Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ even used those nerdy address labels. On that score at least, Will was saved by his own inefficiency.

      But what about the reams of words inside, including the copious notes he had taken today, right here in Crown Heights? Maybe those would be OK; they would at least confirm his Tom Mitchell cover story. But had he not scribbled down all that computer stuff at Tom’s earlier? Surely he had written down something about the kidnappers’ email?

      The seconds lurched by, like a record playing at the wrong, too-slow speed. A hope took root. Could it be that his bastard shorthand, his unique speedwriting scrawl, was about to rescue him? He had developed this hybrid non-system of note-taking first at Columbia and then at the Record. It worked for him, though he always feared the day he was asked to produce notes for the editor, or worse still a judge in court. He imagined a defamation trial, turning on the accuracy of his written account of a conversation. He would need teams of graphologists to verify that he was as good as his words. The upside, at least at this moment, was that Will knew his notes would be all but indecipherable.

      ‘You’ve broken our rules, Mr Mitchell. I don’t mean our rules, as in us, the people of Crown Heights. What do we matter in the great scheme of things? We are ants! But you’ve broken HaShem’s rules.’

      A sentence surfaced that instant in Will’s head. Thou shalt not bear false witness. It was, Will realized, as if he was the mere recipient of the thought rather than its source, one of the ten commandments. He knew that Jews and Christians had those in common – and that was surely what the Rebbe had in mind. This was the preamble to an accusation of lying. He was undone.

      ‘I think you know that we’re serious about these rules: no carrying on the Sabbath. No carrying. No wallets, no keys. No notebooks.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘We take these rules very seriously, Tom. They apply to our guests as much as they apply to us. I’m sure you understand that. Yet here you are, with a notebook.’

      ‘Yes, but that’s the only thing I took. I left the rest of the stuff behind; I left my bag.’ Will was addressing a book case: his interrogator was behind him, his captors at his side. ‘Besides, I’m not Jewish. I didn’t think, you know, that these rules applied to me.’ That sounded much more lame out loud than it had in Will’s head. It sounded like schoolboy special pleading: the dog ate my homework. But it was the truth. Sure, he should be respectful to others while he was in their community, but this was crazy. They could not be this angry about a Sabbath infraction, could they? He was almost relieved: if this was the charge, it meant the Rebbe had found nothing to pursue in the notebook.

      ‘You’re not Jewish?’

      ‘No, I told Sandy, Shimon that already. I’m not Jewish. I’m just a reporter.’

      ‘Now that surprises me. I’ve got to admit, that I did not expect.’

      Will was baffled, but also distracted. Redbeard had vanished. Will’s sole custodian was now this Israeli: he looked young. The Times magazine had run a piece about the Israeli army only a couple of weeks back. With a half-memory of that as his source, Will knew that an Israeli man needed only to be aged twenty-one to have done a full three years in the Israel Defence Forces. God knows what he had learned there: this guy might look like a kid, but chances were he had steel in his veins. Why else had the Rebbe picked him to turn the screws on Will? He vaguely remembered from the same piece that many ultra-orthodox eighteen-year-olds were given exemption from army service so that they could devote their lives to studying the Torah. But not all of them: something told him this was one of the guys who swapped his prayer book for a rifle.

      ‘You know, Mr Mitchell – or should I call you Tom? – I’m not sure we’re making that much progress here. Something is missing from this encounter.’

      There it was again, that sardonic, world-weary inflection, as if there was humour in every situation, even this one. Will could not get the measure of this man at all: his voice was warm, avuncular even. Yet the room was humid with menace and it was all coming from him, from behind Will’s back.

      ‘I propose that we relocate.’

      Clearly he had given some kind of nod, because the Israeli swiftly placed a blindfold on Will; not like the childhood variety, where some light always leaks through, but a complete cover, one that seemed to choke the eyelids, stopping them breathing. He felt himself being yanked upward again, out of the chair. Except this time it was not for another standing search, but to be led away.

      Will decided he would not panic. He would not give in to the feeling that, with each step, he was leaning into a dark, empty space, plunging off a cliff into an abyss. He would focus on the ground beneath his feet; each time he lifted one leg, he would remember how near the ground remained. Perhaps he should scrape his shoes along, to maintain constant contact? Maybe that was why you always saw handcuffed prisoners shuffling: it was not because they were depressed, but because they needed the reassurance that the earth was still there, right under their shoes.

      He was aware of passing through another corridor, getting further away from the clamour of the synagogue which, Will realized, had begun to fade into a loud hubbub a while back. He chided himself for not having noticed exactly when; that detail was surely important in tracking the Rebbe’s movements.

      What was truly strange, though, was the feeling of dependency on the Israeli now gripping his right arm with painful force. Will was relying on him as a guide, aware that he must now look the way blind men always look: Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles, his head moving randomly, untethered to logic. This man was his captor but, Will thought, he was also his carer.

      Now he felt the cold. They had moved outside, but only for a few steps. He heard the creak of a swing door, like a garden gate, and then felt the change of temperature. As if they were in an enclosed space, though not quite outdoors. There was an echo.

      ‘No one likes this, I’m afraid, Mr Mitchell. Tom. But I’m going to have to take a look at you.’

      It was in the next few seconds that Will decided that this was not some ghastly incident that would soon resolve itself, but actually something rather terrifying. Until now, he had clung to the idea that this might be an error or even an ironic send-up of the interrogation scene from a thousand movies. He had been hoping that it would all be revealed as a hideous mistake; or that, at least, he would soon know the identity of his inquisitor; or that he would make progress; or that this would simply stop. Now he felt sure these strange people who had stolen his wife were about to torture and kill him, probably in a way so sadistic as to chill the blood. Worse than that, and this thought turned his bowels to mush, they had doubtless already done whatever they were going to do, or worse, to Beth.

      ‘No!’ Will shouted, but it was too late. He felt his arms being pinned back while someone unbuckled his trousers. There was a hand over his mouth, too. This could not be the work of the Israeli, all alone. But where were these extra hands coming from? Who did they belong to? And then, without warning, his underpants were down.

      ‘Stop.’ He heard the word and was shocked to discover the voice was not his own. The Rebbe had spoken. ‘You’re telling the truth. You’re not Jewish.’

      Will could only guess what was happening: the Rebbe must have been standing in front of him, looking at his penis and concluding, rightly, that it was not circumcised.

      ‘You’re not Jewish,’ the Rebbe repeated. And then, to his assistant or assistants: ‘Cover him up.’ A pause. ‘Well, this is good news, Mr Mitchell. I now believe that you are not a federal agent or a law enforcement official. I suspected you were, prowling СКАЧАТЬ