The Book of Names Read Free

cult had found the Book of Names. He was convinced of it.
    And all of the
Lamed Vovniks
listed in the ancient parchment were being killed, one by one. How many were left? Only God and the Gnoseos knew.
    Sighing, he turned to the talismans arrayed on his desk. Some he understood. Some he did not. He picked them up, one by one, and stuffed them back inside the cracked leather satchel sitting open on his desk. His fingers ached from arthritis as he pulled the ancient volumes of the
Zohar
and the
Tanach
away from the bookshelf and spun the dial of the safe hidden behind them. Only when the lock clicked and the satchel was again securedwithin the fireproof metal did he pick up his worn Book of Psalms and shuffle toward the door.
    His long silver beard quivered as his lips moved in prayer.
    Dear God, give us the strength and the knowledge to stop the evil ones.
    Beneath his desk, the tiny microphone carried his prayer.
    But not to God.

CHAPTER TWO
    GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY
WASHINGTON, D.C.
    When David Shepherd walked into Houligan’s Bar after teaching his morning classes, the only things on his mind were a pounding headache and the desperate need for nourishment. He’d been too wired to sleep last night after having hosted Tony Blair’s two-day visit to the campus. Blair’s address had brought the students to their feet and the afterglow at Dean Myer’s had lasted until nearly one.
    Blair’s visit had been considered a coup on his part, but really it was only luck. David had met the British statesman seven months ago when he’d been invited to present a seminar at Oxford. Following the seminar he’d been feted at a dinner at Boisdale of Belgravia, and Blair, seated across from him, had complimented him on his latest book,
Empowering the Nations: The Struggle for Peace in an Era of Nuclear Proliferation.
    They’d exchanged e-mails, and to his surprise, the statesman had accepted his invitation to speak at Georgetown.
    The visit had been a huge success but this morning had been pure hell. He’d floundered, sleepless, until four in the morning, snored through the alarm, and then rushed in lateto deliver his 8 A.M . lecture. There hadn’t even been time to gulp some Tylenol, much less grab a power drink from the fridge. He hadn’t even shaved, he’d only taken time to jump in the shower and to slick back his thick dark hair.
    â€œDave, what gives?” He recognized Tom McIntyre’s nasal voice above the din. Tom waved him over from two tables away.
    â€œFor Myer’s golden boy, you sure look down in the mouth. Did your pal Tony have you contemplating the state of the world a little too deeply last night?”
    The balding assistant professor with whom David shared an office in the poli-sci department signaled to the waitress across the room. Also single and in his mid-thirties, Tom was a brilliant sparring partner and one of the most popular professors on campus. Each semester Tom kept a running check on which of them filled up their classes first. David sensed more than friendly competition in the way Tom tried to needle him, but as the son of a U.S. senator, David had grown up surrounded by politics and was immune to it.
    He usually shrugged off Tom’s need to be top dog—except when the two of them took their annual rock-climbing trip out west. Tom was a good guy and a hell of a climber and excelled in the one area where David enjoyed competition—pitting himself against man and nature, testing himself against the cliffs.
    With a groan, David folded his long muscular body into a hardbacked chair opposite Tom.
    His office mate hoisted a beer. “One of these might cure what ails you.”
    â€œAnd a sledgehammer might knock this headache loose.” David forced a smile. “You happen to have one of those handy?”
    Tom’s attention had already shifted away, his gazefastened on the TV screen above the bar. “Chicken Little was right, my