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NINETEEN

Friday, 10.05pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

‘I see that we have both made a mistake here. Your mistake is that you have lied to me and lied consistently, even under immense pressure. Under the circumstances, I now understand that and even find it admirable.’ Will could hardly hear the words over the sound of his own heart throbbing. He was scared, much more terrified than he had been outside. The Rebbe had discovered the truth. Something in the wallet had betrayed him, doubtless one loose credit card receipt or a long-forgotten Blockbuster membership card. God only knew what pain lay in store for him now.

‘You are here to look for your wife.’

‘Yes.’ Will could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. And the anguish.

‘I understand that, and I hope that I would do the same in your position. I am sure Moshe Menachem and Tzvi Yehuda agree.’ Now both the thugs had names. ‘It is a duty for all husbands to provide for and protect their wives. That is the nature of the marriage commitment.

‘But I am afraid the usual rules cannot apply in this case. I cannot let you come charging in here, no matter how heroically, and rescue your wife. I cannot allow it.’

‘So you admit that you have her here?’

‘I don’t admit anything. I don’t deny anything. That is not the purpose of what I am saying to you, Mr Monroe. Will. I am trying to explain that the usual rules don’t apply in this case.’

‘What usual rules? What case?’

‘I wish I could tell you more, Will, I really do. But I cannot.’

Will was not sure if he had just been ground down by the ordeal of the last few – what was it: hours, minutes? – or whether he was simply relieved that it was over, but he was sure he heard something different in the Rebbe’s voice. The menace had gone; there was a sadness, a sorrow in it that Will heard as sympathy, maybe even compassion for himself. It was ridiculous: the man was a torturer. Will wondered if he was succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome, the strange bond that can develop between a captive and his captor: first depending on the Israeli as if he was a guide dog for the blind rather than a violent brute, and now detecting humanity in his chief tormentor. This was surely an irrational reaction to the end of the ducking-stool treatment: rather than feeling anger that it had happened at all, he was feeling gratitude to the Rebbe for ending it. Stockholm Syndrome, a classic case.

And yet, Will rated himself a good judge of character. He reckoned he had always been perceptive and he was sure he could hear something real in that voice. He gambled on his hunch.

‘Tell me something which I have a right to know. Is my wife safe? Is she . . . unharmed?’ He could not bring himself to say the word he really meant – alive – not because he feared the Hassidim’s reaction so much as his own. He feared his voice would crack, that he would show a weakness he had so far kept hidden.

‘That is a fair question, Will, and yes, she will be safe – so long as no one does anything reckless or stupid, and by “no one” I am referring chiefly to you, Will. And by “anything reckless or stupid” I am speaking chiefly of involving the authorities. That will ruin everything and then I can make no guarantees for anyone’s safety.’

‘I don’t understand what you could want from my wife. What has she done to you? Why don’t you just let her go?’ He had not meant to, but his mouth had taken the decision for him: he was begging.

‘She has done nothing to us or anyone else, but we cannot let her go. I’m sorry that I cannot say more. I can imagine how hard this is for you.’

That was the Rebbe’s mistake, that last line. Will could feel the blood rushing to his face, the veins on his neck rising.

‘No, you fucking CANNOT imagine how hard this is. You have not had your wife kidnapped! You have not been grabbed, blindfolded, shoved into freezing water and threatened with death by people who never so much as show their face. So don’t tell me you can imagine anything. You can imagine NOTHING!’

Tzvi Yehuda and Moshe Menachem almost sprang back, clearly as shocked by this outburst as Will himself. The anger had been brewing since he got to Crown Heights – in fact, long before. Since the moment that message popped into his BlackBerry: We have your wife.

‘You said it was time for plain dealing. So how about some plain dealing? What the hell is this about?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’ The voice was softer than it had been, almost dejected. ‘But this is about something much bigger than you could possibly know.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Beth is a shrink. She sees kids who won’t talk and girls who starve themselves. What bigger thing could involve her? You’re lying.’

‘I’m telling you the truth, Will. The fate of your wife depends on something much larger than you or her or me. In a way it hangs on an ancient story, one that no one could ever have imagined would have turned out this way. No one ever predicted this. There was no contingency plan. No preparation in our sacred texts, or at least none that we have found so far. And believe me, we are looking.’

Will had no idea what this man was talking about. For the first time, he wondered if these Hassidim might simply be delusional. Had he not seen them earlier this evening, swept up in an ecstatic frenzy in adoration of their leader, worshipping him as their Messiah? Was it not possible that they had fallen into a state of collective madness, with this man, their leader, the maddest of all?

‘I wish I could say more, but the stakes are too high. We have to get this right, Mr Monroe, and we don’t have long. What day is it today? Shabbos Shuva? We have just four days. That is why I cannot afford to take any risks.’

‘What do you mean, the stakes are too high?’

‘I don’t think it will be helpful for me to say any more on this, Will. For one thing, my guess is you won’t believe a word I say.’

‘Well, if you mean I’m unlikely to trust a man who’s nearly killed me, you’re right.’

‘I see that. And one day, and I suspect it will be very soon, you’ll understand why we had to do what we just did. All will become clear. That is the way of these things. And I meant what I said. I feared you were a federal agent and, when I confirmed that you were not, I feared you were something much worse.’

‘What would you have to fear from a federal agent? And what would you fear even more than that? What are you up to here?’

‘I can see why you’re a journalist, Will: always asking questions. You’d do well in our line of work, too: that is what Torah study is all about, asking the right questions. But I’m afraid I think we have done all the Q & A we’re going to do tonight. It’s time for us to say goodbye.’

‘That’s it? You’re going to leave it at that? You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?’

‘No, I cannot risk that. So I’m going to leave you with a few things for you to remember. You can write them down later if you like. The first is that this is much bigger than any of us. Everything we believe in, everything you believe in, hangs in the balance. Life itself. The stakes could not be higher.

‘Second, your wife will be safe unless you endanger her life by your recklessness. I urge you not to do that, not just for your own sake, but for the sake of all of us. Everybody. So even though you love her and want to protect her, I plead with you to believe me that the best thing you can do for her, as a loving husband, is to stay away. Back off and don’t meddle. Interfere and I can offer no guarantees, not for her, not for you, not for any of us.

‘And third, I don’t expect you to understand. You have wandered into all this quite by accident. Perhaps it’s not an accident, but a series of steps fully understood only by our Creator. But this is the hardest thing of all. I’m asking you to believe things that you cannot comprehend, to trust me just because I ask you. I don’t know if you’re a man of faith or not, Will, but this is how faith operates. We have to believe in God even when we have not the barest inkling of what he has in mind for the universe. We have to obey rules that seem to make no sense, simply because we believe. Not everyone can do it, Will. It takes strength to have faith. But that is what I need from you: the faith to trust that I and the people you see here are acting only for the sake of good.’

‘Even when that means nearly drowning an innocent man like me?’

‘Even when the price is very high, yes. We are determined to save lives here, Will, and in that cause almost any action is permitted. Pikuach nefesh. Now I must say goodbye. Moshe Menachem will give you back your things. Good luck, Will. Travel safely and, please God, all should be well. Good shabbos.’

At that moment, as he imagined the Rebbe lifting himself up out of his chair and shuffling towards the door, he heard an interruption. Someone else had come into the room; barged in, by the sound of it. He seemed to be showing the Rebbe something; there was muttered conversation. The new voice was highly exercised, a raised whisper. They need not have worried: even at that volume, all Will could establish was that they were not speaking English. It sounded like German, with lots of phlegmy ‘ch’s and ‘sch’s’. Yiddish.

The exchange ended; the Rebbe seemed to have gone. Redbeard, Moshe Menachem, now left his sentry position at Will’s side and stood in front of him. His eyes were sheepish as he handed to Will the bag he had left at Shimon Shmuel’s. ‘I’m sorry about, you know, before,’ he mumbled.

Will took the bag, seeing that his notebook had been put back inside, too. His phone was still there, and his BlackBerry, untouched. He took out his wallet, faintly curious to see which stub or ticket had given him away. It was as he expected, full of anonymous cab receipts. He opened up the series of slots made to carry credit cards, a feature he never used. In one, a book of standard US postage stamps; in another, a business card of a long-forgotten interviewee. In the third, a passport-sized photograph – of Beth.

A bitter smile passed across Will’s face: it was his bride who had betrayed him. Of course they would recognize her. She had given him this picture about six weeks after they met; it was summer and they had spent the afternoon boating off Sag Harbor. They passed a photo booth and she could not resist: she mugged for the automated camera there and then.

Will turned the picture over and there it was, the message which had left no doubt. I love you, Will Monroe!

Will looked up, his eyes wet. Before him was a new face; he guessed it was the man who had briefly clashed with the Rebbe a few moments ago. His face was soft and round, his cheeks chipmunk-full, framed by a jet-black beard. He was tubby, with a round head atop a round tummy. Will guessed he was in his early twenties.

‘Come, I’ll show you out.’

As Will got up, he saw at last the chair where the Rebbe had sat during the inquisition. It was no throne, just a chair. Next to it was a side table, the kind a lecturer might use to keep his notes and a glass of water. What was on it made Will jolt.

It was a copy of that day’s New York Times, folded, very deliberately, to highlight Will’s story about the life and death of Pat Baxter. So that was what the round-faced man had shown the Rebbe; that was what they had argued about. Will could guess what the young man had been saying: This guy’s from the New York Times. He’s never going to keep this quiet. We should keep him here, where he can’t shoot his mouth off.

By now they were outside, Will holding the clean white shirt the Hassidim had given him but which he was not yet wearing: he had not wanted to undress in front of his inquisitors. He had been humiliated enough already.

They stood on the street, outside the shul. Men were still coming in and walking out. Will looked at his watch: 10.20pm. It felt like three am.

‘I can only repeat our apologies about what happened in there.’

Yeah, yeah, thought Will. Save it for the judge when I sue your Hassidic asses for false imprisonment, assault, battery and the whole fucking shebang. ‘Well, better than an apology would actually be an explanation.’

‘I can’t give you that, but I can give you a word of advice.’ He looked around, as if making sure that he was not being watched or overheard. ‘My name is Yosef Yitzhok. I work to bring the Rebbe’s word into the world. Listen, I know what you do and here’s my suggestion.’ He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘If you want to know what’s going on, think about your work.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will. But you have to look to your work. Go on, leave.’

This Yosef Yitzhok seemed agitated. ‘Remember what I said. Look to your work.’