The Book of Names Read online

  Praise for

  THE BOOK OF NAMES

  “WATCH OUT, DAN BROWN. Intelligent suspense . . . combines the Kabbalah, tarot, and the forces of good and evil into a tense murder mystery . . . The Book of Names self-assuredly fulfills the requirements of the religious thriller.”

  —The Economist

  “Relentless and riveting, The Book of Names speeds you across continents and centuries in the ultimate seductive read. From fascinating characters to real-life legends, this debut ranks as unforgettable.”

  —Gayle Lynds, New York Times

  bestselling author of The Last Spymaster

  “The Book of Names grabs you on page one and doesn’t let you go. Weaving together the Kabbalah, the tarot, and the forces of good and evil, this chilling thriller has a self-assured voice and all the right elements to make for a nonstop, nail-biting read.”

  —M. J. Rose, international bestselling author of

  The Reincarnationist

  “Convincing characters and a rapidly moving plot combine to create an enjoyable religious thriller.”

  —Library Journal

  “Intricately plotted historical suspense . . . an intriguing synthesis of Jewish mysticism and modern murder mystery. A swift, intelligent thriller.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  THE BOOK

  OF NAMES

  Jill Gregory

  and Karen Tintori

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE BOOK OF NAMES

  Copyright © 2007 by Jill Gregory and Karen Tintori.

  Cover photo © Charles O’Rear / Corbis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006050600

  ISBN: 0-312-35473-8

  EAN: 978-0-312-35473-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / January 2007

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / February 2008

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my precious family—my wonderful husband, Larry, and my incredible daughter, Rachel

  And to the memory of my beloved parents

  With love always

  —JG

  To my gemstones—my brilliant husband, Lawrence, my rock-solid sons, Steven and Mitchel, and the glowing daughter Mitch brought us, Leslie

  —KT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The inspiration for The Book of Names goes back fifteen years. It was sparked by Geri Levit, who first shared with us the legend of the Lamed Vovniks.

  Many others have inspired and taught us during the writing of this book. We acknowledge them with appreciation and gratitude: Rosemary Ahern, Rabbi Jonathan Berkun, Rabbi Lauren Berkun, Jean Donnelly, Myrna Dosie, Ruthe Goldstein, Larry Greenberg, Rachel Greenberg, Charlotte Hughes, Lawrence Katz, Mitchel Katz, Leslie Katz, Steven Katz, Irving Koppel, Dr. Patti Nakfoor, Claudia Scroggins, Rae Ann Sharfman, Haim Sidor, the Safed Foundation, Rabbi Elimelech Silberberg, Rabbi Dr. Shlomo Sowilowsky, Jennifer Weiss, Rebecca Weiss, and Marianne Willman.

  We are deeply grateful for the support and enthusiasm of three special women—our phenomenal editor, Nichole Argyres, and our dedicated agents, Ellen Levine and Sally Wofford-Girand.

  The world must contain not less than thirty-six righteous people who are blessed by the Shekhinah (God’s presence).

  —RABBI ABBAYE, TALMUD

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  PROLOGUE

  JANUARY 7, 1986

  SAQQARA, EGYPT

  Two men shoveled the sand under cover of darkness. Their only light in the cave was a lantern set beside their packs. This series of caves and tombs, fifteen miles from Cairo, was a treasure trove of artifacts and antiquities. For three thousand years, Saqqara, the City of the Dead, had been the burial place of kings and commoners—archaeologists might spend several lifetimes and never discover all of its secrets. And neither would the tomb robbers.

  Sir Rodney Davis, knighted for discovering the temple of Akhenaton and its dazzling treasures, felt the familiar tug of excitement. They were close. He knew it. He could almost feel the crisp papyri in his hands.

  The Book of Names. Part of it. All of it. He didn’t know. He only knew that it was here. It had to be here.

  The same tingle of exhilaration had coursed through him on the hill of Ketef Hinnom in Israel the night he unearthed the gold scepter of King Solomon. Topped by a thumb-sized pomegranate carved of ivory and inscribed in tiny Hebrew script, it was the first artifact found intact to link the biblical king of the tenth century B.C. to the fortifications recently discovered there. But unearthing the Book of Names would dwarf that and every other discovery. It would ensure his place in history.

  He trusted his instincts. They were like a divining rod pulling him toward matchless treasure. And tonight, in the sands where ancient kings had walked, Sir
Rodney dug on, fueled by the lust of discovery, the thrill of uncovering what no one had seen since the days of angels and chariots.

  Beside him, Raoul threw aside his shovel and reached for his water canteen. He drank deeply.

  “Take a break, Raoul. You started an hour before me.”

  “You’re the one who should rest, sir. They’ve been here all these millennia, they’ll wait for us another three or four hours.”

  Sir Rodney paused and glanced over at the man who had been his loyal assistant for nearly a dozen years. How old had Raoul LaDouceur been when he’d started? Sixteen, seventeen? He was the most tireless worker Sir Rodney had ever seen. A reserved, dignified young man distinguished by his olive Mediterranean coloring and deep-set eyes—one the color of sapphires, the other the deep mahogany of Turkish coffee beans.

  “I’ve been waiting half my life for this discovery, my friend. What is an additional hour’s work at this point?” He shoveled another load of sand from the cave floor. Raoul watched in silence for a moment, then recapped his canteen and took up his own shovel.

  They worked for more than an hour, the stillness broken only by the sound of their own labored breathing and the soft thud of shovel against sand. Suddenly, a chinking sound froze Sir Rodney’s hand. He dropped to his knees, his weariness forgotten, and began to brush the sand aside with his long, calloused fingers. Raoul knelt beside him, shared excitement racing through his veins.

  “The lantern, Raoul,” Sir Rodney said softly as his hands rounded the curved sides of the clay vessel embedded in the sand. With small, careful rocking motions, he freed it.

  Behind him Raoul lowered the lantern, the light revealing a roll of parchment tucked within the vessel’s mouth.

  “Good God, this could be it.” Sir Rodney’s hand actually trembled as he drew the papyri from their hiding place.

  Raoul rushed to unroll the tarp and stood back while his mentor unrolled the yellowed sheaves across it. Both of them recognized the early Hebrew script and knew what they had found.

  Sir Rodney bent closer, peering at the minute letters, his heart racing. The greatest find of his career was here beneath his fingertips.

  “By God, Raoul, this could change the world.”

  “Indeed, sir. It certainly could.”

  Raoul set the lantern down at the edge of the canvas. He stepped back, one hand slipping into his pocket. Silently, he withdrew the coiled length of wire. His hands were steady as he snared Sir Rodney’s neck in the garrote. The archaeologist couldn’t even squeak.

  It was over in a flash. With one movement, Raoul yanked him away from the precious parchments and snapped his neck.

  The old man was right as usual, he mused as he gathered up the papyri. This find would change the world.

  Raoul was too elated by his victory to notice the amber gemstone nestled at the bottom of the vessel left behind.

  Carved upon it were three Hebrew letters.

  JANUARY, 7, 1986

  HARTFORD HOSPITAL, CONNECTICUT

  Dr. Harriet Gardner was slumped on the lumpy armless couch in the hospital lounge contemplating her first bite of food in twelve hours when her beeper summoned her right back to the ER.

  Chomping at the apple, she raced down the hallway. This has to be a bad one, she thought, or Ramirez would be handling it on his own. She tossed the half-eaten apple in the wastebasket as she pounded past it, wondering if this was a car crash or a fire. She burst through the white metal doors to find three trauma teams working at warp speed. There were three kids on gurneys, one of them screaming. Five minutes ago the only sounds in this wing had been the quiet murmur of monitors, the periodic whoosh of blood pressure cuffs, and the occasional whimper of the five-year-old in bay six waiting for X-ray to confirm a broken leg.

  Now paramedics and police swarmed the ER, and the surgical resident, Ramirez, was shoving an endo tube down a teenage girl’s throat.

  “Get that kid up to CT stat,” he yelled to Ozzie, as the male nurse jockeyed a boy on a blood-soaked gurney toward the elevator. The teenager lay unmoving, his leg twisted at an impossible angle. There was a gash over his right eye and blood dripped from both ears.

  “What do we have?” Harriet flew to the boy in the #18 Celtics jersey, and Teresa, the intern on rotation, stepped aside. The boy’s jersey had been cut apart up the center, revealing a bloody chest.

  “They fell off a roof,” a paramedic answered. “A three-story drop with a gable in the way.”

  Kids. “Get some blood gasses over here,” Harriet bit out. “And a stat portable chest X-ray” Even after three years in the ER her stomach still dropped when she had to work on kids.

  Get over it, she told herself, as she peered at the monitor. His pulse was 130, blood pressure 80/60.

  This kid was in trouble.

  “This one is Senator Shepherd’s son.” Doshi wheeled the oxygen tank to the head of the gurney. “And the kid Ozzie took to CT is the son of the Swiss ambassador.”

  “What’s this boy’s name?”

  Doshi peered at the chart. “David. David Shepherd.”

  Harriet frowned at David Shepherd’s battered upper body. “Looks like flail chest, broken clavicle, dropped lung.”

  Deftly, Doshi inserted a plastic oxygen tube into his trachea. “The others have been drifting in and out, but he hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  The cuff whooshed again. Harriet’s gaze swung to the monitor. The kid’s blood pressure was dropping like a rock.

  Shit.

  UNITED NATIONS, NEW YORK CITY

  Thunderous applause rang through the room as Secretary-General Alberto Ortega concluded his remarks to the assembled nations. Smiling, Ortega made his way through the diplomats, shaking hands and accepting congratulations on the adoption of the Amendment of the Slavery Convention first signed in Geneva in 1926. His long-lidded gaze roamed the room and at last fell upon the familiar figure of his attaché.

  Ortega’s expression didn’t change, not even when Ricardo slid through the throng and slipped a folded scrap of paper into his palm.

  Once inside his own office, away from the noise and the press of bodies, he locked the carved oak door and unfolded the yellow square of paper. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the message.

  LaDouceur bagged a prime specimen. The hunt goes on.

  HARTFORD HOSPITAL, CONNECTICUT

  Nothing hurts anymore. David gazed down at his body on the hospital gurney and was startled to see so much blood on his chest. Five . . . six . . . seven . . . there were so many people leaning over him. . . so much commotion. . . why didn’t they just leave him alone . . . let him sleep?

  Now Crispin was walking toward him. Strange, there was no floor under his feet either.

  As he reached David’s side they both looked down and noticed that the activity in the ER had reached a fever pitch.

  David heard someone call his name, but at the same time Crispin pointed upward toward a brilliant light.

  “Isn’t that incredible?”

  Yeah, David thought. It is. Even more fantastic than the Northern Lights I saw last summer.

  Crispin started toward the light and he followed. Suddenly the dazzling brightness enveloped them. They were inside it, drifting down a long tunnel. A still more brilliant light glowed ahead and they quickened their pace.

  David felt so peaceful now, so exhilarated. So safe.

  Suddenly he saw movement within the lustrous aura ahead and a strange murmur began pulsing through the luminous silence. Crispin dropped back, hovering where he stopped, but David was pulled closer, as if a giant magnet was tugging him.

  And then his mouth dropped open.

  The murmur became a roar, filling his head. Before him he saw faces. Blurry, begging faces. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

  Oh, God. Who are they?

  He heard a long scream. It seemed a millennium before he recognized it was his own voice.

  “We’re losing him. Code blue!” Harriet yelled.

  Do
shi positioned the paddles over David’s chest. “All clear!” she warned. And then she zapped him.

  “Again!” Harriet ordered. Bending over the dark-haired kid, Harriet felt perspiration bead along her upper lip. “David, come back here. David! Listen to me now. Come back!”

  Doshi stood by with the paddles ready as Harriet frowned at the monitor. Still in V-Fib. A heartbeat away from flatlining. Damn it.

  “Doshi—again!”

  Three hours later Dr. Harriet Gardner finished her paperwork. Some day. It started with a thirty-five-year-old female with a heart attack and a toddler with the tines of a fork embedded in his forehead. It ended with three kids who’d risked their lives on an icy winter afternoon climbing a fucking roof.

  One got off with only a bruised larynx and a broken arm.

  One had shattered his right femur and was locked deep in a coma.

  And one she had barely snatched back from the jaws of death. She wondered if he’d seen the light.

  Sighing, Dr. Harriet Gardner shoved the files across the nurses’ counter and went home to feed her dog.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ATHENS, GREECE

  NINETEEN YEARS EATER

  Raoul LaDouceur hummed as he opened the trunk of his rented Jaguar. As he slid the rifle from beneath a plaid wool ski blanket, he became aware that his stomach was grumbling. Well, not for long. He’d spotted an open air taverna some ten miles back and had a sudden irresistible yen for a platter of braised lamb shanks and a glass of ouzo.

  He checked his watch. There should be time. He’d already dispatched the two security guards and rolled their bodies down the hillside. He was ahead of schedule and still had five hours before he had to return the rental car and fly back to London to await his next assignment. Time enough even for two glasses of ouzo.

  He walked purposefully through the olive grove, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Despite his sunglasses, he was aware of the waning, still-hot Mediterranean sun. He preferred to do his work in darkness.