Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

Will’s trousers were back on, his belt was buckled up and he was off a hook if not the hook: he was not an undercover federal agent. All that combined to reduce the terror of a few moments ago. His body, the pounding of his heart, the moisture on his palms was at code orange, rather than red, where it had been seconds earlier.

‘You look relieved, Mr Mitchell. I’m glad. The trouble is, if you’re not a fed, you must be working for someone else. And that, I fear, is infinitely more serious.’

SEVENTEEN (#ulink_d14b8fad-0168-5ddf-884a-244b776b659b)

Friday, 9.22pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

He did not have long to be confused. After the Rebbe had spoken, perhaps a beat passed before Will felt his back pushed forward, making him buckle at the waist. His arms were now gripped like levers, pushing his head and shoulders down and forward.

His nose felt it first, as it filled with water; then his scalp, as it shrank from the cold. His throat gurgled and gagged. He was choking and gasping at the same time.

Will’s head and neck had just been submerged in freezing cold water, the blindfold still on. He could feel his chest contract with the shock of it, his heart racing. He had been shoved with some force, in the darkness and therefore without warning, into that icy liquid. He was there for five or six seconds, his shoulders held down to prevent him coming up for air. It was long enough to fill his nostrils, for the water to travel down his sinuses and into his brain. Or that’s how it felt – like asphyxiation.

Once out, he gulped in air even as he coughed, a double reflex like vomiting. But then the hands were pushing again and he was under once more.

This time it was the temperature. His eyes seemed to shrivel in their sockets, recoiling from the cold; he was sure he could hear his whole system, veins, arteries and blood vessels, screaming with the trauma of the sudden radical change in temperature.

What was this? A pond? An icebox? The edge of a river? A toilet? The blindfold was soaked but not loosening; if anything it seemed now to be welding itself onto Will’s eyelids, sealed in by ice.

‘Now, Tom,’ the voice was saying, its timbre distorted by the frozen water in Will’s ears. ‘Shall we start talking honestly?’

By way of response, Will spat out a mouthful of the water, emptying himself for the next, inevitable dunk.

‘I believe this is your second time at the mikve today. You’re becoming a regular frummie, aren’t you Tom? And I’m sure Shimon Shmuel explained to you the purpose, the meaning of the mikve. This is a place of purification, a place of sanctification. We enter coated in the sins of our regular lives and emerge tahoor, pure. And in this state we are untainted by any sins, be they lies or deceits. Do you follow me, Tom?’

Will was now shivering. His shirt was soaked and he could feel rivulets of liquid chill running down his back and chest. His teeth were about to start chattering.

‘What I am saying is that I now insist on the truth. And if two or three dips in this outdoor mikve, filled only by purest rainwater, cannot find the truth in you then maybe four or five or six or seven submersions will. We are patient men. We will keep plunging you into that water until you deal with us plainly and straightforwardly. Do you understand?’

There must have been a silent nod, because down Will went again. The cold was now biting into him, seeping below his skin and into his bones. They too seemed to contract, as if they could hide from the cold by making themselves smaller.

‘Who do you work for, Tom? Who sent you here?’

‘I’m a journalist,’ was all Will could manage, in a voice he hardly recognized, querulous with cold.

‘You’ve said that, but who wants you here? Why are you here?’

‘I’ve told you.’

And down he went again, this time shoved so that his whole upper body was submerged. He felt the water travel below his waist, trickling into his shorts, spreading an icy damp around his groin.

He had no idea what to say. He wanted desperately for this to end, but what could he do? If he told the truth, he would endanger himself and Beth. The kidnappers had been clear: no involvement of the police. That surely extended to vigilante rescue missions as well. These were serious, violent people and he would be admitting he had defied their instructions. He would also be confessing that he had indeed been lying. As for Beth, they had kidnapped her for some purpose – which he could not fathom – but one thing he knew: his presence here was not part of their plan. If they had not already done great harm to her, his appearance would all but guarantee it.

Yet to carry on insisting that he was Tom Mitchell seemed doomed. He could not give them any more information because there was no more; Mitchell was a fiction. On this the Rebbe’s instincts were right. Even if Will had the strength to withstand this weight, he would eventually crack because his story would crack: it had to. These were his thoughts as the weight on his hands and shoulders came again, plunging his body deep into the cold.

‘Enough,’ Will said. ‘No more.’

‘Maybe I need to explain a little about Judaism,’ the voice was saying as he was finally allowed back up for air.

He could hardly make out the words, so loud was the explosion generated by his own lungs as he gulped for oxygen.

‘Judaism holds the harshest possible view of murder. “Thou shalt not kill” is the sixth commandment. It means that murder is never allowed.’ There was a long pause, as if the Rebbe expected Will to react. Will could not; he was still drawing in loud, urgent breaths.

‘I don’t know if you’re familiar with one of our most famous teachings, Mr Mitchell. “To save a single life is to save the whole world.” Really, the whole world. That’s how much each life matters to HaShem. In each individual person is contained the whole world. Because we are all created in God’s image. This is the meaning behind the phrase “sanctity of life”, Mr Mitchell. Now it is a cliché. People just say it without even thinking. But what do those words really mean?’ The voice had a hint of the music he had heard before, back in the synagogue – that sing-song, up-and-down rhythm, by turns questioning and answering, all in a single monologue. ‘They mean that life is sacred, because it is part of the divine. To kill a human being is to kill an aspect of the Almighty. Which is why we are forbidden to kill. Except in the most exceptional circumstances.’

Will felt the cold bite deeper into his flesh.

‘Self-defence is the obvious example, but it is not the only one. You see, in Judaism we have a beautiful concept known as pikuach nefesh. This refers to the saving of a soul. Now, there is no more sacred duty than pikuach nefesh: almost anything is allowed if it will save a soul. Rabbis are often asked, “Can a Jew ever eat pork?” The answer is yes! Of course he can! If he is on a desert island and the only means to survive is to slay a pig and eat it, then not only is the Jew allowed to do that, he must do it! He must. It is a religious commandment: he must save his own life. Pikuach nefesh.

‘Let’s take a more difficult case.’ The man was speaking as if this was a tutorial at Balliol College, a one-to-one class with Will as his pupil. The fact that Will was kneeling, his hands now tied, his body drenched and frozen, barely broke his stride.

‘Would we be allowed to kill, if that would save a life? No. The rules of pikuach nefesh prohibit murder, idolatry and sexual immorality even to save a life. If someone tells you to commit murder, just to save your own skin, you cannot do it. But let’s say a known killer is on the loose. He is on his way to murder a family of innocents. We know that if we kill him, their lives will be saved. Is it right to kill in that situation? Yes, because such a man is what we call a rodef. If there is no other way to stop him, he can be killed with impunity.

‘But let’s sharpen the dilemma. What if the man we are discussing is not necessarily a killer, but if he stays alive, one way or another, innocent people will die? What should we do then? Can we hurt such a man? Can we kill him?

‘This is the sort of question our sages discuss at great length. Sometimes our Talmudical debates can seem to be obsessed with detail, even trivia: how many cubits in length should an oven be, that kind of thing. But the heart of our study is reserved for what you would call ethical dilemmas. I have thought about this particular one in great depth. And I have reached a conclusion that, in fairness, I think I ought to disclose to you. I believe that it is permissable to inflict pain and even death on a man who may not himself be a killer – but whose suffering or death would save lives. I think there is no other way of understanding our sources. That is what they are telling us.

‘To get to the point, Mr Mitchell, if I conclude that you are, in effect, a rodef, and that to end your life would save others, I would not hesitate to see that it ended. Perhaps you need a moment to reflect on that.’

The pressure came a half-second later, as if, once again, the Rebbe had given his silent cue. The cold bit deep, still shocking. Will counted, to get himself through. Usually he was lifted out after around fifteen seconds under. Now he counted sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

He flexed his shoulders, to give his captors a signal that it was time to let him breathe. They pressed down harder. Will began to struggle. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.

Was this the meaning of the Rebbe’s little lecture? Something not abstract or complex, despite the convoluted exposition, but rather simple: we are now going to kill you.

Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. Will’s legs were kicking, as if they belonged to someone else. His body was panicking, sent into a survival reflex. Did not the movies always show this, as the murderer smothered his victim with a pillow, or tightened a stocking around her neck, the legs moving in an involuntary dance?

Forty, forty-one. Or was it fifty? Will had lost count. His head seemed to flood with dull colour, like the patterns you detect under your eyelids just before sleep. He wanted to weep for the wife he was about to leave behind and wondered if it was possible to weep underwater. Thought itself grew faint.

At last they let go, but Will did not burst out of the water with the gasping energy of before. Now the men had to pull him out, letting him collapse onto the ground. He lay there, his chest rising and falling fast but as if unconnected to the rest of him. He heard distant breathing and could not be certain if it was his own.

Slowly he felt his ears unblock and strength return to his arms and legs. He stayed slumped on the ground, unable to face hauling his body upright. If they wanted him to sit to attention, they would have to drag him up themselves.

Lying there, he detected a change, another person in the group around him. There was new activity, whispered exchanges. The new member of the circle seemed to be breathing heavily, as if he had just been running. He could hear the Rebbe’s voice, though he seemed to be distracted, his voice aimed downwards, as if he was looking at something, reading.

‘Mr Mitchell, Moshe Menachem, who was with us a few moments ago, has just completed an errand.’ Redbeard. ‘He ran from here to Shimon Shmuel’s house. He has returned with a wallet. Your wallet.’

They had rummaged through his bag; now it was surely over. His wallet would give him away. What was in there? No business cards; he was too low down the food chain at the Times to have any. No credit cards either; he kept those in a separate wallet, zipped into a pocket of its own in his bag. He had left them in there, calculating that even if Sara Leah could not resist a peek at his belongings, she would hesitate before doing a full probe.

What else was in there? Tons of cab receipts, but anything with his name on it? He had kept all the hotel bills and credit card slips from the Northwest in a separate envelope, for a later expenses claim. Maybe he would be OK. Maybe he would get away with it.

‘Take the blindfold off. Let go of his hands. Lead him back into the Bet HaMidrash.’ Will could feel the confusion in his own adrenal gland: was this a cue to produce yet more adrenalin, ready for the ordeal to come or, at last, a sign that the danger was receding? Was this good news or bad news?

He could feel hands fussing behind his head and then an increase in light as the sodden cloth covering his eyes was removed. Instinctively he shook off the drops as he opened his eyes. He was outside, in a small area surrounded by a wooden fence – the kind of space large buildings use to keep their trash. There were a few pipes and, at his feet, the glint of water. He barely had a chance to look, his two handlers were already turning him away. But he guessed that this was the housing for some kind of outdoor storage tank, a big vat used to collect rainwater.

Now he was heading through a door and back inside, though something told Will this was not the way they had come out. It seemed to be quieter for one thing, away from the crowds. Will guessed that this was a separate building, perhaps a house adjoining the synagogue.

Inside it did not look that different: the same functional floors and rabbit warren of classrooms and offices. With Redbeard, Moshe Menachem, and the Israeli flanking him, they headed into one of them and Will heard the door shut behind him.