Stupenagel's sobriety level shot up several notches. She just about jumped across the table for the envelope, but he still kept it out of her reach. "I'm not through," he said with a wolfish grin. "I am told to impress upon you that this is the only known copy-it is not very good quality and our attempts to make other copies have been less than adequate."
"Why not have the photographer make you another?" Stupenagel asked.
Gregory's eyes grew hard, but he waited for the couple to get up and leave before he spat out, "He was murdered. Unfortunately, he was also old-fashioned and used thirty-five-millimeter film instead of digital. He made this and faxed it to my employer. It is not very good quality. He was supposed to send the film, but someone burned his darkroom down with him in it, and the film went with him. So this is all we have, but will be enough, no?"
"Maybe," Stupenagel said. "But now you've got me all excited, and I need to take a whiz before I pee my pants. So just hold that thought, and envelope, for a moment."
Gregory gave her an amused look. "I have nowhere else to go," he said, and smiled.
Stupenagel tottered rapidly to the far back of the restaurant for the bathroom, her mind whirling with the possibilities. First, a Russian spy implicated in the plot to kill the Pope, and now, in a few moments, she would see the face of Jamys Kellagh, the man behind the curtain. Pulitzer, here I come.
Out in the restaurant, Gregory sat back in his chair. As clandestine meetings went, this one had been rather enjoyable. The woman was pleasant to look at, with large breasts and a good sense of humor. Plus, she could drink like a man. Perhaps his boss would find other reasons for him to meet this woman.
Only then did he notice that the couple who'd been sitting near them had left their suitcase behind. He'd been trying to think why the woman had seemed familiar. She'd obviously dyed her blond hair brunette and the glasses seemed phony. Suddenly, though he'd never seen anything but grainy photographs of her, he knew who she was.
"Nadya!" he yelled, and started to rise from his chair just as the suitcase bomb exploded.
It blew the windows out with such force that an old woman standing in front of the restaurant died of a million little cuts that sliced through veins and arteries and bled her dry in seconds. Thousands of ball bearings shredded the two young families and the two friends who'd been drinking together, as well as a reputed Russian gangster named Gregory Karamazov. The simultaneous flash fire from a canister of high-octane jet fuel that took up half the suitcase immediately torched the interior of the cafe, incinerating anything that would burn, including the envelope and photograph that Karamazov was holding in his hand.
The walls crumbled and then the world was absolutely still for just a split second. The second passed and the vacuum was filled with screams and shouts and the sound of sirens in the distance.
11
About the same time that Ariadne Stupenagel was downing her first vareniki and shot of vodka at the Black Sea Cafe, Butch Karp opened the door of the loft a second time for Mikey O'Toole and Richie Meyers. "Welcome back," he said to his visitors. "How was your day?"
"Great," O'Toole exclaimed. "We took the boat to see the Statue of Liberty and then over to Ellis Island to check out the immigration museum, which was impressive. We even located the ship's manifest with my great-grandfather's name on it-Seamus O'Toole, steerage class, arrived in 1890 from Liverpool, just eighteen years old and with not much more than the clothes he was wearing. It was really something to stand in the same hall where he waited to hear if he was going to be allowed in or get sent back to Ireland. Must have been nerve-racking. I remember my grandfather talking about Seamus and how there was nothing but poverty, famine, and hopelessness for him back in Ireland. Gives you a real appreciation for the courage it took to leave everything and take a chance on a new beginning."
"I know what you mean," Karp replied. "Marlene's parents were from Sicily and waited in those same pews. So did my grandfather-a Jew from Poland, escaping the tsar's Cossacks. Imagine leaving that for someplace that promised everyone equal protection under the law and opportunity limited only by your willingness to work for it."
"Which I guess is part of why we're here," Meyers pointed out. "So did you have a good day with your boys?"
"It's always a good day if I'm with my boys," Karp said with a smile. "Busy, though."
Actually, it had been busier than he'd expected or hoped. First, there was basketball practice with the twins. As usual, Zak was the star of the team, but Giancarlo was no slouch, with a deft touch for outside shots. It was the only sport where he enjoyed some measure of success when compared to his brother, so at least the good-natured sniping was two-sided.
Then it was on to the bar mitzvah class Karp taught as part of a series presented to the synagogue's youth by Jewish community leaders. Given a free hand by the rabbi, his classes tended to emphasize the impact of events in Jewish history on the American judicial system, or centered on topical moral discussions.
Many of his lessons had raised eyebrows among some of the other parents. And that day's lesson was certain to do it again, as he'd asked the class to consider whether Jews were "culpable in the murder of Jesus of Nazareth."
The question had caused his students to gasp. Then Sarah, who was studying for her bat mitzvah, angrily denounced the allegation. "Christians have used that as an excuse for centuries to murder Jews," she said.
"Exactly why it's important for Jews to examine the allegation and, if warranted, be prepared to debunk its credibility," Karp said.
"But it was the Romans who crucified him," replied Sarah, a plump, precocious teenager whose already well-developed bosoms were the object of great curiosity to her male classmates, much to her disdain.
"But only after Jewish community leaders accused him essentially of sedition against the Roman Empire, of which they were a part," Karp pointed out. "Then when Pontius Pilate said he could not ascertain that a crime had been committed by Rabbi Jesus, those same leaders continued to press for his punishment. And when Pontius Pilate gave them the choice of executing a known murderer-for whom there was factual guilt and legally admissible evidence that led to his conviction-or Jesus, they chose Jesus. So would that make them guilty of conspiracy to commit murder?"
"They were afraid that he might cause trouble for them with Rome," Ben, a thin, bookish scholar noted.
"I thought it was because he was a threat to their leadership in the community," Karp replied. "However, even if we go with your theory, is it okay then to let fear of what might happen dictate how the law is applied? Was that a valid reason, and legally supportable, to conspire with the Romans to murder an innocent man?"
The class had broken down into noisy debate, which Karp was quite sure would be repeated at some of their homes. Especially when their homework assignment was to research the trial and execution of "the Jewish rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth" and then choose whether to prosecute or defend the Jewish leadership for conspiracy to commit murder.
"Why?" Sarah, who came from a very conservative household, demanded to know. "What does this have to do with us becoming adults?"
"Well, I was asked to teach this class as a so-called role model in the Jewish community," Karp answered. "And as you know, my job is to determine whether to prosecute people accused of crimes based on whether they are factually guilty and there is sufficient, legally admissible evidence that is likely to result in a conviction. If it was to happen today, the allegations, trial, and death penalty given to Rabbi Jesus of Nazareth would make an excellent case study with important implications for the American legal system. And as you've pointed out, it has had enormous historical implications for Jews."