Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

The door opened, to reveal the man Will had talked to at some length but had never seen. He was neither tall, nor physically commanding but his face had stern, firm features which, Will could see, conveyed a quiet authority. His beard was brown rather than white or grey and it was short and well-kempt. He wore neat, rimless glasses. In a different context, Will could see him as the CEO of a moderate-sized American company. As he saw and recognized Will, he hesitated, then gave a dip of the head, a gesture Will chose to interpret as contrition.

‘You’d better come inside.’

They were ushered once again around a dining table – white tablecloth, plastic sheet – in a room filled with holy books. This room, though, was large, airy and tidy. In a corner, Will spotted a pile of editions of the New York Times. He could also see a magazine rack stuffed with the Atlantic Monthly, The New Republic and a variety of Hebrew newspapers. Making the instant assessment that was part of his trade, Will wrote a four-word headline in his head to describe Rabbi Freilich: Man of the World.

‘Rabbi, you know Will Monroe.’

‘We’ve met.’

‘I know how strange this must seem, Rabbi Freilich, me turning up like this after all these years. I promise you, I never thought I’d come back, truly I didn’t. But Will is an old friend of mine. And he asked for my help when his wife went missing. He didn’t know about my . . . my background.’ She paused, to collect herself. ‘But now we know what’s going on. We’ve pieced it together. It’s taken some time and it’s not been easy but we are certain.’

Rabbi Freilich held TC’s gaze and said nothing.

‘Good men are dying. First it was Howard Macrae in Brownsville, then Pat Baxter in Montana. Then Samak Sangsuk in Bangkok. And now this British politician. Someone is killing the lamadvavniks, aren’t they, Rabbi? Someone is killing the righteous of the earth.’

‘Yes, Tova Chaya. I’m afraid they are.’

Will drew breath, a tiny gasp. He had expected a battle with Freilich, a round of game-playing as the rabbi played dumb, forcing TC and Will to produce all their evidence. But he was denying nothing. A dread thought surfaced. What if the rabbi had already realized that these two had indeed exposed his murderous plot and had therefore decided there was no alternative but to silence them? They would have walked straight into his hands! No need for the man in the baseball cap, Pugachov’s killer: Will and TC had done his job for them. How could they have been so stupid? They had not even planned a strategy for this encounter. TC had just stormed over there . . .

‘A plot is indeed underway to murder the thirty-six hidden just men. For some reason, this plot is taking place now, during the Ten Days of Penitence – the holiest time of the year. The killing started on Rosh Hashana and it has not stopped. Whoever is behind this must have decided that these are the judgment days, that a righteous man murdered in this period will not be instantly replaced by the birth of another. Perhaps they have seen something in our texts we never saw, the existence of a kind of limbo period between the New Year, when people are inscribed in the Book of Life, and the Day of Atonement, when the Book of Life is sealed. During these ten days maybe the world is especially vulnerable. Whatever their reasoning, they have set out to kill the lamad vav and they seem determined to do it by sunset tomorrow, by the end of Yom Kippur.’ He faltered. ‘I didn’t think anyone else would find out.’ He turned towards Will, though not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Tova Chaya was always an exceptional student. And you, you have shown admirable persistence.’

Thanks for nothing, thought Will.

‘We have known about it only for a few days. But I tremble for the world at the very thought of it. Some will say this is only a legend, only a fairy story. But it has deep roots, ones that go back to Avraham Avinu, to Abraham our father. It has endured for millennia. Whoever is doing this is gambling that the story is just a story. That it is not a true statement about the way the world has worked since the beginning of time. But what if they are wrong? They are testing this idea to destruction. It will be the destruction of everything.’ The rabbi was drumming his fingers on the table. If he was faking anxiety, thought Will, he was doing a very good job.

‘You keep saying they,’ Will said suddenly, his confidence taking even himself aback. ‘But I’m not sure there is a they. I think there’s a you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, I think you do, Rabbi Freilich. So far there are no suspects in any of these cases, except you and your, your . . . followers.’ He knew it was the wrong word. The only leader these people followed was the man whose photograph hung on every wall. And he was dead. ‘You more or less admitted killing Samak Sangsuk to me.’ The muscle around the rabbi’s left eye gave a slight twitch. ‘And I know you are holding my wife, though what she has to do with any of this still no one has explained to me.’ On those last words, he had raised his voice, betraying an anger he could not conceal. He stopped, to bring himself back under control. ‘The only people we know have been engaged in criminal activity are you and the people who work with you.’

‘I can see how it looks.’

‘So can I. And I’m sure the police, who have you in their sights already, would get the picture very quickly if they knew half of what we know. I don’t think I need to mention Mr Pugachov, the super at TC’s, sorry, Tova Chaya’s, building, do I? Killed last night by that goon in a baseball cap you had chasing us?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, come on. We really can’t play these games much longer, Rabbi. Don’t you see? We know what’s going on.’

‘Will, that’s enough.’ It was TC, speaking in her normal accent.

‘I have no idea about any Mr Pugachov. And I know nothing of any man in a baseball cap.’

‘I don’t believe this. This is ridiculous! You sent a man to follow me yesterday. We saw him, we got away and the man who helped us is now lying dead in her apartment.’ He could hardly bring himself to use the name Tova Chaya again. It sounded strange enough the first time.

‘Will, please.’ TC was imploring him to stop. But he could not help himself. The pressure of the last few days had been coiled up for too long.

The rabbi’s face was tensing. ‘I promise you, I know of no man in a baseball cap. I did not send anyone to follow you. I have not lied to you. Not once. When you confronted me about the man in Bangkok, I did not deny it. I told you that a terrible mistake had occurred. When we,’ he paused for the right word, ‘met on erev shabbos – excuse me – when we met on Friday night, I even conceded that we are indeed holding your wife. I have not lied. And I am telling you the truth now: what you tell me happened in Tova Chaya’s building was nothing to do with me.’

‘So who do you think did it, then? Eh? If you didn’t kill that man, who did?’

‘I don’t know. Which should worry you infinitely more. It suggests that whoever is behind this dreadful scheme is now aware of you.’

‘Rabbi Freilich, I think you have to tell us what’s going on.’ TC was sounding like Tova Chaya again. ‘You know things, we know things. We all know time is running out. It is already the Day of Judgment. Whoever is doing this wants to finish the job before the Ten Days of Penitence are over. We don’t have time to fight each other. So far, handling this alone, what have you done? Have you stopped the killing?’

The rabbi had his head bowed, his right palm flat on his forehead. It moved up onto his scalp, tucking under his yarmulke, and back down again. Whatever TC was saying, it was striking a nerve. The man looked weighed down with worry. He muttered a barely audible ‘no’.

TC sat forward, trying to close the deal. ‘The killing is still going on. In twenty-four hours they might have killed the last of the lamadvavniks. And who knows what will happen then. You can’t do this alone. We can help you and you have to help us. You must do it. For the sake of HaShem.’

For the sake of the Name, for the sake of God himself. It was the ultimate argument, the one no believer could refuse. Was TC deploying it because she knew which buttons to press? Or was Tova Chaya speaking sincerely, genuinely fearing for the sake of the world if they did not act? Will was not sure. But if he had to guess one way or the other he would, to his great surprise, declare for the latter. For all her scepticism, for all her ten years away from Crown Heights, for all her bacon breakfasts and body piercings, she was not acting merely to find Will’s wife, nor even for the sake of the remaining righteous men. At that moment Will realized that TC was driven by nothing less than fear for the fate of the world.

‘Tova Chaya, we have so little time.’ Rabbi Freilich was looking up. He had removed his glasses, revealing a face etched in anguish. ‘We have tried everything. I don’t know what more there is you can do. But I will tell you what we know.’

Unexpectedly, he rose to his feet and made for the front door. He put on his trilby and his coat and, without another word, gestured for TC and Will to follow him.

Outside was a quiet Will had never experienced in a city. The streets were desolate. No cars travelled because the Yom Kippur restrictions prohibited all driving. A few knots of young men walked together, wearing their prayer shawls. Even though the evening was warm and people were out together, the atmosphere was not festive. Instead, Crown Heights seemed to be under a blanket of contemplation and silent thought; it was as if the whole neighbourhood was a single, roofless synagogue. Will felt grateful for his costume, so that he could move through this extraordinary atmosphere without breaking the spell.

They were, Will now understood, moving towards the synagogue. Once again, he wondered if he and TC were walking voluntarily into the wolf’s lair – with the wolf as their guide.

But they did not go inside the main entrance. Instead they entered a building next door, one that seemed entirely out of place in this neighbourhood. It looked like a red-brick annexe to an Oxford college, ancient by New York standards. Outside were crowds of men, spilling out from the lobby. They did not have to wade through the throng: people stepped out of the way the moment they recognized the rabbi. Will could see some raised eyebrows. He assumed they were directed at him, a face they did not know. But when he saw TC looking down at her feet, he understood: they were shocked to see a woman in this usually male terrain.

TC managed to whisper an explanation. They were entering the Rebbe’s house. This was the home the late leader had lived in and which had doubled as his office.

Will stared. He had been here before, forty-eight hours earlier.

Soon they had reached a staircase. The crowds were thinning now. They moved up another flight, to a corridor empty of people. Straight into his trap, thought Will.

Rabbi Freilich led them through one door, which revealed another. But he did not go in. Instead he turned around, to offer an explanation to TC.

‘I want you to know that what you are about to see is a mark of our desperation. It is a violation of Yom Kippur that has never before occurred in this building and, please God, will never happen again. We are doing it for—’

‘Pikuach nefesh.’ TC had interrupted him. ‘I know. It is a matter of saving lives.’

The rabbi nodded, grateful to TC for her understanding. Then he turned around, breathing in sharply through his nostrils as if bracing himself for the secret he was about to reveal. Only then did Rabbi Freilich dare open the door.

FORTY-EIGHT (#ulink_7a03dd6a-f704-5f45-b674-a287832f40dd)

Sunday, 11.01pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

This place, Will realized, would normally be still on such a holy evening: no lights on, no machines in use, no phones answered, no eating, no drinking. Even Will could tell that the scene before him was an act of mass sacrilege.

It looked like the control room of a police station. Perhaps a dozen people at computers, surrounded by in-trays spilling over with paper and, on a back wall, a large wipe-board, covered with names, phone numbers, addresses. Down one side, Will could see a list of names. In a quick scan, he spotted Howard Macrae and Gavin Curtis – a line through each of them.

‘No one knows about this room apart from the men working in it – and now you. We have been working in here day and night for a week. And today we lost the man who knew it best, the man who set it up.’

‘Yosef Yitzhok,’ said Will, noticing a pile of maps – one of them for Montana – and a stack of guide books, for London, for Copenhagen, for Algiers.

‘All of this was his work. And today he was murdered.’