Bless the Child (46 page)

R
abbi Itzhak Levi was eighty-three years of age. His hair had thinned and whitened a quarter century before, and his beard, too, looked fragile as hoar frost. But his abundant white brows made up for any other hirsute deficiencies.

It was his eyes that startled Raphael Abraham, his eyes that riveted all of the man’s considerable attention. He was used to observing men and assessing them by their eyes, but such eyes as these, he had never encountered.

Was it possible for eyes to be both benign and dangerous, at once? Would Moses’ eyes have looked like these when they descended from the mountaintop? Abraham felt compelled to look away, as if he had glanced into the plutonium core of an atomic power plant without protective goggles . . . as if he might be blinded if he didn’t avert his gaze.

The rabbi smiled a little, and benignity now drew the curtain closed on the rest, but Raphael Abraham had seen it, and would not forget.

“I bring greetings, Rebbe,” he said, holding out the envelope that contained the Prime Minister’s letter, as well as one from Rabbi Lutz in Tel Aviv.

The old man took them politely from his hand and motioned for Abraham to sit down. He didn’t open the letters, or seem in any way curious about their contents.

“It would be good if you were to tell me what brings you to my door, with the sanction of such important men,” the old man said, with a small smile that seemed to neutralize the concept that temporal power might have any importance whatsoever.

He sat quietly in a posture of waiting, and listened as Abraham told him the story of the Amulets. Something about the old rabbi’s silent attentiveness made Abraham curb his usual acerbity in the telling of the ridiculous tale; something inside him said tread gently . . . in the presence of such a man, nothing is as it seems.

“So,” Rabbi Levi said, when the tale was ended. “Such a story does not come to visit me every day.” He closed his eyes—a gesture for which Abraham was profoundly grateful—and seemed to commune with himself, momentarily. Then he smiled.

“What is it, precisely, the Prime Minister wishes of me?” he asked, politely.

“He wants to know if such a thing is possible, Rebbe,” Abraham said, unnerved by the tranquility of the old man. It engulfed him, and more than that, it made him feel weighed in the balance and found wanting. “Could an object, or two object, embody such power?”
If you want to know the truth about war, ask a general,
the Prime Minister had said.
If you want to know the truth about magic, ask a mystic.
He almost repeated the story to the rabbi, but thought better of it.

“This is a complicated question you put before me,” the Rebbe replied. “The simple answer is yes. The Breastplate of Solomon possessed such power. The Ark of the Covenant . . . one or two other objects in all history. The more cogent answer is ‘highly unlikely’ that such could be. Not impossible, mind you . . . just not very likely.”

“And if these two Amulets
did
embody such magic, could you control them?”

The Rebbe pursed his lips contemplatively and frowned. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not. There would be mysteries involved, Major, of which one cannot speak freely. I would have to meet the child. It would be helpful to meet the woman, as well. It would be useful to know the specifics of the ancient writings on the subject. I assume you will be able to make such material available for study?”

“Whatever you require would be provided.”

The Rebbe’s eyes smiled, although his lips did not.
Foolish boy,
the eyes said to Abraham’s intuitive gaze.
What would be required by me, would be far beyond your skill, or that of any government.

“Where is the child now, may I inquire? The old rabbi asked.

“She is with the addict mother, and the stepfather in Greenwich. We believe he heads a cult called Maa Kheru.”

The extraordinary eyes locked with Abraham’s. “It would be best if you refrained from speaking such a name aloud, Major Abraham. These are Words of Power . . . the portals they open would be better left closed.” He was silent a moment; a teacher who had reprimanded a usually bright student and wished him to reflect on his mistake.

“This stepfather . . .” he began again. “He is an Adept of a mystery school of the Left Hand Path, I take it?” Abraham nodded affirmation.

“He will not let her go willingly, then, we may assume.”

“If my orders are to take possession of the child, Rebbe, nothing will keep me from doing so.”

Rabbi Levi smiled again with his eyes. “To be so certain of things, Major . . . this must be a great comfort to you.”

Abraham, chagrined, stared at the old teacher. Why did this old man have the power to make him feel like an untried boy?

“I give you my word, Rebbe, I will not allow overconfidence to make me unduly careless. I meant only that my team is a good one—we have seen much of combat.”

“And of the Other World, my boy . . . what have you seen of that, hmm?” He didn’t wait for a reply.

“May I be privileged to know what, precisely, the State of Israel intends to do with this child and her Amulets, after you and your fine team have so bravely secured them?”

“They are so to be returned to Tel Aviv.”

“Ah, I see. I see. You would forgive me, if I would say that Tel Aviv is not a place where the coolest heads prevail, perhaps. You would forgive me, maybe, if I were to wonder who in Tel Aviv would be so holy he would know what to do with this child and her magical Amulets.” He chuckled a little and rose from his chair; only a slight tentativeness of movement betrayed his age. Abraham saw that the interview was at an end.

“Rebbe,” he said, in a tone not at all like his usual professional one. “When I came in here I was sure of only one thing—that this story was ridiculous. Now . . . I ask you, what would happen to the world if this story is true?”

“Ah, so you look for something new to be sure of? So. What will happen? Only what God wishes, my boy,” Rabbi Itzhak Levi said with genuine twinkle. “You may be
sure
of that.”

Abraham
 drove from the Rebbe’s house, thoughtful and serious. Automatically, he checked for any sign of surveillance, and satisfied that he was alone, he allowed himself the luxury of an internal dialogue. 
Only when you talk to yourself can you be sure of the company you keep,
 his grandmother would have said. He smiled at the memory and wondered what his Bubbe would think of the Rebbe.

For that matter, what did he, himself, think of the Rebbe? 
If I were not such a confirmed agnostic, I would say I was in the presence of a holy man,
 he answered himself. 
Also smart. Also, not to be trifled with. The Rebbe will do what the Rebbe will do. And that’s that.
 He made an emphatic gesture of finality, by blowing the horn at the double-parked driver in front of him.

“To such a man, Major,” the Prime Minister had said to Abraham, a week ago in Tel Aviv, 
“the Mossad, the government of Israel, the Prime Minister, the President of the United States . . . all these are insignificant. When you talk to God directly, who needs these piddling middlemen, eh?”

Abraham had laughed aloud. The Prime Minister was a good man. Tough-minded, cunning. To be admired on all counts.

“He sounds like my old Uncle Schlomo, the Kabbalist,”
 Abraham had responded, “
who, I must confess, I thought was meshugge.”

The Prime Minister had looked at him thoughtfully, and replied, 
“Someone wise once said, Major, ‘Young men think old men are fools but old men know young men are fools.’”

Abraham returned his mind to his current work. He had placed intermittent surveillance on the grandmother and the child, and a team of Egyptian experts in Israel were trying to pin down the date when Vannier would do whatever it was he planned to secure the Amulets. The child was probably safe enough until that elusive date, so the sooner he knew the timing, the better. It was a pity the Egyptians seemed to have the ranking expert on the Amulet legend on their team . Abdul Hazred. The scholar, who was also very rich by virtue of coming from a long line of educated thieves.

Abraham pulled the car to a halt, checked his right, left, and behind again, then closed and locked the car door. His group had a technique of surveillance using three cars in rotation, that made detection nearly impossible. Presumably, some other side could be equally clever. It was an interesting diversion to spot the real pros; a cat-and-mouse game with higher stakes than children played for.

Was Hazred as bad as Vannier? Abraham asked himself, in the continuing dialogue, as he walked to the building where the meeting with his operative would take place. 
Was Begin Jewish?

I
’ve tracked down our missing, reporter, Maggie,” Devlin said as they walked in Washington Square Park. “Or rather, I know what happened to him. His name was Fellowes, and it seems he got killed on the Jersey Turnpike, a couple of years ago, in a car crash.”

“Does that mean you can’t find out if he had any real evidence about Maa Kheru?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. It seems there was a wife. I’m planning to see her tomorrow. Reporters can be closed-mouthed about their sources, but if he was really obsessed with this . . . some wives know pretty much everything about their husband’s business, others aren’t clued in worth a damn. It depends on what kind of marriage they had.”

They walked on a few minutes in silence, then Maggie spoke.

“Why didn’t
you
ever remarry, Dev?” she asked quietly. The day was softer than the one before, and the promise of spring had lightened both their moods a little.

“I never met
you
before,” he replied with a grin.

She laughed. “That’s very flattering, but be serious. There must have been opportunities.”

“I don’t know, Maggie. A lot of things stopped me, I guess. The job . . . confusing memories. Women aren’t all that easy to figure out, and I didn’t want to screw up a second time.” He walked on for a moment, then added, “We’re very different . . . men and women. Different priorities, different needs. It’s hard to know for sure if we can ever really fulfill each other’s hopes or dreams. I think probably the worst thing you could say to a woman is ‘I want a divorce’—but, may be the worst thing you could say to a guy is ‘You’re fired.’ And that’s a pretty tough emotional gap to bridge.”

She turned, curious to see his face; he looked troubled by the truth he’d just uttered.

“What do you suppose God had in mind, making us incompatible? she asked, afraid it might be true.

“I don’t know. But every time I’ve pondered Freud’s old question, ‘What do women want? I’ve always wondered why nobody’s ever made a list. You know, a crib sheet . . . ‘Things I wish men knew about women.’ It might not solve all the riddles for a guy, but it sure couldn’t hurt.”

Maggie smiled mischievously. “Want me to do one for you?”

He looked to see if she were serious. “It’d have to be bedrock honest, Maggie,” he answered. “No girlish demurs . . . no tell-him-what-he-wants-to-hear . . . no ‘I can’t say that to a guy.’ Just the plain, unvarnished truth—or else you’ll really mess with my head.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, amused. If she’d been in love with this sweet man, she’d never have been willing to consider such a revealing task. But as it was . . .

After he left her, Maggie made a cup of tea and replayed their conversation in her mind. Then she picked up a notebook, and sat down at the kitchen table, near the sunniest window in the house. It really was an intriguing question to ask yourself, she thought; what
would
you like men to know that they didn’t seem to? For a heartbeat, she wondered if maybe Ellie and Amanda should be asked to contribute to the list.

No.
This is my list.

Almost without meaning to, Maggie began sifting through the years, and all the men she’d known—family, lovers, friends. What had she needed, dreamed, hoped about them? What would have made a difference had they known? She pondered for a long while, then wrote her list, trying very hard not to equivocate. She scratched out one thought, slightly embarrassed by it, then wrote it down a second time.
Bedrock honest or not at all.
She wondered if he’d understand.

Maggie read the page over twice before sealing it in an envelope, and writing Devlin’s address on it. Then, on impulse, she decided to hand-deliver it.
Better do it quick, before I lose my nerve.
She wondered fleetingly what his apartment would be like . . . what would it say about who he really was? And what would he think about her, once he’d read this strange conglomeration of desires that cut so deep into who
she
was.