The Promise

By David R Spiegel

A priest in King Solomon's Jerusalem temple is desperately trying to save two mysterious artifacts that are connected to the sacred religious rites of ancient Israel and its All Mighty powerful God. 

 

When a celestial messenger appears, he agrees to give the artifacts to her in exchange for a seemingly benevolent promise.

 

Now, in modern day United States, three people—two men and a woman—must deal with the promise's unintended consequences and a life and death prophecy that affects each of them and the world in which they live. The lives of this threesome collide and are forever changed in this action-driven novel which combines themes of love, deception, betrayal, and redemption into a riveting story.

 

If you like religious and legal thrillers with page-turning suspense, memorable characters, and unexpected plot twists, you'll love David R Spiegel's debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shomer Press
• Release date: Jun 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393460480

Book preview

Prelude

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Jerusalem, Israel—586 BCE

Abiashalom stared at the young woman who had just entered the sanctuary. To his shock, she was approaching him without any concern for the fires consuming everything around them.

Clutched in the old priest’s gnarled fingers was a pouch. Inside it were two jewels that were engraved on their sides with the Hebraic letters spelling Elokim, the name of the mysterious, all-powerful Master of the Universe.

י * ה * ו * ה

The jewels, known as the urim and thummin, or simply the urim, were all that remained of the sacred objects in the building in which Abiashalom was now trapped—the temple that the great Israelite King, Solomon, had dedicated more than three centuries earlier. Before setting fire to the building, the soldiers of the Babylonian monarch, Nebuchadnezzar, had plundered everything else. However, in their orgy of destruction, they had overlooked Abiashalom, who had been huddled against a far wall of the sanctuary. Nor had they seen him scoop up the pouch with the urim, desperately trying to protect at least one holy object from the nightmare that was engulfing everything else.

Who are you? Abiashalom tried to keep his voice from trembling.

A messenger from Elokim.

Although the young woman was now standing directly in front of him—so close that he could reach out to touch her and beg for mercy—he was too terrified to do anything so bold. Still, there was something about her that gave him a flicker of hope. In the iconography of the Temple, messengers from Elokim were depicted as old, wizened figures dressed in majestic robes. But the woman in front of him was no older than his 18-year-old granddaughter and was dressed in the simple, dark gray tunic that many pilgrims wore when they arrived at the Temple.

Do you have a name?

You can think of me as a shomer.

Was this some sort of cruel joke? Shomers were watchmen or guardians. But what was left to watch or guard? Everything that mattered was in flames.

There’s nothing left to protect, shomer.

Yes, there is. The woman pointed to the priest’s clenched hands. There’s no need for you to hide the pouch you’re holding any longer. It’s time for you to hand it to me.

The woman’s voice was gentle. But Abiashalom was unsure whether to trust her. The urim and thummin were sacred objects that only the High Priest of the Temple, the Kohan Gadol, was permitted to touch. Because they linked users directly to Elokim and endowed them with godlike powers, including the ability to foresee and manipulate future events, only a very special individual such as the High Priest was permitted to touch them. Did he dare turn the pouch over to her? Maybe this seemingly gentle woman who called herself a shomer was actually an evil demon in disguise.

Why just the urim? Surely there are other more sacred objects here worthy of your attention. Abiashalom pointed to the burning arc in the middle of the room which housed the sacred tablets Elokim gave to Moses on Mount Sinai.

The ways of Hashem are mysterious, Abiashalom. What I can tell you is the urim will be a symbol for future generations as potent as anything in this great temple. Just as they have been a way for you to prove your own worthiness by saving them today, they will also be a way for those generations to prove their own worthiness.

The idea of anything meaningful surviving a catastrophe like this seemed absurd. But the young woman’s reference to future generations gave Abiashalom a desperate idea—a kind of test to validate whether she was the guardian angel she claimed to be.

I have a young grandson named Ezra, shomer. He has been living with me since his family died three years ago in a plague. If he is alive, he may be the last link to the priesthood.

The heat from the flames was making the old priest feel faint. Still, he summoned the strength to persist.

You said that I have done a worthy act today. I don’t know if I have or haven’t. But as a doomed man, I beg you to grant this last request. Please promise to watch over him and his progeny. Give them a chance to be guides for the future generations about which you speak.

The promise you are asking me to make will have unexpected consequences, Abiashalom. It will create challenges that involve your descendants, as well as the lives of others. Are you sure this is what you want?

My grandson can be stubborn and difficult. But in the end, I know he will make good choices. He will lead a life worthy of a kohanite. Yes, I am sure.

And what about the generations after him? His children? His children’s children? Human behavior is not predictable, Abiashalom.

Odd. In spite of the shomer’s resistance, he sensed a hesitation in her voice, as if she was actually considering his request.

I can only tell you what I know, shomer.

I must ask you again, Abiashalom. Are you absolutely certain you want this?

Was he really sure? During the long siege of Jerusalem, Abiashalom had witnessed horrifying behavior that he never would have thought possible—cannibalism, theft, prostitution—desperate acts by people whose lives had previously been above reproach. How could he be certain about what kind of man his 12-year-old grandson would become or about what would happen to the generations from Ezra’s seed, if indeed there were such generations? Perhaps his request was a dreadful mistake.

All I want is for us to have a chance, he murmured, as he put the pouch in her hands.

Was it his blurred vision? His imagination? The woman standing in front of him was no longer a youthful pilgrim. Like him, her hair was gray, and her face was wrinkled and pock-marked. It was as if the burden of taking on his request had suddenly aged her.

A Slam Dunk Case

Chapter 1

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Brooklyn, NY—Thursday Morning, July 22

Present Day

What the hell had just happened? Who was she?

Everett Thorne rubbed the side of his head. When he took his hand away, he could feel the blood from his wound trickling down his fingers. No surprise. The tattooed asshole with the metal pipe had caught him from behind, and he hadn’t had a chance to use his martial arts skills to deflect the blow.

He was still in the same place—a decrepit underpass that circled below New York City’s Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Overhead, a broken fluorescent light continued to buzz noisily, casting its sallow glow on the broken pavement of the roadway and the detritus around it. But his calculations about what to do next and how to extricate himself safely had changed dramatically.

The three employees that had been traveling with him and the group of teenage gangsta wannabes that had attacked them while they were trying to push the SUV from a pothole in the roadway were all gone. In their place was just one old woman. Clutched in her hands was the pouch containing the two dice-shaped antiquities he had been transporting in a locked steel case in the SUV.

Everett and his employees had mistakenly taken the wrong exit off the BQE, made their way through a run-down neighborhood near the BQE, and attempted to re-enter the aging highway through the underpass. Unfortunately, the GPS hadn’t taken into account the broken pavement that made the roadway of the underpass seem more like something you would find in a third world country. The teenagers and their tattooed leader had surprised them while they were trying to push the right front wheel of the van out of a pothole.

Mine, Everett said, pointing to the pouch the old lady was holding. He kept his voice calm and even. As he had learned from his military experience as a Special Forces commander, when you’re in a challenging situation, it was always necessary to show no fear, to act as if you were the person in charge.

How the pouch had wound up in the old lady’s hands was a mystery. The last Everett remembered, the bare-chested, tattooed leader of the kids who had attacked them was trying to smash open the lock of the security case containing the antiquities. But one thing at a time. First, the pouch—then he’d deal with everything else.

The woman did not react.

Was she playing dumb? Was there a communication issue? The woman’s hair was gray with wisps of it falling on her neck, which was bent forward like that of a crane. But it was hard to get a precise fix on her age because of the dim lighting. In spite of the mid-summer heat—even this early in the morning, the temperature was probably already in the mid-80s—she was wearing an ill-fitting gray coat that looked like a Salvation Army throwaway. Probably, she was a homeless scavenger who had somehow blundered into the underpass during the time he had been unconscious from the blow to his head and had no understanding about what she was holding. If he reached out, he could take the pouch from her, whether she resisted or not. All the same, given the strange circumstances, Everett decided to proceed cautiously.

Do you understand? I want you to give the pouch to me.

Everett spoke slowly and deliberately, pointing to the pouch again in case the woman didn’t understand.

You think I’m silent because I don’t understand you?

To Everett’s surprise, her voice was strong and self-assured.

Well, now that we’re communicating, hand them to me.

Was the bitch screwing with his mind? There was a faint blue glow coming from the mouth of the pouch.

Are you really sure you want them? she asked.

Of course, I’m sure.

The antiquities in the pouch had been lifted from an archeological dig in the Sinai Desert. Because of Everett’s expertise and money laundering skills involving stolen mid-Eastern antiquities—an expertise that included familiarity with ancient Semitic cultures and languages—his clients had asked him to provide an evaluation. Although Everett had transitioned to more lucrative money laundering ventures, he had agreed. Over the years, these clients had brought him a good deal of business. If nothing else, the assignment was good for business relations. He had been on his way to a meeting with the clients in downtown Brooklyn’s Dumbo Section when Tattoos and his gang had ambushed the SUV.

Hand them to me now, Everett repeated.

He slid his Glock semi-automatic from his hidden side holster and pointed it at her. The gang of teenage misfits had somehow missed the gun when they searched him.

The woman shrugged.

Is that really necessary?

I’ll decide that.

I’m merely trying to protect you.

I think it’s you who needs the protection.

Sometimes things are not what they appear to be.

Was it her lack of concern? Her choice of words? A weird thought suddenly crossed Everett’s mind: I’ve encountered her before.

Ordinarily, Everett was highly skilled at placing people, even if they had played a minor part in his life. He could remember in detail the circumstances under which he had met them, what they had said, what he had told them, and his impressions of their strengths and weaknesses. But with this old lady, all that came to mind was a memory about a Special Forces mission in Afghanistan during which there had been an ambush, everything had seemed hopeless, and yet, somehow, he had been able to lead his men to safety. No way the association made any sense.

In addition, something else was troubling him. The light from the pouch was now so bright, he was having difficulty even seeing the woman. All he could make out were the markings on the sides of the two stones:

י * ה * ו * ה

When Everett had examined the stones earlier, they had no glow at all. His clients had told him there was a theory circulating in Israeli circles that—based on the dice-like shape of the stones and the markings on their sides—they might be sacred objects connected with religious practices of ancient Israel. However, Everett’s earlier examination indicated this was wishful thinking. The markings on the stones’ sides were too indistinct to draw any conclusions, and the shape of the stones, reminiscent of lots used by the Delphic Oracle of Ancient Greece, was common to several cultures. In the meeting with the clients, he had been planning to return the stones and tell them his opinion was that they had no significant value.

Was he hallucinating? The whole thing made no sense. The four letters he was seeing now were Hebraic. He was familiar with the Hebraic alphabet from his past dealings with Mid-Eastern antiquities. If placed in their proper order, the letters spelled the sacred name assigned to God in the Bible—a name so special, so awe-inspiring and holy, that ancient Israelites, as well as many religious modern Jews, felt it should not be pronounced.

Whatever was going on, it was time to end the nonsense with the old lady and take back the stones.

Reaching out with his free hand, Everett grabbed the pouch. To his surprise, the woman made no effort to stop him.

Like taking candy from a baby. Or was it?

The burst of light from the pouch was so overwhelming, Everett was momentarily blinded. When his vision cleared, everything had changed again. Instead of the underpass, he was in an entirely new place—a spacious studio with a skylight that appeared to be a working area for an artist.

Was the old bitch screwing with his mind again?

In her place, there were four people. Two of them, Everett immediately recognized: Sean Briggs, one of the three employees accompanying him in the SUV, and Leslie Shelton, an art professor at UCLA. The other two—a short, thin man in his late thirties and a teenager—were a government lawyer who had been asked to help out in a case and his son, who was at a summer camp near the studio-like room.

On an objective level, it made no sense that these four people were in the room together. Briggs and Shelton had never met, and they traveled in entirely separate worlds. The lawyer and his son were complete strangers. All the same, Everett was certain there was a deeper meaning to what he was seeing—a meaning that involved the two stones and affected him on a real and personal level. The stones were not simply the potentially valuable artifacts that his clients had asked him to evaluate. They had mysterious, godlike powers that he and he alone was entitled to possess. But in order to possess them, he would have to deal with each of the four people.

Everett squeezed the trigger of his Glock. Around him, he heard screams—someone pleading for mercy. Never mind. He kept shooting until the magazine of his gun was empty.

But he was no longer in the studio. Instead, he was back in the underpass. Scattered around him were the lifeless bodies of the six gangsta wannabes who had been assisting Tattoos during the ambush of the van.

As for the three employees who were accompanying Everett in the van, the two who mattered most—his business manager, Sean Briggs and his chief security officer, Mustaf Dragovic—were OK. The third employee, the driver of the van, was another story. One of the shots in the fire fight had struck his carotid artery and his bloody body lay crumpled near the front right tire of the van.

Anybody see an old lady? Everett asked.

You got to be kidding. Sean looked at Everett incredulously. Only thing I saw were these assholes.

How about the tattooed guy that was leading them?

Mustaf Dragovic grunted and motioned toward a mutilated body lying near the left front tire of the van, his face locked in a frozen scream. Mustaf had slit his larynx with the knife that he concealed in the holster on his leg. Then he had carved up the boy’s body like a prize slice of meat, insuring that his death would be as painful as possible. Everett would have preferred something less demonstrative, like a bullet in the head. But the excess was understandable. When his gang had first surrounded them, Tattoos had made the mistake of taunting Mustaf about the purple scars on his neck and arms—remnants of an aborted terrorism mission involving an incendiary device. This was the payback.

The steel case with the pouch that contained the two antiquities was lying on the ground next to the passenger side door of the van. The lock was dented, but unopened. When Everett unlocked the case and examined the contents of the pouch, he saw that the two antiquities looked the same as they did when he examined them earlier. They had no luster, nor were there any Hebrew letters on their sides. As for the old lady—there was no sign of her.

Had he imagined his interaction with her? Maybe yes. Maybe no. He’d think about that later. The critical thing was to take charge and prioritize. That had always been his forte—the skill set that had always served him so effectively, whether it was a combat situation or a business deal. The main priority, for the moment, was getting out of danger and minimizing the danger that he and his employees would be linked to the deaths of the six kids.

Wrap Grey’s body in the oil cloth in the back of the van, he commanded Sean. Jim Grey was the driver of the van. After you drop me off, you and Mustaf dispose of it.

What about the kids?

Forget them. Everett looked at the carnage around them. There’s no way in hell we can clean up this mess.

They had been lucky so far. The underpass was deserted, and the neighborhood around it consisted of burnt out old buildings. The sounds of early morning truck traffic on the roadway overhead had probably masked the shooting. It was essential that they push the van out of the pothole and depart as quickly as possible.

Somebody would eventually discover the bodies, and there would probably be a criminal forensics investigation. However, because of the firearms in the teenagers’ possession, the cops would probably chalk up the deaths of the kids to a drug or gang turf fight. As for Tattoos, Dragovic’s statement with his knife might wind up helping them by giving the crime scene the flavor of a revenge killing.

Grey was another story. Everett had hired him six months earlier, after an investigation that indicated he was a loner who had drifted through a succession of jobs. Ordinarily, Grey performed minor administrative tasks. His inclusion this morning had been a last-minute thing. As collateral damage, he was clearly the most expendable of the four of them. Even though it was unlikely anyone would miss Grey, Everett could not risk leaving his employee’s body at the crime scene. It was a potential red flag that might lead back to him.

As for the weirdness in the underpass with the old lady, he was starting to doubt that it had actually happened. As the SUV made its way past the government office buildings of downtown Brooklyn’s Cadman Plaza, the neighborhood adjacent to Dumbo, all that seemed real to him was the empty magazine of his Glock, Grey’s body in the rear of the van, and the carnage left behind in the underpass. In the stress of a combat situation, you sometimes conflate what is actually happening with images or associations that are not real. He had probably imagined the interaction with the old woman and the room with the four people.

All the same, Everett couldn’t shake the feeling that the two innocuous-looking stones in the pouch were far more valuable than he had first thought. At the very least, he would have someone else look at them. His clients would undoubtedly be annoyed about the delay. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

Chapter 2

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Los Angeles—Thursday Evening, July 22

Michael Feinstein, acting Chief Litigation Counsel for the Federal Consumer Agency—FCA, to the outside world—looked out the window of the conference room in the agency’s Westwood Office. During daylight hours, the window offered a panoramic view of the UCLA campus, the multimillion-dollar homes of West Los Angeles, and in the distance, the Hollywood Hills. But now that it was night, the only thing Michael could make out were the lights of nearby buildings.

Unfortunately, the late hour hadn’t had any effect on Neil Radich, lead counsel in the FCA’s about-to-be-filed ArtScam case. Oblivious to the fact that Michael was no longer looking at him and the other person in the room, ArtScam’s second chair, Mary Chen, was looking impatiently at her watch, Neil was on another of his riffs. This time, the subject was the travel plans of the expert witness.

It’s no big deal. Neil waved his hands in exasperation, as if the issue was so trivial it wasn’t even worth mentioning. Eldridge Ding will be in France for only two months. We don’t need somebody else filling in.

Seems like a big deal to me, Michael interrupted. After six hours of Neil’s harangues, he was losing patience. The way I understand it, he’s leaving four weeks after we file ArtScam. Plus, he’s going to some conference in Canada next weekend.

Four and a half weeks. He was planning to leave on a Monday. I talked him into staying until the weekend. And the conference in Canada is only four days.

Shirt untucked, mop of brown hair flopping from side to side as he paced the room, Neil reminded Michael of a dog that couldn’t stop yapping. Citing Neil’s Ivy League education and the master’s degree in philosophy he had obtained at Columbia before attending Harvard Law School, Neil’s boss, Joe Dweck—the head of the LA Regional Office—had characterized him as a Renaissance Man. Loose cannon was a better description.

Suppose everything doesn’t go as smoothly as you anticipate and we need to reach him.

We’ll contact him by video. Reaching him in Canada will be a piece of cake. He’ll be in Montreal.

What about France? Do you even know if there’s video conferencing where he’s staying in France?

I’ll find out.

How about the fact that France is nine time zones later than LA?

We’ll work it out.

Based on the frown on Mary’s face, Michael guessed that she had a different opinion. Even though he was curious what it was—during the six hours the three of them had been together, she had exhibited far more litigation sense than Neil—he decided not to solicit it. There had already been enough tension between the two of them and he didn’t need any more. He was merely babysitting ArtScam—temporarily filling in because Joe Dweck was undergoing emergency surgery for a detached retina.

If everything went as planned, in three days, a federal district court judge would issue an emergency order. The order would halt the deceptive practices of the FCA’s targets—an Orange County telemarketer that was selling bogus original art prints as can’t-miss, auction-ready investments, and the telemarketer’s supplier, the owner of an art gallery on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. The order would give the FCA authority to freeze cash assets of the telemarketer and seize relevant evidence, including the fake art, without prior notice to the defendants. Michael’s job was to shepherd the case through this search and seizure process so that his agency could then hold a triumphant press conference touting the case’s success.

Neil, explain to me again what you have against Professor Leslie Shelton.

Shelton was the fill-in Mary had recommended while Eldridge Ding was away. She had also been the alternate candidate for the ArtScam expert position.

Eldridge says she’s an academic who has no real understanding of Nada.

She’s a 34-year-old professor who’s written a book that profiles leading artists of the twentieth century, including Nada. Isn’t that enough understanding?

Eldridge was an intimate confidant of Nada during his final years. He edited the official catalogue of Nada’s works.

Neil rolled his eyes, as if the point he was making was so obvious, it was not even worth discussing.

Did you at least interview her?

I didn’t think it was necessary. We had already hired Eldridge.

Any other local possibilities besides Shelton?

Not really, Mary cut in. The other candidates were all on the East Coast. Shelton was the only other viable possibility.

We’ve already settled this. Neil’s face was red. She wasn’t viable.

That’s your opinion, Neil.

It doesn’t matter whose opinion it is. It’s a done deal.

Mary started to say something, then stopped. Clearly, there was a back story to the exchange. But, again, this was not the time to press for it.

OK, Neil. Here’s what I want to happen over the weekend. I want a backup in place. The way I see it, Shelton is definitely worth an interview. But if Eldridge insists on vetoing her, tell him I want another name pronto.

He’s not going to like that. He prefers to work alone.

I don’t give a damn what he likes or doesn’t like. He’s the one who scheduled the trip to France. Make it your top priority. And get back to me as soon as possible.

It was a quarter to nine and Michael had had enough of Neil for one day. He had just texted Woody Holmes, the investigator assigned to ArtScam, that he would be 30 minutes late for their dinner engagement and he didn’t want to be any later.

It’s going to be a long week, Michael said as he, Neil, and Mary parted in the lobby of the building. Let’s try to remember: we’re all on the same team.

Were they? Based on Neil’s perfunctory nod, Michael doubted it.

So, tell me, Feinstein, enjoying yourself yet?

FCA investigator, Woody Holmes, put down the slice of pizza he had been eating and stared at Michael with a bemused look.

I’ve had better days.

Very diplomatic. I would have said something a lot less pleasant.

Well, frankly, Woody, I find it easier arguing with my teenaged son about whether I’ll let him get a Learner’s Permit so that he can learn to drive next fall.

Having pried himself loose from Neil, Michael was finally enjoying himself, eating a delayed dinner with Woody at an Italian restaurant near his Santa Monica Hotel. Woody was an old acquaintance—a barrel-chested, straight-talking, retired NYPD detective—who still wore his New York City cultural identity as if it was a badge of honor.

Did I just hear you say that Scott is a teenager?

That’s right. He turned 15 in April. He starts high school in the fall. Right now, he’s at a basketball camp in Massachusetts because he wants to be the starting guard on his school’s team.

Jesus, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I guess it has.

When Woody and Michael first met, Michael was a novice prosecutor at the New York County District Attorney’s Office and Scott was just two years old. Notwithstanding their age difference—more than a decade and a half—their mutual affinity for opera, the New York Knicks, and Asian food had been the foundation for a long friendship. Shortly after Woody moved to LA following his retirement from the NYPD, he had reached out to Michael regarding federal job opportunities and Michael had recommended him for the chief investigator’s job in the FCA’s LA Regional Office.

Explain something to me, Woody. How did Neil wind up in charge of this case?

Back to business?

Afraid so. I need a better sense of what I’ve gotten myself into.

For the past hour, they had been mixing their discussion of work matters with catch-up about their personal lives.