The Righteous Men (2006) (48 page)

‘Let’s take a good look at you.’

Will felt hands working at his wrists until they were free.

Then, at last, the blindfold came off — flooding him with light.

He stole a glance at his watch. There was still time. Thank God, thought
Will.

‘Gentlemen, leave us please.’

In front of Will, at a plain, hotel-room desk, sat the man he had seen
earlier in the chapel. His complexion had the earnest shine of an inner-city
vicar, the kind of well-meaning do-gooder Will remembered running the Christian
Union at Oxford.

‘Are you the Apostle?’ Will winced. The effort of speaking sent
a tremor of pain shooting down his spine.

‘I had hoped your suffering would be easing. We took great care to
bind your wounds.’

Will suddenly became aware of bandages and plasters covering his arms and legs,
even his chest.

‘Please accept my apologies for the somewhat heavy handed treatment
you had meted out to you. “But those who suffer he delivers in their
suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction.” The Book of Job.’

‘You didn’t answer my question. Are you the Apostle?’

A modest smile. ‘No, I am not the Apostle. I only serve him.’

‘I want to speak to him.’

‘And why should I let you do that?’

‘Because I know what he, what all of you, are up to. And I will go to
the police.’

‘I’m afraid that is not going to be possible. The Apostle does
not meet anybody.’

‘Well, in that case, I’m sure the police will be very interested
to hear what I know.’

‘And what exactly do you know, Mr Monroe?’

The thin-lipped calm of this man infuriated Will. He strode forward, his
legs aching with each movement. I’ll tell you what I know. I know that
the Jews believe there are always thirty-six righteous men in the world. And
that so long as those people are alive, then the world is OK. I also know that
in the last few days these men have started dying very mysterious deaths.
Murdered, to be precise. One in Montana, maybe two in New York. One in London
and God knows where else. And I strongly suspect that this group are the ones
behind it. That’s what I know.’

‘I don’t think “strongly suspect” will cut much ice,
Mr Monroe. Not coming from a man who was in a prison cell himself just a few
hours ago.’

How the hell did he know that?
Will suddenly thought back to the desk
clerk at the seventh precinct and the crucifix around her neck.
Maybe this
cult had people everywhere
.

Worse, the vicar was right. Will had nothing firm, just wild speculation. He
had no leverage over this guy or the so-called Apostle he served. He felt his
shoulders slump.

‘But let’s say this theory of yours is right. Purely
hypothetically, of course.’ The man was twirling a pencil between his fingers,
letting it fall from one hand to the other. Will wondered if he was nervous. ‘Let
us say there was such an effort to identify the thirty-six and to … bring
them to their final rest. And let us say that a holy group were involved in this.
I strongly suspect, to use your own phrase, that you would have a divine
obligation to get out of their way, wouldn’t you? I think you would
understand the wounds to your flesh as some kind of sign. A warning if you
like.’

‘Are you threatening to kill me?’

‘No, of course not. Nothing so crude. I am threatening you with
something much worse.’

Will felt an ice in this man that terrified him. ‘Worse?’

‘I am threatening you with the reality of the holiest teachings ever
given to mankind. The hour of redemption is upon us, Mr Monroe. Salvation will
come to those who have brought the hour closer. But those who sought to delay
it, to thwart the divine promise, those souls will be tormented for all
eternity. A thousand years will be like the passing of just one day, and there
will be a thousand more and a thousand more after that. So think carefully, Mr
Monroe. Do not stand in the path of the Lord. Do not stand in the way of our
Father. Do not aid those who seek to frustrate Him. Try instead to light the
way.’

Will was attempting to absorb all this man was telling him when he realized
the meeting was over. From behind, he felt hands once again grabbing his arms
and replacing his blindfold.

He was led out of the room and into what sounded like a service elevator. It
shook when it had plumbed what Will calculated was five floors. The doors moved
apart and he was shoved out. By the time he had removed the blindfold, to see
he was in an underground car park, he was alone.

Upstairs, the man who had spoken to Will a few minutes earlier
checked to make sure it had all come through loud and clear on the
speaker-phone. ‘I think we have given him enough,’ he said to the
older man at the end of the line.

‘Yes, you have done well. Now all we can do is wait.’ If Will
had heard the voice he would have recognized it. For it was the voice of the
Apostle.

I
t had been black; tonight it
was white. The synagogue seemed to glow with whiteness, moonlight reflected on
snow. There were as many men in here as Will had seen on Friday night, except
now they were dressed not in black suits but clothed almost entirely in white.

They wore what seemed to be thin white bathrobes over their dark suits,
covering them from their ankles to their shoulders. Instead of the regulation
black leather shoes, their feet were now in white trainers. Many of the prayer
shawls were all white, as were the skullcaps of those not wearing hats. And
they were packed together, a swaying mass of white, a swaying mass of prayer.

This, TC had told him in the briefest of calls from the hospital, was
ne’eilah
,
the concluding segment of what would have been a marathon, day-long service.
Tradition demanded that the congregation — denied food or water for the
previous twenty-four hours — stand for the duration, in recognition of the
gravity of the moment. For this was the final hour of Yom Kippur, the Day of
Atonement, the day of reckoning.

In this hour, the gates of heaven were closing. Repentance was urgent. As TC
described it, Will imagined it: the last minute penitent slipping through the
crack in the door, just as it thundered shut. Those who had not atoned, or left
it too late, were left outside.

All day, this vast hangar of a space had echoed with ancient incantations,
as several thousand voices sang together:

B’Rosh Hashana yichatayvun …

On the first day of the year it is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement
it is sealed. How many shall die and how many shall be born; who shall live and
who shall die, who at the measure of man’s days and who before it…

The heaviness of the hour descended on Will as soon as he walked in. Faces
were funeral-serious; acknowledging each other, but unsmiling. Most men had eyes
only for the prayer books they held as they bobbed back and forth in
supplication.

Sha’arei shamayim petach …

Open the gates of heaven … Save us, oh God

‘Excuse me,’ said Will, trying to squeeze his way through this
football crowd of a throng. It was too packed, his progress was too slow. He
needed to get to Rabbi Freilich as quickly as possible if he was going to have
any chance of striking a bargain. He would reveal the real pursuers of the
righteous men and, in return, they would release Beth. He looked at his watch.
He had perhaps thirty minutes to act. Will had calculated that he had to move
now, while the threat remained at its highest. If he waited till after Yom
Kippur, and if the thirty-sixth man remained safely hidden, the Hassidim might conclude
that the danger had receded. Will’s leverage would vanish.

He began to ask. ‘Excuse me, do you know where Rabbi Freilich is?
Ratbbi Freilich?’ Most ignored him. Occasionally, a hand would wave him
left or right — while the eyes stayed fixed on the page ahead or, just as
often, firmly shut.

It was like wading through water. All these unfamiliar faces. He looked at
his watch: twenty-three minutes.

Then a hand on his shoulder, sending a bolt of pain through his back. He
turned around, his hand balled into a fist in readiness.

‘Will?’

‘Sandy! You frightened me. Jesus. Sorry.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘No time to explain. Listen, I need to speak to Rabbi Freilich.

Now.’

Sandy did not reply, but grasped Will’s wrist and dragged him first
right, then back and finally around the tables where Will had seen the men
studying so hard three days earlier.

There, rocking backwards and forwards, his eyes closed and facing towards
the heavens, was Rabbi Freilich.

‘Rabbi? It’s Will Monroe.’

The rabbi lowered his head and then opened his eyes, as if from sleep. His
face betrayed great weariness. Then, seeing the bruises on Will’s face,
it registered shock.

‘Rabbi, I know who’s killing the righteous men. And I know why
they’re doing it.’

The rabbi’s eyes widened.

‘I will tell you and I will tell you right away, while you still have
time to stop them. But first you have to do something for me. You must take me
to my wife. This instant.’

Freilich’s brow tensed. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge
of his nose. He looked at his watch: twenty minutes to go. Will could see he
was weighing up the right course of action.

‘All right,’ the rabbi said finally, though he still looked anguished.
‘Come with me.’

It was easier to walk out of the
shul
than it had been to walk through
it; the crowd parted in deference to Rabbi Freilich, even if a few curious
glances were directed at the rabbi’s battered companion.

They emerged into the dusk, the sound of the prayer within filling the air.
The rabbi walked fast, turning left at the first corner. Will looked at his
watch: fourteen minutes left. Each step hurt his calves and thighs, but he was
almost running.

Suddenly Rabbi Freilich stopped, turned and faced a small brownstone house.

‘Are we here?’

‘We are here.’

Will could hardly believe it. It was just around the block from the
synagogue; he must have passed this house several times. He had been so close
to Beth without even knowing it.

His heart began to pound. So much had happened, it felt as if so much time
had passed, since he had seen his wife.

The need to hold her tight was so intense, he could barely contain it.

The rabbi knocked on the door. A woman’s voice called out, in a
language Will did not understand. The rabbi replied with what Will guessed was
a password, in Yiddish.

Finally, the door opened to reveal a woman in her mid thirties, wearing one
of those twin-sets his mother might have worn twenty years ago. Her hair was
styled the way all the women of Crown Heights had their hair — which
meant it was not hers at all, but a wig. Will let out a sigh; he realized he
had expected to see Beth straight away.

‘Dos is ihr man. Bring zie ahehr, biteh.’ This is her husband.
Bring her here, please.

The woman disappeared upstairs. Will could hear doors opening, then
footsteps, then the sound of two people coming down.

He looked around, to see a long dark skirt descending the stairs. More
disappointment. But as the woman walked lower, he recognized her hips and her
posture. And then he saw her face.

He had no control over his eyes. They filled the instant he saw her. Only at
that moment did he realize just how deeply he had missed her, how his whole
body had ached for her. He jumped the two remaining stairs and clasped her
right there, on the staircase. His vision was too blurred to see her face
clearly, but as he held her tight he could feel her shake and he knew she was
trembling with tears. Neither could say anything. He was squeezing her so hard,
but it was not tight enough. He wanted there to be no space between them.

At last he peeled himself away, to look at her properly for the first time.
Her eyes met his, with a kind of bashfulness he had not seen before. It was not
modesty but something else: it was awe, awe for the enormity of the love they
felt for each other.

Finally she spoke, through her tears. ‘You see, I told you. I told you
I believed in you. Remember the song, Will? I knew you would come and find me.
I knew it. And look. Here you are.’

He brought her head to his chest, the two of them clinging fast, unaware of
the woman who had opened the door, unaware of Rabbi Freilich standing at the
foot of the stairs, unaware that each one of them had shed their own tears at the
sight of this couple back, at last, in each other’s arms.

‘Mr Monroe, I am sorry,’ the rabbi began, as if clearing his throat.
‘Mr Monroe.’

‘Yes,’ said Will, using the back of his shirt cuff to wipe the tears
from his cheeks. ‘Yes, of course.’ He turned to Beth.

‘Have they told you about all this—’

‘She knows nothing,’ the rabbi interrupted. ‘And there isn’t
time. Now please.’

Will hardly knew where to start. A tiny Christian sect that believed it had
inherited Jewish teaching, all of it, even the doctrine of the
lamad vav
.
How they had picked up on the Messianic fervour of Crown Heights and had
started hacking into its computer network, eventually discovering the
identities of the righteous men. How they had used their people all over the
world to kill them, one by one — timing the murders for the Days of Awe,
the Ten Days of Penitence. ‘Which,’ Will added, ‘will be over
in twelve minutes.’

‘But why?’

‘I can’t be certain. At the service, this voice, the Apostle, was
explaining it but that’s when they started beating me. He and the other
man, the younger one, talked about redemption and judgment and salvation, but I
couldn’t make any real sense of it. I’m sorry.’ Will glanced
at Beth and took her hand: she looked completely baffled.