by Sam Bourne
'In those two words?'
'Yep. Primers' domain is an anagram.'
'For what?'
'For Pardes Rimonim. It means "Garden of Pomegranates" in Hebrew; an orchard of fruit.' She was smiling.
'OK, but what on earth is it?'
'We're about to find out.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sunday, 2.23pm, Manhattan
Patience and Fortitude were gazing elsewhere, as always.
Apparently uninterested either in the volumes of learning behind them or the hordes of knowledge-seekers marching towards them, they maintained their poses: stone sentries, silent guardians of the house of wisdom.
Will had always loved this building. As with all young men, the discovery of his own conservatism had come as a shock. But shortly after his arrival in America, Will found he had a great affection — no, it was more than that — a need for old buildings. He was more English than he realized: he needed the solidity of aged walls and stones.
He had grown up in a country where the most unremarkable village boasted a church that was six, seven, eight hundred years old — if not older. When it was all around him, he had barely noticed it. But now, in a country that was still so new and unformed, the absence of such agedness almost made him feel queasy, like a sailor on an unsteady ship.
New York was different. Like Boston or Philadelphia, it had enough mature masonry to reassure Will. And the Public Library was a perfect example, a structure that could have been plucked from London or Oxford and dropped onto Manhattan island from the air.
On their way in, Will's phone had buzzed once more. The message: 3 tines I kiss the page. It seemed obvious that this was the final instruction they needed. Pardes Rimonim was the name of the book, that much TO had worked out.
This was telling them where to look, perhaps even the page.
TO fairly galloped up the two flights of stairs to the Dorot Jewish Division. She told the librarian which book she wanted to see, prompting a sharp intake of breath. 'You mean the 159I manuscript of Pardes Rimonim?' TO and Will looked at each other. 'You do appreciate that that is an extremely rare and precious book. Only the manager of the reading room or her deputy is authorized to bring out that manuscript.
Could you come back tomorrow?'
'I really need to see it right away.'
'I'm afraid a book such as this needs special permission.
I'm sorry.'
'Who's that woman there? The one drinking coffee.' TO was nodding towards a back office.
'That's the deputy manager. This is her lunch break.'
'Hello! Hello!'
Will could have cringed with embarrassment. TO had all but shoved the librarian aside and was leaning across the counter, shouting and waving to catch the deputy manager's attention — here, in the solemn quiet of a library. Scholars at the reading room's five tables were craning to see the cause of the commotion. If only to restore order, the woman in the back office put down her mug of coffee and came over.
It worked. TO was asked to write her name and address in the visitors' book, fill in a form and leave ID. Still huffing, the woman disappeared to retrieve the manuscript from a locked cabinet inside a locked room — twenty long minutes in which Will paced, studying the faces of the weekend researchers all around him.
'Here it is,' said the woman eventually, standing over the table where Will and TO had pitched camp. She did not hand them the book, nor did she lay it on the table. Instead she propped it up on a pair of wedge-shaped black Styrofoam blocks, so that the spine did not fully open. TO pulled out her notepad and reached for a pen.
'Pencils only, I'm afraid. No pens near a book of this quality.'
'I'm sorry. Pencils it is. Thanks very much. I'm sure we won't be too long.'
'Oh, I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right next to this book until it's back in its cabinet. Those are the rules.'
TO began turning the pages with slow deliberation. The manuscript was a relic from a vanished era; hand-crafted in Cracow, its pages were thick with four centuries of history. TO was wary even of touching it.
Will sat at her side, staring at the latest text message.
Mindful of the woman watching over them, he whispered, 'Is that some religious thing, to kiss the page?'
'Jews do kiss their prayer books when they're closed, or if they drop them on the floor. But not three times. And not specific pages.' TO was speaking without looking away from the book. She seemed to be in awe of it.
Will took out his notepad. Maybe this was an exercise in mathematics; perhaps if it was expressed as arithmetic. Will wrote '3 times' as '3 x'. Perhaps I was the figure 1. What would that give him? 3 x I = 3. No good.
Then he took a second look at what he had written. Hold on. Will's mind suddenly went back to the Wednesday afternoons he had spent as a nine-year-old boy, in Mr McGregor's Latin class. McGregor was an old-school schoolmaster, all black gown and hurling the blackboard eraser, but every word he taught had stuck. Including the games he used to play with the Lower Remove to teach Roman numerals.
Hurriedly now Will wrote out '3 times' as three x's in succession: xxx. Now for 'I kiss'. Of course. The I was an i. And how did you denote a kiss, except with the letter x? (For only a flash, Will remembered the first time Beth signed off a text message with an x. Just one x, after her name, but it thrilled Will. They were in that brief, delicious overture of a relationship, falling in love, but not yet having said the L-word out loud. That x of Beth's was a taster.) Now he wrote it out: xxx for '3 times', ix for 'I kiss': xxxix.
"Turn to page thirty-nine.'
TO was slow, handling the text before her with solemn care. Will wanted to tear at the pages so that he could just see whatever they were meant to see right now.
'OK,' said TO finally. 'This is it.'
Before them was a page dominated by a graphic: ten circles arranged in geometric fashion and linked by a complex series of lines. Will had a faint memory of such drawings and it took him a while to place it. This reminded him of the chemistry textbooks of his youth, depicting molecular structures in two dimensions.
Except each circle had a word written inside it. Will had to squint to see that the script was Hebrew. It was jarring, geometry and scientific neatness in a drawing that was medieval.
'What are we looking at?'
He could see TO did not want to answer. She was hunched over the image, her shoulder all but blocking Will's view. 'I'm not sure yet. I need to look.'
'Come on, TO. I know you know what this is.' Will was shouting in a whisper. 'Tell me.'
Self-consciously, and aware of the hovering librarian, TO started to point and talk. 'This is the key image of kabbalah.'
'Kabbalah? As in Madonna? Red string and all that?'
TO rolled her eyes, then moulded her face into an expression that said, where do I start? 'No. That's just some bullshit celeb cult. It's about as close to real kabbalah as, I don't know, the Easter Bunny is to Christianity. Just listen.'
'Sorry.'
'Kabbalah is Jewish mysticism. It's a very arcane form of Jewish study, closed off to most people. You're not meant to look at it until you've reached the age of forty. And it's for men only.'
'What about this picture?'
'It's like the starting point of kabbalah. It contains everything.
They call it the Tree of Life.'
'My God.'
'That's sort of what they think this is. It's a diagrammatic representation of the key qualities of God. Each of these circles is a Sefirah, a divine attribute.' She pointed at the lowest circle.
'See, it starts at the bottom with Malchut, that means Kingdom. That refers to the physical realm. Then it branches off into Yesod, Foundation, Hod, Glory and Nezah, Eternity.
Then it progresses, into Tiferet, Beauty, Gevurah, Judgment and Hesed, Mercy. And finally, at the top of the tree, there is Binah, which is kind of like intellectual understanding. And on the right, Hochmah, which is Wisdom. And at the summit, Keter,
the Crown. Something like the divine essence.'
'So we're looking at the image of God.'
'Or the closest we're ever going to get to it.'
Will could not say anything. A shiver had run down his spine as TO had spoken. Maybe it was all just crankish hokum, but this series of lines and circles, drawn so many hundreds of years ago and taught down the generations only to those deemed able to cope with its secrets, seemed to radiate a kind of power.
TO spoke again. 'It's funny talking about the "image of God". The mystics believe that the whole reason for existence is that tiod wanted to behold God.'
Will looked bemused.
'until then, there was just God. Nothing else. Just a limitless, infinite God. The trouble was, there was no room for anything else: there was no room for God's creation, for the physical world that would mirror him. So he had to shrink a little. He had to contract, leaving a space so that a kind of mirror could exist — to reflect God back to himself. See, it says it here.' She picked up another book, one she had ordered while waiting for the manuscript, rapidly flicking through the pages until she found what she was looking for.
'until the moment of Zimzutn, contraction, "Face did not gaze upon Face". God could not see himself.'
Will was fascinated by this image and even more so by the explanation TO was supplying, but he was dispirited by it, too. This was deep theological water: how deep would he and TO have to dive before they found the connection to the here and now, to the Hassidim, to their victims and to Beth?
Once again, he felt a rising indignation with Yosef Yitzhok.
Why could he not just give it to them straight?
It had failed once before, but he decided to try a direct appeal again. While TO pored over the drawing, sometimes cocking her head to one side to read the text on the opposite page, he rummaged in his bag and, away from the prying eyes of the librarian, he texted YY.
We're in the library. We see the drawing.
We need more.
He noticed the time on the phone display: 3.30pm. Which meant it was the dead of night in Bangkok. Will looked at the BlackBerry; nothing from the foreign desk.
'Listen,' he whispered to TO. 'I'm going outside to call the paper. I'll be back in a few minutes.'
'Bring me a soda.'
As soon as he was out of the main reading room, he started dialling the foreign desk number. Andy picked up before Will got out of the building.
'Yo, Will. How you doing? Shit, I was meant to send you that stuff, wasn't I? Sorry, been crazy here all afternoon.'
'Andy! I told you I needed it right away!'
'I know, I know. Sorry. I fucked up. Anyway, here it comes.'
'Just read it out to me now, will you? I can't wait for the BlackBerry.'
By now Will was outside the main entrance, pacing up and down at the top of that vast staircase.
'Will, we are slightly on deadline here.' The word was delivered in a mock-English accent; Andy was sending him up, which was a good sign. 'OK. Here goes. I'll have to be quick and I'll skip over the funny names, OK? From John Bishop, Bangkok. Samak Sangsuk was mourned yesterday by those who knew him best — and by a few who hardly knew him at all.
'Mr Samak, who fell victim to what appears to have been an international kidnap plot Saturday, was a member of Thailand's financial elite, earning top-dollar fees on real estate and through the burgeoning Thai tourist industry.'
Get on with it, Will was thinking.
'But he was also known to the Bangkok underclass, as the man they called Mr Funeral. Mr Samak, it seems, had a strange sideline, one he ran not for profit but for its own sake. He organized funerals for the poor.
'"Mr Samak would be in touch with all the mortuaries, all the hospitals, all the funeral homes," recalled one associate Sunday. "If a corpse came in with no family or friends, with no one to bury them, they would call Mr Samak. If there was no money to pay for a proper burial, they would call Mr Samak.'"
Will could feel the blood in his veins pumping harder.
'Will? You still with me?'
'Yeah, just keep reading.'
'In the past, Bangkok's poorest would end their days in a pauper's grave, sometimes buried a dozen at a time, without a coffin between them. Mr Samak is credited with putting an end to the practice — almost single-handedly. Not only would he pay the burial costs, locals say he would also round up a congregation for the ceremony, often by paying "mourners" a few dollars to show up. "Thanks to Mr Funeral," said one doctor, "no one was buried like a dog and no one was buried alone."'
Will had heard enough. He hung up and galloped down the stairs, enjoying the sun on his face. First, Macrae, then Baxter and now Samak. Not just good men, but unusually, strangely good men. This was no longer a coincidence.
He found a store, bought a couple of bottles of iced tea and headed back up towards the library: he would have to tell TO the news and work out the connection with the drawing. Surely, this was about to slot together.
Except now he noticed a figure who until then had only lurked in his peripheral vision. Darting out of view, as if frightened that he had been seen, was a tall man, wearing jeans and a loose grey hooded sweatshirt. His age, his colour, his expression were all impossible to discern: his face was entirely obscured by the hood. Only one thing was clear: he was stalking Will.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sunday, 3.51pm, Manhattan
Will headed straight for the steps, taking care not to look over his shoulder. Once inside, he walked just as briskly. But he felt them before he heard them: the click, click of footsteps behind his, clacking along the cold stone floor. He headed for the first staircase he could find, daring, as he moved up another flight, to take a glance down. As he feared, the grey hood was right behind him.
Now he broke into a jog, taking two more flights up. Once he hit a landing, he broke off, taking an instant decision to seek refuge in a room full of card-index catalogues. He dashed in, slowing to an immediate walk: even then, and silent, he felt too noisy, too sweaty for the hushed concentration of the room. He turned around: the hood.
He walked faster, under a vast painting showing a trompe I'oeil sky. Dark clouds were gathering. Spotting an opening on the back wall, Will went in, only to discover it was not an exit but a small photocopying room. He darted back out, but now the hooded man was just a few yards away.
Will saw the double doors out and ran for them. Once through, he was in a throng of people enjoying a mid-work break. He weaved through them to get to the staircase on the other side and, clutching hold of the hand rail, galloped down, two at a time. A woman carrying a computer monitor was in his way and he had to dodge to get past her. He moved to the left and so did she; he moved to the right and so did she. He leapt to her side to get past, but she let out an involuntary yelp — followed by a thud and a cymbal-crash of broken glass. She had dropped the machine.
Now Will was in the main foyer, facing a large cloakroom.
This was where regular readers began their day. There were lockers for bags and a long rail for coats that snaked around the room, as if in a dry-cleaner's shop. The man in the hood was walking towards him. Calmly.
Will had to move fast. While the attendant was looking the other way, he vaulted over the wooden counter and plunged into the thickness of the coats. Squeezing between a heavy anorak and a shaggy, afghan jacket, he pressed himself against the back wall. He could sense his stalker had stopped;
Will guessed he was by the cloakroom, peering over the counter, searching. He tried to still his breathing.
Suddenly, he felt movement. The attendant was handling the coats, pushing whole bunches of them aside, looking for a number. Will held in his cheeks to make no sound. But the man was getting closer, closer, closer — until he stopped, less than a foot away. Will felt him pull out a jacket and return to the counter.
Then, a flash of grey. Will was sure the stalker had walked past. He allowed himself an exhalation; perhaps he had not been seen. He wou
ld wait five more minutes, then come out, find TO and get the hell out of here.
But the hand got him first — thrust in before he had seen a face, like the robotic arm on a space probe. It grabbed his shirt by the collar, in an attempt to drag him into the daylight. Even in the dark, he could see the grey sweatshirt fabric that covered the arm. Twice Will locked onto it with both hands, pulling it off himself. But each time the hand came back, eventually smashing Will's chin in the process. Crammed behind the coats, Will just could not get the space he needed to reach beyond this single, flailing arm — and hit the man behind it.
The struggle was soon over. Will was pulled out of his hiding place like the meat from a sandwich. Now he came face to face with the man in the hood. To his complete surprise, he recognized him immediately.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sunday, 3.56pm, Manhattan
'Why did you run away? I just want to talk.'
Talk? You just want to talk? So why were you bloody stalking me? Christ!' Will was bending over, one hand on his knee, the other tending to his chin.
'I didn't want to approach you while you were with, um, that woman. Upstairs. I didn't know who she was. I didn't know if it was safe.'
'Well, it would have been safer for me, believe me. Jesus Christ'
Will found a chair and all but fell into it, trying to catch his breath. 'So what the hell's this about, Sandy? Or is it Shimon?'
'Shimon Shmuel. But call me Sandy, it'll be easier.'
'Gee, thanks.'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you, I really did not. But I couldn't let you run away. I have to talk to you. Something very bad has happened.'
'You're telling me. My wife has been kidnapped; I've practically been tortured; your rabbi killed some guy in Bangkok; and now you've spent a weekend stalking me, before the grand finale of a whack on the chin.'