by Sam Bourne
Once across, he had to burst through a family waiting at the crossing; he knocked the balloon out of a child's hand.
Will looked back to see it soar — and to realize Laser Eyes was now just a sprint away from him.
At last, Atlantic Avenue subway station. Will hurtled down the stairs, cursing the wide woman blocking his way. Down and down, vaulting over the turnstile, hoping his ears would not fail him. Years of travelling on the Underground in London had given him a sixth sense for the mix of wind, light and humming sounds that indicated a train was coming. Will was sure he could hear it on the opposite platform. He would have to get up the stairs and across the bridge in just a few seconds. He could hear the thudding of footsteps; the stalker was just behind him.
Only moments separated them, but as Will crossed the bridge he could see the train that had just pulled in. An instant later, he was sliding down the stairs, shoving people out of the way. There was the beep-beep-beep and hiss of air that announced the train was about to move off. Just one more second…
Will dived from the bottom stair and across the platform in what felt like a single leap. The door had almost closed behind him when it stopped — held back by four fingers of a hand. Through the glass, Will could see his face: the eyes almost translucent, fixed in a stare that turned Will's guts to ice. The door was inching back.
'What you doing? You just gonna have to wait for the next train like everyone else!' It was a woman passenger, no younger than seventy, using her walking stick to whack the knuckles protruding through the door. As the train began to move off, she rapped harder — until one by one, they disappeared.
The man with the glass eyes was left on the platform, getting smaller and smaller.
'Thank you with all my heart,' said Will, gasping for air as he fell into the nearest seat.
'People need to have more respect,' she said.
'Yes, that's right,' Will wheezed. 'Respect. I couldn't agree more.'
As the air came back into his lungs, and the oxygen returned to his brain, he could see only one image. When he closed his eyes, it was there, imprinted under his eyelids. His father, aged twenty-one — a comrade in the army of Jesus. And not just the army, but the vanguard. A handpicked elite who believed they knew the secrets of the true faith.
What were they exactly? Christians, certainly. But with a strange edge of arrogance. It was they, not the Jews, who were the chosen people. They, not the Jews, who could regard Judaism itself as their birthright. They, not the Jews, who would quote the Old Testament and all its prophecies, they who would see the promises made to Abraham as promises made to them.
Will looked out the window. DeKalb Avenue station. He got out and jumped on another train. Keep Laser Eyes and his friends guessing.
TO had seen the significance straight away. According to this strict brand of replacement theology, if Judaism was theirs, that meant all of it. The story of Abraham's bargain with Sodom would be part of their inheritance — and so would the fruit of that story, the mystical Jewish belief that the world was maintained by thirty-six righteous men. For some reason, they had taken that belief as their own — and now, it seemed, they had added a new twist. They were determined to kill these good men one by one. But if it was this bizarre Christian sect who were behind the killings, why on earth had the Hassidim kidnapped Beth?
It was too much. Will needed to think, calmly. He looked at his watch. 3.45pm. So little time. He called TO's number, praying she had somehow got away.
'Will! You're alive!'
'Are you OK? Where are you?'
'I'm in the hospital. With Tom. He was shot.'
'Oh my God.'
'I was on the roof. I heard a shot, I ran downstairs and he was lying there, bleeding. Oh, Will-'
'Is he alive?'
'They're operating on him now. My God, who did this, Will? Why would anyone do this?'
'I don't know, but I'm going to find them, I promise. I'm going to find the people behind this whole fucking mess. And I know I'm close.'
CHAPTER SIXTY
Monday, 3.47pm, Manhattan
TO, I know they're here. In New York City'
'How can you be so certain? They're killing righteous men all over the world — why would they be here?'
For one thing, everything they know, they've got from the Hassidim. They've got all they can from hacking into their computers. Now they need to be here in person; to complete the process. That's why they killed Yosef Yitzhok. They're desperate to find number thirty-six. And they're convinced the Hassidim know who he is. And they're right. Besides, I reckon they want to be here.' "What do you mean?'
'Don't you see? Tonight is the climax. It's the moment it all comes together. They'll want to be in the place where all this prophecy becomes real. Because this is where it all ends, TO. The Sodom of the twenty-first century. New York City!
It's here the world finally loses its bargain with God. Just thirty-six righteous men; so long as they're alive, the world goes on. Without them, it's all over. These people will want to be here to see it happen. The end of the world.'
'Will, you're scaring me.'
'And there's one other thing.' He stopped himself. 'Look, there's no time. I've got to go.' He hung up and dialled a number at The New York Times.
'Amy Woodstein.'
'Amy, it's Will. I need you to do something for me.'
'Will!' She was whispering. 'I shouldn't even be talking to you. Are you getting some help?'
'Right now I need your help, Amy. There's a flyer on my desk, for a convention of the Church of the Reborn Jesus.
Could you just read it out to me?'
Amy sighed in audible relief. 'Hold on.' Seconds later she was back. 'OK: The Church of the Reborn Jesus, valuing families through family values. Spiritual Gathering, Javits Convention Center, on West 34th Street… oh, hold on, its today.'
'Yes!' He sounded as if he was punching the air.
'Oh, Will, I'm so glad you're finding some comfort in your faith. I know many people facing challenges-'
'Amy, love to chat, got to go.'
Thirty minutes later, he was there. The Javits Convention Center. He could see a delegates' counter, staffed by bright eyed volunteers. That would not work. Ah, a press desk.
'Excuse me, I'm from the Guardian, a London newspaper, and I fear I'm not yet on your list. Is there any way you might be able to accommodate me?'
'Sir, I'm afraid accreditation has to be done through our Richmond office. Did you pre-accredit?' Pre-accredit. Just when Will thought he had heard every coinage corporate America could possibly come up with.
'No, I'm sorry, I just couldn't get through on the phone.
But my editors would be so disappointed if I couldn't cover this wonderful celebration of family values. We have nothing like this in Britain, you see. And I know there is a real hunger back home for this kind of spiritual example. Is there any way you could let me in, just for half an hour or so, so that I could at least tell my bosses I saw it with my own eyes?'
He had pushed every button. In the years since he had arrived in America, this kind of patter had got him into NASA for a space launch, Graceland for an Elvis tribute night and a presidential candidates' debate in Trenton, New Jersey. He hoped his eyes glowed with eagerness.
But the woman on the desk, identified by her label as Carrie-Anne, Facilitator, was not about to relent. I'm going to need you to speak to Richmond.'
Damn.
'Sure, what's the number I need to dial?'
Will wrote it down carefully — then, using his cell phone, he dialled his home number.
'Hello. This is Tom Mitchell from the Guardian in London.
It's about today's convention. I just wondered if there's any chance…That's right.' At the other end, he could hear his own voice, announcing that he and Beth were away from the phone right now. He tried to block out the sound and carry on talking. 'So I need to look at the programme. OK-' Will put his hand over the receiver and then mouthed
to Carrie-Anne, 'She says I need to see the press pack.' Without hesitation, she passed one over.
'OK, so I should go through that now, see what interests me… all right, that's a very big help. Thanks so much.'
As he was talking to his own answering machine, Will's eye ran down the list of sessions.
The Holden Suite: Putting togetherness back together. Parenting after divorce with Rev Peter Thompson.
The Macmillan Room: How would Jesus do it? Seeking the saviour's advice.
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.
'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.'