Bless the Child (51 page)

Hazred understood only too well the risks. “I commend you, Ghania. Only someone of your unique skills could undertake such a delicate labor with any hope of success,” he said, magnanimous praise of a king for a talented servant.

The nuance wasn’t lost on the powerful woman. She inclined her head toward him ever so slightly in acknowledgement. “I serve my Master,” she replied icily. She wondered if he could say the same.

R
aphael Abraham looked around the anteroom of Rabbi Levi’s office, and wondered why on earth he was there. He had already put in place all the surveillance teams necessary for his mission. He had sent his reports back to Tel Aviv in the standard Mossad double-coding system, in which each phonetic sound has a number, and each of these numbers has a “sleeve” letter or number equivalent. He had arranged for a Shicklut employee to secure listening equipment, for when it would be needed. And he had alerted the Sayonim network of loyal Jews in the area, who might be called on to render service to Israel. All exactly as was sensible and required.

All except this visit.

This was a whim. He smiled to himself, thinking no one, anywhere, at any time, had ever applied such a word to Raphael Abraham.

So why was he here?

The small, intense-looking rabbi, who seemed to be the guardian of the threshold, motioned to Abraham from the Rebbe’s doorway, and he rose immediately to his feet to answer the summons, feeling like a small boy called to the headmaster’s office for an unknown infringement.

“Rebbe,” he said deferentially, as he entered the old man’s presence. “Thank you for seeing me.” There was no reply but a slight inclination of the head, and he felt compelled to explain his purpose, so he gestured with the folder in his hand.

“I’ve compiled as much information as we possess on the Amulet legend, Rebbe,” he said, “and some biographical material on all the people involved, particularly the woman and her grandchild.” The Rebbe nodded again, but still did not speak. “If you need more, I’ll be happy to supply whatever you require.”

“I do not need even that which you hold in your hand,” the Rebbe said matter-of-factly. “I have already seen the woman and the child.”

Abraham frowned. “Forgive me, Rebbe,” he said, “but that cannot be so . . . I have them both under surveillance and there has been no such visit.”

Rebbe pursed his lips, as if to say what point is there explaining the obvious to a dimwit?

“Your surveillance cannot see as far as mine, perhaps?” he said, with a small measure of indulgence for the ignorant. “What I need to know of them, I know. When they come, I will know more.”

Abraham looked puzzled. “Are you saying, Rebbe, that I am to bring them to you? My orders are unclear on this point.”

“Your orders have nothing to do with the answer to this question,” the old man said simply. “We will be brought together, if I am needed. Neither you, nor I, nor your order giver, whoever he may be, are involved with this decision.”

Abraham’s face was set in a frown of indecision; he was not in the least sure what he needed to ask, or say.

“Rebbe,” he said finally. “When I come here, I am like a boy. Uncertain. The world I live in, I understand thoroughly. It’s a hard world, full of realities best left undiscussed. I thought it was the only world. What I think I hear you telling me, is that there is more to this job I have been given . . . more that I may have to deal with, but I am ill-equipped . . .” He let the thought trail off, not knowing how to explain.

This time the Rebbe’s eyes twinkled; encouraged, Abraham went on. “I begin to think I may be at a disadvantage because of some ignorance I was not even aware of . . . if this is so, perhaps, I cannot do my job as expected.”

“So,” the Rebbe said. “The sands shift beneath your feet a little, and all may not be as you imagined.” He was silent for a moment, contemplating the man before him, easy in silence.

“What do you know of Kabbalah?” he asked finally. “Did your uncle teach you nothing?”

Abraham’s eyes were instantly alert.

“My uncle? What do you know of my uncle?” he asked suspiciously.

The Rebbe moved his head back and forth a little, and shrugged. I know what I need to know, the gesture said.

“My uncle was a scholar,” Abraham said, calculating his words carefully. “I respected his knowledge, but I did not understand him.”

The Rebbe’s great eyebrows rose in reproof. “Perhaps the truth is you did
not
respect his knowledge. Perhaps you thought he was
meshugge
because he knew of things you could not see, and tried to teach you things you could not substantiate by ordinary means.”

Abraham realized he’d been caught again . . . what point was there in lying to this man whose surveillance saw farther than his own. “I stand reproved,” he said quietly.

“Good boy,” said the Rebbe. “Now we can begin. This matter of the Amulets . . . it involves Mysteries you have not imagined, and could not dream. Kabbalah is not something you can come and say, ‘Tell me about this . . .’ and learn. The Universe you know of, is a complex business, and it is only one of four such Universes. Too much to learn about in a day, or a year, or a lifetime. So go home. Read a book . . . maybe two. Gershom Scholem on Kabbalah would be good, to start. Then you will know how much you don’t know. Then you will stop making conclusions you have no business making. And you will stop thinking you are in charge of anything. This will be a start.”

“Now you are making fun of me,” Abraham said, thoroughly bamboozled.

“A little. Maybe. God likes us to laugh.”

“All I want, Rebbe, is to do the job I’ve been sent for. No more, no less.”

“And what, exactly, do you imagine that job to be?”

“To secure the Amulets for Israel—if they exist, which seems to me impossible.” There was more to his orders, that he didn’t reveal.

“So. You want me to tell you if the impossible is possible. The answer is yes. But your job may turn out to be far different from what you imagine. Keep an open mind.”

“Rebbe,” Abraham said, in exasperation. “Why did I come here today?”

“You are a good boy, Rafi,” the Rebbe said unexpectedly. Abraham looked up, startled by the familiarity. “But you think the answers to your questions will come from the world around you. This is not true. There you will find only illusion, for the logic you so prize is a limitation you place upon yourself.”

Raphael Abraham leaped up from his chair, realization dawning. “My God!” he said, in shock.

He had been eleven years old when his Uncle Schlomo had said these exact words to him. The boys at school had laughed at the ragged old rabbi, who was a Kabbalist and therefore a fool. And Rafi had come home, angry, embarrassed, and said ugly, unkind things to his uncle. Uncalled-for things, that would have provoked a beating from his own father, had he known of the conversation. But no one knew . . . only Uncle Schlomo. And he had only smiled sadly, hurt by this favorite child’s unkindness, but too good to hurt in return. How often after that had Abraham regretted the interchange, and not known how to heal the rift between them except, perversely, by trying always to prove himself right and the old man wrong? How different might his life have been, had that day and all that sprang from it, never happened?

“What do you want of me?” he breathed, shocked and frightened in an unaccustomed way.

“I want nothing,” the Rebbe said quietly. “But God . . .” He shrugged a little. “He may want more. He will let you know. He will let us
both
know.”

The man who led Raphael Abraham from the Rebbe’s office averted his gaze as not to see tears in the eyes of one who had no business crying.

“
Maa Kheru
intends to perform the materialization on the night of April 30th ,” Hazred said to Colonel Hamid, in his office. “I will require military backup in two locations.” He handed the man a slip of paper with the addresses.

“Mossad is involved now,” the Colonel responded. “They are trouble.”

“They are none of my affair,” Hazred said. “Once the Amulets exist in material from, you must be able to secure them against all corners, if Egypt is to take its rightful place as a major world power. That’s why you are involved.”

“I do not need assistance from you, Doctor, to understand the scope of my orders, thank you,” Hamid said, shortly. “We have engaged Mossad before.” He glanced at the paper. “Why do we need to deploy men at two locations?”

“This is a most delicate operation,” Hazred replied. “I must have a safe house, fully equipped, to which she can be brought after we have taken possession of the Amulets.”

Hazred could see by the thinly disguised sneer, what Colonel Hamid thought of the probability of magical Amulets. No matter. If his plan worked out as intended, it would soon matter very little what civil servants, or governments, or Maa Kheru, for that matter, thought about anything at all.

L
ieutenant Devlin, is it?” Nicholas Sayles’s handsome face was set in just the right expression of perplexed hospitality as he greeted his unexpected visitor. “Is there something I can do for you?” He leaned back against his custom-made desk and looked amiable, but not patient. Like all in the public eye, he had long ago perfected the means of dealing with unwanted intrusions in a curt-but-civilized manner.

Devlin stood across the floor from him, his face unreadable. “Actually, Mr. Sayles there’s quite a bit you could do for me, but I suspect you may not want to.”

Sayles raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“It has come to the attention of the police department that you are a member of an organization called Maa Kheru. Is that true?”

Sayles’s handsome face was set in an arrogant smirk. “I belong to the University Club, the Metropolitan Club, and the New York A.C., Lieutenant. Not to an organization I’ve never heard of.”

“And have you heard of heroin, Mr. Sayles?” Devlin pressed. “It appears the organization you’ve never heard of supports its many enterprises by running a very lucrative heroin trade.”

Sayles’s dark eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “You’re fucking around with the wrong boy here, Lieutenant. Tossing around allegations like that could get your ass in a sling faster than you could zip your fly. Slander’s a serious charge . . . so’s false arrest. If you have anything further to say to me, say it through my lawyer. He’s the one I have speak to the likes of you.”

Devlin moved in closer, his voice deadly calm. “The likes of me can put the likes of you in Attica. I wonder how well it would sit with your loyal TV audience, and the banks who fund your television properties, if they knew you spend your nights dressed up in bed sheets, eating the bodies of children, Mr. Sayles. Or maybe they’d like to hear about your arms sales to Libya, or your heroin connections in the Golden Triangle, or the nice like porno flick sideline you and Eric Vannier have funded. Even if we couldn’t prove all of it, some of the scum would stick to your shoes, before your lawyer could do jack shit.”

“Get out of my office,” Sayles said, his voice low and tightly controlled. “You haven’t got enough proof of anything to give me a parking ticket.”

“We know how your network functions. We have enough evidence, to put you where you won’t have to worry about parking for a long time. Maybe, and you and Eric Vannier are the ones who better watch your asses.” Devlin waited only long enough to see the barb placed, then turned on his heel. He had come to find out how rattleable this media mogul might be in the clinches, and now he knew. Nicholas Sayles was used to power and the protection it offered; he couldn’t be threatened, but he could be made nervous. That would have to do for the moment.

Sayles clenched his fists and then released them several times to regain control of himself after Devlin left. It was high time they taught this detective something about power, and the meddlesome Maggie O’Connor something about fear.

Sayles didn’t wait to be announced. He slammed past the servant who opened the door of the Vannier mansion, and didn’t stop to remove his coat. He caught Eric lifting a coffee cup to his lips at the lunch table.

“We have to talk,” he said peremptorily. “Now!”

Eric’s irritation at the interruption was barely concealed. “Sit down, Nicky. And do take off your coat.”

Sayles shrugged the outer garment into waiting hands, without even glancing at the servant. “I had a cop in my office this morning,” he said, harshly. “A tough son of a bitch with a lot of attitude. Very cocky about what he knew.”

Eric continued to eat, unperturbed.

“Which was what?”

“About Maa Kheru . . . about our relationship. About the bank’s drug and arms deals. He said he had evidence and a witness. The son of a bitch was very careful not to step over the line, officially. No accusations, just a lot of saber rattling . . . but I don’t like to hear talk about guns and drugs in the same breath with my name.”

“So, he had nothing, really,” Eric said, patting his mouth with an exquisite linen napkin the size of a small tablecloth. “I’m used to dealing with governments, Nicky, local police are exceedingly small potatoes.”

“He asked me if I was a member of Maa Kheru, Eric. No one except Fellowes ever connected me to the group. Not even the stinking tabloids. I don’t need this, Eric. Not now. Not
ever.”

Eric saw the tight jaw muscles in the handsome face; he despised whiners. It would be disagreeable if Nicky turned out to be one. “What precisely would you like me to do about this annoyance, Nicky? In another week, the Amulets will be in our possession, and we will hardly need worry about some trifling New York policeman and his unsubstantiated innuendos.”

“The Materialization is the exact reason I don’t want any assholes fucking around here, muddying the waters, Eric,” Sayles insisted. “I’ll bet any amount of money the O’Connor bitch is behind this. I told you the Sending wouldn’t neutralize that cunt—she’s on a fucking mission! I want her out of the picture and I want it done
my
way.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed slightly. There was more to this request than was obvious on the surface. He’d seen that malicious glint in Nicky’s eyes too often to mistake the potency of its malice.

“What exactly
is
it you want, Nicky? The policeman’s ears on your belt? That shouldn’t be hard to accomplish. We have friends downtown. And, Maggie’s ears, too, for a matched set?”

“Nothing so mundane, Eric. I want a ritual sacrifice. One that’ll scare the shit out of Maggie O’Connor.

“And that is?”

“Jenna.”

Sayles eyes engaged Eric’s across the table. “She’s surplus baggage now, Eric. And she’s a royal pain in the ass for somebody so expendable. I want to use her to appease the Powers . . . and for my own fun and games. Then I want to make sure her mother knows exactly what happened to her fuck-up of a daughter, and will happen to her, too, if she sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong.

Eric felt the blood rise to his temples; his fury at Nicky’s insolence was only a flicker, compared to his fury at himself for having been outplayed. Sayles had always lusted after Jenna, from the first time he’d ever seen her naked. And Ghania! Obviously the witch had helped devise this trap. “Let me dispose of her in a way that will live in the mother’s nightmares forever,” she’d said in the garden. The seething anger beneath the surface of Eric’s calm would not have been visible to anyone who didn’t know him intimately. Nicky saw it clearly and smiled inwardly.

“When do you want to perform this ritual?” Eric asked tightly, unable to think of any reason to refute the validity of the request. Women were for the use of all the Adepti—it was only acknowledgement of his leadership, and the child’s unique potential, that had kept Jenna sacrosanct.

“Tomorrow night will do just fine,” Nicky replied offhandedly. “That’ll give you time to say your good-byes to your wife.” He spoke the word with contempt.

Eric looked his companion in the eye, with as bland an expression as he could muster. “There are none to say. The girl means nothing to me.”

“Then, be my guest,” Nicky said casually. “Sacrifice her yourself.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, Nicky,” Eric replied evenly. “I am already in psychic preparation for the Great Festival—but I will consider your suggestion.”

Eric sat fuming at the table after Sayles had retrieved his coat and gone. He felt little for Jenna other than lust, but he had a proprietary instinct that balked at sharing her. It gave Nicky the aura of too much power before the thirteen Adepti—he would have to be certain to present this as if he’d chosen to sacrifice her for the common good.