Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  So he was an ace flyer, one who knows his way in the air. She still harbored a faint hope that the witness was wrong. The Athaliah sighed and motioned to the witness to approach her, a sign the ceremony was over. She kissed her on the cheeks and on her eyelids, and they began reciting the ancient incantations.

  “I will pay that that I have vowed. Renew our days as of old. Let Lilith reign on earth forever. Praise her name.”

  The Athaliah walked over to a small table and picked up an earthen jar containing holy water. She poured some into a goblet, took a pinch of dust from a small copper box and sprinkled it on the water; then she offered it to the witness.

  With trembling hands, the witness brought the goblet to her lips.

  “If, during this moon, you have not seen a Naphil, and you have drunk this water, the seven curses of Eve will be upon you, and you shall never be as you once were.”

  “Amen,” said the witness.

  The Athaliah fixed her gaze on the witness’ eyes. The water had its effect and her pupils were dilated. The Athaliah focused on the irises, on the disk surrounding the pupils. The answer reflected in the black box of the soul was unequivocal.

  She, too, was telling the truth.

  The Athaliah thanked her with a nod of her head, and the witness left the room.

  When the sky is about to open, you feel very small, even if you are the Athaliah. But anxiety and foreboding were luxuries she could not indulge in. She needed to find certainty and serenity. The Athaliah took a deep breath and resumed the recitation from the first verse. Every introspection had to start with the basic words known to every member of The Order. It was the familiar path she had to tread in order to overcome her anxiety. She recited the words in a whisper.

  “In the days of time immemorial, when there were no names and no call for names, nothing in heaven or earth had a name except the Glorious Master of the Universe; there was no eyewitness and no one to pronounce names. Evening passed and morning came and God created man in his image, male and female He created them. And He called the woman Lilith and her man Adam. Lilith and her man observed the angels and knew their names; they could distinguish between purity and thick darkness, between God and Nothingness. Lilith had a dream and when she awoke she trembled with fear. She went down to earth and planted a garden in Eden and called it Kedem. She stayed there, forsaking Adam whom God had created for her. And God said unto her: Since you have forsaken the man I have given you, I shall seal the Gates of Heaven. A battle is pitched between Me and you.”

  Except that in this battle, she wouldn’t be able to make use of authority, administration, officials and documents. Something older than paper, more ancient than recorded documents was needed here. The broken covenant was an oral one; it preceded the invention of writing.

  The balance of powers was clear, the chances were slim, the price horrendous. It was time to act.

  The Athaliah took a deep breath and pressed the button.

  “Let them in.”

  They would have to use the RAD Belts and the rituals that had never been tested before against the biggest threat The Order had ever faced – the Nephilim.

  The Athaliah assumed a royal countenance, one exuding splendor and authority as befitting a conference with the two senior members of her cabinet, Miss Adedin and Miss Adesela.

  The two walked into the room side by side. They couldn’t have been more unlike.

  Bathsheba Adedin had a warm and sunny disposition, looking innocent and vulnerable. She was unquestionably trustworthy and frank, like a child who has just arrived in Wonderland and requires a period of adjustment.

  Na’ama Adesela, on the other hand, was an arrow about to be released from a taut bowstring. She could be cruel when necessary and often knew no bounds. She was the first to talk, and as usual, went right to the heart of the matter, in her plain, blunt style.

  “Is that it then?”

  “The witnesses were truthful.”

  The two senior delegates were tense. They knew that the witnesses had been summoned because the evidence pointed in a certain direction, but they also knew that only the Athaliah could assess the veracity of their testimony.

  “So the case of Leah Aiello’s daughter is conclusive?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have to respond,” Na’ama said emphatically. “Give me just one of their names. We’ll punish him and then all the others will fall in line. It does not have to be the name of the one who…”

  “There’s only one problem with this scenario,” said the Athaliah.

  “What?” asked Bathsheba.

  “We do not have the names.”

  A profound silence fell on the room.

  “The names were lost when Athaliah the Sixty-Second died without bequeathing them to her successor. It’s been seventy years now that they are immune from extinction, and they don’t even know it. Like every holder of this office since then, I have spared no effort trying to find the names, but to no avail,” the Athaliah continued.

  “Why wasn’t the Council informed? Why weren’t we told?” asked Na’ama, who was the first of the delegates to recover.

  “The decision to keep this information from all but the Athaliah was taken a long time ago. The Order has to present a certain façade to maintain its prestige without resorting to force. An unloaded gun is just as effective as a deterrent, but only if both sides do not know it is empty.”

  “What now?” asked Bathsheba in as steady a voice as she could muster.

  “She Shall Overcome, phase one: The Nephilim have abducted two members of The Order. At this stage, it should be on a ‘need-to-know basis’: everyone else must move aside, do her job, and not ask questions because there will be no answers.”

  The Athaliah had thrown into the air the mobilization code with the same detachment she used earlier to inform them of the witnesses’ truthfulness. Noticing how ill-at-ease Bathsheba had become at her announcement, she hastened to issue a quick succession of operational orders to the Public Affairs Division. Na’ama, head of the Security and Counterintelligence Division, had to curb her enthusiasm at the soon-to-be fulfilled expectations.

  “Bathsheba, I need someone to monitor the Jabbok Crossing, another one at Shinar Valley, and at least one of our agents for the Syrian mountain pass.”

  “Why now? Why here?” asked Na’ama, unconcerned about the implications.

  “I think someone else, someone important, has made them some promises.”

  A quick exchange of looks made it clear that they all knew what must be avoided and, more importantly, what must be done as soon as possible.

  “With or without an OK from above – the battle is joined.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mazzy Simantov looked about her, seeing the situation as it really was, rather than the way it was presented. The place had the trappings of a party for the Diplomatic Corps; security guards scanned the area, mumbling into their cuffs as they waited for armored vehicles to arrive, and opening the heavy doors at an angle to protect against possible snipers. Smiling uniformed waitresses made their rounds with trays of appetizers and tall glasses. A quartet was playing at the other end of the hall, opposite long tables laden with refreshments. Roy Mandelbrot was the rising star of the underworld. He had begun his career as a technical adviser with extensive military experience, and he left his mark on gang warfare and contracted killings.

  When his daughter Adva disappeared, some felt the police should hang back and let the windmills of poetic justice slowly grind their grist. It was Mazzy who pointed out to her superiors that a seven year-old child was involved, and that she would mobilize all the meager resources of Soothsayer in order to bring the girl back alive and well. But, in the end, it was Rachel Simantov who located Adva’s whereabouts, even though that fact was omitted from the report. Or that Mandelbrot’s coffee grounds had revealed an image of a winged hammer on a pile of foliage, a picture that led Rachel to determine the girl was not in imminent danger and would soon
be found. Further reading led to the house where she was being held. Rachel did not elaborate on the meaning of the symbols; she just gave the address to the investigators. Rachel Simantov, it was noted, did not ask for remuneration for her services.

  Mazzy, however, knew her mother’s motives were not pure. Naturally, Rachel did not want the little girl to come to any harm, but bonuses in the form of Mandelbrot’s gratitude and a chance to tarnish the reputation of the Soothsayer unit were obvious fringe benefits.

  When the negotiating team arrived at the address Rachel had given them, they found the kidnappers gone and the frightened, dehydrated girl all by herself. Mazzy arrived only after the dust had settled.

  Now, two weeks after the return of the kidnapped girl, Mandelbrot threw a “business as usual” party, and his thanks to the Soothsayer unit were spelled out on the fancy program offered to the guests as they made their way from the open bar to the dance floor.

  Roy Mandelbrot was surrounded by several of his ogres, creatures about whom the less is said, the better.

  There was something familiar about the way people approached and greeted him: whispering in his ear without making any physical contact, squirming uncomfortably, visibly frightened. Mazzy watched Mandelbrot and his entourage as they made their way across the hall toward his female counterpart. Rachel stood on the side exuding self-importance. Mazzy suspected that Rachel was fully aware that her seemingly passive demeanor forced other personalities to approach her: past clients, politicians, businessmen, sports stars, models, and crime reporters. She took unabashed pleasure in the attention, like a lioness presented with a lion’s share on a platter. When Mandelbrot tried to kiss her on the cheek, she rebuffed him.

  Mandelbrot turned away from her, and the social part of the evening was over. Rachel was left alone in her corner to disdainfully survey the dinner tables and the people who populated them. She focused on the Soothsayer party, the bizarre and colorful group gathered around Mazzy.

  If any of the women had noticed Rachel, they were not going to reward her with an acknowledgement, and Itzkovitch, the only man on the team, would never make eye contact with a woman.

  The Soothsayer clairvoyants were a handpicked group, selected for their professional talent, but also for their lack of any connection to Rachel, her acolytes, or her numerous devotees.

  Mazzy watched Izzy as she stirred her fruit cocktail with a miniature umbrella while ogling the buffet’s lavish array of cold cuts, carpaccios, and salamis. As part of her commitment to crystals and auras, Izzy had to forgo the pleasures of flesh and its products. Mazzy appreciated her self-restraint.

  Away from the others in splendid isolation, sat Larissa, whose frigid personality held the nearby ice sculptures together. Under the table, Larissa’s hands were busy, and Mazzy was willing to bet half her modest salary that she was shuffling cards.

  Next to these ladies sat Elisha Itzkovitch, a mystic of the worst and most dangerous kind – according to Rachel – a man who worshipped God.

  The moment Mazzy was able to put him on police payroll, she added him to her team.

  Mazzy watched her in-house pious man as he whipped out a small leather bound volume from his pocket and buried his nose in it. He jotted down numbers and letters into a notebook, arranging them in columns and rows, changing their order like beads on a Chinese abacus, mumbling to himself all the while.

  “Fifteen equals ‘spring,’ but what does spring have to do with Esther? She’s a girl, so maybe it should be ‘spring of youth’ which equals 392, whose letter value equals ‘a word to the wise’ or, alternately, ‘salvation.’ Maybe this is the key, the addition of ‘youth,’ which equals 376, or maybe ‘peace’?”

  Elisha Itzkovitch was the rising star of the Kabbalistic “Lion’s Whelps” sect in Jerusalem. Popularly known as Rabbi Itzkovitch, or “The Lad,” he specialized in gematria and numerology. While still a teen, he was considered an authority on Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism. His congregation raised a hue and cry when he decided to move from Safed to Jerusalem, but after assuring the leaders of the communities that he had no intention of staging a putsch or moving his followers to the Holy City, the storm subsided.

  “The Find!”

  All eyes at the table turned to Elisha, who thought his victory cry might have been louder than he had intended. He continued in a whisper:

  “I’ve hit on something! I started with the number fifteen, which is the numerical equivalent of ‘spring,’ then I added the word ‘youth’ thinking I had found the answer because it has the same number as ‘peace.’ But then it turned out that ‘youth’ equals 376, which is the value meaning ‘wrong interpretation.’”

  Izzy and Mazzy exchanged looks. They didn’t need words to agree that Itzkovitch might be a genius in his area of expertise, but listening to him was rarely an enlightening experience. Izzy was not a patient person.

  “Bottom line?”

  “’Spring of Youth’ equals 391 involving one addition. Then I got ‘Salvation’ and ‘Word to the Wise,’ and if you add one to the initial fifteen you get 151.”

  “Which means?”

  “A lot of things, but they all revolve around the answer. This is where ‘The Find!’ comes in,” he declared with childlike exuberance. The perplexed looks he encountered made it clear that the twisted thread he had spun in an attempt to facilitate their trek through his inner logic did not prove helpful.

  “’The Find’ equals 151, which also fits ‘Where it Comes from’ and ‘I know,’ as well as ‘Passover is Coming,’ ‘Succinctly’ and ‘Feather.’ Each one of these expressions adds up to 151!”

  “And what are we supposed to do with this information?” Mazzy hastened to ask before someone insulted her Pious Man, something that, judging by Larissa’s body language, was bound to happen.

  “There are several possibilities, several directions. They should check connections to Passover or spring, flowers or blooming, and ask the investigating team if anything having to do with a feather was found.”

  Mazzy scrutinized his resolute expression, wondering how she might approach Yariv with these breakthroughs supplied by Elisha regarding the case of Estie Shalvi, without incurring scorn. She had a problem convincing other people of what she herself was not absolutely certain. Kabbalah was not an exact science and, unlike the other disciplines she was raised on, she had to rely on the abilities of “The Lad”. Izzy smiled at her knowingly, perhaps sharing her doubts, perhaps amused by Itzkovitch’s outlandish approach.

  “You know what else equals 151?” fired Rachel, who suddenly materialized a few feet from the table. A long moment of silence ensued, proving that Itzkovitch had finally grasped the meaning of “rhetorical question,” a progress duly noted.

  “Obsessive,” the Godmother pronounced tersely. Mazzy’s name was suddenly called out by the DJ, and before she could put out the little fire that was spreading around the table, Mazzy got up and walked to the stage.

  Taking out a printed page from her pocket, she delivered a succinct, official message.

  “The Israeli police carried out its duty in the same manner it would have had any other citizen been involved.” Her statement elicited smirks from wall to wall. “The most important point in this affair is that Adva has been returned to her mother’s arms.”

  It was a simple sentence, but it spoke volumes.

  She added a few more words, throwing in typical press conference clichés. When the sporadic applause subsided and the DJ pumped out heavy electronic music, Mazzy hastened back to her seat, already plotting several possible escape routes. Something started vibrating. Her phone.

  She keyed it and covered her other ear. A man’s voice on the other end filled the space inside her head.

  “This is Yariv.”

  “Yes?”

  “A new case. Hagar Abizu, lawyer, thirty-three. Disappeared from the ‘Saving Grace’ building under bizarre circumstances, and the guy who was supposed to watch her was apparently hurled to the pavement fr
om an incredible height.”

  “We’re in the middle of Mandelbrot’s shindig. Can’t this wait?”

  “No, Mazzy. Look, I know we started out on the wrong foot…”

  “Now? Does it have to be now?”

  “They checked the security tapes. She spoke to someone at the entrance to the parking lot. It’s not the same guy they found downstairs.”

  “So who is it?”

  “We don’t know. No one with his build or height was seen anywhere in the building in the last 48 hours.”

  “Do we have a picture of him? A sketch?”

  “Only estimates of his height and weight from the angles and compared to someone who was talking to him. And there’s something else we’re not sure about, but definitely have to look into. Assuming it’s not just the reflection from the streetlights, his hair is fair, very fair.”

  Only now did Mazzy notice that Rachel was sitting close to her, listening intently. Yariv continued to report, but she was preoccupied with Rachel. Mazzy wondered why her mother bothered to eavesdrop when she was capable of obtaining the information herself. Maybe because she knew that it would drive her daughter bonkers.

  “I can barely hear you here. I’ll call you from the car.”

  “I’m forwarding everything we’ve got into the system, you’ll see it on the terminal in the car.”

  “All right.”

  “Let me know what you make of it … and Mazzy… this case… you’ve got to think differently.”

  The disconnecting click brought her back to the reality of Rachel’s intrusive presence.

  “You’re going there, to the place where she disappeared?”

  “There’s nothing to see there. Everything is already wrapped in plastic. We’ll go to the precinct, check the findings.”

  “You’re working like them now.”

  “I know how to do my job.”

  “I didn’t say you don’t. But you should go to the scene. Maybe you’ll sense something.”