by Jill Gregory
What choice do I have? David thought. Despair compounded his sense of helplessness, but he knew she was right.
He looked straight at the leather-faced rabbi, a man not much older than he, and grasped his outstretched palm. “Where do we start?” he asked tersely.
As they passed through the immense computer laboratory on the top level, Rabbi Cardoza gave David a short introduction to the Gabrieli Kabbalah Center.
“This is where we study the papyri fragments that have been validated by the Antiquities Authority,” he said, breathing hard from the climb up. “After the archaeologists uncover them, the Antiquities Authority in Jerusalem authenticates and dates them—then we scan digital copies into the computers to search them for hidden messages from HaShem.”
“David is a secular Jew, Rabbi,” Yael interrupted. “He may not be aware of the many names of God—such as HaShem—or of their power.”
More names? Why am I not surprised? David thought. “And how many are there?” he asked aloud.
“Seventy-two,” she answered without missing a beat. “HaShem, Adonai, Elohim are some of the more common ones. The Shekhinah is the name of God’s feminine presence in the world. The mystics meditate upon each Holy Name, one at a time, picturing each in its Hebrew form.”
Rabbi Cardoza smiled approvingly at Yael. “You’ve learned a great deal in your time here, I see.”
He turned to David. “As mystics, we also believe that the entire Torah—with all the spaces between the words deleted—spells another of God’s names.”
“Unpronounceable, I assume?” David muttered.
The rabbi cocked an eyebrow at him, but refrained from answering. They passed through a large glass door to enter the library. Flanked by an expanse of arched windows, skullcapped men sat poring over photocopies of parchment sections spread like floating continents across long oak study tables. Others studied stacks of computer printouts on tables piled with books.
This is where they matched the names in my journal to the names they’ve already found in their fragments, David realized.
“You’ll meet Binyomin and Rafi later,” Rabbi Cardoza said, waving him forward to a secluded study nook. “But first we start in here. You saw the many books on our shelves. But there is only one I would very much like to examine right now.”
Cardoza pulled a chair from a round table stacked with several piles of printouts and a dozen freshly sharpened pencils. “May I see your journal, David?”
David glanced toward Yael, and she handed the journal over.
Pulling his glasses from a breast pocket, Rabbi Cardoza lowered himself heavily into a chair. “Sit, everyone. Make yourselves comfortable. We have much to discuss and very little time.”
Page by page, he thumbed through the journal, quickly comparing it against a printout he pulled from the top of the stack. What is he looking for? David wondered, chafing with impatience.
Minutes went by, and still the rabbi bent over the journal, immersed in the names. By the time he finally snapped the book closed and peeled his glasses from his face, David felt ready to bolt. But Cardoza’s next words kept him pinned in his seat.
“This journal may be even more significant than Rabbi ben Moshe thought.”
Startled, Yosef leaned forward, his brows darting together. Yael didn’t move, but drew in one surprised breath.
“How?” David demanded. “Have you found the missing names?”
“No, we’ll need to feed the entire contents of your journal into the computer for that. However, on first glance I see something curious about the way the names have come to you, Professor—”
“David. Please.”
“David, then. On all of the duplicate fragments we’ve uncovered, the names are always listed in the same order. Yours are not. So, why are those in your journal written in a different order than those hidden in Adam’s Book of Names? Perhaps,” he held the book aloft, “your journal holds the key to a breakthrough we desperately need.”
“You think there might be an encoded message in David’s book,” Yael whispered excitedly. Cardoza rested his hands across his stomach and nodded.
“I believe the names came to David in this order for a reason. They were revealed to him en masse during his mystical vision for a specific purpose—to give him the names of the Lamed Vovniks so they could be saved. But I believe the order in which he was told these names contains another message. A message David has not yet accessed.”
All eyes turned toward David. He felt the pressure on his shoulders grow heavier.
“How do I access it, Rabbi? Since time is so short, maybe you can give me a hint, put me in a trance, something.”
“If only it were as easy as that.” Cardoza sighed. “You’re not a mathematician, neither am I. But mathematics is exactly what has led to the decoding of our sacred Torah—the Five Books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. Here at the Gabrieli Kabbalah Center, we apply the same kinds of computer programs Israeli scientists use to search the Torah. Except here, we are using them to extract the names of the Lamed Vovniks written in code within Adam’s Book of Names.”
David nodded, remembering Rabbi ben Moshe’s description of the book passed down from Adam through his sons, through countless generations, until it was lost. . .
Rabbi Cardoza continued. “For even though Adam wrote the names of all creatures, the names of the Lamed Vovniks were buried within the text so their identities would be concealed—”
“But I’ve written only the names of the Lamed Vovniks. Are you saying there might be something else buried among them?” David’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” The rabbi scooped up the journal and went to the doorway. “Binyomin,” he called softly to one of the skullcapped men, who rose at once to hurry over, his shiny bald forehead a gleaming contrast to his black yarmulke.
“Binyomin, make a copy of Professor Shepherd’s journal and begin searching it. You’ll notice that his names are written in a different order than we found on the papyri—try to unravel the reason. I know I don’t need to remind you of the urgency.”
The man took the book in his short pudgy fingers and sped off without comment.
“How does he search for a hidden message?” David was mystified. He couldn’t imagine how the decoding program might work.
“It’s a complicated process, but I’ll try to explain in the quickest and simplest way I can.” Cardoza returned to the table, adjusted the yarmulke on his head, shifting it forward. He cleared his throat and met David’s gaze squarely.
“First off, you must understand that there is nothing ordinary about the Hebrew alef-bet. On the contrary, each letter is imbued with its own mystical powers.”
“Like the gemstones.” David leaned forward, suddenly wanting desperately to believe that all of these supposed powers would come together to make a difference. That his journal had another chapter, that the mystics in this city would help him find it.
“Exactly like the gemstones.” Rabbi Cardoza’s eyes bored into his. “Speaking of which, I’ll take them from you now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SCOTTISH COUNTRYSIDE
“A spot more tea, my son?”
Bishop Ellsworth’s veiny hand trembled as he poured Ceylon tea into Dillon McGrath’s china cup. Dillon couldn’t help but note how frail the old bishop had become as he lived out his retirement years.
“I regret so that I can’t invite you to stay to supper, especially after you’ve come such a long way to see me, but unfortunately, my flight to London leaves in less than three hours. . . .”
The bishop shrugged apologetically, looking at Dillon with kindly gray eyes. “I truly detest having to rush you off. We have so much to catch up on.”
“No apology necessary, your Excellency. I regret having come unannounced at such an inconvenient time.” Dillon took a sip of the milk-laced tea, feeling regret for nothing whatsoever. He r
eached for a lemon tart on the plate the bishop’s housekeeper had set on the low table between them before she’d bid the bishop a good holiday and gone home to her family.
There were just the two of them now in the quaint cottage. It looked small and humble, resting there in the long shadows of the crumbling stone castle that had once been a summer hunting lodge for the Crown.
Yet Dillon noticed that the china was Spode, that the tablecloth was the finest Irish linen money could buy, and that the bishop was dressed more for a night at the opera than an autumn holiday in the south of France. Even the curtains were of handmade lace and the octagonal clock ticking on the wall was solid gold, adorned with obsidian hands and numerals.
Still, with all the treasures embellishing the simple cottage, it was the ring upon Bishop Ellsworth’s right index finger that commanded his attention, though he dared not let the old man see it.
The ruby shone like a drop of blood in its hammered gold setting. It was exactly as he remembered seeing it years ago at the conference in Rome when he had no inkling of the meaning of the inscription carved in its smooth face. Cabochon, just like the stone David had told him about. Like the eleven others described in the reference book.
Dillon swallowed the last crumbs of the tart and licked his lips. It was all he could do not to stare at the bishop’s ring as the older man began clearing away the plates.
“Here, let me help you.” Dillon rose and lifted the heavy silver tray. Following his host to the sink, he set the tea service down upon the counter, as the bishop murmured a thank you over his shoulder. But instead of turning back to retrieve the leftover tarts, Dillon seized the heavy, footed teapot and bashed the bishop across the back of the head. It connected with a sickening thwack.
The bony old cleric pitched forward, cracking his nose against the faucet before slumping to the floor.
Dillon felt only disdain as he knelt quickly beside the bishop, grabbing for his right hand. Mouth set, he tugged at the ring lodged on the old man’s scrawny finger.
It stuck there, refusing to budge over the gnarled knuckle. Dillon leapt up to find the dish soap and squirted the liquid over the bishop’s digit. With a single yank, the ring popped free like a cork exploding from a bottle of champagne.
Dillon spared one precious second to study the fabled gem before sliding the ruby cabochon onto his own finger. Reuven. He could read the Hebrew name clearly now.
“It appears you’re going to miss your flight, your Excellency.” He stepped over the inert body on the polished floor and scooped up the envelope the bishop had left propped atop his packed case. There was a Lufthansa insignia in the corner. Dillon flipped through it, smiled, and slipped the envelope inside his own breast pocket.
“I hope you remembered to buy travel insurance, your Excellency.”
A moment later, he swung a leg over the borrowed moped and zoomed onto the tree-canopied country road that would lead him back to the abbey. His bags were already packed and waiting for him.
His own flight departed in less than three hours.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Rabbi Cardoza waited expectantly as David took his time digging out the stones from his pants pocket.
Now that the moment to relinquish them had come, David was reluctant, even though he knew this was where they belonged. Still, the agate had been in his possession for nearly two decades now. It felt odd to part with it.
He inhaled as he placed them in Cardoza’s beefy palm.
The rabbi gazed down at the gems as if he’d been given the most precious gift in the world.
“Where will you put them?” David asked.
The rabbi looked up, gratitude and hope shining in his eyes. “Someplace very safe. They’ll join the others we’ve recovered from the breastplate of the high priest. We must pray that, together again, their combined power can make a difference in this battle.”
Cardoza slipped the gemstones into a small pouch he withdrew from the pocket of his long-sleeved white shirt. He replaced it, then straightened his skullcap once more, frowning as David’s cell phone shrilled.
David snatched it from his pocket, his heart lurching.
“David . . . oh, David . . .”
It was Meredith. Speaking so tremulously he had to strain to hear her. As David listened, the tightness in his chest made him dizzy.
“What hospital are you in?” he managed when she fell silent. “Okay, try to calm down. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. I’ll get her back, Meredith. I promise you, I’ll get her back.”
He closed the phone in a daze. Hutch was dead. Meredith was badly injured. And Stacy . . .
Slowly, he became aware that everyone in the room was staring at him.
“David?” Yael had gone pale.
“He had one blue eye, one brown.” His voice was raw.
“Who, David?” Yael stood up, moved toward him. “Who are you talking about?”
He closed his eyes, seeing something no one else could—his Stacy in the hands of a monster.
“The murderer who took Stacy.”
An hour later, Rabbi Cardoza regarded him with a mixture of compassion and urgency. “I know your thoughts are elsewhere, but we need to act while we still can. Are you ready to learn the power of letters and numbers?”
There doesn’t seem to be much else I can do at the moment, David thought, still numb. All flights throughout the Middle East are still grounded so I can’t get to London, can’t track down Crispin Mueller, can’t tear him apart with my bare hands.
“I’m listening.”
“Good.” The rabbi leaned forward in his chair, motioning David to take the seat beside him. “We use letters and numbers here to solve mysteries every day. Do you remember your Hebrew alef-bet? Twenty-two letters—five of which are written differently when they end a word,” he added.
David nodded. “That much has stuck with me from my bar mitzvah classes. Though not much more I’m afraid.”
“What you probably didn’t learn,” the rabbi said, “is that every Hebrew letter has its own mystical power, a unique energy or vibration. Each letter also has a corresponding numerical value.”
Handing David a chart of the Hebrew alphabet, he began scrawling its initial letters on a sheet of blank computer paper—alef, bet, gimmel, daled, hey—numbering them in sequence as he wrote.
“Hebrew numerology is called gematria. Here, the first ten letters line up with the numbers one through ten. So, alef equals one, bet equals two, and so on.”
“And after ten?” David peered at the chart.
It was Yael who answered. “You count by tens. Later, by hundreds. Julius Caesar used a similar technique while he was building the Roman Empire in Gaul. He used substitution codes to send secret messages.”
David raked his hand through his hair. “I hope there’s not going to be a test.”
“No test. We haven’t the time to teach you more than the most rudimentary examples,” Cardoza assured him.
Suddenly, David seized the chart of the alef-bet, studying it more closely.
“The letter lamed equals the number thirty,” he said slowly. “And vov is six.” He glanced up, as a flame of understanding sparked within him. “Lamed Vov. Thirty-six. The righteous ones—that’s why they’re called the Lamed Vovniks.”
“Exactly.” Yael came around the table to peer over his shoulder. “That’s precisely how the mystics apply gematria. Kabbalists also believe that there is a mystical interconnection between words in the Torah which contain the same numerical value. And that studying these connected words can reveal hidden meanings not apparent on the surface.”
“Hidden meanings?”
“Deeper meanings,” she clarified, pushing a strand of hair behind her ears. “There are layers of knowledge in the Torah, some on the surface, and others so deeply hidden that centuries of mystics still haven’t uncovered them.”
“Jews aren’t the only ones who employ gematria,” Yosef told him. “The Arabs do as well.
And the Sufis—they use it to explore depths of meaning in the Koran.”
“Some say even your Founding Fathers used gematria in writing your nation’s slogan, e pluribus unum—one out of many—” the rabbi said. “Echad, the Hebrew word for ‘one,’ has a numerical value of thirteen. The United States—one country, uniting the thirteen original colonies.”
“That’s amazing,” David gave his head a shake. “My father was a U.S. senator. He would have loved to know that.”
A soft knock at the door interrupted them.
“Yes, Rafi, come in,” the rabbi called to the tall, gaunt man hesitating in the doorway.
“An e-mail just came through from Avi Raz. The only Percy Gaspard we’ve found died in a suspicious fire six months ago.”
David and Yael glanced at each other. Another Lamed Vovnik murdered. Rabbi Cardoza cleared his throat, looking grave.
“Thank you, Rafi.”
As the man returned to his work, Cardoza checked his watch. “We must move on,” he said heavily. “Let’s get to the Torah codes.”
As David refocused his attention, the rabbi plunged ahead.
“Torah codes are nothing new. Theories about such hidden messages have circulated for thousands of years. As early as 1291, Rabbeinu Bechaye wrote about them in his commentary on the Book of Genesis. And in the sixteenth century, the mystic R. Moshe Cordovero bolstered the theory, claiming that every single letter of the Torah is filled with divine meanings.”
“Even Sir Isaac Newton believed there were hidden messages in the Bible,” Yael interrupted to tell David. “But as brilliant as he was, he was never able to prove it.”
“Because he was born too soon,” Yosef chuckled dryly. “He needed a computer to find his proof.”
Cardoza twisted the cap off a bottle of water and took a deep swig. “It’s true, David. And here’s why no one found the hidden messages until the twentieth century—the codes are too subtle to be manually detected.”
