was not for another standing search, but to be led away.
Will decided he would not panic. He would not give in to the feeling that, with each step, he was leaning into a dark, empty space, plunging off a cliff into an abyss. He would focus on the ground beneath his feet; each time he lifted one leg, he would remember how near the ground remained. Perhaps he should scrape his shoes along, to maintain constant contact? Maybe that was why you always saw handcuffed prisoners shuffling: it was not because they were depressed, but because they needed the reassurance that the earth was still there, right under their shoes.
He was aware of passing through another corridor, getting further away from the clamour of the synagogue which, Will realized, had begun to fade into a loud hubbub a while back.
He chided himself for not having noticed exactly when; that detail was surely important in tracking the Rebbe's movements.
What was truly strange, though, was the feeling of dependency on the Israeli now gripping his right arm with painful force. Will was relying on him as a guide, aware that he must now look the way blind men always look: Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles, his head moving randomly, untethered to logic.
This man was his captor but, Will thought, he was also his carer.
Now he felt the cold. They had moved outside, but only for a few steps. He heard the creak of a swing door, like a garden gate, and then felt the change of temperature. As if they were in an enclosed space, though not quite outdoors.
There was an echo.
'No one likes this, I'm afraid, Mr Mitchell. Tom. But I'm going to have to take a look at you.'
It was in the next few seconds that Will decided that this was not some ghastly incident that would soon resolve itself, but actually something rather terrifying. until now, he had clung to the idea that this might be an error or even an ironic send-up of the interrogation scene from a thousand movies.
He had been hoping that it would all be revealed as a hideous mistake; or that, at least, he would soon know the identity of his inquisitor; or that he would make progress; or that this would simply stop. Now he felt sure these strange people who had stolen his wife were about to torture and kill him, probably in a way so sadistic as to chill the blood. Worse than that, and this thought turned his bowels to mush, they had doubtless already done whatever they were going to do, or worse, to Beth.
'No!' Will shouted, but it was too late. He felt his arms being pinned back while someone unbuckled his trousers.
There was a hand over his mouth, too. This could not be the work of the Israeli, all alone. But where were these extra hands coming from? Who did they belong to? And then, without warning, his underpants were down.
'Stop.' He heard the word and was shocked to discover the voice was not his own. The Rebbe had spoken. 'You're telling the truth. You're not Jewish.'
Will could only guess what was happening: the Rebbe must have been standing in front of him, looking at his penis and concluding, rightly, that it was not circumcised.
'You're not Jewish,' the Rebbe repeated. And then, to his assistant or assistants: 'Cover him up.' A pause. 'Well, this is good news, Mr Mitchell. I now believe that you are not a federal agent or a law enforcement official. I suspected you were, prowling around with all your questions. But I know those people and, first, they would have had you wired and, second, they would have sent a Jew. Not only that, but they would have considered themselves very smart for doing that.
Oh, yes, regular geniuses for giving Agent Goldberg a call and saying 'This is a job with your name on it.' That's how they think. Send an Arab to infiltrate a Muslim terrorist gang, send a Jew to us. But you're not a Jew, so you're not working for them. That I now believe.'
Will's trousers were back on, his belt was buckled up and he was off a hook if not the hook: he was not an undercover federal agent. All that combined to reduce the terror of a few moments ago. His body, the pounding of his heart, the moisture on his palms was at code orange, rather than red, where it had been seconds earlier.
'You look relieved, Mr Mitchell. I'm glad. The trouble is, if you're not a fed, you must be working for someone else.
And that, I fear, is infinitely more serious.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday, 9.22pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn
He did not have long to be confused. After the Rebbe had spoken, perhaps a beat passed before Will felt his back pushed forward, making him buckle at the waist. His arms were now gripped like levers, pushing his head and shoulders down and forward.
His nose felt it first, as it filled with water; then his scalp, as it shrank from the cold. His throat gurgled and gagged. He was choking and gasping at the same time.
Will's head and neck had just been submerged in freezing cold water, the blindfold still on. He could feel his chest contract with the shock of it, his heart racing. He had been shoved with some force, in the darkness and therefore without warning, into that icy liquid. He was there for five or six seconds, his shoulders held down to prevent him coming up for air. It was long enough to fill his nostrils, for the water to travel down his sinuses and into his brain. Or that's how it felt — like asphyxiation.
Once out, he gulped in air even as he coughed, a double reflex like vomiting. But then the hands were pushing again and he was under once more.
This time it was the temperature. His eyes seemed to shrivel in their sockets, recoiling from the cold; he was sure he could hear his whole system, veins, arteries and blood vessels, screaming with the trauma of the sudden radical change in temperature.
What was this? A pond? An icebox? The edge of a river?
A toilet? The blindfold was soaked but not loosening; if anything it seemed now to be welding itself onto Will's eyelids, sealed in by ice.
'Now, Tom,' the voice was saying, its timbre distorted by the frozen water in Will's ears. 'Shall we start talking honestly?'
By way of response, Will spat out a mouthful of the water, emptying himself for the next, inevitable dunk.
'I believe this is your second time at the mikve today. You're becoming a regular frummie, aren't you Tom? And I'm sure Shimon Shmuel explained to you the purpose, the meaning of the mikve. This is a place of purification, a place of sanctification.
We enter coated in the sins of our regular lives and emerge tahoor, pure. And in this state we are untainted by any sins, be they lies or deceits. Do you follow me, Tom?'
Will was now shivering. His shirt was soaked and he could feel rivulets of liquid chill running down his back and chest.
His teeth were about to start chattering.
'What I am saying is that I now insist on the truth. And if two or three dips in this outdoor mikve, filled only by purest rainwater, cannot find the truth in you then maybe four or five or six or seven submersions will. We are patient men.
We will keep plunging you into that water until you deal with us plainly and straightforwardly. Do you understand?'
There must have been a silent nod, because down Will went again. The cold was now biting into him, seeping below his skin and into his bones. They too seemed to contract, as if they could hide from the cold by making themselves smaller.
'Who do you work for, Tom? Who sent you here?'
'I'm a journalist,' was all Will could manage, in a voice he hardly recognized, querulous with cold.
'You've said that, but who wants you here? Why are you here?'
I've told you.'
