'I had hoped your suffering would be easing. We took great care to bind your wounds.'
Will suddenly became aware of bandages and plasters covering his arms and legs, even his chest.
'Please accept my apologies for the somewhat heavy handed treatment you had meted out to you. 'But those who suffer he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction.' The Book of Job.'
'You didn't answer my question. Are you the Apostle?'
A modest smile. 'No, I am not the Apostle. I only serve him.'
'I want to speak to him.'
'And why should I let you do that?'
'Because I know what he, what all of you, are up to. And I will go to the police.'
'I'm afraid that is not going to be possible. The Apostle does not meet anybody.'
'Well, in that case, I'm sure the police will be very interested to hear what I know.'
'And what exactly do you know, Mr Monroe?'
The thin-lipped calm of this man infuriated Will. He strode forward, his legs aching with each movement. I'll tell you what I know. I know that the Jews believe there are always thirty-six righteous men in the world. And that so long as those people are alive, then the world is OK. I also know that in the last few days these men have started dying very mysterious deaths. Murdered, to be precise. One in Montana, maybe two in New York. One in London and God knows where else. And I strongly suspect that this group are the ones behind it. That's what I know.'
'I don't think 'strongly suspect' will cut much ice, Mr Monroe. Not coming from a man who was in a prison cell himself just a few hours ago.'
How the hell did he know that? Will suddenly thought back to the desk clerk at the seventh precinct and the crucifix around her neck. Maybe this cult had people everywhere.
Worse, the vicar was right. Will had nothing firm, just wild speculation. He had no leverage over this guy or the so-called Apostle he served. He felt his shoulders slump.
'But let's say this theory of yours is right. Purely hypothetically, of course.' The man was twirling a pencil between his fingers, letting it fall from one hand to the other. Will wondered if he was nervous. 'Let us say there was such an effort to identify the thirty-six and to… bring them to their final rest. And let us say that a holy group were involved in this. I strongly suspect, to use your own phrase, that you would have a divine obligation to get out of their way, wouldn't you? I think you would understand the wounds to your flesh as some kind of sign. A warning if you like.'
'Are you threatening to kill me?'
'No, of course not. Nothing so crude. I am threatening you with something much worse.'
Will felt an ice in this man that terrified him. 'Worse?'
'I am threatening you with the reality of the holiest teachings ever given to mankind. The hour of redemption is upon us, Mr Monroe. Salvation will come to those who have brought the hour closer. But those who sought to delay it, to thwart the divine promise, those souls will be tormented for all eternity. A thousand years will be like the passing of just one day, and there will be a thousand more and a thousand more after that. So think carefully, Mr Monroe. Do not stand in the path of the Lord. Do not stand in the way of our Father. Do not aid those who seek to frustrate Him. Try instead to light the way.'
Will was attempting to absorb all this man was telling him when he realized the meeting was over. From behind, he felt hands once again grabbing his arms and replacing his blindfold.
He was led out of the room and into what sounded like a service elevator. It shook when it had plumbed what Will calculated was five floors. The doors moved apart and he was shoved out. By the time he had removed the blindfold, to see he was in an underground car park, he was alone.
Upstairs, the man who had spoken to Will a few minutes earlier checked to make sure it had all come through loud and clear on the speaker-phone. 'I think we have given him enough,' he said to the older man at the end of the line.
'Yes, you have done well. Now all we can do is wait.' If Will had heard the voice he would have recognized it. For it was the voice of the Apostle.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Monday, 7.12pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn
It had been black; tonight it was white. The synagogue seemed to glow with whiteness, moonlight reflected on snow. There were as many men in here as Will had seen on Friday night, except now they were dressed not in black suits but clothed almost entirely in white.
They wore what seemed to be thin white bathrobes over their dark suits, covering them from their ankles to their shoulders. Instead of the regulation black leather shoes, their feet were now in white trainers. Many of the prayer shawls were all white, as were the skullcaps of those not wearing hats. And they were packed together, a swaying mass of white, a swaying mass of prayer.
This, TO had told him in the briefest of calls from the hospital, was ne'eilah, the concluding segment of what would have been a marathon, day-long service. Tradition demanded that the congregation — denied food or water for the previous twenty-four hours — stand for the duration, in recognition of the gravity of the moment. For this was the final hour of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the day of reckoning.
In this hour, the gates of heaven were closing. Repentance was urgent. As TO described it, Will imagined it: the last minute penitent slipping through the crack in the door, just as it thundered shut. Those who had not atoned, or left it too late, were left outside.
All day, this vast hangar of a space had echoed with ancient incantations, as several thousand voices sang together:
B 'Rosh Hashana yichatayvun…
On the first day of the year it is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement it is sealed. How many shall die and how many shall be born; who shall live and who shall die, who at the measure of man's days and who before it…
The heaviness of the hour descended on Will as soon as he walked in. Faces were funeral-serious; acknowledging each other, but unsmiling. Most men had eyes only for the prayer books they held as they bobbed back and forth in supplication.
Sha 'arei shamayim petach…
Open the gates of heaven… Save us, oh God 'Excuse me,' said Will, trying to squeeze his way through this football crowd of a throng. It was too packed, his progress was too slow. He needed to get to Rabbi Freilich as quickly as possible if he was going to have any chance of striking a bargain. He would reveal the real pursuers of the righteous men and, in return, they would release Beth. He looked at his watch. He had perhaps thirty minutes to act. Will had calculated that he had to move now, while the threat remained at its highest. If he waited till after Yom Kippur, and if the thirty-sixth man remained safely hidden, the Hassidim might conclude that the danger had receded. Will's leverage would vanish.
He began to ask. 'Excuse me, do you know where Rabbi Freilich is? Ratbbi Freilich?' Most ignored him. Occasionally, a hand would wave him left or right — while the eyes stayed fixed on the page ahead or, just as often, firmly shut.
It was like wading through water. All these unfamiliar faces. He looked at his watch: twenty-three minutes.
Then a hand on his shoulder, sending a bolt of pain through his back. He turned around, his hand balled into a fist in readiness.
'Will?'
'Sandy! You frightened me. Jesus. Sorry.'
'What are you doing here?'
'No time to explain. Listen, I need to speak to Rabbi Freilich.
Now.'
Sandy did not reply, but grasped Will's wrist and dragged him first right, then back and finally around the
