Yael continued softly, as if sensing his dilemma.
“Once you’re in Safed, the mystics can help you remember everything you were told. You need to try to focus. That’s your best way to help Stacy. The world hasn’t come to an end yet, David, so you have to keep believing that your daughter is still alive.”
There was a short silence. Avi broke it, picking up the bakery bag, rustling the paper as he pulled out a chunk of crumbled blueberry muffin. Popping it into his mouth, he passed the bag to Yael.
“What about Percy Gaspard?” David challenged, staring down at Avi. “What did you find about him?”
“Very little so far. Only one has turned up—a male born in Montreal in 1939. That’s all the information our sources gathered before the power fizzled. By now they might know more. I’m leaving here and driving to Pennsylvania, or as far as I need to go to reach civilization, otherwise known as a city with a working cell tower. We should have a lot more to go on once I’ve reestablished contact with my colleagues.”
“Then you should get going,” Yael suggested.
Avi nodded, rising from the chair. “One more thing,” he said, walking toward David. “The gemstones. I’ll be taking them now.”
“Why?” David demanded.
“They’ll be safer with me, even if you two get to Israel first. They are vital to the Jewish people, and they’ve been stolen from us for too long.” He glanced at Yael. “Did you tell him that we suspect the Gnoseos’ elite Circle has already captured several of the gemstones?”
His gaze flashed back to David. “They’ll stop at nothing to get their hands on them. They’ve coveted the gemstones almost as much as the thirty-six names because of the stones’ innate power to tip the balance.”
David flashed back on Crispin all those years ago—holding the agate aloft, promising David and Abby they wouldn’t fall. How had Crispin known the stone was magical? And how in the world had he gotten his hands on it?
“Explain that last part to me,” David spoke tersely. “About tipping the balance.”
Avi pulled his damp khaki shirt away from his chest. “The sages taught of the stones’ mystical properties. Each gem in the high priest’s breastplate bears the name of one of the twelve tribes, and its color is the same as the banner which flew outside that tribe’s camp. The high priest wore the breastplate whenever he entered the Holy of Holies. Do you know why?” Avi answered his own question before David could venture a guess.
“Because it represented the Jewish people, reminding God of the twelve tribes, invoking His mercy. And there’s more,” Avi said.
“Do you know how a Ouija board works?” Yael interjected. As David nodded, she went on. “The high priest’s breastplate was like ancient Israel’s Ouija board, a way of communicating with God. When the Jewish people found favor with God, the stones would shine brightly. When Israel was at war, and the stones glowed, it was an auspicious sign of victory.”
“Here’s an example for you.” Avi holstered his gun as he spoke. “Yael mentioned the Ouija board. Here’s how it worked in Biblical times. People would bring the high priest questions to ask God. After Aaron voiced them, he would stare into the stones on his breastplate and meditate on God’s various names. While he did so, the letters on the stones would glow radiantly, spelling out God’s answer.”
David went still. He remembered the moment when he’d found the stone after the snow thawed. It had glowed so brightly it hurt his eyes. He’d thought it was a reflection from the sun. Now, as Avi’s words sank in, he withdrew both stones from his pocket and studied them.
An agate and an amber. Napthali and Levi. They looked so ordinary. They weren’t glowing now, and yet, what if . . .
“I’ll take them back myself,” he said, closing his hand around them and meeting Avi’s eyes.
“No, you won’t—” the Israeli began, but David cut him off.
“If we’re talking mystical happenings, I think I have a bit more experience than you do. I found this stone, and based on everything I’ve been hearing, there’s probably a damned good reason for that. Not to mention that Rabbi ben Moshe entrusted both of these to me just moments before he was murdered.”
“I think he’s right, Avi.” Yael stepped between the two men. “He found Napthali shortly after the fall that led to his vision. It lay waiting for him. I don’t believe that’s a coincidence. It’s been in his possesion all these years. He was meant to hold on to it,” she insisted. “Perhaps for some reason we don’t yet know.”
Avi stared from one to the other, his mouth clenched in a frown. At last he shrugged. “I suppose you could be right. Fine, then.”
He extended his hand to David. “As soon as the power returns, I will let you know about your stepdaughter—and about Percy Gaspard. Pray that the airport reopens within twenty-four hours. Time is not on our side.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LOS ANGELES
Alberto Ortega was displeased. And that had Raoul LaDouceur pissed off.
It wasn’t often Raoul lost his cool, but he was sweating and furious as he peeled away from the Sofitel in the yellow Firebird convertible he’d rented earlier from Avis. His first impulse had been to simply ditch the white van, but he’d thought better of that after realizing
it would disappear more neatly back at LAX in the National lot. And now he had a new set of wheels under a different name. The cops would never connect him to Stacy Lachman.
But Ortega’s rage still boomed in Raoul’s head. He’s not pleased! Does he think I am? Raoul fought his need to floor the Firebird. Instead, he spun the radio volume full blast to clear his head.
Tonight should have been a cakewalk. That kid ought to be in Death Valley by now, crying to the coyotes. Hell. Another day. . . two, at most, he told himself . . . and Ortega’s stinking breath will be off my neck. The state of Arizona isn’t big enough for the kid to get away a second time.
More and more, old Ortega was reminding him of his grandfather. Demanding, ungrateful. In Ortega’s younger days, back when he’d been secretary-general of the UN, he had been quick to praise, quick to promote Raoul up the ranks of the Dark Angels. Now that the end was near, he was becoming as cantankerous as a sour old woman.
After all of the enemies I’ve dispatched for him, all it takes is one little hiccough to set him off with threats and warnings. As if I, the most accomplished and successful of any Dark Angel, could be denied passage into the Ark! Now, when the Ascent is imminent.
They were only waiting for the Serpent to complete his work, to zero in on the final two names.
So why is Ortega badgering me? How can I kill them before the Serpent tells me who they are?
This one—the girl—wouldn’t pose a problem. What happened tonight was a fluke. He glared at the bloodied bandage angled across the back of his hand. She had sharp teeth for such a soft little mouse. But all she did was buy herself a few more hours.
And she would pay for them.
His phone beeped, signaling an incoming text message.
Ortega again, from that palace of his in Buenos Aires. Well, he wouldn’t be enjoying it for much longer, the sly bastard. Raoul knew Ortega had only hastened back to Argentina for one reason—to gather his wife and children and bring them to the Ark.
He scanned the text message.
Change of scenery. I desire to inspect the specimen personally. Bring it to safe harbor, unscratched.
Raoul stiffened at the change in plans. Now they wanted the girl alive? What value could she possibly have, unless she was dead?
Unless they’re going to award the kill to someone else.
His mouth curled into a scowl as he sped toward the Arizona border. He’d just see about that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BROOKLYN, NEWYORK
Rabbi Tzvi Goldstein’s widow was a delicate, fawnlike woman who’d collapsed into herself in grief. She looked barely past her twenties, yet had borne her husband seven children in as many years. The youngest, a girl of only five months, could not yet know the significance of the deliberate tear across the top left corner of her yellow cotton jumper. Nor could she know that she would never again see the face of her father looking down upon her as he blessed his children at the start of each Shabbos.
Sarah Leah Goldstein and her children sat in near darkness in their modest apartment. They were perched all in a row like little birds, on a sofa from which the cushions had been removed. On the console table behind them, a large memorial candle burned within a red glass. Due to the storm, it was the only light in the room. Alongside it was a stack of prayer books the men used during their twice-daily services at the home.
It would be so for seven days, while Tzvi Goldstein’s next of kin abided the laws of mourning.
Upon news of her husband’s murder, Sarah Leah had taken a scissors and snipped the collar of her blouse and then made a similar cut on the garments of each of her children. For these seven days, called shivah, all the mirrors in the house would be covered, the family would sit on low stools or cushionless couches, and Tzvi’s father and brothers would refrain from shaving.
Other family members and friends came in a constant stream, sustaining the family with food, prayer, and the comfort of their presence. David and Yael felt like intruders in this sea of close-knit support, yet they both knew that this incursion was necessary.
When Sarah Leah’s niece took the baby from her and urged her to go to the dining table for a glass of juice, Yael touched her arm.
“Mrs. Goldstein, Professor Shepherd and I were with Rabbi ben Moshe when the attack occurred,” she said softly. “We don’t wish to burden you further, but if you could give us a few minutes of your time, perhaps it will help discover who was responsible for your loss.”
The widow peered at them with pain-filled eyes. “Come with me.”
She led them to a small study brimming with books. Waning daylight slanted through the blinds, revealing a modest, comfortable room smelling of pipe tobacco and furniture polish.
“My husband, may he rest in peace, spent many hours here studying and working.”
Helplessly she glanced around the room as if seeking something that was no longer there. “How can I help you?”
David drew the tarot card from his duffel. “This was among the items Rabbi ben Moshe gave me for safekeeping. Do you have any idea why he had it or where it came from?”
She recoiled as he held it out for her inspection. Her eyes darted to his face. “Death follows that card.”
She swayed and Yael grasped her arm to steady her.
“What do you mean by that?” Yael asked, shooting David a startled look.
“My husband told me about that card. Rabbi Lazar of Krakow sent it to Rabbi ben Moshe, of blessed memory, only two weeks ago. He hoped Rabbi ben Moshe might know who might have ordered two thousand identical copies of this card.” Her mouth trembled as she struggled to continue. “And who might have then killed a man for the printing plates.”
“Killed what man?” David asked, stunned.
“The printer—the printer in Krakow.” Sarah Leah moistened her lips. “His young son was in the back room changing ink on the press when it happened. His father was teaching him his trade. Tzvi said the boy heard arguing between his father and a man who spoke Polish with a thick foreign accent. He remembered the voice because the man had come in only two days before, offering to pay double if the printer could finish the job within forty-eight hours. The man wanted him to print two thousand of these cards.”
David sucked in his breath. “So there are 1,999 more. . . .”
“Do you know what they argued about?” Yael asked.
“The customer demanded the printing plates. The printer refused, saying he’d never heard of such a thing. The man was angry, he kept insisting, and then the printer made an excuse to go into the back room. He sent his son home, wanting to shield the boy from a nasty exchange. The boy was barely out the back door when he heard a gunshot—he turned back, only to see flames shooting from the windows.”
Sarah Leah shook her head sadly. “The poor boy tried to get back to his father, but the fire was too hot. All that paper, ink, and chemicals—it was ferocious.”
Her skin looked gray. “Rabbi Lazar said the printer was a good man—like my husband. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
David felt a wave of sorrow. He could identify with that little boy’s sense of helplessness. “Do you know how Rabbi Lazar got this card?” he asked gently.
“The printer’s boy had a fascination with snakes. When he helped his father trim the printed cards, he was mesmerized by the intertwined snakes on the back. The printer, like most, always kept samples of each job for his records. When Rabbi Lazar paid a shivah visit to the printer’s family, the boy came forward. He was shaking as he told Rabbi Lazar that he’d snuck the card from his father’s files.” Her mouth twisted. “The poor child felt responsible for his father’s death, thinking he was being punished for having stolen the card.”
“What a heavy burden for a child,” Yael murmured. “And one he shouldn’t have to bear.” Her voice grew harder. “Had that customer known the boy was in the back room, he would have killed him, too, in order to keep the cards secret.”
Secret. David was fitting the
pieces together. “That’s why he killed for the plates—so the cards could never be traced or reproduced.”
“Will this help you find my husband’s killer?” Tears glimmered in the widow’s eyes. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to stem them. “Do you think this same customer followed the card from Poland and killed Rabbi ben Moshe and my husband to get it back?”
“Something like that.” David’s fingers tightened on the card. “It’s all related, but it’s a lot bigger than just one man.”
There was a silence as Sarah Leah pressed her hands to her throat. Suddenly a baby’s cries pierced the stillness in the study.
“I think Bayla’s hungry,” the niece said, appearing in the doorway with the howling infant.
“I must go.” Sarah Leah gathered up her infant daughter and began rocking her.
“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Goldstein,” David said as the woman gave them a sad smile and followed her niece from the room.
He and Yael threaded their way back through the crowded living room. Just as Yael placed a hand on the doorknob, a low thrum of electricity droned through the apartment and, an instant later, the living room lamps blazed to life.
“Let there be light,” David muttered, feeling as if the awful limbo he’d been living in had just been lifted.
The moment they stepped outside, he and Yael both tried their cell phones, but found neither working yet.
“We’ll use the hotel phone to make our flight reservations.” Yael was already striding to the intersection in search of a cab.
“If the lines aren’t still jammed.” David matched his strides to hers and started to slip the card back into his duffel, then jerked it out again, noticing something.
Why hadn’t he seen it before? There, behind one of the bodies falling from the tower, was a drawbridge. It was cracked in two, collapsing into the moat. The falling body had almost obscured it, so that it looked more like a rampart, but it was a bridge.
Suddenly he realized he’d seen a drawbridge just like that before. Stood upon it in London earlier this year, looking out over the Thames at the spectacular views of the city by night. The same evening he’d dined with Tony Blair, a small party had insisted on bringing him to one of the private rooms inside the Tower Bridge which spanned the Thames. The view had been astonishing. And the fact that the public could rent out the banquet facilities for special occasions and business conferences had been even more surprising.
