Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne
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holy writ.
While they spoke, the room was filling up, people arriving in big numbers. Will had been at a synagogue once before, for the bar mitzvah of a schoolboy friend, but it had been nothing like this. On that occasion, there had been a single central service and a degree of quiet (though not the pin-drop silence he was used to in church). Here there seemed to be no order at all.
Strangest of all, he could only see men. There seemed to be thousands of those white shirts and dark suits, unbroken by so much as a splash of female colour.
‘Where are the women?’
Sandy pointed upwards, at what looked like the balcony of a theatre. Except you could see no one sitting down, because the view was blocked by an opaque plastic window. You could just make out the outline of the people behind, like glimpsing a projectionist in his booth. But they seemed to be shadows, revealed only in the small gap below the Perspex window. Will stared hard, trying to make out a face. Giving up, he realized that he had been searching for Beth.
It gave him the creeps. He felt as if he was being watched, as if these blocked-off, unseen women were spectral spectators, observing the antics of the men below. He imagined their vantage point: he would stand out in an instant. The one man not in black-and-white, but in chinos and blue shirt.
From nowhere, a hand-clap began. Rows of men were forming into two lines, as if clearing a path for a procession. The rhythm became faster as the men started singing.
Yechi HaMelech, Yechi HaMelech.
Sandy translated. Long live the King.
Now people were stamping their feet, some were swaying, others were actually jumping in the air. It reminded Will of that old, archive footage of screaming girls waiting for the Beatles. But these were grown men, working themselves into a frenzy of anticipation. One man, his face flushed, was jerking from side to side, inserting two fingers in his mouth to make a wolf-whistle.
Will took in all the faces, crushed in the crowd before him. They were not identical after all. He guessed several were Russian; a few more, their clothes somehow less formal, were dark and looked Israeli. He noticed one man, his beard wispy, whom he took to be Vietnamese. Sandy followed Will’s stare.
‘Convert,’ he explained concisely, his voice rising to be heard above the din. ‘Judaism doesn’t exactly encourage conversion, but when it happens the Rebbe is really welcoming. Much more than most Jews. He says any newcomer is as good as someone born Jewish, maybe even better because they chose to be a Jew—’
Will missed the rest, as he was squeezed between two men pressing forward, part of a large, surging huddle which, without cue or instruction, was now turning. The children seemed to be pointing the way. Several boys, who could not have been more than eight years old, were on their fathers’ shoulders, waving their fists in the same direction, again and again. They looked like underage football hooligans, pointing the finger at a reviled ref. But they were not looking at a person. Their energies were directed instead at a throne.
That was the word that came to mind, without prompting. It was a large chair, covered in plush red velvet. In a Spartan room like this, it stood out as an item of lavish luxury. There was no doubt, this seat was being venerated.
Yechi Adoneinu Moreinu v’Rabbeinu Melech HaMoshiach l’olam va’ed.
The crowd were singing this one line, over and over, with a fervour Will found both exhilarating and terrifying. He leaned into Sandy’s ear, shouting to be heard. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Long live our master, our teacher, the Rebbe, King Messiah forever and ever.’
Messiah. Of course. That’s what this word daubed everywhere meant. Moshiach was Messiah. How could he have been so slow? These people regarded their Rebbe as nothing less than the Messiah.
Now Will was desperate to raise himself to full height, to see above the crowd who were all staring so intently at the throne, their voices hoarse with anticipation. Surely the Rebbe would make his entrance any second now, though how his followers would top their current levels of ecstasy to mark his arrival, Will could not imagine.
The noise was becoming deafening. Will tried to find Sandy’s ear again, but he had been shoved forward in the mêlée. Will’s face was now uncomfortably close to a different man, who smiled at him, recognizing the humour of their sudden intimacy. What the hell, thought Will.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me, when does the Rebbe come in? When does everything begin?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘When does everything begin?’
At that moment and before the man had a chance to respond, Will felt a hand clamp tightly on his shoulder. In his ear, a deep, baritone voice.
‘For you, my friend, it all ends right here.’
Friday, 8.20pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn
The hand left his shoulder only to be replaced by two more on each of his arms. He was flanked by two men who he guessed were no older than twenty but were both taller, and stronger, than him. One had a reddish beard, the other just a few wisps of chin hair. Both looked straight ahead as they frogmarched him away through the crowd. Will was too shocked to shout; no one would have heard him anyway. In the crush, he knew people would barely take a second look at a trio of men jammed together, especially since two of them were now singing along with enthusiasm.
He was being led away from the throne, back towards the library area, where the crowds were marginally thinner. Will was no good at guessing numbers – not enough experience covering demos – but he reckoned this room must have had two or three thousand people crammed into it, all of them chanting so furiously that his captors could have killed him there and then and nobody would have noticed.
Suddenly his handlers turned behind some shelves and down a narrow, scuffed corridor. The redbeard opened one door, then another until finally they were in what seemed to be a small classroom: more of those dark-wood benches and tables, more shelves lined with leather books, whose titles were in gold-lettered Hebrew. He was deposited firmly in a stiff, plastic chair in the middle of the room, the Hassidic heavies planting him to the spot by taking a shoulder each.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ Will said weakly. ‘What’s going on here? Who are you?’
‘Wait.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘I said wait. Our teacher will be here soon. You can talk to him.’
The Rebbe. At last.
The noise from next door was still throbbing. Maybe the Rebbe had finally made his entrance; perhaps he was working the room before he came in here to work over Will. The clamour was certainly thumpingly loud; the ground was moving like the walls of a club, shaken by bass. But whether it had suddenly got louder, as if the Rebbe had arrived while Will was dragged out of the room, he could not tell.
‘OK, let us begin.’
That same baritone voice, again from behind. Will tried to turn around, but the hands came down to clamp his shoulders tight.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tom Mitchell.’
‘Welcome Tom and good shabbos. Tell me, why do we have the pleasure of your company in Crown Heights?’
‘I’m here to write a story for New York magazine about the Hassidic community. It’s for a new slot: “Slice of the Apple”.’
‘Cute. And why have you come here this weekend of all weekends?’
‘They only commissioned me to do it this week so I came the first weekend I could.’
‘You didn’t call ahead, you didn’t