Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ take a more difficult case.’ The man was speaking as if this was a tutorial at Balliol College, a one-to-one class with Will as his pupil. The fact that Will was kneeling, his hands now tied, his body drenched and frozen, barely broke his stride.

      ‘Would we be allowed to kill, if that would save a life? No. The rules of pikuach nefesh prohibit murder, idolatry and sexual immorality even to save a life. If someone tells you to commit murder, just to save your own skin, you cannot do it. But let’s say a known killer is on the loose. He is on his way to murder a family of innocents. We know that if we kill him, their lives will be saved. Is it right to kill in that situation? Yes, because such a man is what we call a rodef. If there is no other way to stop him, he can be killed with impunity.

      ‘But let’s sharpen the dilemma. What if the man we are discussing is not necessarily a killer, but if he stays alive, one way or another, innocent people will die? What should we do then? Can we hurt such a man? Can we kill him?

      ‘This is the sort of question our sages discuss at great length. Sometimes our Talmudical debates can seem to be obsessed with detail, even trivia: how many cubits in length should an oven be, that kind of thing. But the heart of our study is reserved for what you would call ethical dilemmas. I have thought about this particular one in great depth. And I have reached a conclusion that, in fairness, I think I ought to disclose to you. I believe that it is permissable to inflict pain and even death on a man who may not himself be a killer – but whose suffering or death would save lives. I think there is no other way of understanding our sources. That is what they are telling us.

      ‘To get to the point, Mr Mitchell, if I conclude that you are, in effect, a rodef, and that to end your life would save others, I would not hesitate to see that it ended. Perhaps you need a moment to reflect on that.’

      The pressure came a half-second later, as if, once again, the Rebbe had given his silent cue. The cold bit deep, still shocking. Will counted, to get himself through. Usually he was lifted out after around fifteen seconds under. Now he counted sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

      He flexed his shoulders, to give his captors a signal that it was time to let him breathe. They pressed down harder. Will began to struggle. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.

      Was this the meaning of the Rebbe’s little lecture? Something not abstract or complex, despite the convoluted exposition, but rather simple: we are now going to kill you.

      Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. Will’s legs were kicking, as if they belonged to someone else. His body was panicking, sent into a survival reflex. Did not the movies always show this, as the murderer smothered his victim with a pillow, or tightened a stocking around her neck, the legs moving in an involuntary dance?

      Forty, forty-one. Or was it fifty? Will had lost count. His head seemed to flood with dull colour, like the patterns you detect under your eyelids just before sleep. He wanted to weep for the wife he was about to leave behind and wondered if it was possible to weep underwater. Thought itself grew faint.

      At last they let go, but Will did not burst out of the water with the gasping energy of before. Now the men had to pull him out, letting him collapse onto the ground. He lay there, his chest rising and falling fast but as if unconnected to the rest of him. He heard distant breathing and could not be certain if it was his own.

      Slowly he felt his ears unblock and strength return to his arms and legs. He stayed slumped on the ground, unable to face hauling his body upright. If they wanted him to sit to attention, they would have to drag him up themselves.

      Lying there, he detected a change, another person in the group around him. There was new activity, whispered exchanges. The new member of the circle seemed to be breathing heavily, as if he had just been running. He could hear the Rebbe’s voice, though he seemed to be distracted, his voice aimed downwards, as if he was looking at something, reading.

      ‘Mr Mitchell, Moshe Menachem, who was with us a few moments ago, has just completed an errand.’ Redbeard. ‘He ran from here to Shimon Shmuel’s house. He has returned with a wallet. Your wallet.’

      They had rummaged through his bag; now it was surely over. His wallet would give him away. What was in there? No business cards; he was too low down the food chain at the Times to have any. No credit cards either; he kept those in a separate wallet, zipped into a pocket of its own in his bag. He had left them in there, calculating that even if Sara Leah could not resist a peek at his belongings, she would hesitate before doing a full probe.

      What else was in there? Tons of cab receipts, but anything with his name on it? He had kept all the hotel bills and credit card slips from the Northwest in a separate envelope, for a later expenses claim. Maybe he would be OK. Maybe he would get away with it.

      ‘Take the blindfold off. Let go of his hands. Lead him back into the Bet HaMidrash.’ Will could feel the confusion in his own adrenal gland: was this a cue to produce yet more adrenalin, ready for the ordeal to come or, at last, a sign that the danger was receding? Was this good news or bad news?

      He could feel hands fussing behind his head and then an increase in light as the sodden cloth covering his eyes was removed. Instinctively he shook off the drops as he opened his eyes. He was outside, in a small area surrounded by a wooden fence – the kind of space large buildings use to keep their trash. There were a few pipes and, at his feet, the glint of water. He barely had a chance to look, his two handlers were already turning him away. But he guessed that this was the housing for some kind of outdoor storage tank, a big vat used to collect rainwater.

      Now he was heading through a door and back inside, though something told Will this was not the way they had come out. It seemed to be quieter for one thing, away from the crowds. Will guessed that this was a separate building, perhaps a house adjoining the synagogue.

      Inside it did not look that different: the same functional floors and rabbit warren of classrooms and offices. With Redbeard, Moshe Menachem, and the Israeli flanking him, they headed into one of them and Will heard the door shut behind him.

      ‘Let him sit down. Untie his hands and give him a towel. And find a dry shirt.’

      The Rebbe’s voice; still behind him. The blindfold was off, but clearly Will was not going to see everything.

      ‘OK, we should begin again.’

      Will braced himself.

      ‘We need to have a talk, Mr Monroe.’

EIGHTEEN

       Friday, 7.40pm, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

      It was the end of an exhausting week; Luis Tavares could feel the fatigue spreading through his joints. Even so, he would climb one more level: there were other people to see.

      Some money had just come in. He could see that all around him. Suddenly this street was paved, the asphalt fresh enough to smell. Kids were buzzing around a TV set, visible through the open, doorless entrance to a shack. Luis smiled: his pestering of the authorities had worked. Either that or someone had bribed the power company to connect this row of huts to the city grid. Or a few people had clubbed together to find a cowboy electrician who would do it for a few reais.

      Luis felt a familiar spasm of ambivalence. He knew he was meant to advocate respect for the law and condemn all forms of theft. Yet he could not help but admire these outlaws, these entrepreneurs of the favelas, who did whatever it took to provide for their communities. He applauded their determination to provide a СКАЧАТЬ