you with all my heart,’ said Will, gasping for air as he fell into the nearest seat.
‘People need to have more respect,’ she said.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Will wheezed. ‘Respect. I couldn’t agree more.’
As the air came back into his lungs, and the oxygen returned to his brain, he could see only one image. When he closed his eyes, it was there, imprinted under his eyelids. His father, aged twenty-one – a comrade in the army of Jesus. And not just the army, but the vanguard. A hand-picked élite who believed they knew the secrets of the true faith.
What were they exactly? Christians, certainly. But with a strange edge of arrogance. It was they, not the Jews, who were the chosen people. They, not the Jews, who could regard Judaism itself as their birthright. They, not the Jews, who would quote the Old Testament and all its prophecies, they who would see the promises made to Abraham as promises made to them.
Will looked out the window. DeKalb Avenue station. He got out and jumped on another train. Keep Laser Eyes and his friends guessing.
TC had seen the significance straight away. According to this strict brand of replacement theology, if Judaism was theirs, that meant all of it. The story of Abraham’s bargain with Sodom would be part of their inheritance – and so would the fruit of that story, the mystical Jewish belief that the world was maintained by thirty-six righteous men. For some reason, they had taken that belief as their own – and now, it seemed, they had added a new twist. They were determined to kill these good men one by one. But if it was this bizarre Christian sect who were behind the killings, why on earth had the Hassidim kidnapped Beth?
It was too much. Will needed to think, calmly. He looked at his watch. 3.45pm. So little time. He called TC’s number, praying she had somehow got away.
‘Will! You’re alive!’
‘Are you OK? Where are you?’
‘I’m in the hospital. With Tom. He was shot.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I was on the roof. I heard a shot, I ran downstairs and he was lying there, bleeding. Oh, Will—’
‘Is he alive?’
‘They’re operating on him now. My God, who did this, Will? Why would anyone do this?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find them, I promise. I’m going to find the people behind this whole fucking mess. And I know I’m close.’
Monday, 3.47pm, Manhattan
‘TC, I know they’re here. In New York City.’
‘How can you be so certain? They’re killing righteous men all over the world – why would they be here?’
‘For one thing, everything they know, they’ve got from the Hassidim. They’ve got all they can from hacking into their computers. Now they need to be here in person; to complete the process. That’s why they killed Yosef Yitzhok. They’re desperate to find number thirty-six. And they’re convinced the Hassidim know who he is. And they’re right. Besides, I reckon they want to be here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you see? Tonight is the climax. It’s the moment it all comes together. They’ll want to be in the place where all this prophecy becomes real. Because this is where it all ends, TC. The Sodom of the twenty-first century. New York City! It’s here the world finally loses its bargain with God. Just thirty-six righteous men; so long as they’re alive, the world goes on. Without them, it’s all over. These people will want to be here to see it happen. The end of the world.’
‘Will, you’re scaring me.’
‘And there’s one other thing.’ He stopped himself. ‘Look, there’s no time. I’ve got to go.’ He hung up and dialled a number at the New York Times.
‘Amy Woodstein.’
‘Amy, it’s Will. I need you to do something for me.’
‘Will!’ She was whispering. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Are you getting some help?’
‘Right now I need your help, Amy. There’s a flyer on my desk, for a convention of the Church of the Reborn Jesus. Could you just read it out to me?’
Amy sighed in audible relief. ‘Hold on.’ Seconds later she was back. ‘OK: The Church of the Reborn Jesus, valuing families through family values. Spiritual Gathering, Javits Convention Center, on West 34th Street . . . oh, hold on, it’s today.’
‘Yes!’ He sounded as if he was punching the air.
‘Oh, Will, I’m so glad you’re finding some comfort in your faith. I know many people facing challenges—’
‘Amy, love to chat, got to go.’
Thirty minutes later, he was there. The Javits Convention Center. He could see a delegates’ counter, staffed by bright-eyed volunteers. That would not work. Ah, a press desk.
‘Excuse me, I’m from the Guardian, a London newspaper, and I fear I’m not yet on your list. Is there any way you might be able to accommodate me?’
‘Sir, I’m afraid accreditation has to be done through our Richmond office. Did you pre-accredit?’ Pre-accredit. Just when Will thought he had heard every coinage corporate America could possibly come up with.
‘No, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t get through on the phone. But my editors would be so disappointed if I couldn’t cover this wonderful celebration of family values. We have nothing like this in Britain, you see. And I know there is a real hunger back home for this kind of spiritual example. Is there any way you could let me in, just for half an hour or so, so that I could at least tell my bosses I saw it with my own eyes?’
He had pushed every button. In the years since he had arrived in America, this kind of patter had got him into NASA for a space launch, Graceland for an Elvis tribute night and a presidential candidates’ debate in Trenton, New Jersey. He hoped his eyes glowed with eagerness.
But the woman on the desk, identified by her label as Carrie-Anne, Facilitator, was not about to relent. ‘I’m going to need you to speak to Richmond.’
Damn.
‘Sure, what’s the number I need to dial?’
Will wrote it down carefully – then, using his cell phone, he dialled his home number.
‘Hello. This is Tom Mitchell from the Guardian in London. It’s about today’s convention. I just wondered if there’s any chance . . . That’s right.’ At the other end, he could hear his own voice, announcing that he and Beth were away from the phone right now. He tried to block out the sound and carry on talking. ‘So I need to look at the programme. OK—’ Will put his hand over the receiver and then mouthed to Carrie-Anne, ‘She says I need to see the press pack.’ Without hesitation, she passed one over.
‘OK, so I should go through that now, see what interests me . . . all right, that’s a very big help. Thanks so much.’
As he was talking to his own answering machine, Will’s eye ran down the list of sessions.
The Holden Suite: Putting togetherness back together. Parenting after divorce with Rev Peter Thompson.
The Macmillan Room: How would Jesus do it? Seeking the saviour’s advice.
Will could not find what he wanted. He looked up; Carrie-Anne was smiling as she handed press badges to a TV reporter and her cameraman. Silently, Will wheeled around and headed for the conference rooms – his press pack held high as a surrogate credential.
He