The Righteous Men (2006) (47 page)

The man with the glass eyes was left on the platform, getting smaller and
smaller.

‘Thank you with all my heart,’ said Will, gasping for air as he
fell into the nearest seat.

‘People need to have more respect,’ she said.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Will wheezed. ‘Respect. I
couldn’t agree more.’

As the air came back into his lungs, and the oxygen returned to his brain,
he could see only one image. When he closed his eyes, it was there, imprinted
under his eyelids. His father, aged twenty-one — a comrade in the army of
Jesus. And not just the army, but the vanguard. A handpicked elite who believed
they knew the secrets of the true faith.

What were they exactly? Christians, certainly. But with a strange edge of
arrogance. It was they, not the Jews, who were the chosen people. They, not the
Jews, who could regard Judaism itself as their birthright. They, not the Jews, who
would quote the Old Testament and all its prophecies, they who would see the
promises made to Abraham as promises made to them.

Will looked out the window. DeKalb Avenue station. He got out and jumped on
another train. Keep Laser Eyes and his friends guessing.

TC had seen the significance straight away. According to this strict brand
of replacement theology, if Judaism was theirs, that meant all of it. The story
of Abraham’s bargain with Sodom would be part of their inheritance
— and so would the fruit of that story, the mystical Jewish belief that
the world was maintained by thirty-six righteous men. For some reason, they had
taken that belief as their own — and now, it seemed, they had added a new
twist. They were determined to kill these good men one by one. But if it was
this bizarre Christian sect who were behind the killings, why on earth had the
Hassidim kidnapped Beth?

It was too much. Will needed to think, calmly. He looked at his watch.
3.45pm. So little time. He called TC’s number, praying she had somehow
got away.

‘Will! You’re alive!’

‘Are you OK? Where are you?’

‘I’m in the hospital. With Tom. He was shot.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘I was on the roof. I heard a shot, I ran downstairs and he was lying
there, bleeding. Oh, Will—’

‘Is he alive?’

‘They’re operating on him now. My God, who did this, Will? Why
would anyone do this?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find them, I promise. I’m
going to find the people behind this whole fucking mess. And I know I’m
close.’

T
C, I know they’re here.
In New York City’

‘How can you be so certain? They’re killing righteous men all
over the world — why would they be here?’

For one thing, everything they know, they’ve got from the Hassidim.
They’ve got all they can from hacking into their computers. Now they need
to be here in person; to complete the process. That’s why they killed
Yosef Yitzhok. They’re desperate to find number thirty-six. And they’re
convinced the Hassidim know who he is. And they’re right. Besides, I reckon
they
want
to be here.’

“What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you see? Tonight is the climax. It’s the moment it all
comes together. They’ll want to be in the place where all this prophecy
becomes real. Because this is where it all ends, TC. The Sodom of the
twenty-first century. New York City!

It’s here the world finally loses its bargain with God. Just thirty-six
righteous men; so long as they’re alive, the world goes on. Without them,
it’s all over. These people will want to be here to see it happen. The
end of the world.’

‘Will, you’re scaring me.’

‘And there’s one other thing.’ He stopped himself. ‘Look,
there’s no time. I’ve got to go.’ He hung up and dialled a
number at The
New York Times
.

‘Amy Woodstein.’

‘Amy, it’s Will. I need you to do something for me.’

‘Will!’ She was whispering. ‘I shouldn’t even be
talking to you. Are you getting some help?’

‘Right now I need your help, Amy. There’s a flyer on my desk,
for a convention of the Church of the Reborn Jesus.

Could you just read it out to me?’

Amy sighed in audible relief. ‘Hold on.’ Seconds later she was
back. ‘OK:
The Church of the Reborn Jesus, valuing families through
family values. Spiritual Gathering, Javits Convention Center, on West 34th
Street
… oh, hold on, its today.’

‘Yes!’ He sounded as if he was punching the air.

‘Oh, Will, I’m so glad you’re finding some comfort in your
faith. I know many people facing challenges—’

‘Amy, love to chat, got to go.’

Thirty minutes later, he was there. The Javits Convention
Center. He could see a delegates’ counter, staffed by bright eyed
volunteers. That would not work.
Ah, a press desk.

‘Excuse me, I’m from the
Guardian
, a London newspaper, and
I fear I’m not yet on your list. Is there any way you might be able to
accommodate me?’

‘Sir, I’m afraid accreditation has to be done through our Richmond
office. Did you pre-accredit?’
Pre-accredit
. Just when Will
thought he had heard every coinage corporate America could possibly come up
with.

‘No, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t get through on the phone. But
my editors would be so disappointed if I couldn’t cover this wonderful
celebration of family values. We have nothing like this in Britain, you see.
And I know there is a real hunger back home for this kind of spiritual example.
Is there any way you could let me in, just for half an hour or so, so that I
could at least tell my bosses I saw it with my own eyes?’

He had pushed every button. In the years since he had arrived in America,
this kind of patter had got him into NASA for a space launch, Graceland for an
Elvis tribute night and a presidential candidates’ debate in Trenton, New
Jersey. He hoped his eyes glowed with eagerness.

But the woman on the desk, identified by her label as Carrie-Anne,
Facilitator, was not about to relent. I’m going to need you to speak to
Richmond.’

Damn.

‘Sure, what’s the number I need to dial?’

Will wrote it down carefully — then, using his cell phone, he dialled
his home number.

‘Hello. This is Tom Mitchell from the
Guardian
in London. It’s
about today’s convention. I just wondered if there’s any chance …That’s
right.’ At the other end, he could hear his own voice, announcing that he
and Beth were away from the phone right now. He tried to block out the sound
and carry on talking. ‘So I need to look at the programme. OK—’
Will put his hand over the receiver and then mouthed to Carrie-Anne, ‘She
says I need to see the press pack.’ Without hesitation, she passed one
over.

‘OK, so I should go through that now, see what interests me …
all right, that’s a very big help. Thanks so much.’

As he was talking to his own answering machine, Will’s eye ran down
the list of sessions.

The Holden Suite:
Putting togetherness back together. Parenting after
divorce with Rev Peter Thompson
.

The Macmillan Room:
How would Jesus do it? Seeking the saviour’s
advice
.

Will could not find what he wanted. He looked up; Carrie Anne was smiling as
she handed press badges to a TV reporter and her cameraman. Silently, Will
wheeled around and headed for the conference rooms — his press pack held
high as a surrogate credential.

He looked back at the list. Lunch breaks, creche facilities, workshops. Then
his eye stopped.

The Chapel:
Entering the Messianic age. Speaker to be confirmed. CLOSED
SESSION
.

Will looked at his watch; it had already begun. But where in this vast
complex of suites, corridors and stairwells was the Chapel? He rifled through
his press pack until he saw an internal map.
Third floor
.

There were so many doors; but finally he saw one with a sign, a diagram of a
stick-man kneeling, at prayer. Will pressed his ear close to the door: ‘…
how many centuries have we waited? More than twenty. And sometimes our patience
has worn thin. Our faith has faltered.’

Will heard the ding of an elevator. Out came three men, around Will’s
age, dressed in neat dark suits — just like the one he was still wearing
from his late-night trip to Crown Heights. Each held a bible and they were
heading, purposefully, towards him.

As they got nearer, Will saw that at least one was out of breath.
They
were late
. This was his chance.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Will as they reached him. ‘I
think we can still sneak in at the back.’

Sure enough, one opened the door, allowing the whole group to enter — the
embarrassment divided by being shared.

Will was simply one of the group; he even carried his own bible.

Jammed in at the back, Will tried to survey the room. To his surprise, it
was large; the size of a banqueting hall. There must have been more than two
thousand people inside. It was hard to tell who they were; all heads were
dipped in prayer. Will did not dare raise his eyes.

Finally an amplified voice broke the silence.

‘We repent, O Lord, for our moments of doubt. We repent for the pain
and hurt we have inflicted on each other, on the planet your Father entrusted
to us and on your name. We repent, O Lord, for the centuries of sin that have
kept you from us.’

In unison, the congregation replied, ‘On this Day of Atonement, we
repent.’

Will looked up, trying to work out who was speaking. A man was standing at
the front, but he had his back to the room. It was impossible to see if he was
young or old: most of his head was covered with a white skullcap.

‘But now, O Lord, the Day of Reckoning is upon us. At long last Man
will be held accountable. The great Book of Life is about to be slammed shut.
Finally, we are to be judged.’

In unison: ‘Amen.’

The man turned around: about Will’s age, studious looking.

Will was surprised. He seemed too young to be a leader and that voice too
strong to have come from him.

‘Your first people, Israel, strayed from your teaching, O Lord.’
The voice was continuing, even though the man Will had identified as the leader
was not speaking. Only now did Will take in the huge screen at the front of the
room. It bore just two words, black on white: The Apostle. At last Will
realized the voice filling this room did not belong to anyone inside it.
Perhaps it was on a tape; maybe it was relayed live from the outside. It had an
odd, metallic quality. Either way, the Apostle was nowhere to be seen.

‘The first Israel were frightened of your word. It fell to others to
honour your covenant. As it is written, “And if you are Christ’s,
then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise.’“

The congregation responded: ‘We are Christ’s and so we are
Abraham’s. We are heirs according to the promise.’

Will felt himself shudder. So this was the Church of the Reborn Jesus,
updated for the twenty-first century. And this was the doctrine that had once
captivated his father, Townsend McDougal and who knew how many others. The men
in this room — and, Will realized now, they were all men — believed
it too. They were the inheritors of the Jews’ place in the divine scheme.
They had taken the teachings of the Jews as their own.

‘But now, Lord, we need your help. We pray for your guidance.

We are so close, yet the final knowledge eludes us.’

Number thirty-six
, thought Will.

‘Please bring us to completion, so that we may finally let God’s
judgment rain upon this benighted earth.’

Will was surveying the room, when a man in the front row swivelled around to
do the same. He saw Will, did a small double-take, then looked across the room,
made eye contact with someone else and gestured with his head in Will’s
direction.

Will did not see the hand that reached out and grabbed his neck. Nor did he
spot the leg that kicked him below the knee and made him buckle. But as he fell
to the ground, he caught a glimpse of the man standing over him. His eyes were so
blue, they almost shone.

H
e had woken up, he knew that,
but it was still dark. He tried to touch his eyes — sending a sharp,
searing pain to his shoulder. His hands were tied. His arms, his legs, his
stomach, they all seemed to have had a layer of tissue removed: he pictured
them as raw, red flesh.

He twitched his eyelids; he could feel something that was not skin. His eyes
were covered by a blindfold. He tried to speak but his mouth was gagged; he
began to cough.

‘Take it off.’ The voice was firm; in authority. Will started to
retch; the sense-memory of the gag was still choking him.

Finally he spat out a few words.

‘Where am I?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Where the hell am I?’

‘Don’t you dare shout at us, Mr Monroe. I said, you’ll
see.’

Will could hear two, maybe three others close by. ‘Take him now.’

‘Where am I going?’

‘You’re going to get what you came here to get. All that lying
seems to have paid off, Mr Tom Mitchell of the
Guardian
: you’re
going to get your big interview after all.’

In the darkness, he felt a thick, flat hand at his back: he was being shoved
forward. He walked a few paces, then two more hands grabbed his shoulders and
pivoted him to the right. Will could feel carpet under his feet. Was he still
in the convention centre? How long had the beating lasted? How long had he been
unconscious? What if it was night-time? It would be too late! Yom Kippur would
be over. In the black of his blindfold, Will imagined the gates of heaven,
slamming shut.

‘Sir, he’s here.’

‘Thank you, gentlemen. Let us remove those bonds.’ Even in
regular speech, this man seemed to be quoting scripture.