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golem

The Golem Code: A Thriller By Gerald Rothberg

And it was Evening and it was Morning. Day One

Chapter 1

When Montana Greene awoke that morning a vaporous fog had rolled in on Prague like a wet corpse in a burial garment. He had been in this city all summer and yesterday completed work for his Ph.D. on the Kabbalah and the Myth of the Golem. But Montana Greene did not anticipate he was a suspect in the murder late last night of his professor. A phone call at seven from the U.S. Embassy would soon sink Montana’s life as he’d known it until then, into a vortex of chaos.

“Professor Augsburg collapsed at the Altneu Cemetery. I’m sending a car to your apartment. When you get to the embassy ask for Graham Shooter, that’s me.” The caller was a former U.S. Marine who kicked a crack-cocaine habit after coming home from the Iraq war, as he would later admit to Montana.

Montana slowly placed the phone on the coffee table and removed the white bath towel covering him, having just emerged from the shower, slid into white boxer shorts, khaki slacks and slipped his bare feet into brown loafers. He had eight hours before he was scheduled to board a plane back to New York. He recalled that Professor Augsburg told him yesterday, “If anything terrible happens to me, finish my work on the Golem of Prague. Find the creature’s true resting place, where the parchment with God’s holy name is hidden.”

“Is he OK?” Montana asked the caller.

“I’m sorry. He’s … dead.”

“I see. Oh, my God. ”

“Were you with him last night? Police will want to talk to you,“ Shooter said.

“Wouldn’t I have called the police, if I were with him?”

“They might suspect you.” Shooter’s voice was slow, and deliberate.

“Of what?”

“Of a crime?”

“What crime?”

“Professor Augsburg died running towards the cemetery gates. We need to talk. Be ready as fast as you can.” Shooter disconnected.

The chill in the studio apartment followed Montana as he walked with to his coffee maker in the small kitchen. It would be accurate to say Montana believed no one knows his day of death. “You don’t know your last day. What you do know is it’s only the next day,” his Grandpa Nathan had once told him. The thing about the young Montana’s relationship with his grandfather and at a time of turmoil in his early teenage life was that he soaked up these maxims into his moral vocabulary. He had never thought of it again, until now. Montana grabbed a mug, poured coffee he had brewed earlier, phoned information for the number of the U.S. Embassy and when Shooter got on, he said, “Just making sure I didn’t get a crank call.”

To his therapists and psychiatrist who prescribed Ritalin, the young Montana had been a dreamer, with a concurrent regression to attention deficit disorder. When the son of a theatrical agent mother and a Hollywood studio executive father, had arrived at Grandpa Nathan’s doorstep in New York from Beverly Hills, at twelve years old - later that year his parents’ marriage faltered, Nathan immediately had enrolled Montana in Manhattan’s Dalton School. Nathan had shown little tolerance for A.D.D and had weaned the boy off pills. “Strong habits and focus, that’s what’s important,” Nathan had told him. This had worked well for the young dreamer, who in subsequent years had gone on to Columbia University earning a bachelor and masters degrees and had joined the University staff as a lecturer in Kabbalah.

Montana was lean with a swimmer’s body, darkly handsome, with an urchin smile, big brown eyes exuding a lure and a perennial stubble of black beard. He was an efficient instructor of Kabbalah at Columbia University in New York, and at forty-one years old in the prime of his life. When there was a podium, Montana was in his element. On the last day of class at Columbia University, before summer vacation last semester, two coeds sitting in the back row of Lakey Hall had raised a banner, We Want To Bare Your Children. Two hundred and ninety-nine students filled the auditorium on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays for Montana Greene’s lectures on Kabbalah, earning the students three academic credits.

“I’m aware most of you need to fulfill the requirements for your degree. I know many of you considered this course an easy A,” he had told the class. “Be that as it may, we’ve begun to learn, to study, to delve into the mysteries, the theories and practices of Kabbalah.” He had looked around the sea of students in front of him, many dressed in shoddy blue jeans, with unruly hair, slouching in their chairs.

Pausing to check his seating chart Montana had called out:

“Jeffers. Yes, you. Let’s review basics.” At first, several students chuckled. Montana had tended to pick on Bill Jeffers, a wiry young man with a scraggily blond beard. Jeffers had been sent to class by the basketball coach. “What well known Kabbalah phrase, which every child knows, is said to have been used to create a human being?”

“Abra kadabrah,” Jeffers had responded.

“Exactly. And what does that phrase mean?”

“It is a Hebrew phrase. I will create as I speak.”

“Precisely.”

Montana had looked down at his seating chart again. “Levy.”

One well dressed female student had responded. “It is I.” The hall had reverberated with laughter.

“What does the term Kabbalah mean?”

“To receive,” she had replied.

“And how many paths of wisdom are there? Hoffman.”

“Thirty-two.”

“In your learned opinion what notion is central to Kabbalistic tradition? Bel-Hart.” She had hesitated, allowing him time to let his eyes rein in on her. The night before at dinner, yes he was brazen enough to ask her out, she had tossed out the following: “Do you think we could become lovers?”

The timber of her voice, warm and musical had told him all he had desired, until they would meet again in Prague approximately ten weeks hence, when Miriam Bel-Hart was scheduled to sing arias by Bellini and Verdi, in a special concert and when he would be finishing his studies for his doctorate. “That there are no coincidences in life and that every waking moment is a potential doorway to divine stimulus,” Bel-Hart had said.

“Excellent. … Now Jeffers. How many spheres of consciousness?”

“Ten.”

“And what are these called?”

“Sefirot.”

“Which “Sefirah, designates sexuality? Jeffers put away your laptop. You should know the answer instinctively.”

Laughter was loud. The class bell rang.

Montana had shouted above the din. “I’m sure you’ll all be focusing on sexuality and come up with the correct answer next semester. A great summer to all of you.” Later that evening he had flown out of JFK to Prague to complete studies for his doctorate.

When Montana Greene hit the street from his apartment on Wenceslas Square in Prague, the fog was still thick. Pedestrians appeared to vanish into the milky mist and then reappear in front of him, from nowhere. The forty year old American, with a backpack strapped to his shoulders, and a midnight blue New York Yankees baseball cap on his head stepped into gray Chevy sedan with blinking yellow lights parked in front of his apartment building to be driven to the U.S. Embassy.

“Good morning Professor Greene.” The driver was young with prerequisite crew cut hair, and a prominent acne pimple on his forehead.

“Not yet a professor, but thanks for the compliment.”

“My condolences on your loss.”

“Your thoughts will be appreciated by many in the academic world.”

“Really?”, the young driver asked.

Montana rolled down his window to let the wind blow at his face. When he brought his head back to the safety of the sedan, he noticed the driver’s puzzled eyes in the rear view mirror. “I see you’re mystified. Do you know about the professor? Professor Augsburg wrote the great text books on Kabbalah.”

“The what?” The driver ignored a street light, revved the engine and ran the LED number on the accelerator dial on his dashboard. “I don’t know that word.”

“Slow down cowboy. Did you say something you ought not?”

“This is my first day, sir, on the job. I’m supposed to drive you to the embassy. That’s it. I was trying to be friendly. I know you received shocking news this morning. Anyway it’s not my place to talk. Maybe that‘s my problem. I’m a talker. You know it get’s lonely.”

“I understand. I’m a teacher, you know. Most of my students are your age. You don’t need to feel remorse talking with me.”

Chapter 2

In the bowels of the Schoenborn Palace, Graham Shooter swiped his access card, put his head in the correct position for a retinal scan and pushed open a thick steel door. Shooter walked into a windowless room, with white walls. He saw ten efficient looking civilians sitting around a horseshoe shaped table, staring at laptops. Shooter, a big boned, six-foot-two, thirty-two year old, with a piercing chin moved swiftly toward the director’s desk.

Jimmy Strawberry sat in a motorized wheel chair behind a large mahogany desk and carefully dipped ashes from his Monte Christo in a Bohemian crystal ashtray, with the seal of the CIA in its center and demanded of his brawny aide, “Tell me good news.”

“Don’t have any, sir,” Shooter replied.

“Goddamnit.” The ashtray almost grazed Shooter’s cheek and crashed against a partition behind him. Strawberry punched a button on his desk and the far wall revealed a giant screen. On it was a map, with several countries highlighted.

”Our man is Alfred Ivanchenko, former Russian Bio-warrior --alias Professor Alfred Augsburg. We know he’s been working to stabilize a virus marked TX10564149400 … as a weapon. Five weeks ago, cargo shipped from Marseille, arrived in Prague carrying medical supplies. They’ve been working on a delivery system. Has Ivanchenko hit pay dirt? Give me data.” All five fingers of Strawberry’s left hand thumped vigorously on his desk.

Shooter stood military style in front of Strawberry. “Begging your pardon, sir. “

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Professor Augsburg ... Ivanchenko ... is dead. He was murdered at midnight in the Altneu Cemetery, here in Prague.” Shooter paused. “I may have some good news, sir.”

“Well, give it to me,” Strawberry said.

“The professor’s American protégé is on his way here.”

Strawberry was silent for a moment. “Let’s get up to my office.”

Shooter pushed the man in the wheel chair through the security exits on their way upstairs, but then excused himself, telling Strawberry he’ll be at the entrance to the embassy, waiting for Augsburg’s protégé to arrive.

As the gray sedan pulled up to the curb, Montana assured his driver, “Everything’s cool.”

“Cool. Yeah. Sorry, I gave you a rough ride.”

”Shit happens,” Montana said, hoping to quell any fears the young man might have.

The driver nodded with a smile. “Nice meeting you, professor.”

“Good luck now.”

At the entrance to the embassy wind shook drops of rain from the eaves. Visitors, many in yellow colored slickers struggled against a surging current of air. A taxicab pulled up and a family of four jumped out with cameras, snapping pictures. Montana’s driver parked behind the taxicab.

“I’m Graham Shooter,” Montana heard. “What’s in the backpack?”

“My books, personal items and stuff I carry around,”

Once inside the elaborate lobby, Shooter ordered, “Leave it here. It will be scanned.” Montana handed the backpack to a marine guard at the desk and followed Shooter. The entrance foyer seemed like movie’s set-up shot to Montana; a grand foyer, ceilings maybe thirty feet high, a marble staircase with red carpeting.

At the top of the stairs, with Shooter leading the way, they marched down a marble walled corridor to the fourth office. There was no sign on the mahogany door. Shooter knocked with three jabs of a solid fist. They waited a moment and entered when a voice called out, “Yeah come in.”

The room was painted a light green, florescent lighting hung from the high ceiling, and the only furniture, was a metal table for a desk, another table against a wall, with small piles of government manuals, and a picture of the President of the United States with an American flag above. Behind the make-shift desk, a huge window overlooked the lush green, sculpted garden in the courtyard below. The man in the chromium wheel chair, with rubber tires like mountain bike wheels was heavy set with a wavy full head of white hair. Shooter stood by the door.

“My expert is here now. Got to go.” Jimmy Strawberry hung up the phone and extended a large hand. “I trust your ride was comfortable.”

Montana took his hand and nodded at the puffy cheeked, fifty-two year old paralyzed man, who looked like a WWE Smackdown TV wrestler.

“I want a crash course on the Golem of Prague,” Strawberry said, pointing to Montana to sit opposite.

Strawberry voice sounded gruff to Montana, a kind of movie bad guy of an era gone by, like an imitation George Raft. Strawberry was broad shouldered, with black eyes. His stare was intense, and the deep lines around his eyes revealed an intensity of purpose. Is this man in a perpetual state of anger,?“ A crash course?” Montana sighed.

“Yup. Our guys looked up the legend about the rabbi in the sixteenth century who formed this human-like figure from mud near the Vltava River. And when the creature died he was buried in the attic of the Altnneu Schul, the old synagogue.”

“What about Professor Augsburg? You wanted to see me, pronto.”

“What puzzles is why a Dubai shipping tycoon would fund research on ... this ... Golem.” Strawberry slowly turned the ashtray on his desk with his finger.

“I didn’t know that,” Montana said. Augsburg told him jealous scholars had been hurling insults at him lately in order to discredit him, and he didn’t understand why. Montana tried to imagine what a Dubai investor would have to do with the old man’s sudden death.

Strawberry leaned forward. “You’re withholding information!”

“What?”

“You heard me. What the hell are you keeping from me?”

“You’re losing me,” said a startled Montana with disgust.

“I’m looking for facts.”

“Your aide told me on the phone you guys wanted to see me right away. That’s the reason I’m here.”

Strawberry studied Montana and figured everybody had something to hide and the scholar sitting in front of him was no exception. “I‘ve learned …” he hesitated a moment, “that young students at your lectures in New York throw their panties at you.”

Shooter heard this story from Strawberry earlier, and told his boss he doubted tossing the remark at Montana would break him. You’re wrong, Strawberry said. Slap a twenty on the desk, if you’re so convinced. Shooter came up with the twenty dollar bill. Now he watched how his bet played out.

Montana’s face reddened. This is crazy. All I want is to get out of here, lunch with Bel-Hart this afternoon, and get back to New York City. “Your facts are not correct. And what has this to do with Professor Augsburg’s death?” The Golem and all of Kabbalah seemed as far away from Montana’s then reality as he could imagine. It somehow jumped to a parallel universe, and Montana was stymied. A few moments before he thought he’d learn what happened to Augsburg and now Montanan didn’t know what the hell Strawberry was after. He decided to consult an American attorney as soon as he left. “Nobody throws panties at me. I teach a serious subject at a serious university.”

Strawberry shook his head up and down as if a new thought shot through. He had mastered intimidation with calculated moves, the kinds you’d learn in acting class. Strawberry’s moves were intuitive; his mantra, “there’s no time to think twice, don’t let an opponent get an advantage.”

Jimmy Strawberry lived with a health care aide, in a well-kept new apartment along the Vltava River. His only daughter, Meredith, steadfast like her dad, with her partner Gwen and a large family of adopted children, visited twice every year. The grandkids, a United Nations, as he called the three boys and two girls, running through the large apartment or along the river’s edge, warmed his heart. The women and the grandkids visited for the month of July and winter break. When his daughter wasn’t with him, he received e-mails and phones calls, regularly.

“Some water. Anything?” Shooter approached.

“No, thanks,“ Montana said.

Strawberry was relentless. “Who is the woman you had dinner with in New York the night before you flew here, in late May?”

Montana stood, and raising his voice enunciated every word guardedly. “You’re scaring the hell out of me. I came here to get the facts on my professor’s collapse and death. Give me a break. What do your questions have to do with anything.”

“We’re here to help. Don’t let the questions get to you. Are you sure I can’t get you a bottle of water?” Shooter whispered.

“I ‘m getting a not so good feeling. This isn’t a trial, Kafka style. Is it?” The metaphoric punch in the gut Montana felt aroused his anger. “I am here for information. You’re supposed to give me facts. That’s what Shooter told me. Can’t talk on the phone, get to the embassy, we’ll discuss details of Augsburg’s death” He looked at Shooter expecting a reply that made sense.

“Graham, that’s what you call me,” Shooter replied. “

Strawberry studied Montana. “Sit down, for God’s sake. “

“What the hell is this about? You tell me, Mr. Strawberry. And don’t give me bullshit about Kabbalah or the Golem. OK?”

“Things happen for a reason,” Strawberry said in a low voice

“Do they?” Montana asked.

“You’re the Kabbalah expert.”

“So, I am.”

“Well, I hoped you could give us more of a four-one-one on the Golem project that this fellow is involved in. Your Professor Augsburg and his research we believe was funded by Abu al-Khalil, the tycoon from Dubai.” Strawberry said.

“Mr. Strawberry, … “. Montana clasped his hands making a slight sound.

“Jimmy, OK. Jimmy,” Strawberry interrupted. “We’re friends. Call me Jimmy.”

“You know Professor Augsburg was my teacher. I studied with him to complete a doctoral program.”

“I understand,” said the man in the wheel chair. “Did you know, Augsburg had an office at the Biologic Technicon Institute, in Prague?”

“The what?”

Finally, Strawberry said, “Good day and thanks for your time.”

”That’s it?” Montana said with disgust, eager to get the hell as far from this place as possible. Must get an attorney. Must get an attorney, immediately, he repeated to himself. Montana now recalled, Augsburg in the last week slipped into long periods of silence, looking out his window to the street. Augsburg’s stillness forced Montana to focus on his own moods more sharply. He was frustrated with his job at Columbia, not earning a professorship fast enough, or maintaining a steady personal relationship.

“Shooter tells me you’ll delay your flight to New York, so we can sort out this Augsburg situation,” Strawberry said.

“I will what?”

“And I appreciate that. We’ll need you later today, after I check out more information on this Golem and your professor. I assure you, we’ll meet shortly.”

When they left, Strawberry pressed a button on a phone connected to Shooter’s earpiece, “I shook him up him. Didn’t I? ” Graham Shooter kept a poker face and marched with Montana down the plush red carpeted staircase to the front door, where the marine at the desk handed Montana his backpack. “You have a pleasant day now, sir.”

“Thanks. You have a pleasant day too,” Montana said trying to evince the same mixture of sincerity and formality as the marine.

“He gave you a rough time. Listen, Strawberry is like that.” Shooter said as they stood outside.

Montana shook his head, believing his best bet was to keep his mouth shut. What the hell is this guy’s job, anyway? Or for that matter Strawberry’s. “I need a drink,” he finally said.

A bright red Corvette pulled up to the embassy. The same kid with a pimple on his forehead who drove Montana earlier got out and held the door for Shooter. “Hop in,” Shooter called.

“Where are you taking me?” Montana asked.

“Wherever you want to go.”

“This isn’t government issue,” Shooter said.

“I didn’t think it was,” Montana replied.

The car was Shooter’s pride and joy. He didn’t have kids and wasn’t married, and being stationed in Prague he wanted something very American, he later told Montana.

The rains stopped. The red ‘Vette linked up with patches of persistent fog as they drove off. To give Augsburg a proper burial, Montana calculated he’d have to stay in Prague a couple of days. Augsburg had told him he had no family, though he would never discuss his parents and any facts of his life, before reaching recognition as a scholar of Kabbalah.

“Why was Strawberry searching for a corrupt link between Augsburg and the Dubai tycoon?” he asked Shooter.

“Look, my job was to get you embassy. Strawberry took over from that point.”

Montana wouldn’t tell Shooter that he intended to find an attorney. Anyway, would Shooter attempt to talk him out of it, or worse prevent him from finding an effective lawyer? His prior confrontation with the law had been a traffic ticket for a u-turn in the village of South Hampton. What struck him was the on-duty cop at the time was like this morning’s driver, new on the job and concerned he would be criticized by his superiors for not living up to his oath of office. But today was more like an interrogation than the pleading of a rookie cop to let him dress Montana down for a traffic infraction.

“Where to?” Shooter asked as they drove away from the embassy area.

“The Saloon, at the Hotel U Prince.”

“On Staromestske Street. You are serious about getting drunk.”

“No, I’m just looking forward to a drink.”

“It’s early in the day. Isn’t it?”

“Yup. It is,” Montana said.

The episode at the embassy was beginning to unplug, as a replay of Strawberry’s remarks imploded on Montana’s mind. Why bring up Miriam Bel-Hart? Were they following me or her, in New York? This was all before Augsburg died. What the hell is going on?

But this internal monologue took a sharp turn and he began to fixate on the night they had dined, before he had gone off to Prague. Perhaps we could become lovers. Wasn’t that what she said? He let the remark roll through his mind savoring every word. A half smile broke out on his lips. Shooter glanced in his direction. “Something funny?” Montana just shook his head no and continued his remembrances.

That evening in New York, in late May, Miriam had arrived in a chauffeured driven black and tan Maybach. Montana had been waiting at the entrance to Bouley on West Broadway. He had noticed an older gentleman in the car as she had stepped forward. Her chauffer, a muscular young guy had walked her inside and had waited at the reservations desk, hand over hand, cupping his balls until Montana and Miriam were seated. When their drinks had come, the chauffeur was gone.

At dinner, she had seemed very much as she had appeared in class: elegant, spirited an auburn haired beauty in her late thirties. Montana had none of the misgivings of a teacher dating a student. She was an adult, he was an adult, but in the service of propriety he had to think it through before he had asked her out, and had decided to let his hormones dictate a kind of celebration for the semester’s end.

“Do you go out to dinner with your students, often?” she had asked, resting her fingers on her shoulder length hair. He had watched her every movement, her gorgeous figure in a black silk pant suit, and had been intoxicated by the smell of vanilla that had surrounded her hair as she tilted her head awaiting his answer. “Thanks for being my student,” he had answered. From there, the conversation was fluid as they had each revealed bits of their personal biography, Miriam a mid-west daughter of music teacher parents and also an only child; he as a teenager attempted forming a rock ‘n roll band.

“Did you have long hair, tattoos? Did you wear mascara on your eye lids? Let’s see I remember of friend in high school who loved Guns n’ Roses. Did you?” she had asked him.

“Are you mocking my taste in music … at that time?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I’m teasing, because you’re so different now. A scholar. I can’t imagine you in a band, let alone a rock band.”

“Well, to answer some of your questions … no I didn’t wear mascara. I don’t have any tattoos, and I was also reading Alan Ginsburg at the time.”

He was remembering how small he had felt for not rolling with her punches. But her smile, her allure, her story telling abilities, the way she had tilted her head and had run her fingers through her hair, had overpowered him. Or maybe it was a couple of glasses of Saint Emilion that had done the trick, he was thinking.

Miriam had shifted toward a fuller disclosure of her biography. “My great-grandparents came here from Amsterdam and my grandparents met and married in Bloomington, Indiana. I had studied music at the University of Indiana and after graduation went on to Julliard for a master class. We always had music at home, whether it was Beethoven or Debussy or Callas or chamber music. Both my parents were ardent music fans. But my mother’s love for choral music influenced me a lot. I attended public schools and was in my middle school choral society, when I was bitten by the idea of opera. I purchased my first Compact Disc at thirteen of Renate Tebaldi? singing Tosca. Oh, I almost forgot. At seventeen I worked for the summer at a tennis camp. I remember my main job was to pick up the balls left on the courts after lessons.” She had smiled so overwhelmingly, her green eyes so alive and she had become more irresistible to him.

He told her about his parents’ divorce and moving in with his grandfather and his education at Columbia and desire for a doctorate in Kabbalah. Montana was thrown, when out of the clear blue and after after-dinner glasses of port, Miriam, with an air of mystery and penetrating, yet gleaming eyes, had asked demurely, “Do you think we could be lovers?”

His spine had stung the way a spine would sting when one is up against a forward, but alluring remark and Montana had replied with all his studious Kabbalistic wisdom, “If that’s our destiny.”

“You have steadfast big brown eyes,” she had said. “I love that.”

He nodded and sighed, taking another sip of wine. “Nobody has ever told me that.”

“I asked you earlier, if perhaps we could become lovers. I have a mentor. A business man. He spends most of his time creating research labs all over Europe and assembling great scientist to conquer the world’s diseases.”

“Was he the guy in the limousine?”

“You noticed him. He had to rush off. I’m sure he would have liked to meet you.”

“I’m sure.”

“He’s not glamorous at all. Just a banker type. I suppose, because he owns a great yacht, often when we travel we don’t bother with hotels.”

“Be careful. You might become a snob,” Montana said.

She smiled. “I’ve become spoiled. Little Miss Bel-Hart from South Street in Bloomington, Indiana. He is good looking, though. A sixty-year-old Paul Newman. He has the same watery blue eyes.”

When Montana had looked up, there was the chauffeur again, hand over hand over his groin. “Is it your curfew now?” he had asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your driver is at the reservation desk.”

“I’ll tell him to leave. You’ll escort me home,” she had said and had walked over to the driver. Montana had watched as the driver nodded and Miriam had returned. The driver had shot an icy stare at Montana. .

“The party isn’t over, ” Miriam said as she had returned to the table.

“Not until the fat lady sings. Let’s have some champagne,” Montana had said, wishing to follow her into bed. He had raised his hand to signal the captain. When they were significantly drunk it seemed on booze and conversation she had asked if he would hail a cab. She wanted to drive somewhere, any where just to extend the evening, she had told him.

Montana called a taxicab and told him to cross over to Brooklyn, get on the Belt Parkway drive south and then onto the Verrazano Bridge to find the ferry back to New York. He had remembered the driver turning around to look at the two with a smirk on his lips. When they had begun their journey, Miriam had placed her head on his shoulder – again the scent of vanilla which had intoxicated him earlier – and placed her hand in his. Miriam had said nothing as they had rode alongside the waterfront under a star laden sky and crescent moon. When they had arrived on Staten Island on the other side of the bridge, a ferry boat to Manhattan had been revving its motors ready to return. They had sat on an open air bench. Again she had snuggled with him, but said nothing. He had noticed her eyes closed and he had kissed the top of her silky hair.

Montana fixed his hands behind his head, now as Shooter raced toward the Hotel U Prince, leaned his back on the car seat, stretching his spine. Shooter swung the red ‘Vette around, turning into the entrance of the Hotel U Prince. “Cheer up buddy,” were his parting words as he dropped Montana off. But Montana’s musings had already cheered him successfully.

Chapter 3

The bartender placed her drink in front of her and went about his business, straightening and wiping bottles of liquor on the mirrored wall behind the bar. With air-conditioning just beginning to pump for the luncheon crowd, the place still smelled of stale air, heavy wood and spilled wine.

Miriam Bel-Hart, her friends called her Miki wore a casual summer dress and small tight jacket. Her face, unadorned, glowed with a faint touch of peach. She sipped her Absinthe slowly. She would never walk into a bar alone in New York, without a colleague or lover. Miriam Bel-Hart was not a diva, but believed a woman should arrive in the company of another. The thirty–nine year old soprano with the Metropolitan Opera was sitting on a heavy dark wood barstool at the Hotel U Prince, checking her watch, a gift from her mentor. “For our seventh year together,” Abu told her last week when he placed the diamond studded Cartier on her wrist. Instead of feeling closer, she felt disquieted by his growing bursts of anger; a reproach aimed mainly at his aides, but which stung her like a lit firecracker. Regardless, he had become possessive.

Miki twirled her watch around her wrist, her thoughts floating, the diamonds sparkling under the warm lights of the Saloon; she quickly pulled her sleeve forward with her thumb, lifted her glass with her other hand letting the aroma of the Absinthe fill her senses. Staring in the mirror in front of her, Miki prayed she could make a friendly break with Abu. But after several minutes, her wishes to flee Abu made no sense. She feared acknowledging ever so faintly that Abu’s worldliness was a cover for a delusionary side to his persona. Miki looked into her little glass with green liquid: We all have of a dark side, and frowned.

When she saw Montana approaching, she swiftly turned to greet him with a wet kiss on his lips. Montana kissed back.

“I’ve got lots to tell you. Let’s get a table,” he said. “It’s damn good to see you.”

“The corner booth?” the bartender asked.

“Yes, and a glass of Absinthe. Send it over with a fresh drink for Mademoiselle.”

The bartender acknowledged with a nod.

The sat opposite and their hands touched immediately. Words weren’t necessary at the moment. When the bartender arrived with the Absinthe, on a round red tray, Montana grabbed the drink, downed it like a shot of whiskey, making a face as he swallowed. “Bring another please.”

“Goodness, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“I want so much to be with you,” he said.

“And I’m here.”

“I just got back from the U.S. Embassy.”

“Is something terribly wrong?”

“They called to tell me Professor Augsburg is dead.”

“My God. Were you personally close to him?”

“Some guy called Shooter sent a car for me, and never filled me in with the details.”

“I don’t understand. Darling, I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe the old man had a heart attack, I think. I don’t know. Augsburg approved my thesis for my Ph.D.”

“Didn’t they tell you how he died?”

“No. They suspect foul play. Would you believe? What is it about her that I instantly fall in love? he thought. Montana lowered his eyes and visualized the center of the Kabbalah cosmic tree and the Sefira known as Tiferet, beauty, the emanation used to distinguish one’s self from others on a journey to the highest level, the Ain Sof, God, the Godhead.

He proceeded to tell her everything -- how her name came up, their dinner a couple of months back in New York, the phony rep he had with students. “One guy was an intimidating son-of-a-bitch, looking for information I know nothing about. Talking about a Dubai tycoon, financing my professor’s research.” He shook his head from side to side.

She sat motionless. Her green eyes looked directly into his. “What did they tell you about al-Kahlil?” Am I right about Abu’s erratic behavior? What would happen if I confronted him? she thought for the moment.

“Five bucks for your thoughts,” he said.

“You’re supposed to offer a penny.”

“I was always a radical.”

She didn’t smile. “I wanted to be with you today. “

“And do you still want to be with me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“But?”

“But. I feel so goddamn angry with Abu.” Her eyes were on fire.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I think your problems might be heavier,” she said.

“Hey, this isn’t a contest about who’s in deeper shit.”

Finally, she smiled and Montana squeezed her hand. Then he caught himself. “Miki. How did you know his name?”

“Al-Kahlil? I’ve told you he’s my mentor.”

Montana threw his shoulders against the back cushions. “You told me he’s your mentor? When?”

Gazing at him for several seconds, without enmity, she said softly, “You’re indicting me with your looks. Everything about Abu and me is on the up and up.”

“Why would a Dubai shipping magnate fund research on Kabbalah?”

“Why not?” she shrugged.

“I’m not trying to be cute,” he said.

“Nor I” she replied.

“You know I was rushed to the embassy this morning.”

“Are you accusing me of turning you in with officials there?”

“What are you talking about?”

She was frowning maybe in rebuke of her integrity, Montana thought and he was right. Montana wondered if he had gone too far with her and that she could never return to her tender feelings for him as before. Miki began twirling her Cartier wrist watch and allowed her self time to pause. “I’m so put off, by your j’accuse tone of voice. I can’t handle this any longer,” she said.

“Miki, you’re not telling me something,” Montana replied agilely as he didn’t feel ready to push her too far at this stage of their relationship. But the impact of this tycoon al-Kahlil raised an alarm. Strawberry didn’t believe al-Kahlil was a nice guy But why should he believe Strawberry, when after all he accused him of withholding knowledge he didn’t have.

“I’m sorry. What else do you have to say?” she asked.

He shrugged and shook his head. “I’ll need an American attorney.”

“I’ll call Abu. He has connections,” she quickly interjected.

“That’s not a good idea.”

Looking past her, he noticed two policemen taking positions at the entrance to the Saloon. His heart thumped. “Those two cops are guarding the entrance. Something’s up. “We’re the only ones here.”

Miki turned to look. “Talk with Abu,” she said flatly. “Ask him why he funded your professor’s research.”

“Are you missing something?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The cops.”

“So? Darling, relax.”

He turned his attention back to her. “Why would they at the embassy want to know about my classes on Kabbalah? Why would they spy on a dinner I had with you?”

“Because of your professor’s association with Abu. And my connection with Abu,” she replied.

“Anybody inquire of you?”

Miki shook her head, no. “I told you I once met the professor.” She looked straight at him without a hesitation or a gasp that maybe an unholy trinity was unfolding in front of his eyes.

“Where did you meet Professor Augsburg?”

“At the Institute.”

“I never heard about the Institute before today?”

Miki shrugged. “Abu’s research company is here in Prague.”

“The Biologic Technicon Institute?” Strawberry never explained what that was about.

A lone figure approached the booth. “Herr Doktor Greene, yes?” an overweight man asked. “I am Detective Havlec Ungerr with the Prague police department.” Ungerr showed identification. “Would you please come with me to the morgue? Professor Augsburg your teacher is dead.” He paused to shake Montana’s hand solemnly. “We need you to identify the body. We couldn’t find next of kin. I thanked my lucky stars we learned about your stay over. ” Ungerr took a deep breath, exhaling noisily. “Please, come with me. Do not worry. This is a formality.”

“We were just about to order lunch,” Montana said.

“I’m sorry for the interruption. Please, this is a serious police matter.” Turning to Miki, the detective said, “You must excuse us.”

“I didn’t introduce you,” Montana said. “Miriam Bel-Hart.”

Detective Ungerr nodded and placed appropriate currency on the table. The two exited the lounge. The policemen and Miki followed.

“And you were with him yesterday?” the detective asked Montana.

“Yes,’’ Montana answered as one officer opened the rear door to a non-descript gray sedan, parked in front of the restaurant.

“I’ll go with you, Montana. Will that be all right Detective Ungerr?” Miki asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well then, I’ll follow in my car.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Montana said.

“I want to,” she said.

Ungerr pointed to the back seat of the police sedan and slid in after Montana. Miki waited as her limousine pulled up to the curb. Montana looked back as the chauffer jumped out of a black and tan Maybach and recalled he was the same driver who chauffeured the limousine in New York.

The police car pulled away, driving for approximately seven minutes, and parked in front of a modernistic hospital building. A street light cut through the mist, illuminating the building’s façade and cast a bluish light on the police car.

“You’ll need to stay in Prague,” Detective Ungerr said.

“I’m already planning to stay so my professor gets a proper burial.”

Ungerr looking grim smoothed a rain drop into the material of his jacket. He lowered his head as if in prayer and pushed his voice to a low pitch. “Doktor Greene. Your professor was murdered. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

Montana hesitated to what seemed to be a slow count of ten, and then summoned enough courage to, “Am I a suspect?”

The detective’s eyes roamed Montana’s face. “At this point everybody is a suspect.”

“Everybody? I see.

“And what exactly was your area of study with Professor Augsburg?”

“Kabbalah and the Golem of Prague.”

“I see. And your Professor Augsburg was an authority?”

First, the newbie who drove him to the embassy this morning, Montana was thinking, to the detective both skeptical of Augsburg’s Kabbalisitic credentials. The kid never heard of Kabbalah, but certainly here in Prague Montana believed Ungerr would be aware of Augsburg’s academic renown., “The professor was a foremost authority on Kabbalah and the Golem of Prague.”

“Did you meet with him at the Institute, in his laboratory for the study of genetic viruses?” Ungerr fired away.

Montana shook his head and whispered, no. Finally somebody explained what the hell the Institute was involved in. “We studied at his apartment.”

“Why is that?”

“I wasn’t aware of that part of his career,” Montana said, weighing each word carefully. “We met at his home, a couple of streets from the Altneu Cemetery.”

A black van screeched to a stop in front of the police car and a man in a wheel chair was hurriedly rolled down. Ungerr told Montana, “Wait here.” While the detective got out of the car, the Maybach with Miki arrived, parking across the street.

The man in the wheel chair introduced himself. “Strawberry, from the U.S. Embassy.” Ungerr extended his hand. “I’ll accompany Montana Greene to identify the body,” Strawberry said.

The detective nodded. “Yes, my superior informed me of your request.” Ungerr waved Montana over and left the two, joining the policemen standing outside the morgue.

“What the hell is happening?” Montana asked. “You knew about this when I was in your office. Didn’t you?”

“They suspect you of murder,” Strawberry said calmly.

“Yeah. I was told it’s just a formality?”

“I believe you’re innocent.”

“That makes me feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. You were ready to leave Prague for New York and the old man is murdered in a cemetery,” Strawberry said. “Doesn’t look too good. Does it? So trust me.”

Montana wished he were sitting with Miki in a classy restaurant, and the ordeal was finished, and they were drinking Absinthe and he was telling her about the effusive apologies the police gave, when they realized how absurd their suspicion was. He began walking over to her. “Excuse me a moment,” he told Strawberry.

“.Sorry you have to wait outside. But you don’t have to be with me now,” he told Miki.

“I’m here because I want to be with you. Please accept that.” She studied him as she often did in class, as if sensing the nakedness of his emotions. Montana leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“You’re a good girl, Miki Bel-Hart,” he said allowing his shoulders to relax and crossed the street back to Strawberry.

Montana strode with Ungerr, through the hospital’s main hall, Strawberry, rolling alongside on the green and white colored square tiles, which turned into a brightly lit spotless corridor. A strong smell of disinfectant hovered as they approached the morgue area.

They stopped midway down the long corridor, as a matronly woman with short black hair, approached. “I am Dr. Vasilav, the medical examiner. Please put on these masks, wear these gloves, please. It is a health precaution. Also, these white coats. You too, Detective Ungerr.” The group looked like surgeons, walking into an operating theater. Dr. Vasilav, pulled a door handle, and a whoosh of cold air hit them. This was the first time Montana entered a morgue refrigerator. He jerked as dank, foul air struck. They approached a stack of green-enamel locked drawers. Dr. Vasilav took out a silver key from her pocket, turned the lock and slid out a slab with Augsburg’s body.

“Is this Professor Alfred Augsburg?” the medical examiner asked.

Montana stared down at the body with a frozen look of pain on his face. He felt an impulse to puke. He nodded, yes. “Who would do this?”

“The world is a dangerous place,” said Dr. Vasilav.

“What about his belongings?” Montana asked.

“I will release personal belongings later today,” Ungerr said. “I will call you. I have your cell number. You’re free to go”

“The body must be washed ritually,” Montana interjected without a moment’s hesitation. A religious person must watch over him through the night.” He acted as if this were a fundamental tradition for Augsburg. What did he really know about the man’s wishes for burial? Montana had no knowledge of which rituals were important to Augsburg; he just assumed a scholar of Kabbalah would uphold certain customs. He questioned his own belief for a ritual of preparing the body for a journey. Montana wanted simply a shroud to be placed over his dead body, to be laid out in a pine box, and to be interred above ground.

“We will be finished by eight o’clock, tonight,” Dr. Vassilav said.

“Just a moment,” Strawberry said. “The blood on his neck? What caused that?”

“A poisoned dart,” the medical examiner replied. “You’ll receive a full report. The old man was running toward the cemetery gates when the dart struck.”

The group left the morgue area. Strawberry told Montana to return to the embassy with him.

“A question first,” Montana said. “Can I trust you will explain what you were up to this morning?”

“I owe you that much,” Strawberry replied. “Give me a moment with the detective.”

He walked briskly to the lobby and caught up with Miki. The fetid smell still lingered in his nostrils, and he felt sickened. Montana told Miki his confidence in himself was becoming a delusion. “How do we navigate between self-reliance and illusion with a philosophy that shit happens?”

“I’m not following. You sound angry,” Miki said.

“I am angry.”

“You have every right to be.”

.”I’ll call you. We’ll catch up later. I‘m going to the embassy,” he said, certain she noticed his eyes well up. She seemed to want him to say more, but he maintained a silent stare.

“Promise me you’ll call,” she said.

“I promise,” he said.

`“Everything will be all right,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Remember, I’ll do anything to help. You can count on me.” Tearfully, Miki finally said, “I mean anything.” She wiped her eyes with the backs of two fingers and lowered her eyes.

“This happens on my last day here. Last few hours. Bum turn of events. We never know what’s around the corner, do we?”

“No, we never know what strange things can happen.” She rested her hand on his. “If you need to get around Boris can help.”

“Who is Boris?” he asked Miki.

“My driver.”

“OK,” he assured her and let his hand slide from hers. He knew damn well not to trust anybody outside the embassy, smiled and swiped her cheek with his mouth. An unexpected segment was unfolding for Montana and he couldn’t see how the pieces fit.

When he rejoined the group he looked back and saw Miki standing as if stage center. He believed she knew he needed her support and wondered if Miki understood him better than he knew himself. He was about to shout a word or two of gratitude at her, but a tremor of fear struck with a determined wallop throwing him into the cosmic black soup, the tohu va-vohu of the biblical narrative of Creation, the disorder before God ordered stability into the ornery cosmos. Quickly he focused on the second emanation of the Kabbalah Tree of Life, Chochma, Wisdom, to pull him upward.

Strawberry signaled Montana with his right hand and a nod to get in the van. “Have you determined what kind of poison was on the dart?” Montana heard Strawberry ask as he walked to the vehicle. “We don’t know yet. We will soon,”

Montana jumped into the back of the black van. Focusing on the floor mat, he recited, Shiviti YHVH l’negdi, tamid. (He pronounced YHVH as Yahovaaaa, like the sound of a lungful of air leaving his mouth.) I will place Yahovaaaa in front of me, always. The Shiviti was his mantra in times of confusion, though he acknowledged that repeating neutralize my fears and embrace self-loving propelled him to the same emotional plane.