Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ a Jew. Not only that, but they would have considered themselves very smart for doing that. Oh, yes, regular geniuses for giving Agent Goldberg a call and saying, “This is a job with your name on it.” That’s how they think. Send an Arab to infiltrate a Muslim terrorist gang, send a Jew to us. But you’re not a Jew, so you’re not working for them. That I now believe.’

      Will’s trousers were back on, his belt was buckled up and he was off a hook if not the hook: he was not an undercover federal agent. All that combined to reduce the terror of a few moments ago. His body, the pounding of his heart, the moisture on his palms was at code orange, rather than red, where it had been seconds earlier.

      ‘You look relieved, Mr Mitchell. I’m glad. The trouble is, if you’re not a fed, you must be working for someone else. And that, I fear, is infinitely more serious.’

SEVENTEEN

       Friday, 9.22pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

      He did not have long to be confused. After the Rebbe had spoken, perhaps a beat passed before Will felt his back pushed forward, making him buckle at the waist. His arms were now gripped like levers, pushing his head and shoulders down and forward.

      His nose felt it first, as it filled with water; then his scalp, as it shrank from the cold. His throat gurgled and gagged. He was choking and gasping at the same time.

      Will’s head and neck had just been submerged in freezing cold water, the blindfold still on. He could feel his chest contract with the shock of it, his heart racing. He had been shoved with some force, in the darkness and therefore without warning, into that icy liquid. He was there for five or six seconds, his shoulders held down to prevent him coming up for air. It was long enough to fill his nostrils, for the water to travel down his sinuses and into his brain. Or that’s how it felt – like asphyxiation.

      Once out, he gulped in air even as he coughed, a double reflex like vomiting. But then the hands were pushing again and he was under once more.

      This time it was the temperature. His eyes seemed to shrivel in their sockets, recoiling from the cold; he was sure he could hear his whole system, veins, arteries and blood vessels, screaming with the trauma of the sudden radical change in temperature.

      What was this? A pond? An icebox? The edge of a river? A toilet? The blindfold was soaked but not loosening; if anything it seemed now to be welding itself onto Will’s eyelids, sealed in by ice.

      ‘Now, Tom,’ the voice was saying, its timbre distorted by the frozen water in Will’s ears. ‘Shall we start talking honestly?’

      By way of response, Will spat out a mouthful of the water, emptying himself for the next, inevitable dunk.

      ‘I believe this is your second time at the mikve today. You’re becoming a regular frummie, aren’t you Tom? And I’m sure Shimon Shmuel explained to you the purpose, the meaning of the mikve. This is a place of purification, a place of sanctification. We enter coated in the sins of our regular lives and emerge tahoor, pure. And in this state we are untainted by any sins, be they lies or deceits. Do you follow me, Tom?’

      Will was now shivering. His shirt was soaked and he could feel rivulets of liquid chill running down his back and chest. His teeth were about to start chattering.

      ‘What I am saying is that I now insist on the truth. And if two or three dips in this outdoor mikve, filled only by purest rainwater, cannot find the truth in you then maybe four or five or six or seven submersions will. We are patient men. We will keep plunging you into that water until you deal with us plainly and straightforwardly. Do you understand?’

      There must have been a silent nod, because down Will went again. The cold was now biting into him, seeping below his skin and into his bones. They too seemed to contract, as if they could hide from the cold by making themselves smaller.

      ‘Who do you work for, Tom? Who sent you here?’

      ‘I’m a journalist,’ was all Will could manage, in a voice he hardly recognized, querulous with cold.

      ‘You’ve said that, but who wants you here? Why are you here?’

      ‘I’ve told you.’

      And down he went again, this time shoved so that his whole upper body was submerged. He felt the water travel below his waist, trickling into his shorts, spreading an icy damp around his groin.

      He had no idea what to say. He wanted desperately for this to end, but what could he do? If he told the truth, he would endanger himself and Beth. The kidnappers had been clear: no involvement of the police. That surely extended to vigilante rescue missions as well. These were serious, violent people and he would be admitting he had defied their instructions. He would also be confessing that he had indeed been lying. As for Beth, they had kidnapped her for some purpose – which he could not fathom – but one thing he knew: his presence here was not part of their plan. If they had not already done great harm to her, his appearance would all but guarantee it.

      Yet to carry on insisting that he was Tom Mitchell seemed doomed. He could not give them any more information because there was no more; Mitchell was a fiction. On this the Rebbe’s instincts were right. Even if Will had the strength to withstand this weight, he would eventually crack because his story would crack: it had to. These were his thoughts as the weight on his hands and shoulders came again, plunging his body deep into the cold.

      ‘Enough,’ Will said. ‘No more.’

      ‘Maybe I need to explain a little about Judaism,’ the voice was saying as he was finally allowed back up for air.

      He could hardly make out the words, so loud was the explosion generated by his own lungs as he gulped for oxygen.

      ‘Judaism holds the harshest possible view of murder. “Thou shalt not kill” is the sixth commandment. It means that murder is never allowed.’ There was a long pause, as if the Rebbe expected Will to react. Will could not; he was still drawing in loud, urgent breaths.

      ‘I don’t know if you’re familiar with one of our most famous teachings, Mr Mitchell. “To save a single life is to save the whole world.” Really, the whole world. That’s how much each life matters to HaShem. In each individual person is contained the whole world. Because we are all created in God’s image. This is the meaning behind the phrase “sanctity of life”, Mr Mitchell. Now it is a cliché. People just say it without even thinking. But what do those words really mean?’ The voice had a hint of the music he had heard before, back in the synagogue – that sing-song, up-and-down rhythm, by turns questioning and answering, all in a single monologue. ‘They mean that life is sacred, because it is part of the divine. To kill a human being is to kill an aspect of the Almighty. Which is why we are forbidden to kill. Except in the most exceptional circumstances.’

      Will felt the cold bite deeper into his flesh.

      ‘Self-defence is the obvious example, but it is not the only one. You see, in Judaism we have a beautiful concept known as pikuach nefesh. This refers to the saving of a soul. Now, there is no more sacred duty than pikuach nefesh: almost anything is allowed if it will save a soul. Rabbis are often asked, “Can a Jew ever eat pork?” The answer is yes! Of course he can! If he is on a desert island and the only means to survive is to slay a pig and eat it, then not only is the Jew allowed to do that, he must do it! He must. It is a religious commandment: he must save his own life. Pikuach nefesh.

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