He felt an increasing pressure to tell someone, and he knew who he must tell. After several days of leaving urgent messages (he plagued the answering machine with the determination of Jacob setting his sights on Rachel), the man finally returned his call. Aharon would not describe the situation on the phone: “For this, the eyes must see for themselves,” he insisted. Shimon Norowitz agreed to meet him in Jerusalem at a particularly good kosher deli.

Shimon Norowitz was not the excitable type. He was in his fifties, a onetime military officer, secular (no facial hair), but perhaps not completely irreligious. Aharon, because he needed the man, gave him the benefit of the doubt. Also, God works in mysterious ways: Norowitz truly loved Haman’s Deli on Jaffa Road, so it was excuse enough to drive all the way over from Tel Aviv. Even corned beef could have a greater purpose.

Aharon had sought a Mossad contact several years ago when he’d made his first big discovery in the code. He’d had no luck finding one until he learned that one of the boys in Aish HaTorah had a father in the government. Aharon had finagled an invitation to meet the father, and that was how he’d been put in touch with Shimon Norowitz, a man who might or might not head up the Mossad’s encryption department. Aharon was never able to get a straight answer on that point.

Over corned beef, Norowitz broached the topic: “So what do you have for me this time, Rabbi? Last time you were convinced Israel would come under nuclear attack from Syria. I believe the dates you pinpointed came and went last year, didn’t they?”

“The code also includes might-have-beens. That doesn’t mean that when a revelation falls into our lap we should not take the proper precautions or we should not pay attention.”

Shimon savored his corned beef, unmoved by this profundity. “And this time?”

Aharon looked stern so the man would take this seriously. “What I’m about to show you is the most important code discovery ever.”

“Good. Is that it?” Norowitz nodded at the binder. Corned beef juice dripped from his pinkie.

“What would you say if I told you that I have found four hundred arrays, all about the same subject?”

“I suppose it would depend on what the subject was. Four hundred arrays containing the name Moses wouldn’t be so remarkable. Those letters can be found in ELS a thousand times over.”

“Oh, yes,” Aharon scoffed, “if the name were Moses and if the other words in the arrays were made up of equally common letters. Would I bother you if that were the case?”

“So are you going to show me, Rabbi Handalman?”

“You must be prepared.”

“Believe me, I’m prepared.”

Aharon gave him a warning look: You only think you’re prepared. But he opened the binder and held it out. Norowitz released his sandwich to take the thing with both hands, but Aharon didn’t let him have it.

“Your hands,” he said. “This is Scripture.”

Norowitz, reddening, wiped his hands clear of corned beef juice and took the binder.

Aharon had planned to explain the whole thing. Who could resist such an opportunity? But his instinct now told him to let the binder tell its own tale. “If a word is worth one shekel, silence is worth two,” as the Talmud says.

Shimon turned pages, studying the arrays and their circled words intently. The binder was heavy. He pulled it onto his lap, moved back in his chair, propped the binder up against the edge of the deli table, and turned pages. Once or twice he wiped at his indecently clean upper lip. Aharon smiled smugly; he didn’t have to feel that finger to know it was as cold as ice.

After ten minutes, Shimon sat upright and closed the binder carefully on his lap. “Who is Yosef Kobinski?”

“You can see the dates for yourself in the arrays. He was a Polish rabbi, caught up in the Holocaust. He was also a physicist at the University of Warsaw from 1918 to 1927. He was also a kabbalist.”

Shimon looked quizzical, said nothing.

“But that’s a good question,” Aharon said emphatically. “Who is Yosef Kobinski? What weapon did he develop, Shimon Norowitz? Whatever it is, I think it is something the state of Israel should know about, lo?”

Shimon looked through the arrays some more, face pensive. “Do you know what he did at the University of Warsaw?”

“Exactly! I looked into it, but there was nothing. No atomic research at that time in Warsaw, and nothing about it in the arrays, either.”

“Is there anything else I should know about this?”

“That depends on what you plan to do.”

Norowitz sucked his teeth, thinking or maybe just collecting corned beef fragments. “If you get me a copy of these arrays, I’ll have one of my people take a look.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s not much to go on, Rabbi. And this word weapon—it must appear all over the Torah. It’s only three letters long.”

“ ‘Weapon of obliteration’—you think this is a fluke?”

“Don’t misunderstand me; I’m interested. You’ll continue to work on it, I hope. And keep us informed of your progress.” He hesitated a moment, then took out a notepad. “I’ll give you my direct line. If you find something important,” he looked up, emphasizing the word, “call me.”

Aharon took the proffered bit of paper, knowing this was not an inconsiderable concession. Before, he’d always had to go through the switchboard and was easily put off that way. A direct line: so now he was somebody? Still he wasn’t satisfied. He’d come feeling almost giddy with his discovery’s importance. Now anxiety was creeping back in.

“Listen,” he said, more confidentially. “I would appreciate some help on this. I—I’m not sure what else to do and I’m…” Norowitz was looking at him curiously. “So I’m a little frightened. This weapon, it has to mean something, and God has seen fit for me to find it and—”

“What is it you’d like me to do?” Norowitz handed back the binder and reclaimed his sandwich.

Aharon thought about it as he watched the beardless man gobble his food. His appetite, at least, was not disturbed by the arrays. Yes, he would like to advise Norowitz on what he should do, but he found he didn’t know. All this effort to get the man here and that he forgot to prepare.

“So I’ll keep working,” Aharon said.

5.4. Denton Wyle

“The copy,” the German said, “is nine pages long.”

Denton nodded, trying to keep himself from salivating. This was the first piece of manuscript Mother’s agent, Mr. Fleck, had uncovered. He’d promised that if any more of the manuscript was available for sale anywhere, he would find it. And he would, too. He would run it to ground like a terrier, because Denton had paid him a big fat retainer and he got a nice commission on everything Denton bought. Visions of The Book of Torment on bestseller lists danced in Denton’s head like sugar plum fairies.

Except the Frankfurt antiquities dealer, Uberstühl, had an expression that could only be described as sneaky. Denton didn’t care for it at all. He removed his coat, hoping it was just a vibe he was getting from the dingy, mothball-smelling shop.

“So you told my agent on the phone. May I see them?”

“This way, please.”

Uberstühl took Denton back to his private office where a computer sat on a plain wooden desk. Denton looked around, still smiling, wondering if he was about to be felt up or something. Uberstühl had a constipated expression.

“You know what it is we speak of, yes? You understand what the piece is?”

“Yes,” Denton said carefully. “A Xerox copy of nine pages of a Hebrew manuscript written in Auschwitz by Yosef Kobinski.”

“Richtig. Exactly.” Uberstühl glanced at his computer. Denton followed his gaze and saw that the man’s E-mail in-box was up on the screen.