Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

FORTY-NINE (#ulink_5b8c4177-451d-51dd-b895-2cf859d61386)

Sunday, 11.18pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

Will’s first impulse was to ask Rabbi Freilich the name of this thirty-sixth man. It was crucial. If he and TC knew that, they could work out where the killers were heading next: whoever he was, they were bound to be on his trail.

But the rabbi would not budge. For one thing, he said, the death of Yosef Yitzhok suggested the murderers were still not in possession of this vital fact. Had YY cracked under torture? The rabbi was convinced he had not. ‘I know this man. His intellect, his soul. He would not betray the word of the Rebbe.’

He was sure the secret was safe. If he shared it with TC and Will, it could only bring harm to them. Better that they did not know. (Will was sceptical: if the torturers came after him, they were hardly likely to inquire politely whether he had any useful information and then, once assured he did not, beat a polite retreat.)

Will tried another approach. ‘This thirty-sixth righteous man? Is he still alive?’

‘We think so. But I really will not say any more, Mr Monroe. I cannot say any more.’

‘Is he the only one alive?’

‘We’re not certain. Our sources of information are very patchy. We have had to scramble people to the furthest corners of the world to find these tzaddikim. Each time we have been getting there too late.’

‘You mean, you didn’t work out these names until this week?’

‘No, Yosef Yitzhok made this breakthrough a few months ago. And, as I told you, we sent people to take a look, just to see who these tzaddikim were. We planned to keep an eye on them, no more. Maybe give them food or money if they were in trouble. But, to answer your question, we did not know they were dying until this week. We’re not sure, but it only seems to have started a few days ago.’

‘On Rosh Hashana,’ said TC, her mind turning over visibly. ‘That’s when Howard Macrae was murdered.’

‘I’m afraid we didn’t know about that until days after it happened. When the news about the others started coming through. Was it even in the papers?’

‘Yes,’ said Will, pushing the air out of his nostrils in a sound of wry resignation. ‘It was in the papers.’ That was the trouble with page B3 of Metro; people could sail right past it.

‘Anyway, it was the high holydays. We were not reading the newspapers. We were living our lives. We had no idea anything was happening. But then some of our people started hearing things. Our emissary in Seattle saw the cabin he had visited on the television news. The man who runs our centre in Chennai was reading through the local paper when he saw that the tzaddik in that town – one of our youngest – had been found dead. One report after another.’

‘How many have gone?’

‘We don’t know. Remember, Yosef Yitzhok only began working on this a few months ago. Our list was barely complete; we hadn’t been able to confirm everyone. This man, for example—’ the rabbi gestured back towards the wipe-board with the Chancellor’s number on it ‘—it took us a long time to find him. It turns out the GPS system is slightly different there, in England; it takes a different key. The WGS84 datum, apparently. We didn’t know that then, so when Yosef Yitzhok first ran the numbers, they indicated, of all things, a prison. A Belmarsh jail. It seemed unlikely. But we didn’t dismiss such a possibility. We know the tzaddikim delight in concealing their true nature.

‘But when we readjusted the figures the result was instant. Downing Street! And not the famous house, Number Ten. But the house next door. The map was very clear. At the time, this man, Curtis, was in some trouble. A scandal, I think. Another disguise.’

Will was getting impatient. Enough lectures, he thought. He wanted simple, hard facts – stripped of their mystical overtones. ‘So, sorry, I just want to be clear on this. Do you have the full list or not?’

‘We think we do.’

‘And of those, how many are dead?’

‘We think at least thirty-three.’

‘Jesus!’

‘You mean, they may only have to kill three more people? It’s nearly midnight now. Yom Kippur ends in about nineteen hours!’ TC, usually so calm, sounded genuinely panicked.

‘Rabbi, whoever’s doing this seems to be pretty clued up on Jewish religious custom, wouldn’t you say?’ Will began. ‘I mean, who else but religious Jews know all this stuff – about the righteous men, about the Days of Awe? They’re following it all to the letter. And you say that no one outside this very small group even knew of Yosef Yitzhok’s discovery.’

‘What are you saying, Mr Monroe?’

‘I’m saying, Rabbi, that you may not be behind this, despite the fact that I know you’re a proven kidnapper. But somebody inside this . . . organization or community or whatever it is, almost certainly is. I reckon this is what the police would call an inside job. If I were you, I’d start looking at the people here very closely.’

‘Mr Monroe, it’s late and time is running out. I don’t have the time or the strength to start fighting you. What Tova Chaya said before is right: we need to work together. So I’m going to trust you, even if you cannot trust me. I’m going to let you do something that will prove we are not behind this terrible wickedness.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m going to send you to the next victim.’

FIFTY (#ulink_ed02e99a-fa0c-5768-a3ad-8e33b2ac6497)

Monday, 12.10am, Manhattan

Will had been to the Lower East Side a few times, to visit friends chic and savvy enough to buy up and renovate properties in the now-gentrified pockets north of East Broadway. He had seen the old-time delis, drunk coffee in the retro-chic cafes on Orchard Street. But he had not wandered beyond the safely fashionable areas. He had glided past the old tenement buildings, seeing them as cinematic backdrop. He had never looked properly.

Now he was among them, shivering from cold and exhaustion in the night air. Scrunched in his hand, safely hidden inside his pocket, was the scrap of paper with the address he was meant to find.

Rabbi Freilich had led Will and TC back to the computer whiz who had given them the earlier demonstration. He talked them through the process. First, feed the computer the Hebrew sentence: Verse 16 of Isaiah 30. Then ask it to stop at the right intervals, and it will spit out a number. Feed that number through the GPS websites and you get co-ordinates for a place: a specific address on a specific street on the Lower East Side in Manhattan.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Will had said. ‘Isn’t this a bit unlikely? You’ve got thirty-six righteous men out of six billion people on the planet – and two are in New York? Howard Macrae and now this guy? It sounds a bit convenient to me.’ It had not yet congealed into a full allegation, but Will’s scepticism was turning into suspicion.

The rabbi explained that they too had wondered at such a coincidence. But then they had read deeper into Hassidic folklore. It turned out a truly great tzaddik radiated a ‘glow’ – the same word Rabbi Mandelbaum had used – that might draw in others. Their calculated guess was that the Rebbe’s goodness had been so powerful that a couple of tzaddikim had been pulled near. ‘Think of them as satellites,’ the rabbi had said.

But there was a problem. The address now balled up in Will’s fist was an apartment building, home to dozens of people. Which one was the tzaddik? The Hassidim had gone down there once to check it out soon after Yosef Yitzhok had first cracked the Rebbe’s code, but they had not been able to identify him. The man in this building remained one of the most hidden of the hidden righteous men.

‘You will have a better chance of finding him than us,’ Freilich had said.

‘Why?’

‘Look at us, Mr Monroe. We cannot go where you go, we cannot ask what you can ask. We are too visible. You are a reporter from the New York Times. You can go where you like and talk to anybody. You found Mr Macrae, zechuso yogen aleinu, and Mr Baxter, zechuso yogen aleinu.’ May his righteousness protect us. ‘Find this man. Go find our tzaddik.’

So shortly before midnight, Will took off his skullcap and went back out into the world. As he set off, TC decided to do the same.

‘I’m going to call the police. I can’t hide from them forever. We’ve done what we needed to do.’

‘What will you say?’

‘That my phone’s been dead all day and I’ve only just heard what happened. Wish me luck. Or at least visit me in jail.’

‘This is so not a joke.’

‘I know. But you can see what it looks like: a dead man in my apartment and I’m AWOL. I might be charged with murder by the morning.’

‘This is all my fault. I sucked you into this insane mess.’

‘No, you didn’t. You asked for my help. I could have said no. I knew what I was getting into.’

‘Did you?’