Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ Will’s mind as he held his breath in the rainwater that was meant to sanctify his body. I’ve seen too many movies, he thought as he came up, breathed deep and shook the water from his hair. But the core feeling persisted. He should be hunting for Beth and here he was instead, bathing with the enemy.

      As he dried off and put his clothes back on, he could not help but see the men around him differently. What dark secrets did they carry? Were they blamelessly ignorant of this plot or were they all in on the snatching of his wife? Was it some kind of conspiracy, starting with the Rebbe but involving all of them? He looked at Sandy, fidgeting with hairclips as he returned the black yarmulke to his head. He certainly came across as a wide-eyed innocent, but maybe that was just a skilful pose.

      Will thought back to their first conversation at the diner. Will imagined he had sought out Sandy, but maybe it was the other way around. What if this ‘Sandy’ had been following Will since he had arrived at Crown Heights, contriving to be sitting alone in Marmerstein’s at just the right moment? It would not be such a hard trick to pull off. After all, weren’t these people famous for their cunning . . .

      Will stopped himself right there. He could see what was happening; he was panicking, allowing a red mist to descend when he needed clarity. Hoary old stereotypes were not going to rescue Beth, he told himself sternly. He needed to use his head. Be patient, stay polite and you will get to the truth.

      They popped in briefly to Sandy’s house, which, Will guessed, had simply been allocated to him. It was decorated in a style that belonged to their grandparents’ generation: white Formica cupboards which would have looked modern in 1970, a linoleum floor which seemed to hail from the Kennedy era. The kitchen had two sinks and there was a large, industrial-looking urn of boiling water, complete with its own dispensing tap, in the corner. On every wall, in varying expressions, were photographs of the man Will now knew to be the Rebbe.

      The living room provided the only clue that young people were in residence. It was dominated by a play pen, and cluttered with the bright red and yellow plastic of children’s toys. A toddler was among them, wheeling a dumper truck. Close by, sitting in the corner of a very basic couch was a woman bottle-feeding her baby.

      Will was gripped by a feeling he had not expected: envy. At first, he thought he was envying Sandy for having his home intact, his wife still safe. But that was not it. He was envious of this woman for having children. It was a new sensation, but now, as if on Beth’s behalf, he coveted this baby and toddler: he saw them through Beth’s eyes, as the children she wanted so badly. Perhaps for the first time he understood his wife’s need. No, it was more than that. He felt it.

      The woman’s hair was covered by a small white hat that was singularly unflattering. Underneath was a dark, thick bob – the same style worn by every woman in Crown Heights as far as Will could see.

      ‘This is Sara Leah,’ Sandy said distractedly, heading for the stairs.

      ‘Hi, I’m Tom,’ Will said, leaning forward to offer a hand. Sara Leah blushed and shook her head, refusing to offer a hand of her own. ‘Sorry,’ Will said. Clearly, these rules about women and modesty went beyond the simple matter of clothing.

      ‘OK, we’re going to shul!’ Sandy was shouting as he raced back downstairs. He sized up Will. ‘You won’t need that,’ he said, gesturing towards the bag Will had slung over his shoulder.

      ‘No, that’s OK, I’ll just keep this with me.’ Inside were his wallet, BlackBerry and, crucially, his notebook.

      ‘Tom, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in shul and it’s shabbos and we don’t carry on shabbos.’

      ‘But this is just keys, money, you know.’

      ‘I know, but we don’t have those things with us in shul or anywhere on Friday night.’

      ‘You don’t carry house keys?’

      Sandy pulled up his shirt to reveal the waistband of his trousers. Around it was a string, threaded through the belt loops, carrying a single silver key. Will needed to think fast.

      ‘You can leave your bag here. You’re having shabbos dinner with us, I hope: you can pick it up then.’

      Will could agree, dump the bag and just hope that Sara Leah did not take a peek: one glimpse of his credit cards and she would know that he was no Tom Mitchell. She would discover that he was Will Monroe and it would not take much detective work to know that he was the husband of the kidnapped woman, whose fate all these people were surely aware of. She would alert the Rebbe or his henchmen and Will would doubtless be hurled into a dungeon just like Beth.

      Calm down, that’s not going to happen. Everything’s going to be OK. ‘That’s fine. I’ll leave it here.’ Will took off his bag, placed it alongside the pile-up of shoes and strollers by the front door, slipped his notebook into his breast pocket and followed Sandy out the front door.

      They walked just a few blocks to reach the synagogue. Clusters of men in twos and threes, friends or fathers with sons, were heading in the same direction.

      The building had a kind of piazza in front of it but was entered by walking down a couple of stairs. Just outside, a man sucked heavily on a cigarette. ‘Last one before shabbos,’ Sandy explained, smiling. So even smoking was banned for the next twenty-four hours.

      Inside was what Will would have described as the very opposite of a church: it resembled a high school gym. At the back were a few rows of benches and tables, backing on to bookshelves. In this area, like a large schoolroom, every seat was taken and the noise was rising. Will soon realized this was not a single class, but rather a cacophony of different conversations. Pairs of men were debating with each other across the tables, each man hunched over a Hebrew book. They seemed to be rocking back and forth, whether they were speaking or just listening. Next to them might be an eavesdropper or, more likely, another pair engaged in equally intense dialogue. Will strained to listen.

      It was a mixture of English and what he took to be Hebrew, all delivered in a sing-song rhythm that seemed to match the rocking motion, beat for beat. ‘So what are the Rabonim trying to tell us? We learn that even though we might wish we could study all the time, that this is the greatest mitzvah and greatest pleasure we could ever know, in fact HaShem also wants us to do other things, including working and making a living.’ That last word was on a down note. Now the tune was about to go up again. ‘Why would HaShem want this? Why would HaShem, who surely wants us to be full of wisdom and Yiddishkeit, why would He not want us to study all the time?’ The voice was getting high-pitched. ‘The answer—’ and a raised finger, pointing at the ceiling emphasized the point ‘—is that only by experiencing darkness do we appreciate the light.’

      Now it was the turn of his friend, his study partner, to pick up the thread – and the tune. ‘In other words, to fully appreciate the beauty of Torah—’ Toy-ra ‘—and learning, we have to know life away from learning. In this way, the story of Noach is telling every Hassid—’ Chossid ‘—that they cannot spend their whole life in the yeshiva, but must fulfil all their other duties, as a husband or father or whatever. This is why the tzaddik is not always the most learned man in the village; sometimes the truly good man is the simple cobbler or tailor, who knows and really understands the joy of Torah because he knows and understands the contrast with the rest of his life. Such a Jew, because he is one who knows darkness, truly appreciates the light.’

      Will could barely follow what he was hearing; the style of it was so unlike anything he had ever heard before. Perhaps, he thought, this was what monasteries СКАЧАТЬ