Will could not find what he wanted. He looked up; Carrie Anne was smiling as she handed press badges to a TV reporter and her cameraman. Silently, Will wheeled around and headed for the conference rooms — his press pack held high as a surrogate credential.
He looked back at the list. Lunch breaks, creche facilities, workshops. Then his eye stopped.
The Chapel: Entering the Messianic age. Speaker to be confirmed.
CLOSED SESSION.
Will looked at his watch; it had already begun. But where in this vast complex of suites, corridors and stairwells was the Chapel? He rifled through his press pack until he saw an internal map. Third floor.
There were so many doors; but finally he saw one with a sign, a diagram of a stick-man kneeling, at prayer. Will pressed his ear close to the door: '… how many centuries have we waited? More than twenty. And sometimes our patience has worn thin. Our faith has faltered.'
Will heard the ding of an elevator. Out came three men, around Will's age, dressed in neat dark suits — just like the one he was still wearing from his late-night trip to Crown Heights. Each held a bible and they were heading, purposefully, towards him.
As they got nearer, Will saw that at least one was out of breath. They were late. This was his chance.
'Don't worry,' said Will as they reached him. 'I think we can still sneak in at the back.'
Sure enough, one opened the door, allowing the whole group to enter — the embarrassment divided by being shared.
Will was simply one of the group; he even carried his own bible.
Jammed in at the back, Will tried to survey the room. To his surprise, it was large; the size of a banqueting hall. There must have been more than two thousand people inside. It was hard to tell who they were; all heads were dipped in prayer. Will did not dare raise his eyes.
Finally an amplified voice broke the silence.
'We repent, O Lord, for our moments of doubt. We repent for the pain and hurt we have inflicted on each other, on the planet your Father entrusted to us and on your name. We repent, O Lord, for the centuries of sin that have kept you from us.'
In unison, the congregation replied, 'On this Day of Atonement, we repent.'
Will looked up, trying to work out who was speaking. A man was standing at the front, but he had his back to the room. It was impossible to see if he was young or old: most of his head was covered with a white skullcap.
'But now, O Lord, the Day of Reckoning is upon us. At long last Man will be held accountable. The great Book of Life is about to be slammed shut. Finally, we are to be judged.'
In unison: 'Amen.'
The man turned around: about Will's age, studious looking.
Will was surprised. He seemed too young to be a leader and that voice too strong to have come from him.
'Your first people, Israel, strayed from your teaching, O Lord.' The voice was continuing, even though the man Will had identified as the leader was not speaking. Only now did Will take in the huge screen at the front of the room. It bore just two words, black on white: The Apostle. At last Will realized the voice filling this room did not belong to anyone inside it. Perhaps it was on a tape; maybe it was relayed live from the outside. It had an odd, metallic quality. Either way, the Apostle was nowhere to be seen.
'The first Israel were frightened of your word. It fell to others to honour your covenant. As it is written, 'And if you are Christ's, then you are Abraham's offspring, heirs according to the promise.''
The congregation responded: 'We are Christ's and so we are Abraham's. We are heirs according to the promise.'
Will felt himself shudder. So this was the Church of the Reborn Jesus, updated for the twenty-first century. And this was the doctrine that had once captivated his father, Townsend McDougal and who knew how many others. The men in this room — and, Will realized now, they were all men — believed it too. They were the inheritors of the Jews' place in the divine scheme. They had taken the teachings of the Jews as their own.
'But now, Lord, we need your help. We pray for your guidance.
We are so close, yet the final knowledge eludes us.'
Number thirty-six, thought Will.
'Please bring us to completion, so that we may finally let God's judgment rain upon this benighted earth.'
Will was surveying the room, when a man in the front row swivelled around to do the same. He saw Will, did a small double-take, then looked across the room, made eye contact with someone else and gestured with his head in Will's direction.
Will did not see the hand that reached out and grabbed his neck. Nor did he spot the leg that kicked him below the knee and made him buckle. But as he fell to the ground, he caught a glimpse of the man standing over him. His eyes were so blue, they almost shone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Monday, 5.46pm, Manhattan
He had woken up, he knew that, but it was still dark. He tried to touch his eyes — sending a sharp, searing pain to his shoulder. His hands were tied. His arms, his legs, his stomach, they all seemed to have had a layer of tissue removed: he pictured them as raw, red flesh.
He twitched his eyelids; he could feel something that was not skin. His eyes were covered by a blindfold. He tried to speak but his mouth was gagged; he began to cough.
'Take it off.' The voice was firm; in authority. Will started to retch; the sense-memory of the gag was still choking him.
Finally he spat out a few words.
'Where am I?'
'You'll see.'
'Where the hell am I?'
'Don't you dare shout at us, Mr Monroe. I said, you'll see.'
Will could hear two, maybe three others close by. 'Take him now.'
'Where am I going?'
'You're going to get what you came here to get. All that lying seems to have paid off, Mr Tom Mitchell of the Guardian: you're going to get your big interview after all.'
In the darkness, he felt a thick, flat hand at his back: he was being shoved forward. He walked a few paces, then two more hands grabbed his shoulders and pivoted him to the right. Will could feel carpet under his feet. Was he still in the convention centre? How long had the beating lasted? How long had he been unconscious? What if it was night-time? It would be too late! Yom Kippur would be over. In the black of his blindfold, Will imagined the gates of heaven, slamming shut.
'Sir, he's here.'
'Thank you, gentlemen. Let us remove those bonds.' Even in regular speech, this man seemed to be quoting scripture.
'Let's take a good look at you.'
Will felt hands working at his wrists until they were free.
Then, at last, the blindfold came off — flooding him with light.
He stole a glance at his watch. There was still time. Thank God, thought Will.
'Gentlemen, leave us please.'
In front of Will, at a plain, hotel-room desk, sat the man he had seen earlier in the chapel. His complexion had the earnest shine of an inner-city vicar, the kind of well-meaning do-gooder Will remembered running the Christian Union at Oxford.
'Are you the Apostle?' Will winced. The effort of speaking sent a tremor of pain shooting down his spine.
