The Book of Names (15 page)

But Ortega's rage still boomed in Raoul's head.
He's not pleased! Does he think
I
am?
Raoul fought his need to floor the Firebird. Instead, he spun the radio volume full blast to clear his head.

Tonight should have been a cakewalk. That kid ought to be in Death Valley by now, crying to the coyotes.
Hell. Another day. . . two, at most
, he told himself . . .
and Ortega's stinking breath will be off my neck. The state of Arizona isn't big enough for the kid to get away a second time.

More and more, old Ortega was reminding him of his grandfather. Demanding, ungrateful. In Ortega's younger
days, back when he'd been secretary-general of the UN, he had been quick to praise, quick to promote Raoul up the ranks of the Dark Angels. Now that the end was near, he was becoming as cantankerous as a sour old woman.

After all of the enemies I've dispatched for him, all it takes is one little hiccough to set him off with threats and warnings. As if I, the most accomplished and successful of any Dark Angel, could be denied passage into the Ark! Now, when the Ascent is imminent.

They were only waiting for the Serpent to complete his work, to zero in on the final two names.

So why is Ortega badgering me? How can I kill them before the Serpent tells me who they are?

This one—the girl—wouldn't pose a problem. What happened tonight was a fluke. He glared at the bloodied bandage angled across the back of his hand. She had sharp teeth for such a soft little mouse. But all she did was buy herself a few more hours.

And she would pay for them.

His phone beeped, signaling an incoming text message.

Ortega again, from that palace of his in Buenos Aires. Well, he wouldn't be enjoying it for much longer, the sly bastard. Raoul knew Ortega had only hastened back to Argentina for one reason—to gather his wife and children and bring them to the Ark.

He scanned the text message.

Change of scenery. I desire to inspect the specimen personally. Bring it to safe harbor, unscratched.

Raoul stiffened at the change in plans. Now they wanted the girl alive? What value could she possibly have, unless she was dead?

Unless they're going to award the kill to someone else.

His mouth curled into a scowl as he sped toward the Arizona border. He'd just see about that.

BROOKLYN, NEWYORK

Rabbi Tzvi Goldstein's widow was a delicate, fawnlike woman who'd collapsed into herself in grief. She looked barely past her twenties, yet had borne her husband seven children in as many years. The youngest, a girl of only five months, could not yet know the significance of the deliberate tear across the top left corner of her yellow cotton jumper. Nor could she know that she would never again see the face of her father looking down upon her as he blessed his children at the start of each
Shabbos.

Sarah Leah Goldstein and her children sat in near darkness in their modest apartment. They were perched all in a row like little birds, on a sofa from which the cushions had been removed. On the console table behind them, a large memorial candle burned within a red glass. Due to the storm, it was the only light in the room. Alongside it was a stack of prayer books the men used during their twice-daily services at the home.

It would be so for seven days, while Tzvi Goldstein's next of kin abided the laws of mourning.

Upon news of her husband's murder, Sarah Leah had taken a scissors and snipped the collar of her blouse and
then made a similar cut on the garments of each of her children. For these seven days, called
shivah
, all the mirrors in the house would be covered, the family would sit on low stools or cushionless couches, and Tzvi's father and brothers would refrain from shaving.

Other family members and friends came in a constant stream, sustaining the family with food, prayer, and the comfort of their presence. David and Yael felt like intruders in this sea of close-knit support, yet they both knew that this incursion was necessary.

When Sarah Leah's niece took the baby from her and urged her to go to the dining table for a glass of juice, Yael touched her arm.

“Mrs. Goldstein, Professor Shepherd and I were with Rabbi ben Moshe when the attack occurred,” she said softly. “We don't wish to burden you further, but if you could give us a few minutes of your time, perhaps it will help discover who was responsible for your loss.”

The widow peered at them with pain-filled eyes. “Come with me.”

She led them to a small study brimming with books. Waning daylight slanted through the blinds, revealing a modest, comfortable room smelling of pipe tobacco and furniture polish.

“My husband, may he rest in peace, spent many hours here studying and working.”

Helplessly she glanced around the room as if seeking something that was no longer there. “How can I help you?”

David drew the tarot card from his duffel. “This was among the items Rabbi ben Moshe gave me for safekeeping. Do you have any idea why he had it or where it came from?”

She recoiled as he held it out for her inspection. Her eyes darted to his face. “Death follows that card.”

She swayed and Yael grasped her arm to steady her.

“What do you mean by that?” Yael asked, shooting David a startled look.

“My husband told me about that card. Rabbi Lazar of Krakow sent it to Rabbi ben Moshe, of blessed memory, only two weeks ago. He hoped Rabbi ben Moshe might know who might have ordered two thousand identical copies of this card.” Her mouth trembled as she struggled to continue. “And who might have then killed a man for the printing plates.”

“Killed
what
man?” David asked, stunned.

“The printer—the printer in Krakow.” Sarah Leah moistened her lips. “His young son was in the back room changing ink on the press when it happened. His father was teaching him his trade. Tzvi said the boy heard arguing between his father and a man who spoke Polish with a thick foreign accent. He remembered the voice because the man had come in only two days before, offering to pay double if the printer could finish the job within forty-eight hours. The man wanted him to print two thousand of these cards.”

David sucked in his breath. “So there are 1,999 more. . . .”

“Do you know what they argued about?” Yael asked.

“The customer demanded the printing plates. The printer refused, saying he'd never heard of such a thing. The man was angry, he kept insisting, and then the printer made an excuse to go into the back room. He sent his son home, wanting to shield the boy from a nasty exchange. The boy was barely out the back door when he heard a gunshot—he turned back, only to see flames shooting from the windows.”

Sarah Leah shook her head sadly. “The poor boy tried to get back to his father, but the fire was too hot. All that paper, ink, and chemicals—it was ferocious.”

Her skin looked gray. “Rabbi Lazar said the printer was a good man—like my husband. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

David felt a wave of sorrow. He could identify with that little boy's sense of helplessness. “Do you know how Rabbi Lazar got this card?” he asked gently.

“The printer's boy had a fascination with snakes. When he helped his father trim the printed cards, he was mesmerized by the intertwined snakes on the back. The printer, like most, always kept samples of each job for his records. When Rabbi Lazar paid a shivah visit to the printer's family, the boy came forward. He was shaking as he told Rabbi Lazar that he'd snuck the card from his father's files.” Her mouth twisted. “The poor child felt responsible for his father's death, thinking he was being punished for having stolen the card.”

“What a heavy burden for a child,” Yael murmured. “And one he shouldn't have to bear.” Her voice grew harder. “Had that customer known the boy was in the back room, he would have killed him, too, in order to keep the cards secret.”

Secret.
David was fitting the pieces together. “That's why he killed for the plates—so the cards could never be traced or reproduced.”

“Will this help you find my husband's killer?” Tears glimmered in the widow's eyes. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to stem them. “Do you think this same customer followed the card from Poland and killed Rabbi ben Moshe and my husband to get it back?”

“Something like that.” David's fingers tightened on the card. “It's all related, but it's a lot bigger than just one man.”

There was a silence as Sarah Leah pressed her hands to her throat. Suddenly a baby's cries pierced the stillness in the study.

“I think Bayla's hungry,” the niece said, appearing in the doorway with the howling infant.

“I must go.” Sarah Leah gathered up her infant daughter and began rocking her.

“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Goldstein,” David said as the woman gave them a sad smile and followed her niece from the room.

He and Yael threaded their way back through the crowded living room. Just as Yael placed a hand on the doorknob, a low thrum of electricity droned through the apartment and, an instant later, the living room lamps blazed to life.

“Let there be light,” David muttered, feeling as if the awful limbo he'd been living in had just been lifted.

The moment they stepped outside, he and Yael both tried their cell phones, but found neither working yet.

“We'll use the hotel phone to make our flight reservations.” Yael was already striding to the intersection in search of a cab.

“If the lines aren't still jammed.” David matched his strides to hers and started to slip the card back into his duffel, then jerked it out again, noticing something.

Why hadn't he seen it before?
There, behind one of the bodies falling from the tower, was a drawbridge. It was cracked in two, collapsing into the moat. The falling body had almost obscured it, so that it looked more like a rampart, but it was a bridge.

Suddenly he realized he'd seen a drawbridge just like that before. Stood upon it in London earlier this year, looking out over the Thames at the spectacular views of the city by night. The same evening he'd dined with Tony Blair, a small party had insisted on bringing him to one of the private rooms inside the Tower Bridge which spanned the Thames. The view had been astonishing.
And the fact that the public could rent out the banquet facilities for special occasions and business conferences had been even more surprising.

Staring at the tarot card, David studied the artistic rendering of the bridge's architecture. The similarity to the Tower Bridge was striking, the same Victorian style, the combination of bascule and suspension, the masonry . . .

It wasn't a precise rendering, but still. . .

London Bridge is falling down.

The childhood refrain sang in his head. Even though he knew it referred to a different bridge, not the one near the Tower of London, the words kept spinning across his brain.

London Bridge. Falling down. The figure falling in the card. . .

The Tower card.
The Tower Bridge?

David felt chilled. Was the card a warning? Were the Gnoseos planning to launch some kind of attack on London?
Ox from
it?

And why would someone want two thousand copies of the same card . . . warning or no?

“Here's a taxi—come on!” Yael called, as a cab screeched to the curb before her.

David loped toward it as she ducked inside, his brain whirling in too many directions, all of them crisscrossing to form a roadmap he couldn't yet follow.

 

The familiar ring of his cell phone bleated as the cabbie blared his horn at a bus swinging into his lane.
Finally!

“Hey, pal,” Hutch's voice boomed in his ear. “I've got someone here who's been waiting to talk to you.”

“Not as long as I've been waiting to talk to her.” David's heart leapt and stayed airborne as he listened to Stacy's small clear voice.

“David, Mom said you tried to warn us that a man was going to hurt me. How did you know?”

He closed his eyes, at a loss for words.
How could he explain it to her, when he couldn't explain it to himself?

“David? Are you there?”

“I'm here, Munchkin. I can't tell you the whole story right now, but you need to do everything Hutch tells you. Stay inside, stay right by him. No wandering off.”

“That man could come back?”

“Him, or someone like him.” David grimaced as he heard Stacy start to cry.

“I'm scared. Why can't you come here with us?”

Her plea tore him in two.

“I wish I could, sweetheart. I'd give anything to be
with you right now. But there's some place else I need to go, some place far away. It's very important—and it has to do with protecting you.”

“How f-far? . . .” she began, her voice quivering. And then he heard Meredith demand the phone.

“David, what the hell is going on? What did you get yourself mixed up in? Do you know someone nearly choked her to death in our own backyard and tried to throw her in the trunk of a car?”

David opened his mouth to answer, but Meredith steamrolled on.

“Do you know we are in fucking Arizona, holed up in the middle of nowhere with wildfires burning all around us? I can't reach Len and we're supposed to be going on our damned family honeymoon! What the
hell
have you gotten us into—”

“Meredith, let me talk to Hutch.” David gritted his teeth.

“Not until you tell me what you've done. You put
my
daughter in danger, and I have a right to know.”

“Meredith, it's the end of the world, ok? I'm trying to stop it. Now let me talk to Hutch.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. He could just picture the fury—the disbelief—on her face. “It's the end of the world. He wants
you.”
Her voice dripped sarcasm.