The Book of Names

by Jill Gregory

  So, based on his visit to the red rocks of Sedona with Hutch years ago, David thought he knew what to expect. The Arizona rock formations were famous for their beauty and their mystical vortices. But as the car circled up the white-rocked city, that rose like graceful tiers on a wedding cake, he felt an entirely new sensation.

  Unlike Sedona, earth-toned and grounded in the land and vortices shooting from deep within its core, Safed seemed to draw its aura from the heavens. Even the air seemed to glow with a pure light, resplendent as the heart of a diamond. He leaned toward the open window as they reached the summit, where Yael pointed out Citadel Park.

  “That’s the site of the Crusaders’ first fortress. When they took the city, they drove the Jews from Safed. Later, others, including the Knights Templar, held the city until 1517, when Ottoman rule extended over all of Israel.”

  In the city’s center, Chasidic Jews hurried along the streets, dressed in frocked coats and wide-brimmed hats similar to those worn by their ancestors in nineteenth-century Poland. Tourists in walking shorts, t-shirts, and baseball caps strolled from one art gallery to the next, most of them bypassing the medieval synagogues dotting the cobbled streets between trendy shops and cafés.

  “The Gabrieli Kaballah Center is there—just ahead on the left.” Yael pointed toward a curved driveway. At its crest sat a long stone building with arched windows, rising up behind a decorative fence. Flowering cacti and other blooms peeked from between the short metal spikes glinting bronze in the sunlight. With its umber-tiled roof, the Center might have been a Tuscan restaurant rather than an international center for mystical study.

  As David passed through the gate after Yael and Yosef, his cell phone rang, startling him.

  He stared at the caller ID.

  “Thank God! It’s Stacy!”

  Yael whirled toward him as he answered the call.

  “Stace! Are you all right? Is—”

  His heart stopped.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Elizabeth Wakefield rose from her sumptuously appointed bed and gazed around the rented Bloomsbury flat with a satisfied smile.

  The oversized cherrywood sleigh bed she’d dreamed of having since she was a child looked as sumptuous as a strawberry-laden chocolate rum torte in a bakery window, nothing at all like the boring, clean-lined bedroom suite in her home.

  Her lover had admired every embellished pillow she’d chosen, every set of 800-count Egyptian sheets, even the cream and gold duvet, telling her that the bed in which they lay together was nearly as beautiful as she was.

  Elizabeth knew she wasn’t beautiful. Her chin was too pointed, her brown hair too bland, and her only distinguishing characteristics were her delicate long fingers and her dark hazelnut eyes. But he thought she was, and in this room she believed him.

  He was married, of course. And rich. And powerful. And so was she. They’d met by chance at the Old Vic, both of them waiting for their spouses at the Pit Bar beneath the theater.

  There’d been an instant spark between them. Up until that moment she’d never dreamed of having an affair. She was a serious woman, a senior partner in the law firm her grandfather had founded. Her marriage was solid and comfortable, her surgeon husband an easy companion.

  So she’d surprised even herself when she’d accepted the debonair stranger’s offer of a drink and, by the time they’d finished it, his invitation to dine with him a week later.

  What could it hurt to have dinner with such a fascinating man? Her husband was lecturing at the university that night anyway.

  It was supposed to be only one dinner, but one dinner had evolved into four years of stolen evenings, scintillating conversation, and this private retreat, where they shared the sort of electrifying sexual abandon only secret lovers can ignite.

  Somewhere between the long weekend they’d snuck off to Lyon and their midnight strolls along the beach in San Tropez, when she was supposed to be attending an intellectual property conference, she’d fallen in love with him.

  How could she not? He was giving, gentle, and brilliant, she thought, as she lit the slim gold tapers on the bedside table, and sprayed the bed linens with lavender.

  Her heart thrummed when the doorbell buzzed only a few moments later, and she quickly checked her reflection in the mirror, adjusting the ruby pendant at her throat, smoothing the hem of her short black sheath. She was smiling as she opened the door, but one look at his face, and she knew something was amiss.

  “What is it? You look sad.”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. It’s only that I’ve been called away to Geneva. I’m afraid I can’t stay.”

  Disappointment stabbed through her.

  “Come in, tell me.” She took his hand and drew him inside, closing the door and leaning against it.

  “Elizabeth, please. There’s a car waiting downstairs. I only stopped here on my way to the airport to tell you in person.” He glanced at his watch, regret creasing his brows. “I’ll be gone several weeks.”

  “Several weeks?” For the first time, a sense of unease came over her. “That long?”

  “I’m afraid it’s out of my control.”

  “I see.” And she did. He was hiding something. She knew him well enough to know that. “Well, then,” she said with a small shrug, “that should give me ample time to prepare my brief for the Penobscot case.”

  He pulled her into his arms and pressed kisses all across her face. “I’m going to miss you, Elizabeth. Every moment.”

  “And I, you.” She kissed him once more, then searched his eyes. “Safe travels, darling.”

  He hesitated. “I’ll call you.”

  She knew in that instant he would not.

  “Don’t keep the driver waiting.” She steeled herself against the pain grinding through her chest, and took a step away from the door.

  She stood in silence for a moment after the soft click of the door latch, then straightened her shoulders and went home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Far beneath the city of London, far beneath the underground subway system first built in the 1800s, an intricate labyrinth of tunnels snakes its way through ancient bedrock. Forgotten by most, though once a vibrant part of the subway system, some of the shafts have slept silent and abandoned since the 1930s. Others are sealed off, still others are used today as giant storage bins. Many tunnels were reopened to serve as bomb shelters during World War II, then forgotten once more.

  Few Londoners remembered the location of the steep spiral staircases corkscrewing down through the earth to the tunnels. And fewer still knew that beneath the Tower of London, beneath the River Thames, the tunnels’ giant ventilation fans had begun to churn anew.

  Eduardo DiStefano escorted his wife by the elbow down one of those winding staircases. He knew it was his duty to get her settled, yet he was seething to escape. He needed to find the Serpent. And quickly.

  The Circle had gone to great pains to construct the underground chamber where he’d conduct the final stage of his research—but he was nowhere to be seen. The damn computer ought to have been humming like a symphony finding the last of the names, but it had yet to be turned on. No one in the Ark had seen him and Erik still hadn’t arrived.

  “You will become acclimated to living underground, bella. We must hurry—get you settled. The Circle is convening in an hour.”

  “Just show me the door, caw—I don’t need your help unpacking, or getting acclimated.”

  Flora’s heels clacked confidently against the metal. In fascination she gazed about at the majestic, yet primitive surroundings. Though Eduardo had been here many times and had told her of it, this was her first glimpse of the Ark.

  Her children and grandchildren would be here tonight, arriving from Milan just after dark. How clearly she recalled teaching them the songs when they were children, preparing them to begin their journey toward reunion with their Source. What an adventure lay before them.

  She smiled as she reached the first landing, and paused t
o catch her breath. In the Ark there would be singing every night—for as many nights as it took for all of the Hidden Ones to die so that the souls of the Gnoseos could float free. Free from the constraints of the body, free to ascend to the Source.

  She could hardly wait to hear the voices resonate in song, their secret words protected by the density of stone and rock.

  Eduardo thought she was nervous about leaving their hilltop villa, but no, there was nothing to fear. This was a glorious moment. All of the Circle would be here soon with their families.

  “Just think, Eduardo.” Her tone was breathless. “This is what we’ve aspired to for centuries.” The jubilation in her voice echoed off the stones. “Finally—the Hidden Ones are on the verge of extinction. Our liberation is imminent.”

  The warmth of his hand caressed her shoulder as carefully they traversed the steps. “I couldn’t have accomplished so much without you, bella. Your fervor has nearly surpassed mine. You have been my joy.”

  “There is more to come.” She smiled at him, thrilling more with each step that this triumphant day had arrived within her lifetime.

  She felt no pang for those she was leaving behind. She had, at the last moment, spoken to her brother—wretched fool—phoning him this morning from the villa. Alfonso had had no idea it was the last time they would ever speak. He wasn’t Gnoseos and was of no use—she’d never even entertained the notion of initiating him and his pious Protestant wife into the Order. No one in her large Milanese family knew of her conversion, or of the secret practices she’d adopted soon after she’d married Eduardo.

  They all assumed she’d become an atheist. Nothing could be further from the truth. She knew God existed, but she didn’t love or worship him. She knew the truth now—He had created a world of illusion and evil. The real world was spiritual and that was the realm her husband and the Circle had opened to her.

  The ancient practices Eduardo had gradually revealed to her had stirred something deep inside her, broken it loose and given it permission to grow.

  Every week as she and Eduardo sipped the drug-laced liqueur that enhanced their spiritual state while they meditated, she found herself more deeply connected to the Source of her soul.

  And more eager to challenge the Source’s cruel subordinate deity—the demiurge—whom their people believed created all flesh and matter, ensnaring the souls that yearned to float free. Eduardo had freed her from the obsequiousness of conventional religion. Now, along with the elite of her sect, she was only hours away from liberating her inner spirit from this deceptive, oppressive, and evil world.

  Ironic, she thought, as she reached the bottom of the staircase, that the Ascension would take place so deep underground.

  She surveyed the mammoth reception area, knowing that neither stone, nor bedrock, nor steel could entomb their souls once the world was cracked in two.

  God destroyed his world the first time with the Flood. Now it was the Gnoseos’ turn.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SAFED

  “Sorry,” the male voice taunted in David’s ear. “Your little girl can’t come to the phone right now.”

  He felt the blood draining from his face. “Who is this? Where’s my daughter?”

  “You know who this is, David,” the man mocked. “You have something that belongs to me. And I have something that belongs to you.”

  David did know then. He didn’t know how, but in the same way that the names had always come to him, this one did, too.

  Crispin Mueller.

  “What do you want, Mueller?”

  He heard a savage laugh. The line beeped once and went dead.

  “What’s going on?” Yael gripped his arm as David stared openmouthed at the phone.

  “Mueller has Stacy,” he croaked. “And I don’t know where. The bastard hung up on me.”

  Furiously, he entered Stacy’s phone number. His body felt like a block of ice as a busy signal bleated into his ear.

  There was no doubt now. Crispin was a Gnoseos.

  And Stacy . . . Stacy is a Lamed Vovnik. Just like the others in my journal.

  He was numb. Numb with shock and the realization that Yael and her father were right. The Gnoseos were destroying the world.

  What if they’d killed Stacy already? Panic pounded in his chest.

  No. Crispin will keep her alive—until he gets the gemstone. Until I bring it to him.

  Yael seemed to read his mind.

  “He’s playing with you,” she said quickly. “He won’t hurt her, David, not until he gets what he wants. But you can’t—”

  “Give the stone back to him? Why can’t I?” Rage surged through him now. He grabbed the gold chai at his neck, his fist clenching around it so tightly the metal pierced his palm.

  “Isn’t life the most important thing? Isn’t that what your father told me? Well, a child’s life is most important of all.”

  “But the entire world, David?” Yosef asked, his hands spreading in an encompassing gesture. His face was ashen, but his tone was stern. “Is one child’s life more important than that?”

  “She’s a Lamed Vovnik.” David wheeled toward him. “If I save her life—just her life—I’ll save the world. Isn’t that what you said?”

  His hands shook as he opened his phone again. “We saw Mueller in London. I’m going there tonight on the first flight I can catch. You can keep my journal,” he told Yael. He grabbed it from inside his duffel and shoved it at her, ignoring the pain etched across her face. “Go ahead—study it, tear it apart. Do whatever the hell you want with it. You don’t need me for that.”

  He waved his phone in the air. “How do I reach El Al? Tell me the number.”

  “David, come inside.” Yosef spoke in a measured tone. “We’ll make the reservation for you, but you need to think this through. Things are coming to a head. And quickly.”

  Staring from father to daughter, David couldn’t believe the two of them didn’t understand the bond that was driving him.

  A million ugly visions collided in his head.

  What happened to Hutch? To Meredith? Are they both dead?

  Unable to deal with the nightmarish images, he pushed past Yael and her father, shouldering his way inside the Center.

  A blast of cool air struck him as he bounded into the wide, sunlit foyer tiled in almond-flecked linoleum. Suddenly an old whisper seemed to echo in his ears.

  The mountain only seems insurmountable.

  David froze.

  Hutch’s voice, calm and encouraging at the base of Granite Mountain. You climb it the same way you eat a T-bone, buddy—slice off one piece at a time, and never more than you can chew in one bite.

  A strange, forced calmness flowed over him, the same kind of forced calm he’d faked during his first few climbs with Hutch. Faked until the fear tearing up his gut was replaced by confidence. Taking deep breaths the way Hutch had taught him, he tried to let the simple clarity drown out his rage.

  From the periphery of his hearing, he caught the sound of Yael’s voice. She was calling the airline.

  And Crispin Mueller is calling the shots.

  David slipped the two gemstones from his pocket and studied them, ignoring Yosef as the older man brushed past him to speak to several men who’d come into the hall from nearby rooms.

  The agate and the amber felt heavier in his palm now—and the light dancing off the cabachons hurt his eyes. He closed his fist around their brilliance, and thrust them back in his pocket.

  I followed Crispin’s lead once. Acted on impulse. I don’t have to do it his way again.

  This time, David thought, I’ll trust my own footing. And take care where I step.

  “What do you mean, all flights are grounded?” David stifled the impulse to grab the phone from Yael’s hand.

  “You don’t believe me? You’re welcome to try to convince El Al to fly during a security alert. Frankly, I doubt you will be successful.”

  David took a deep breath. Rein it in, he told himself
.

  “What kind of security alert?” he asked.

  “Iran might be preparing to launch a nuclear attack.” Her voice was tinged with fear. “Let’s get to the television.”

  They hurried toward the Center’s staff lounge, a room lined with long tables covered with paper linens, red chairs flanking them. It looked like any school lunchroom, but for the large screen television mounted on the back wall. They joined Yosef, watching the screen intently along with a dozen or so grim-faced, silent Israelis.

  “They’re blaming the United States and Israel for last week’s tanker explosion at the port of Deyyer,” a small-boned woman whose eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck told Yael.

  David stiffened. The announcer was reporting that casualties now numbered three hundred. Had it been just days ago that he’d watched the television footage at the airport on the way to New York? He felt as if an eon had passed since he’d left D.C.

  “And for this accident,” a rotund leather-faced Israeli grumbled, “millions of innocent people should die? We need a miracle,” he added fervently, under his breath.

  “Rabbi, this is the man who might be able to provide that miracle.” Ten heads swiveled from the television toward Yosef Olinsky. Ten pairs of eyes watched him put a hand on David’s shoulder. “This is David Shepherd, Rabbi Cardoza. He has come to Safed with his journal and with two precious stones from the breastplate of our Cohen Gadol.”

  As a collective gasp went around the room, Yael watched the tension twitch a muscle along David’s jaw. She knew he felt trapped. She knew he felt helpless to save his child.

  “Work with us, David,” she implored quietly, as the rabbi came toward them extending a hand. “Right now, it’s the only way you can help Stacy. As soon as the airport reopens, I promise you, you’re free to leave. But for now, we need not only your journal. We need you. There may be other knowledge hidden within your brain. This is the city—the one city—where you need to be. For Stacy’s sake—for the remaining Lamed Vovniks. For the world.”