by Jill Gregory
“What else did DiStefano have to say?”
“He just shared more details with me from the surveillance tapes in ben Moshe’s office. Disturbing news. There’s a new threat to the completion of our work. Shepherd’s now collaborating with an Israeli ancient texts expert, a woman named Yael HarPaz. And somehow he’s compiled a journal of names—names of the Hidden Ones.”
Crispin had been changing lanes just as his father dropped that petite grenade in his lap. The implications filled him with such strangled rage, he didn’t realize that the car ahead was coming to a stop until he was nearly in its backseat. Slamming on the brakes, he swerved a hard left to the shoulder as his father braced himself on the dashboard with a curse.
I’ve worked for more than a decade, years of mind-numbing computations to discover the Hidden Ones, and he knows the same names I’ve sweated blood to produce?
“How? Where is he getting the names? How many does he have?”
“Calm down before you kill us both. We don’t have his journal yet—but we’ll get our hands on it shortly. DiStefano believes he may have all of them.”
Crispin slammed a fist against the steering wheel. “And just when were you going to tell me this?”
“I’ve only just found out about the journal. The gemstone is another matter. Have you still nothing to say in that regard?”
I’d say David Shepherd is not going to get away with ruining my life again.
But Crispin kept that thought to himself, refusing to answer despite his father’s expectant silence.
“I see.” Jaw set, Erik leaned back against his seat. “Well, there’s more—DiStefano has also informed me that the existence of the journal necessitates a change in plans. The Dark Angels are no longer under orders to retrieve the journal and then kill Shepherd.”
“And why not?” Crispin spat.
“The Circle wants him brought to the Ark alive. Because of the girl. Stacy Lachman. Surely you know the name.”
“Of course I know the name. I gave it to the Circle not a week ago.”
“Shepherd knows Stacy Lachman’s name as well. They’re very close—she’s his stepdaughter. Even as we speak, Raoul is escorting her here to London.”
“And Shepherd will attempt to rescue her.” Crispin thought of Abby Lewis, the apple-cheeked girl young David Shepherd had risked his life to save from falling.
“The Circle is certain of it. And when he does, he’ll be ours—as will his entire book of names. And once we’ve relieved David of the rabbi’s amber, and the agate is back in our hands,” Erik sent him a reproachful glare, “side by side with the emerald and the amethyst we’ve already moved into the Ark, the balance of power will tip even more strongly in our favor.”
Crispin felt like he was struggling against a vast force. Here he was, so close to success, and now David Shepherd—the same bloody David Shepherd who’d sent him flying off that roof—was draining the focus away from his own accomplishments, his own unique power within the Circle.
For years, I’ve been the one toiling to make ultimate destruction possible. I’ve been the one the Circle has depended on to lead us to victory. Now, here comes Shepherd to knock my feet out from under me. Again.
Hatred pounded through him. A red haze sizzled in his brain.
“I have to get back to my computer,” he said thickly. “I need to finish my work today.”
“You won’t be finishing it in Marylebone. DiStefano wants you to gather your things and shift your base of operations into the Ark. The time is drawing close. The Circle is beginning to move underground.”
Finally, Crispin heard something that gave him pleasure. Shepherd will be taken underground as well.
“Perhaps I’ll have a chance to get reacquainted with my old climbing companion.”
“Most certainly. If the Dark Angels don’t succeed in bringing him there, his stepdaughter’s pleas will.”
Full circle, Crispin thought, his spirit abruptly lightening. After all these years, a reunion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Dawn broke with rays of opalescent light splayed across the leaden London sky, but Stacy Lachman never saw it.
Miles beneath the teeming city, she slept curled upon a cot, locked in a dimly lit chamber. The space was small, not much bigger than a pantry. It was devoid not only of windows, but of any furnishings aside from a ladder-backed chair, a tiny wooden bureau, and the cot upon which she lay in drugged slumber.
The room where Raoul LaDouceur had deposited her after a series of flights on a private jet was cold and damp despite the underground heating system carved into the bedrock.
She lay shivering beneath the wool blanket her abductor had flung across her shoulders before he strode from the room and bolted the door. It would be hours before the sedatives wore off. Hours before she remembered what had befallen her, before she awoke in fear and panic.
Her chest wheezed as disturbing images flickered at the periphery of her brain. With each memory, adrenaline screamed at her limp limbs to flee.
But she was so far under she couldn’t even wiggle a finger.
A voice deep inside told her to be still. She obeyed, sensing she couldn’t have moved an eyelash, even if she’d wanted to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SCOTLAND, NORTH OF GLASGOW
The wheels of his suitcase clacking behind him, Dillon sprinted up the deep steps of the ancient stone abbey. Cornelius McDougall held open the carved wooden door in welcome. Cornelius was still erect and tall, but in the years since Dillon had last seen him, his red hair had grayed to a buff color and he’d grown a short, trim beard.
“There’s a pint of Belhaven with your name on it.” He greeted Dillon, taking charge of the suitcase. “We’ll quench your thirst and then you can freshen up before dinner. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
Dillon took in the scent of the abbey, part candlewax, part incense, part damp musk rising off the ancient walls. It reminded him of the first summer he’d spent in the seminary and of his resolve to put aside the world to find God.
He wanted to ask news of the bishop, but that would wait until he and Cornelius had drained their first pint. It was a touchy subject, even between the two of them. Besides, there were the other monks to greet and the abbot who would welcome him to table.
He tried to control his impatience, to put aside his thoughts of the stone, though it had been all he’d thought about as his plane soared across the ocean. And even as he and Cornelius lifted their foggy mugs in a toast, it was the stone he thought of still—the stone he’d come for.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
David was transfixed by his first glimpse of Jerusalem. The sunrise glowing pale rose off the ancient stones was ethereal, otherworldly.
“Now you know why we call her Jerusalem of Gold.” At his side, Yael seemed to be drinking in the radiance of the ancient city. Her face was alight, despite the weariness in her eyes. “They say that God sent ten measures of beauty to the earth, and He gave nine of them to Jerusalem.”
Staring into the light-drenched holy city from the side of the road, David had no trouble believing it.
A few feet short of the city limits, Yael had asked the driver she’d hired in Tel Aviv to stop his car.
“Come with me, this will only take a minute.” She opened the front door and motioned David out.
“Mind if I ask what we’re doing?”
“Following a tradition. New visitors to Jerusalem should enter the city on foot.” Taking his hand, she led him up the sidewalk and past the sign marking the edge of the city.
Tired as he was, a sudden energizing tingle came over David as he climbed the concrete sidewalk and crossed for the first time into the ancient city sweeping across the hills.
“Now we need to go pick up my father,” Yael told the driver as the hired car sidled up alongside them and they climbed back into it.
They’d landed in Tel Aviv shortly before dawn, but David ha
d barely glanced at the modern seaside city before the driver had whisked them away from it. All he’d noticed was that, even so early in the day, the air was hot and dry and he’d been grateful when the man greeted them with chilled bottles of water.
The drive up Highway 1 to Jerusalem had taken them past rocky hillsides studded with church spires, tumbled rock, cypress trees, and the burned-out wrecks of cars and trucks, which, Yael had explained, remained there as a memorial from the 1948 War of Independence. David didn’t know what he’d expected to find in Israel, but despite everything he’d endured the past few days and his wrenching worry about Stacy, he was stunned by the astonishing vista before him.
Magically, this tiny country was a hypnotic blend of the ancient and the modern, a seamless combination of thousands-year-old stone architecture and modern high-rises, of Biblical sites juxtaposed with kosher Burger King restaurants, airy cafés, and chic shops.
He tried to take in as much as he could, staring up at King David’s ancient tower as they drove through the Jaffa Gate and into the Old City, where Yael’s father, Yosef Olinsky, had spent the night at his cousin’s home. The professor of antiquities had taken the bus into Jerusalem two days earlier, and holed himself up in the Shrine of the Book—the white-domed building near the Knesset that was home to the Dead Sea Scrolls, other ancient documents, and archaeological artifacts. It was also home to the most recently acquired fragments of Adam’s book, which Yosef had wanted to examine firsthand.
“Did your father say whether he’s found anything significant in the latest fragments?” David asked, gripping the seat in front of him as the driver dodged pedestrians along David Street.
“Unfortunately, no. But he’s reassured that we’ve done everything right so far. It’s like working with a giant jigsaw puzzle,” she explained as the driver turned onto the colorful main thoroughfare, the Street of the Chain. “In our work, few of the pieces ever turn up at the same time, or even in the same vicinity. The Antiquities Authority determines the age of the parchment. Then we search for similarities in ink and penmanship in order to match up fragments that come from the same scroll.”
Yael winced as the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a cat darting across the cobblestone road.
Taking a deep breath, she continued. “In this case, my father wanted to examine the original ink on those new parchments. Sometimes subtle differentiations don’t show up on the slides we work with in Safed.”
David smelled the aroma of spices and cooked meat as they threaded their way through the city and he realized he was famished.
“Now my father is positive that we’ve correctly linked the latest fragments to the most complete scroll assembled.”
“Sorry, I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means that we could well find the names we need encoded in these fragments.” Yael uncapped her water bottle and took a sip. “In case you haven’t written every Lamed Vovnik’s name in your journal.”
She leaned forward. “Driver, around the next corner. Right. . . there. The red door.” She turned to David with a quick apologetic smile. “Brace yourself. You’re about to meet my father.”
As David followed Yael into the narrow house and up a flight of dark wooden stairs, he thought of his journal with its pages of names. He was suddenly eager for Yosef Olinsky and his colleagues to examine it with their own eyes. If they succeeded in matching up all of his names with those they’d extracted from the scrolls . . .
Would it mean he had been given the names of the Lamed Vovniks? And that the Gnoseos were actually in the process of destroying the world?
A teenager ran from an apartment and clattered down the stairs, brushing past them with a smile. For a moment, his heart leapt. For a moment, she looked like Stacy.
Is she still alive? His heart settled back, heavier in his chest. He thought back to Stacy’s bat mitzvah, to the ceremony and the rabbi calling her to the Torah as an adult Jewish woman for the first time. He’d used her Hebrew name, Shoshana.
So many names in the fabric of Judaism, he realized. So many names in my head. Too bad I can’t pull up at will the ones I need right now.
Ahead, Yael was entering a small living room, its walls crammed with bright paintings large and small, crooked and straight. Tea was set on a hammered brass tray on the low table, and his eyes lit on the plates of cookies, olives, and sliced melon. Then his attention shifted to Yael throwing her arms around a big sun-browned man with craggy features and large ears fringed by salt-and-pepper curls.
He had the keen gaze and erect posture of a general and David could picture him on the field as easily as on a dig.
“Baruch ha ba, David Shepherd. Welcome.” Yosef Olinsky crossed the room with his leathery palm extended, but there was a scowl on his face.
“Please.” He motioned toward the low-backed couch strewn with colorful cushions. “Sit for some breakfast before we set out. It’s going to be a long and taxing day.”
As David filled his small plate, Yael and her father spoke rapid-fire Hebrew to one another. Though he couldn’t understand a word, he sensed tension between them.
Minutes later they were joined by a younger version of Yosef, wearing khakis, a loose linen shirt, and sandals.
“David, this is my father’s cousin, Eli.” Yael leaned in toward the young man with a kiss, then took a seat beside David.
“No olives?” Eli asked him with raised brows.
“I’m more accustomed to fishing them out of martinis.”
Yael and both men laughed. “If you’ve any intention of surviving our desert heat, you’d do well to take up eating them for breakfast,” Eli told him.
“In Israel we eat salty foods in the morning to make us thirsty,” Yosef lectured. “This way we don’t have to remember to drink plenty of water during the day. We just do it.” He popped two green olives into his mouth.
“It’s easy to become dangerously dehydrated here without realizing it,” Yael said.
“So eat plenty of olives,” Yosef said curtly. “You’re needed in Safed—not in the hospital.”
No wonder Yael is strong-willed; she has to be. David piled a handful of olives onto his plate.
They ate quickly and prepared to leave. As David thanked Eli for his hospitality, Yael’s father riffled through his rucksack and shoved a small plastic box at David.
“Open it,” he ordered, “and put it on.”
Yael stepped closer to examine the gift.
David lifted the gold chain from the box and immediately recognized the pendant dangling from it. He’d received a similar one on his bar mitzvah years ago but had no idea where it was now.
“A chai.” He looked quizzically at Yosef, glancing up from the two joined gold letters—chet and yud—which spell chai, “life” in English.
“Life is the most important thing in Judaism,” Yael’s father said. “Everything is about life. The here and now. The sages taught us that if you save one life, it is as if you’ve saved the entire world. And if you destroy a life, it is the same as destroying the entire world.”
Yosef’s deep-set eyes locked with David’s. A far deeper green than Yael’s, they were somber in the morning light. “Now more than ever, that belief is true. For if the Gnoseos do succeed in snuffing out the lives of the remaining Lamed Vovniks, they end the world. Based upon what Rabbi ben Moshe and my daughter have told us, you can save them, David. But it must be soon.” With that, he turned abruptly and headed toward the stairs.
Nothing like a little pressure. David’s stomach clenched and the residual tang of olive burned bitter in his throat.
Yael sighed, watching her father’s quick departure. She took the chain from David’s fingers. “He’s like that, don’t take it personally.”
Deftly, she fastened the chai around David’s neck. And then he felt a different kind of pressure—her fingers brushing featherlike against his skin. He tried to concentrate on the heft of the metal as the chai settled against his chest.
>
At that moment a memory flashed into his mind. Something from the recesses of his childhood. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Clearly he could see his mother’s father handing David his own chai to examine.
Life. And death. David felt the burden of both as, in silence, he and Yael hurried after Yosef down the wooden stairs.
The drive north took nearly three hours. The olive trick worked all too well. David was especially thirsty and a pile of water bottles mounted in the backseat.
But his tensions mounted as well as he tried repeatedly to reach Stacy, Meredith, or Hutch—to no avail.
The knot in his stomach began to ache as they trailed a tour bus snaking into Safed. It puttered up Jerusalem Street, which looped around the main hill of the three hills comprising the city. He knew little about Safed, only what Yael and Yosef had told him on the drive, but he’d been surprised to learn that along with Jerusalem, Tiberias, and Hebron, it was one of Israel’s four holy cities.
Taking in the panorama of splendid hills rolling south toward the Kinneret—the Sea of Galilee—he marveled at the antiquity of Safed. Founded in 70 A.D., a year before the Romans built the Coliseum, David reflected. A decade before Vesuvius destroyed Pompeii. And more than a century before the Mayans built their first temples.
That would put its origin at five centuries earlier than the fall of the Roman Empire, he realized.
Yet, according to what Yael had told him, it wasn’t until the sixteenth century that the Jewish mystics settled here. Many of them were refugees who’d been expelled from Spain during the Inquisition.
So while Shakespeare wrote Macbeth, Michaelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel, and Henry VIII chopped off Anne Boleyn’s head, the mystics of Safed established Israel’s highest city as the world center for Kabbalah study.
“Think of it as the Israeli Sedona,” Yael had suggested. “Here we have the same kind of juxtaposition—a vital artists’ colony, waves of religious seekers, and the pull of unseen mystical forces.”
