
The Golem Code By Gerald Rothberg
Professor Alfred Augsburg
met the man five weeks before, who
would murder him and send CIA agents on a frenzied chase. On this murky
night, at the
Twelve bells rang and the rains
stopped over the Old Jewish Cemetery. From
behind a tombstone, a young man, his muscles bulging, shouted, “Professor
Augsburg, you are a creature of habit.”
His voice quivering, the old man replied, “Who is there?”
“I have this note for you to read.”
“I can’t see too well. There’s no light.”
“I will shine this flashlight for you. There. Read
please.”
“We
know who you are Doctor Ivanchenko.”
In truth, Alfred Augsburg did know. He was born Alfred
Ivanchenko, in Kiev, the bastard son of a Soviet general and the stage
actress, Anna Gerson of
Augsburg Germany. The actress had disappeared mysteriously after
childbirth.
“Please, I’m here to recite Psalms at this holy place,”
“You can talk your gibberish later. Read this sentence
Herr Professor.”
“Doctor Ivanchenko knows where we might find the
missing vial with the antidote …”
“Speak!” the man shouted.
The professor hid the vial because he needed an insurance
policy, he told himself often. “I’ll take the information to my grave.”
“Don’t be foolish. You’ve finished your work. Tell Boris
where to find the antidote.”
Suddenly, the old man ran toward the cemetery gates.
Boiling with rage, Boris raised his fist to his mouth and forcibly blew into
the pin size opening of his clenched fingers, hurtling a dart at the
professor’s neck. “You defy me!” The professor slumped to the ground like a
dropped block of stone -- his wet obese, thick neck mixed with gushing
spurts of dark red blood.
Outside the gates a young couple strolling by heard the
thud as Professor Augsburg collapsed, and rushed in to help him. “Take my
jacket. We’ve called for help.” A young American covered
“Thank you. You are a good son,”
The ambulance sped up Maiselova through the narrow winding
streets in Josefov, the old Jewish quarter. Writhing in pain,
A
new moon shone. Through the window of the ambulance’s back doors, the old
professor stared vacantly at moving clouds, heaved one last harsh breath and
expired on the way to Czesky Hospital.
Checking his watch at twenty-two minutes past midnight,
Boris ran the three streets from the cemetery to Professor Augsburg’s second
floor apartment. With his pocket knife, he spun the tumblers to the old lock
on the wooden door and entered stealthily, closing
the door silently behind him, as he made his way around the square shaped
sparse room with his flashlight.
“Exactly what I’m looking for,” he mumbled and grabbed a
grey laptop from
Boris set the books back on the desk, flashed the light
around the room, careful not to hit the large window facing the street.
Satisfied nothing of value remained, he left and sprinted the ten blocks to
a street, with low houses and shops and small bars. He entered the rear
lot of xyz tavern jumped on his Harley-Davidson and at a stop sign pressed
al-Kahlil’s number. “All done. I have a map for you, and his computer,” he
said softly into the phone.
“Leave the map and the computer in my office,” Boris heard
as he sped off into the night to pick up a prostitute.
Chapter 2
At ten
that morning, still heavy with sleep, Montana Greene stumbled into the
shower. He let the warm water cascade over him, sucking some into his mouth.
Several shrill rings from his cell phone stirred him to a waking reality.
When he clicked on his cell a man speaking with an American accent said he
must meet with him at the
“What the hell for …?”
“We‘re sending a car for you,” the commanding voice replied.
“Delay your trip.”
“Delay my trip? Hey, I’m flying home this afternoon. I’m dripping wet. Just
got out of the shower. I’ll call you back.”
“Ask for Graham Shooter. You heard correctly. Straight Shooter, if you
like,” the caller said.
“I’m aware that most of you need to fulfill the
requirements for your degree, and I’m aware that many of you consider this
course an easy A,” he had told the class. “Be that as it may, we’re going to
learn, to study, to delve into the mysteries, the theories and practices of
Kabbalah.” He paused, looked around the hall at a sea of students, dressed
in sloppy blue jeans, with unruly hair, and sloppy posture. The few
exceptions were the female students, and several religious male students.
“Abra
kadabrah,” Jeffers responded.
“Exactly. And what does that phrase mean?”
“It is a Hebrew phrase.
I will create at the same time as I
speak.”
“Precisely.”
One of the chicly dressed female students responded. “It
is I,” to which the hall reverberated with laughter.
“What does the term Kabbalah mean?”
“To receive,” came the reply.“
And how many paths of wisdom are there? Hoffman.”
“Thirty-two”
“In your learned opinion what notion is central to
Kabbalistic tradition, Bel-Hart?”
“That there are no coincidences in life and that every
waking moment is a potential doorway to divine stimulus,” Miki Bel-Hart
responded.
“Jeffers.”
“It is I.” A few chuckles.
“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.”
The laughter was loud. The bell rang, ending the class
session.
“I’m sure that you’ll all be focusing on sexuality to come
up with the correct answer for our next session,”
This morning at ten past eleven, with a backpack strapped to his shoulders, the forty-one year old American, in jeans, a white jacket and a New York Yankees baseball cap on his head, left his studio apartment for the Embassy.