Mission (30 page)

Luria's mythical construct went on to posit the necessity of a rescue of the imprisoned particles and a return to their former state of being. This rescue, or ‘restoration'
(tiqqun)
was to be accomplished by the Jewish nation through strict observance of the traditions of the
Torah,
a rigorous asceticism, and an exemplary life founded on mystical prayer and contemplation. In this way, harmony, or ‘unification'
(yihud)
with the God of Israel, the transcendent power behind the universe, would be achieved.

Luria also reaffirmed belief in the successive reincarnations of the soul and its perfectibility through a life of mystical contemplation, and he emphasised the need for an unceasing struggle against the powers of evil.

Once again, I was struck by this recurring theme of eternal conflict between the opposing forces of Light and Darkness that echoed the teachings of Zoroaster, the great reformer of religious thought in Persia, in the sixth century BC. Zoroaster urged the abandonment of polytheism and revealed to his followers the identity of the supreme spiritual being – Ahura Mazdao – who was locked in conflict with Ahriman, the leader of the forces of evil. Zoroaster proclaimed that Ahriman's influence upon the world manifested itself in the negative aspects of human existence and behaviour.

The same idea was expressed in the beliefs of the Essenes; a closed Jewish community whose activities had come to light with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Essenes who, according to the information released by Biblical scholars with access to their writings, lived a bleak, celibate existence, were believed to have flourished between the second century BC and the first century AD. From the documents published to date, it appeared that they lived in daily expectation of the final cataclysmic battle in which the angelic Forces of Light would triumph and the chosen few would be saved – notably the Essenes themselves.

Apparently, they were wrong on both counts. Two thousand years later, the world was still waiting for the big event and, far from being saved, it was generally accepted that the Essenes were wiped out when the Romans steam-rollered the Jews into the ground during the general uprising in 66 – 73AD which brought about the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the last-ditch epic at Masada, and the end of our hopes for unfettered nationhood.

But, as ‘Brax knows, and as the opponents of civil rights learnt in their turn, you cannot kill an idea whose time has come. Especially
when it contains an eternal truth. The ideas of Zoroaster and the Essenes had resurfaced in the teachings of the Gnostics; the hugely influential Christian splinter group that had flourished in the first three centuries AD before its supporters were branded as heretics and its books burned by the agents of the early Roman Church in the best Nazi tradition.

It was the far-reaching impact of this event that led me to ponder the possibility that ‘Brax might have been cunning enough to infiltrate the early Christian network as part of a long-term strategy to gain control and pervert The Man's original message. After all, the Russians had only just missed getting their man Philby into the top job with the British Secret Service. Why not a ‘Braxian Pope? No one could deny that, once Theodosius had declared Christianity to be the official religion of the Roman Empire, the bishops who had risen to positions of power via the Apostolic Succession had ignored The Man's injunction to “love thine enemies” and had proceeded to put the boot in with a vengeance.

But despite the tortures and the burnings and the massacres of sects like the Albigensii and the ever-mysterious Order of Knights Templar, they had not been able to suppress The Truth. The Word had been passed on from mouth to mouth. Clues had been inserted in written documents, paintings and carved inscriptions, camouflaged by intricate codes of mind-blowing complexity whose key was held by a select band of initiates whose sole task was to ensure that the ideas were handed on to the next generation.

The current Western standard-bearers of the Lurianic Kabbala were the
Hasidim;
Jewish communities like the Lubavitchers, over the bridge in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. The
Hasidim,
who drew their inspiration from the legendary doctrine of the itinerant, untutored eighteenth-century Polish
rabbi
Ba'al Shem Tov, believed that it was the duty of all Jews to aspire towards
devequt
– ‘being with God' – in every aspect of their daily lives. Ba'al Shem Tov held that true religion was not an ascetic withdrawal from the world but a knowledge of the immanence of God in all creation. The
Hasidim
placed great emphasis on the inner life of the believer and a close-knit, inter-dependent community life. Group leadership was provided by the
tzaddiqim,
the Just, or Righteous Ones, and the ‘
wunder-rebbi,
' the ‘miracle-working
rabbie
.' There was also a belief which corresponded closely with what The Man had said; namely that the
tzaddiqim
contained a special ‘divine spark' and
possessed super-human faculties.

On top of which, let me add a brief historical footnote: of all the Jewish groups persecuted by the Nazis, it was the
Hasidim
that came the closest to being totally wiped out in the Holocaust. Whatever one might think of ‘Brax, you had to give him credit for trying.

Hasidism was an attractive theory but, although their rigorous observance of Jewish ritual and the purity of their beliefs was above reproach, they were regarded with less than total enthusiasm by their more liberal Talmudic brethren. Even if groups like the Lubavitchers
were
on the right route to spiritual liberation as defined by The Man, their particular brand of self-denial was hardly likely to lead to the lightning conversion of the average fun-loving atheist.

I thought again of The Man's evasive reply to my question about the Jews' fundamental belief that they were the chosen people and wondered if their persecution throughout history had been the work of ‘Brax. Instead of being destined to suffer because they had not recognised Jesus as the Messiah, it could have been because they still possessed – albeit unknowingly – an inner awareness of The Man's true identity and his relationship with the worlds beyond this one.

Was this the hidden truth that ‘Brax wanted to suppress? The secret weapon that could bring his carefully constructed dreamworld crashing round his head? Had the anti-Semitic measures of the later Roman Emperors, the medieval monetary proscriptions against the Jews, the Inquisition, the Cossack-led
pogroms
in Poland and Russia which had culminated in the creation, then the destruction of the ghettoes of Eastern Europe, and the final horror of the death camps – had that been the work of Secessionist
einsatz-gruppen?

And was the orchestrated hostility against the post-war state of Israel, whose prideful intransigence only served to increase the ever-present threat of its total destruction, yet another stage in ‘Brax's Final Solution?

Why had the Jews, apart from a few periodic yawns of disinterest, clung doggedly throughout untold centuries to the idea of the One True God when greater and more powerful races – Babylonians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Indians, Greeks, Romans, Celts, Mayas, Aztecs, Norsemen and Teuton – had worshipped overpopulated pantheons of anthropomorphic deities whose violent, sex-laden lives had provided the material for the world's first soap-operas?

Since even our worst enemies would find it hard to deny that we
were a creative people, our addiction to monotheism could hardly be ascribed to a lack of invention. It could only be explained by the fact that we Jews had been spiritually on the ball ever since our ancestors began the long march from Atlantis. If that is true, and I am right about ‘Brax's part in all this, it goes a long way towards explaining why we have been forced to exchange our prayer shawls for flak jackets and may yet end making a last stand with our backs to the Wailing Wall.

My return to Manhattan on the Monday brought an abrupt descent from the world of the spirit into that of the flesh. Some of which belonged to a guy called Ken Myers; a client who I had arranged to have lunch with at
Perigord.
Impressed with my handling of an industrial claim, Myers now wanted me to handle his divorce. I told him it was a pity he hadn't chosen to get divorced before I'd won him the million dollars because he now stood to lose a large slice of it in the settlement. Myers told me that he was so keen to get rid of his wife he'd be happy to give her the whole bundle. But then, he was on his third martini. I reminded him that since he was technically the guilty party, the problem was how to stop her asking for more.

Myers had become pixillated with, of all things, a leggy English showgirl whose father was a retired Army major living in Berkshire and who went to Ascot for the races. Her mother had been one of the famed Bluebell girls – whoever
they
were. The name of this love-object was Edwina. Myers insisted on detailing her youthful anatomy and it was clear from his pain-racked face that her Cindy-doll waist, boyish ass and athletic thighs were causing him a great deal of distress.

Edwina, in true stage-door tradition, was playing Myers like a marlin on a line. She had blown his mind with a private audition during a ski-lodge weekend at Vail, Colorado, but had refused a repeat performance without a ring and a written contract. His wife, on the other hand, had vowed to take him for everything he'd got. I learned that Edwina was twenty-three. Ken Myers was over fifty. He said she made him feel young again but his story put years on me. I mentally resolved that if it ever happened to me, I would have my dong cut off and stuffed upright in a sealed pickle jar to remind me of better days. But I couldn't tell him that. What I did was turn down the job with as much tact as I could muster and picked up the tab for lunch.

My conversation with Myers left me feeling vaguely depressed for the rest of the day but it ended with one small triumph. I twisted Miriam's arm and persuaded her to come with me to see my favourite double-feature –
Dirty Harry
and
Magnum Force.
Clint may not provide much for the
Cahiers du Cinéma
crowd to agonise over but, for the real
cognoscenti,
this is what it's all about.

‘Come on now, be honest,' I said, as we came out on to the street. ‘You've got to admit those were two really great movies.'

She looked at me and shook her head. ‘It's at times like this that I wonder if I'm ever going to be able to do anything with you.'

The news that she intended to remodel my character failed to dampen my enthusiasm; or my subsequent, silver-tongued ardour. At least there were no complaints about that. Monday then, finished on a high note. Which was just as well, because Tuesday was a day to remember.

I woke at half-six with a pang of anxiety about the outcome of the case and decided to jog it out of my system. As you've gathered, I didn't have a fixed daily routine but I usually managed to make four days out of seven. It was part of my drive to give up smoking. The trouble was I needed a cigarette after the exercise to make me feel better. The squash, which I made an effort to play on the days I didn't jog, helped me work off my aggression. Football and baseball I got from TV. So much for sport.

As I was on the return leg, heading for the exit on Central Park West near 75th Street, a beige Chevy cruised up from behind, matched my pace for a few yards, then pulled ahead and stopped. There are only two kinds of vehicles allowed in this section of the park; those belonging to the service department, and to the police. My stride faltered as I saw Detective Frank Marcello get out from behind the wheel and flag me down. As I trotted up to the car, he opened the door to the rear compartment. My friend Lieutenant Dan Russell was sitting in the back. He beckoned me to join him. Marcello regained his seat behind the wheel and sat with his back against the door where he could see me.

I eyed him then turned to Russell. ‘What's this all about?'

‘I just wanted to have a little talk,' said Russell. ‘You know what offices are like. Telephones, interruptions.' He glanced casually out of the windows. ‘I thought you might prefer some-place where we couldn't be overheard.'

I wondered what he meant by that but decided not to pursue it. ‘Is this going to take long?' I asked. ‘Because I'm due in court this morning and I have a cab picking me up at eight.'

‘Relax,' replied Russell. ‘Catch your breath. You can be home from here in five minutes.' He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window on his side. He had the air of a man about to play a cat and mouse game.

I decided to hurry things along. ‘What do you want to talk about?'

Russell inspected his cigarette as if he'd never seen one before. ‘I'm hoping it's
you
who will do the talking, Mr Resnick. I'd like you to tell me why a lawyer of your standing has felt it necessary to be less than honest with me.'

This was the moment I'd been dreading. ‘About what?'

Russell's voice changed gear. ‘Don't fuck around, Resnick. You and your lady doctor friend have already made a monkey out of me. I could book you both on a conspiracy charge. You could both end up out on the street. So think about that.'

I did. And frankly, although I was worried for Miriam, I was more concerned with my own position. Although we had both abused our professional codes of conduct, what she had done was not that serious. But if I were called to account for my actions to the Bar Association it could do real damage to my career. I took a deep breath and squared up to Russell. ‘What is it you want to know?'

Russell's expression became less aggressive but he still didn't relax. I guess he had me figured for a tricky customer. He flicked ash out of the window. ‘Let me tell you what I know already. That way you won't waste any of your valuable time telling unnecessary lies. One, Doctor Maxwell is assigned to Emergency. She does not handle any ward patients and she is not qualified for psychiatric work. Two, the hospital has no current records of any patient named Yale Sheppard. And three, while “psychotic cathexis” is an imaginative diagnosis, the Department of Clinical Psychology at the Gouverneur Hospital tell me that it's not strictly
kosher.
You know what I mean?'