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………………………………………

Jake sat down in the passenger seat of
Ben’s car.

‘Well?’ asked the Israeli.

‘She’s not the one.  She’s not the enemy
but I have learnt something useful.’

‘Yes?’

‘I know where the other cup is.  It’s
owned by a guy called Samuel Isaacson.  He used to be engaged to Cherry and I
know where he lives.’

Ben smiled as he put the car in gear.  The
news was excellent.

As they drove off neither saw the lone
figure standing across the road who made a note of their licence plate and then
continued to watch Cherry’s house.  Nor did they see him take out a mobile
phone and speak into it.

‘Hi, Mitch,’ he said, quietly, ‘It’s me. 
They’ve gone.  I’ve cased the place.  It should be easy.  Dead easy.’

He knew exactly what to do.

‘You’re wrong.’

‘Am I.  You’re the last person I would
have expected to say that.  Wasn’t it disillusionment with the orthodox that
made you give up the rabbinate?’

‘If that’s what you think.  How little you
understand me.’

Jake looked at his companion in the
driver’s seat in confusion.  Tiferet could be so infuriating.

‘Okay.  Tell me.’

The professor smiled enigmatically.

‘No.  You must make up your own mind.  All
I am prepared to say is that I became disillusioned by what modern orthodoxy
perceives as the truth.  I have seen things, I have experienced things that
have convinced me that many of the rabbinical interpretations are false but I
have not, definitely not, given up Torah and Talmud.’

‘But you are not wearing a skull cap?’

‘Let’s use the Hebrew shall we?  Call it a
kippa, please.

‘You’re right, I do not wear a kippa but
you will find that I only eat Kosher food and I keep the Sabbath and festivals
in my own way.  No, Jake, I am the last person to deprecate people for their
religious beliefs.  If Samuel Isaacson has become religious that is his
business; good luck to him.’

‘But.  You know where it can lead.  I know
of people I grew up with who have become ultra-orthodox from nothing.  It’s
like they live on a different planet or something.  We no longer speak the same
language.’

‘Is that any worse than what you did?’

‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘What do you think I mean.  You married
out.  You...’

‘Now, listen here.  What I did, I did
because...’

‘No, Jacob.  You listen to me.  We Jews
are one of the smallest minority groups on the planet.  Every time one of us
marries out we risk reducing our numbers.  One day there will be none of us
left.’

‘So what?’

‘Have you no pride in your heritage?’

‘My heritage.  What?  Our persecution. 
Our so-called laws that are rooted in antiquity.  No, I live in the modern
world.  I believe in God, yes but not in any particular religious way.’

‘But what of everything I showed to you?’

‘All that proves is that there are
supernatural forces.  It gives no proof of the existence of the Jewish version
of God.’

Tiferet made no comment but just sat there
doing his best to contain himself.  Jake could see that his companion was quite
upset.

‘You will see.’

They continued in silence until they
reached the address that Cherry Linford had given but, before they vacated the
car, Jake had one question.

‘According to Cherry, the cup’s been in
the family for centuries.  How come?’

‘I don’t know, but Jacob Cordozo was not
the only one at the ceremony.  Maybe, the Isaacsons are also descendants of one
of the participants.  I will have to check the genealogy.  Unfortunately, there
are no records of who were Cordozo’s assistants.  Now leave the talking to me.’

……………………………………

The house was a typical north-west London
suburban semi; larger than Jake’s, but that was not difficult to achieve.  As
Jake well knew one of his wife’s many complaints was about the size of their
home and, in particular, the kitchen.  Jake rang the doorbell.

A woman soon appeared.  She was fiftyish
and still attractive despite her age and Jake realised that he knew her from
somewhere.  Isaacson?  Thinking about it, the name was familiar.  If only he
could remember why.

He let the Professor open the
conversation.

‘Mrs Isaacson?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Tiferet.  You may have heard
of me.’

The woman looked at him blankly.

‘I am a professor at the Hebrew University
in Jerusalem.  I wish to have a few words with your son, Samuel.  He wrote to
me, you see.’

Her expression softened.

‘I’m afraid he moved out yesterday. 
You’ve had a wasted trip.’

‘Oh.  May we come in and talk?  You might
be able to help us, anyway.  It seems a shame to waste the time since I am
here.’

Mrs Isaacson seemed indecisive but Tiferet
had such an earnest, convincing, manner that Jake could see that their entrance
was assured and soon they were inside.

‘You know, it’s really strange.  You’re
the second person today to ask after Sam.’

Ben looked at Jake with alarm.  This could
only mean the worst, but they had to know.

‘Who else was there?’ Ben asked.

‘A reporter actually.  Sam used to be
engaged to some shiksa artist and this reporter wanted to know about their
relationship.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘The same as you.  That he left home
yesterday and that he doesn’t want to talk about the girl.’

‘So you didn’t tell him where to find
Sam?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘What was his name, this reporter?’

‘Let me think.  Mitchell, I think.  Yes,
that’s right, Mitch Mitchell, from the Post.’

And it was Jake’s turn to look alarmed.

‘What is it?’ interjected the Israeli.

‘Mitch Mitchell, I know him.  He’s a
friend of Fiona’s.’

‘Aha.  So now things make sense do they
not?

‘Mrs Isaacson.  Did you give this Mitchell
person anything?  Something that belonged to your son, for instance?’

‘No,’ but she appeared doubtful.

‘What is it?’

‘Well, I don’t want to malign the poor man
but after he left I thought that a photograph had gone missing.  You see it’s
Sam’s birthday and I was looking through our album, over there.  It was in the
room whilst the reporter was here.  I left him alone for a few minutes.’

‘But this is...’

Tiferet stopped himself but it was too
late.  Mrs Isaacon had caught the alarm.

‘What is it?’

He looked at Jake who nodded.

‘All right.  I think your son may be in
grave danger.’

‘What, what do you mean.’

‘Jacob, show Mrs Isaacson your ring.’

Jake complied and it was clear that she
recognised the stone.

‘What’s this all about?’

‘You have a similar stone, do you not?’

But the woman gave no reply.  She seemed
at a complete loss for words.

‘I lied to you.  Your son did not write to
me.  I have come from Israel to find these stones.  Jacob here has one and he
has agreed to help me.  Until today I was unaware that your family also had
one.  Please, tell me what you know of it?’

‘It’s in a Kiddush becha that belonged to
my late father.  He left it to Sam in his will.  He said that the stone goes
back to Torah times.’

‘Was there any text with it?’

‘Yes?’

‘I must meet with your son.  I am not the
only one searching for these stones, you see.  Please, I beg of you, tell me
where to find him?’

But the woman was hesitating.  Jake was
not altogether surprised by the reaction.  After all, when he had first met
Tiferet he had not trusted him.

‘Now, madam.  I am not exaggerating when I
tell you that...’

But Jake had had enough, he decided to
interrupt.

‘Mrs Isaacson, I know that this is hard
for you.  Could I ask you to telephone the Jewish Chronicle?’

‘Telephone the Jewish Chronicle?’

‘Yes, please.  Ask for Mark Morris.  He
will vouch for the Professor.  You’ll find the number in the paper.’

They waited as Mrs Isaacson complied with
the request and were pleased to see that she was far happier once she came off
the phone.  This time she handed over the address in Golders Green.  It was a
house owned by Rabbi Tashlich’s organisation in which Sam and three other
students lived almost rent free.  The decision to move had been mutual.  As Mrs
Isaacson explained.

Sam had been a drifter, a chaser of
rainbows.  He would spend all his time wandering from one daydream to the
next.  There had been times when she and her husband, David, had real fears
that Sam would join some freakish cult such as the Moonies or the Hare Krishna
followers.  It was a comfort to find that he had finally found salvation in his
own religion; even if it did mean that he had become more religious than they.

It had been the fear that he was intending
to marry a non-Jewish girl that had made the Isaacsons’ act.  That Cherry
Linford.  She was attractive and managed to bring out all of Sam’s best
qualities.  He had been a quiet, withdrawn boy but Cherry had moulded him
somehow.  He became far more independent and outgoing under Cherry’s
influence.  But, she was a shiksa and, as far as Elizabeth Isaacson was
concerned, marrying out of the faith was anathema.

She had talked it over with David but the
more they spoke to Sam, the more determined he had become.  Finally they had
asked their synagogue minister, Rabbi Marcus, to help.  Marcus had introduced
Sam to Rabbi Tashlich and Tashlich proved to be the saviour that they needed.

He was young, brash and American.  He had
a charisma that someone as impressionable as Sam found impossible to resist and
he began to change their son.  Almost the first thing he did was to persuade
Sam to give up his forbidden love.  How could she forget Sam’s soul searching? 
He really loved that girl; he would have done anything for her, but somehow
Tashlich made him end the relationship.

But, that had only been the beginning of
the transformation.  What Cherry Linford had begun, Rabbi Tashlich completed. 
From a shy, self-centred, introvert who had no sense of his spiritual direction
had emerged this new Samuel; Shmueli, as he now called himself; and he was
everything his parents could have wanted. 

The Isaacsons’ had discussed the matter
very carefully and it had been agreed that Sam should move into the house in
Golders Green.  It was a better environment for the life-style he chose.  The
very last thing that they wanted to do was to hold Sam back in his spiritual
development.

‘I see.  Do you have a recent photograph of
your son?’

Mrs Isaacson passed over the album and
opened it to the last page.  She pointed to a dark-haired bearded youth wearing
spectacles and, again, Jake realised that he had seen the young man before and
recently.

The Bar Mitzvah, of course.  Samuel was
the lonely youth he had seen.  Which meant that they had to be related.

‘Mrs Isaacson?

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Jake Tranton.’

‘So?’

‘You were at Daniel Scott’s Bar Mitzvah
party on Sunday, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, how do…?’

‘I was there.  That means we could be related.’

She shook her head.  ‘I don’t think so. 
Daniel’s parents are very close friends.’

‘So, you’re not related in any way?’

‘No, of course not.’

Tiferet said nothing but it was clear that
he was listening intently to the exchange.  Wheels were turning in his mind. 
Jake wondered what he was thinking.  The Professor, however, did not provide
him with an opportunity to find out.

‘We must depart, young man.  We have much
to do.

‘Now, madam.  I suggest you telephone your
son and tell him to look out for this Mitchell person.’

………………………………………….

As they walked out to the car.  Tiferet
turned to his companion.

‘We must hurry.  You realise how much
danger Shmueli is in, don’t you?  If Alex has a photograph he can work his
magic on him.  With a picture he can do far worse than he did to you.

‘What’s the time?’

Jake looked at his watch.  It was already
half past five.  Fiona would be home in half an hour or so.  She would wonder
where he was.  And then it came to him.

Fiona.  It was she who had taken his cuff
links.  It had to be.  Which meant...It meant that she was involved in this
business all the way.  And he was worrying that she was having an affair with
Mitch.  He had to confront her.

‘No, Professor.  You’ve got to drop me
home.  I must speak with Fiona.  She knows Mitch.  She’s in it with him.  I’m
certain of it.  You go to see Shmueli Isaacson alone.’

Ben Tiferet looked at his companion and
saw that Jake was serious.  With obvious reluctance he acceded to the request.

‘Be careful, Jacob.  If she is working for
Alex she could prove dangerous.’

‘But dammit, man.  She is my wife.’

‘I know.  All the more reason to take
care.’

It was coming up to six when Shmueli
Isaacson returned to his new lodgings from work.  He was thoroughly
disappointed that no-one seemed to have remembered his birthday, not even his
parents.  All thoughts of complaint vanished, however, as Shmueli entered the
kitchen and found a surprise awaiting him.  There, on the kitchen table, was a Parkways
cake box with an envelope attached to it.  It was a birthday card from his
folks and a note asking him to call.  He wondered when it had been delivered.

Excitedly he slit the tape on the box and
looked inside.  He smiled; he could not help himself.

The cake was covered in cold blue icing
with a birthday greeting in white fondant.  ‘Eat Me,’ was quite plainly its
unwritten message and it was a command that Shmueli found difficult to disobey,
but disobey it he did.  It would not be fair on the others to scoff it now.  He
would wait until they returned from work and then he would serve it.  So,
Shmueli removed the cake from its container and put it onto a plate and into
the fridge.  That had been something to lighten his mood.

The very first thing he did was to call
his mother and thank her.

Her manner on the phone however seemed
quite distressed.

‘Mum, what is it?’

‘Listen, Sam.  There’s something strange
going on.  There’s a professor from the Hebrew University coming to see you
about your Kiddush cup.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve given him your address.  He’s okay. 
But there’s someone else, a journalist.  He’s called Mitch Mitchell.  He’s up
to no good.  Whatever you do, don’t see him.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Please, Sam, believe me.  I know how
crazy this sounds, but listen to Professor Tiferet, he’s on your side.’

‘But Mum.’

‘Anyway, Sam.  Happy birthday.’

‘Thanks, and thanks for the cake.’

Shmueli replaced the receiver.  What was
Mum going on about?  It didn’t make any sense.  He decided to forget about it
and looked at his watch.  It was not quite six fifteen, still early.  He would
have a doze before the others returned and then...and, in his mind, he
envisioned the pleasures of eating the sweet, tasty confection and salivated in
anticipation.  Oh, how he wished that he did not have to wait.

During the next hour the others returned
from work and one of them, Asher (it being his turn) cooked the dinner.  No
culinary feast, this; but the beef-burgers were succulent and the chips just
right.  Golden and crisp on the outside and soft, white and fluffy within.

‘And for pudding,’ he announced.  ‘A
special treat.  Shmueli, would you do the honours?’

Their newest member stood up and regarded
the fridge.  Again his taste buds anticipated the event as his mouth began to
water in its eagerness to consume the delights within.  His imagination
supplied it all; the moistness of the sponge, the sweetness of the fondant
icing.  This was going to be a real feast.

Shmueli opened the door and reached in. 
He pulled out the pale blue covered confection and placed it on the table.

‘A knife, please.’

Eagerly, Asher passed the implement and
Shmueli inserted the tip into the very centre of the cake and pressed into the
softness of the sponge.  Seven more times he made the incision until there were
eight triangular slices.  Carefully, he slid the knife under the first and
removed it.

To Shmueli’s absolute horror he saw that
it was speckled with blue and green mould.  Oh no!  But...that was impossible.

‘Hey.  What’re you waiting for?’

Hurriedly, Shmueli reinserted the piece. 
Obviously the others had not noticed.  What on earth could Mum have been
thinking of?  How old could the cake have been?

He tried a piece from the other side and
began to remove it slowly.  There was something moving in there, he was certain
of it.  He stopped what he was doing and stood back.  He was at a complete
loss.

‘I’m sorry...’

‘Stop being an idiot and serve, will you?’

Asher came over, ‘Well, if you won’t.  I’m
not letting this go to waste.’

‘No!’

‘Shmueli.  What is it with you?’

There was nothing that he could say.  He
would let them find out for themselves.  Stupefied with shock, Shmueli sat down
and watched, not quite believing what he was seeing.

Asher removed a portion of mould encrusted
sponge and placed it on a plate.  He passed it to Daniel, the youngest of the
four.  Neither seemed in the slightest perturbed at the condition of the
slice.  Soon, two more pieces were dished out.

‘You want some, Shmueli?’

What could he say?  Surely they could see
what they had been served.  He shook his head.

‘It is your birthday, you know.’

‘I...know. 
I’ll...just...sit...here...if...you...don’t...mind.’

This was quite incomprehensible.  In
horror, he watched as Daniel dug his fork into the indigestible muck and saw
the small, pink-white, maggoty thing squirming about the prongs, a trail of
slime in its wake.  He put his hand to his mouth as if he was trying to hide
behind it and he turned to look at Avi, the fourth of their group.  He was
already stuffing a sizeable life-infested chunk into his mouth with all the
relish of a starving man.

The maggots, pink and glistening, just
dribbled down his chin.

Shmueli could feel his insides heaving and
he jumped up, knocking back his chair...and ran.

He reached the toilet just in time.  Again
and again the bile rose up within him and all that he had eaten spewed up in a
foul tasting mess of regurgitated dinner.

To say that Shmueli felt ill was an
understatement.  He felt as if he had just witnessed the most obscene spectacle
imaginable.  How could it possibly be?  If only he understood.

‘You okay?’  It was Asher.  He would
recognise that deep voice anywhere.  ‘What happened?’

But Shmueli still could not speak.

‘Here.  Have some water.’

Suspiciously, he looked at the glass.  The
liquid was clear, thank God.  He took it and slowly sipped the fluid.

‘Thanks.  I’ll be all right, I think.’

‘You sure?  You had us really worried for
a moment there.  Come on, you’d better sit down.’

Shmueli allowed himself to be led to his
bedroom.  Had he imagined the whole thing?  But there was no way that he could
ask his friend.  Asher would think that he was crazy.  And, maybe that was just
what he was.

It was as he lay down on the bed that a
strange thought came to him without any prompting.  It was like a voice in his
head.  A comforting voice, a voice of reassurance.

‘Trust me.  Just give me the cup and
everything will be all right.

‘Trust me.

‘Trust me.’

And, as the voice spoke, so Shmueli’s eyes
closed as he drifted into the warm comfort of sleep.

…………………………………………

It was the ringing of the doorbell that
woke him and then the knocking on the bedroom door.

‘It’s me, Asher.  There’s someone to see
you.’

It was the Professor from the Hebrew
University.  He seemed pleasant enough but Shmueli was still in no mood to have
company.

‘What do you want?’ he asked curtly.

‘You may have heard of me.’

Shmueli shook his head.

‘Well, Mr Isaacson.  I am a student of
Kaballah.’

‘So what?’

‘You have a Kiddush
becha
do you
not?
’

The
becha
.  That was what he had
heard in his head before he fell asleep.  This had something to do with his
becha
.

‘What of it?’

‘You must let me see it.’

‘Why?’

‘Please, Mr Isaacson.  Are you suffering
any strange experiences?  Nightmares, visions; that sort of thing?

And Shmueli knew.  This guy had to be
behind what he had seen.  He would say nothing.

‘I’m sorry, Professor.  No.  I’m very
tired.  Another time maybe.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know.  Leave me your number. 
I’ll call you.’

‘But, Mr Isaacson.’

‘No, please go.’

And Shmueli stood and made it clear that
the conversation was at an end.

As the Professor left, Shmueli knew there
was only one person he could turn to; his Rabbi, Yisroel Tashlich.  He would
know what to do.