The Book of Names (26 page)

They walked on for a little ways until Yael stopped at the headstone inscribed
Yonaton HarPaz.
“His soul is still here, you know,” she said, her gaze fixed on the grassy outline of the grave. “The Kabbalists believe that the
nefesh
, the lowest of the three dimensions that make up the soul, remains to hover over the grave when someone is buried. Rabbi Cardoza told me the nefesh stays behind to protect the living in times of difficulty, while the two
higher dimensions of the soul—the
ruach
and the
neshamah
—move on to higher realms.”

“This definitely qualifies as a time of difficulty,” David acknowledged. “How are they able to help?”

“The rabbi has told me that when the living come to the cemetery and ask the departed for their help, the nefesh flits up to the realm of the ruach and informs the ruach of the trouble below. The ruach in turn hurries up to the realm of the neshamah—closest to God—and the neshamah intervenes, asking God to have mercy on the world.”

“That's why we're here, isn't it? To ask Yoni's nefesh to remind God we're in trouble. To ask for help.” David stared down at the graceful ferns upon Yoni's grave, trying to take in the concept of both a hierarchy and a unity in one's soul. He'd always been taught that every person had a direct line to God, that no intermediaries were necessary. One could attend synagogue services and recite the ancient prayers, or one could go anywhere and compose personal prayers from the heart. All would be acceptable to God.

That was the teaching of traditional Judaism. These mystical beliefs of the Kabbalists were still foreign to him. Yet, remembering his own near-death experience and everything he'd learned in these pressure-packed few days, the idea that Yael could ask her husband's soul to intercede in the heavenly realm made as much sense as did the spirits of the Lamed Vovniks begging him to intercede on their behalf in the physical realm.

He watched her stoop to place the pebbles on Yoni's grave, adding them to others already there. David knew the reason, he'd done it himself when he'd visited his parents' graves. Yael was leaving behind a token of her visit.

He touched her shoulder and moved off, deciding to give her some privacy. He meandered off until he found himself at a concrete staircase leading downhill. He followed it down and came upon another cemetery nestled below. It was older, less orderly, but equally peaceful, with visitors praying at various tombs painted sky blue and piled with rocks.

It was only as he began reading some of the names carved on the tombstones that he realized this was the ancient burial place of famous Kabbalists.

A powerful sense of history enveloped him as he wandered through the sunlit cemetery and out again. He wandered the nearby lanes, walking uphill again. Before he realized it, he found himself in an alleyway where a blue sign with white letters pointed toward the Abuhav Synagogue.

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.