by Jill Gregory
David crossed the little outer courtyard of umber stones shaded by trees, and ducked inside the ancient shul.
Its interior was vast and empty. He craned his neck to peer, four stories up, at the vaulted domed ceiling rimmed with square windows. They spilled daylight onto the stone floor, studded with mosaics. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he winced, aware that his head was beginning to throb.
He shifted his gaze to the walls, painted a soothing celestial blue. Above them, myriad chandeliers dangled, and graceful archways bordered with lacelike painted ferns stretched toward the frescos that adorned the dome.
“Splendid, isn’t it?”
He didn’t startle at Yael’s voice behind him.
“Very. And impressive,” he replied without turning.
“You don’t know it by half.” She came forward and stood beside him, taking in the peaceful beauty of the place.
“This synagogue is bursting with Kabbalistic symbolism. The dome is not only architecturally stunning, it symbolizes Judaism’s belief in one God. And those four pillars,” she turned and gestured to the supporting columns, “represent the four elements of creation—air, water, fire, and earth—as well as the four worlds of Kabbalah—physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual.”
David circled the interior, touching a hand to one of the columns and to the blue-painted railings wrapped around the bimah—the raised platform from which the Torah scrolls are read after they’ve been brought out of the ark.
“Did you notice the six steps up to the bimah?” she asked, watching him move toward the blue-framed platform. “They symbolize the six days of the week, while the bimah—higher than the steps—signifies the seventh day, the holiest day, the Sabbath.”
David’s headache was getting worse. In silence, he walked over to examine the painting of Jerusalem’s Western Wall. It was nestled among three arks—the tall wooden cabinets containing the Torah scrolls. To his surprise, no matter where he stopped before the painting it appeared that the street at its bottom pointed straight toward him, as if he stood directly on its path.
“There’s more.” Yael smiled and gestured toward each of the arks in turn. “There are three by design—one for each of the patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. And the arches—” Her arm moved in a graceful sweep above her head. “Nine of them, one for each month of pregnancy.”
David felt surrounded by meaning, by an ancient symbolism that filled him with wonder. Every aspect of this majestic house of prayer had been imbued with mystical design. He’d always considered himself an educated man, but he was educated in the structure of governments, political processes, institutions, and behavior. He could talk knowledgeably about political theory, comparative government, and international relations. But Rabbi ben Moshe, Yael, and the Kabbalists in Safed had opened up a world he had never fathomed.
His great-grandfather, according to what his mother had told him, had been attuned to that world. For David, this was new terrain. But perhaps, he thought, letting the spiritual symbology flow over him, there was more of his great-grandfather in him than he’d ever suspected.
Standing in the synagogue, thinking of Stacy, of the Dark Angels and Crispin Mueller, and the dwindling presence of Lamed Vovniks in the world, David prayed this was true.
His head was now pounding. He closed his eyes to block the pain and tried to summon the names in his journal. The Kabbalists had found thirty-four Lamed Vovniks from this generation among the thousands of names listed in his journal. But they were still missing two. Had he already written them? Or were they still inside him, hidden?
Did the Gnoseos know those names? Why couldn’t he—
Lightning-hot pain blinded him. He sank to his knees with a groan, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“David! Are you all right?”
Yael’s voice came to him from far away, as if she was outside the synagogue, in the alley. He was alone beneath the domed ceiling with its frescos of harps and palm trees and biblical scenes. Alone in this holy place as pain eviscerated his skull.
He tried to stand. He had to get back to the Center, find some pain pills. He had a flight to catch soon. But another burst of pain knocked his legs out from under him.
He went down, sprawled on the stone slabs of the synagogue floor, writhing. Nothing existed but the pain.
And the faces . . . The voices . . . They were back—screaming, begging, demanding.
David tried to listen to them, but the agony crescendoed as if to shatter his skull. They were trying to reach him, he had to hear—
“David! Can you hear me?”
Yael was bent over him, but he didn’t see her. He was staring at the ceiling, unblinking, his face contorted in anguish.
Perspiration poured down his temples and neck, rimming his shirt collar.
Frightened, Yael touched a cool hand to his brow, her own heart thudding. She was torn between running for help and staying with him. His skin was so clammy. Suddenly, in his unfocused eyes, she saw something change. An expression of peace replaced the torment and the muscles in his face relaxed. As she unfastened the top button of his shirt his body went slack.
David closed his eyes in exhaustion. “Jack Cherle,” he muttered, his voice thick as wool. “Guillermo Torres.” Yael caught her breath.
David’s voice trailed off at the name haunting him most. “Stacy Lachman . . .”
He struggled to a sitting position, feeling empty and dazed. His headache was gone, as if it never existed. His mind was suddenly clear.
There were no more names in his head.
“We need to . . . get back. I have to tell them . . . the names.”
She helped him to his feet. Unsteady, he leaned heavily on her and she slipped an arm around his waist.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait a moment? You’re still awfully pale.”
“Have to. . . hurry,” David rasped, lurching toward the door.
He had the names. The final names. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more. Something he was still missing.
Maybe when I get back, and speak to the mystics, he thought, blinking as he tried to get his legs to move toward the doorway, they might know how to jog—
Yael’s head whipped sideways as they stumbled outside into the brightness of the courtyard. She heard the scruff of feet against stone as David sagged against her. She had to get him over to the bench.
“We need help here—” she started to call out.
And then she saw them enter from the alley.
Two of them. A man and a woman. Tourists, she thought with relief, glimpsing their polo shirts and walking shorts. “Please, can you help me get him over to that bench—”
They sprinted toward her but her relief died as she saw that the tall, sinewy man carried a length of raised pipe, and the woman, built like a Bulgarian discus thrower, gripped a knotted rope taut between two bricklike fists.
Yael glanced desperately toward the empty synagogue. Too far, they’d never get the door bolted in time.
“David, they’ve found us!”
David tottered as she released him and spun to face the Dark Angels. He swayed forward, still weak, bracing himself against the sun-baked stone wall. With frantic determination, he willed his body to regroup, to obey the commands of his brain.
Adrenaline pumped through his blood, screaming at him to fight, but his muscles felt like wax. He saw Yael spring at the woman, who outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. Before he could take a step, the male was on him, swinging the pipe at his knees.
Pain ricocheted down his shins. He slammed to the ground with a scream. Through a fog of pain he saw Yael to his right, landing a kick to the woman’s stomach, knocking her off-balance.
The hatchet-faced Dark Angel raised his ropey arm again. He swung the pipe at David’s rib cage, but David managed to roll sideways along the pavers as the blow connected. Fire shot through his hip.
He heard a woman scream. Yael
!
Panic gave him strength and, as the Dark Angel grabbed him by the collar to yank him upright, David jammed his fist into the hollow beneath the man’s sternum. Hatchet-face exhaled all the fetid air in his lungs, bathing David in a stench like boiled liver. Before his enemy could suck new breath, David socked him again, driving his fist as high up under the man’s rib cage as he could manage.
David saw Yael on the ground, one arm twisted beneath her body. The huge woman straddled her, pressing down on the rope stretched taut across Yael’s throat. Her face was gray and fear catapulted David toward them.
But before he could get that far, he felt a three-hundred-pound weight slam into his back. He went down like a sandbag, Hatchet-face on top of him, both of them swinging and punching like crazed hockey players. Fists slammed against bone, elbows jabbed into nerve endings, and spit and blood flew across the courtyard.
Through the agony that seemed to envelop his entire body, David suddenly realized that though his torso was being pummelled without mercy, the goon was sparing his face and head.
Neither one of them has pulled a gun, David thought suddenly, deflecting a blow to his chest. Then he understood why.
They want me alive, they want the names. . . .
He didn’t see the fist until it plowed into his stomach. Before he could roll, before he could breathe again, the pipe connected with his elbow. Endless pain sparked crimson lights behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, struggling for air, he braced against the agonizing spasms and lurched sideways for better position as his enemy hurtled to his feet.
Hatchet-face was coming at him again, the pipe clenched to strike, but in one desperate motion David jacknifed his knees toward his chest and then kicked out with everything he had.
He connected with the Dark Angel’s Solar Plexus. The man doubled over, dropping the pipe with a clatter as his hands dove reflexively to his ribs.
Instantly, David sprang toward the weapon, throwing himself over it even as he watched Yael’s face turn purple. Her eyes bulged, she was using her knees, desperate to fight off the Herculean female strangling her.
Before he could move, he saw Yael wrench her twisted arm free. The sun flashed silver off her bracelet as she drove her clenched fist toward her attacker. Only at the last instant did he see it wasn’t her bracelet glinting after all, it was the paring knife she’d been struggling to pull out from under her. As David watched, frozen, Yael thrust it with all of her strength into the side of the woman’s neck.
Blood spurted out like sewage from a burst pipe. As the woman gurgled out a scream, Yael plunged the blade in again, piercing the hollow of her throat.
David seized the pipe. He fought to ignore the pain consuming him as he pushed himself to his feet. Sweat dripping in his eyes, he wheeled to confront the sinewy Dark Angel who was panting like an animal, preparing to come at him again.
“Yael, run! Get out of here,” he shouted, but she didn’t. Instead, she darted several feet to the side, brandishing the knife, her face set. With blood spattered across her cheeks and clothes, she looked feral.
The Dark Angel’s gaze shifted quickly, back and forth, between the two of them—the lithe woman with the bloody knife and the man who waited to turn his own weapon against him.
With a roar he charged Yael, and David’s stomach dropped. He’s going to use her as a shield.
As the Dark Angel barreled toward her and David dove forward, Yael seemed frozen.
I won’t get there in time, David realized in despair, but then he saw the steel in Yael’s eyes.
She waited until the last possible instant, then dropped to a crouch and drove the knife straight into the Dark Angel’s crotch.
His screams echoed in the courtyard until David ended them, slamming the pipe against his skull.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The air in the Gabrieli Kabbalah Center had changed. It was infused with urgency—a frantic electricity that hummed through the entire second floor as Rabbi Cardoza and his staff searched the world from their computer banks, searching for Jack Cherle and Guillermo Torres.
No one knew where Stacy was, but in just a few hours David was going to do his damnedest to find out.
The Mossad was searching full out for the three Lamed Vovniks as well, thanks to a single phone call from Avi Raz. Rabbi Cardoza’s quick update to Avi an hour ago was all it had taken. Within fifteen minutes, Avi had slashed through weeks of red tape and paperwork to launch the largest manhunt in the Israeli intelligence agency’s history.
David winced as he bent over yet another computer printout of a 240 ELS skip analysis of his journal. So far, nothing of the Gnoseos was concealed in the text. Only gibberish.
Bruised and bloodied, David had refused all but the most rudimentary first aid. There was no time to bother with scrapes after he and Yael had limped back to the Center to summon the police. He’d merely slapped a bandage on the worst of the cuts and grappled with what he needed to do next.
David grimaced as he caught sight of Yael peering into the monitor across the table. A long welt burned angry across her neck where the rope had dug, bruising her larynx so badly it was painful for her to talk.
She’d very nearly died. They both had.
And Jack Cherle, Guillermo Torres, and Stacy would die, too, unless . . .
Unless the Mossad found them. Or Interpol, or the CIA—or any of the other international agencies the Mossad was contacting for help.
This ELS business is leading nowhere, David thought in frustration. He checked his watch, impatience mounting inside his chest, almost as painful as his battered ribcage and swollen fingers. Less than an hour before a car arrived to take him to Tel Aviv. Before he could get on his way to tracking Stacy.
He was finished here. He’d done what he’d come to do. Yael and Yosef had been right—Safed had released the final names trapped inside his head. But now there was nothing left for him to accomplish in this mystical city. And staying here might bring more danger, more Dark Angels, right to the door of the Kabbalists.
Yet something still nagged at him. He couldn’t dismiss the feeling of something missed or forgotten. But what? Maybe there was something more he had to do here. Something Rabbi Cardoza put his finger on. The names in his journal. Why had they come to him in that specific order? Was it random, or was there a pattern he couldn’t yet see?
If it was a hidden message, the gematria of the word “Amelek” had failed to reveal it. What if I need to apply a different ELS to the journal. . . a different word. . . like “Gnoseos?”
Standing up quickly, he sought out Binyomin and asked him the gematria of the word Gnoseos. “Try a skip based on that,” David urged him.
As the computer pages were spit out, his discouragement deepened. Nothing new was materializing within these lines of text, only the same kind of gobbledygook “Amelek” had produced.
David groaned as he lifted his duffel—lighter now, because the rabbi’s satchel and its contents were gone. Everything, including the gemstones.
At the thought of the agate he’d brought to Rabbi ben Moshe, he hesitated.
Crispin’s taunt replayed itself in his mind.
You have something of mine. And I have something of yours.
Crispin wanted him to believe he’d trade the gemstone for Stacy. David knew it was a trick, but without the agate in hand, how could he call Crispin’s bluff?
He saw Yael glance up from her monitor. Her gaze rested on him a moment, then she came around the table. To say good-bye, he thought.
“Is it time to leave already?” Her usually rich voice was painfully raspy and strange.
“The car should be here any minute. I’ve exhausted my usefulness here.”
The searching look she sent him gave him pause.
“Don’t be so sure. I want to run an idea by you—about the tarot cards. Remember the notebook Rabbi ben Moshe gave us?” She touched her throat as she spoke, as if to lessen the pain. “He wrote about the Gnoseos’ insistence
on secret passwords and talismans. They went to enough trouble to kill the printer for the plates. The cards must be extremely secret—and extremely important.”
David set his duffel on the chair beside him. “All the Gnoseos we’ve come across have them,” he agreed. “Hold on—maybe it’s a Gnoseos identification card. Sort of like a driver’s license—”
“Or.” Yael bit her lower lip. “A passport,” she said slowly.
A passport.
“A passport to where? For what? They want to destroy this world,” David countered, “not travel it.”
“True.” Her green eyes squinted in thought. “But what if they’re all gathering someplace to celebrate the end of the world . . . all the Gnoseos together? . . .”
David’s pulse quickened. “And how better to prove they belong there—that they’re invited to the victory party—than to produce a secret passport?”
“Exactly.” Yael’s eyes flashed. “Passport, invitation. Whatever. They’d need tangible proof. A ticket in.”
“Handy then that I have Gillis’s.”
She raised her chin and held his gaze. “I’ll need one, too. I’m going with you.”
“No, Yael.”
“My flight is booked. My seat is right behind yours. I’m not letting you search for Stacy alone.” She lowered her voice. The softness accentuated its strained quality. He could barely catch the words. “Wait here. I’ll get Rabbi ben Moshe’s tarot card. I saw where Rabbi Cardoza put it.”
David touched her arm as she turned toward the doorway.
“I need the gemstone, too, Yael. I need the agate.”
For a long moment she looked at him and he could read the uncertainty, the conflict, in her face. Without saying a word, she hurried from the library.
Yael was going with him to London. David found himself surprisingly heartened. And if they were right about the purpose of the tarot cards, they’d have two passports to Gnoseosville—wherever that might be. Maybe the cards would get them to Stacy. Or to someone who knew where Crispin had her.
He pulled the mysterious card from his wallet and studied it again, trying to decipher its symbolism. People jumping from the shattered turret of the tower.