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‘Oh, come on.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be a believer in esoteric
things.’

‘I am, but there has to be some logic to it.  What you’re
saying is crazy.’

‘Well.  You have the stone in your ring.  You have mine
before you.’

‘But I’ve only your word for what they actually say.’

‘Do you really think that I would concoct such an
elaborate story if all I wanted was to steal your ring?  No, Jake.  I am
telling you the truth.  Will you help me?’

Tiferet was lying but there was no sense in letting him
know that he was aware of it.  The only way to learn the truth would be to play
along with him.  On the other hand Jake would not give in too easily.  That was
just as suspicious.  For the moment he would bide his time and see what
developed.

‘Okay, I’ll consider it.’

‘Thank you.  I must go now but,’ and he dropped a scrap of
paper on the table, ‘Here’s my address and number where I’m staying.  Call me
once you’ve decided.

‘Oh, and just one thing,’ Tiferet continued as he scooped
up his possessions, ‘Take a look at this.’

And he put an auction catalogue on the table.

‘Lot 165.  I think you’ll find it interesting.

‘I’ll show myself out.’

Tiferet stood up and, despite what he had stated, Jake
followed to ensure that he was really leaving.

Now, what should he do?  There was still his original
plan.  He would try calling Kevin Saint-George.  Maybe he would have some
answers.

Lot 165 was a silver Kiddush
^[6]
goblet.  Not
really the sort of thing that would usually interest Jake but then his eye
alighted upon the description and to the final line.

‘Interesting for the engraved stone
mounted in its side.’

If Tiferet had been telling the truth then
there could be only one meaning.  This had to be another of the stones that
formed part of the Breastplate of Judgement.  And he read the description
again.  It said that the cup had been one of a pair.  So there had to be
another.  The question was where.

He turned to the front of the catalogue
and noted that the auction was to be tomorrow.  If he was going to do any
investigating that did not leave him much time.  He decided to call Phillips
and see what they could tell him.

Not that much, as it happened.  The
engraving on the stone was said to be ancient Hebrew.  Apparently the goblet
was part of a probate clearance sale and, no, there was no indication whatever
of how its late previous owner had come to possess the thing.  Regarding the
pair there was no information.

There was only one thing to do to learn
more and that was to visit the auction.  At the least it would be an
interesting experience, something a little out of the ordinary for a change.

The next job was to call Kevin
Saint-George.  As far as he was aware Kev was not broadcasting today so there
would be a good chance that he would be at home.  He keyed in the number and
was greeted by a strange voice.

‘Yeah, man?’

‘Sorry.  Is this Kevin Saint-George’s?’

‘Yeah, man.’

Oh great.  Had to be another stray that
Kevin had taken in.  How typical of him.  Sounded like an aged hippie.

‘Could I speak with him?’

‘Who?’

‘Kev, of course.’

The idiot was probably stoned to his
eyeballs.  This was going to be one mighty uphill struggle.

‘Is Kevin there?’

‘No, man.’

‘Is he at the studio then?’

‘No.’

‘For God’s sake.  Listen to me . . .’

‘Rob.’

‘Okay, Rob.  Listen to me, will you?  This
is important.  Tell Kev as soon as he gets in to give me a call.  Tell him it’s
Jake.  He knows who I am.

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘Later.  Yeah, that’s right.  Later.’

(Moron).

Jake supposed there was a chance that
Kevin would get the message.  He could always drive over there.  There was one
disadvantage of course.  If Kevin was not home he would have to endure the
company of the idiot, Rob.  The best thing would be to call again in a couple
of hours.

There was one more person he wanted to
call.  He dialled the Jewish Chronicle and asked to speak to Mark Moses, one of
their staff reporters.  They had studied together at college.  There was a
chance Mark could point him in the right direction.

Mark was as friendly as usual and they
spent a few minutes catching up on old times.  Then Jake asked the question
that was the purpose of his call.

‘A tame Rabbi, eh?  You know there is
someone who might be able to help you.  You say you’ve got a text in an ancient
Hebrew script?  There’s this guy, you know.  He used to be a Rabbi but he gave
it up some years ago.  He’s doing an article on Jewish Mysticism for the paper
in a couple of weeks.  A professor at the Hebrew University.  Funny name. 
Benjamin Tiferet.  I’ll get you his number if you like.’

Jake could hardly believe his ears.  It
was the very last thing that he expected to hear.  For the moment, however; he
did not want to reveal that he had met Tiferet nor could he dare mention his
suspicions.  On the other hand this was a good opportunity to learn about his
recent visitor.

‘Thanks,’ was all he said and waited for
the number to be given.  It was identical to that which he had already been
given.  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘Who is he, anyway?’

‘Professor Tiferet,’ Mark drew a breath,
‘You’ve heard of Gershom Scholem, haven’t you?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Well, Scholem made a name for himself by
making an in-depth analysis of Jewish Mysticism.  He fell out with the orthodox
community for his pains as they did not approve of either his work or that his
only interest in Torah was academic.  Benjamin Tiferet studied under him but,
unlike Scholem, Tiferet took mysticism seriously.  As a result of his
researches Tiferet became disillusioned with the orthodox view of religion and,
after giving up the ministry, became known somewhat as a heretic.  By all
accounts he’s a real maverick but, if there’s one person who might have
interest in ancient texts it’s him.’

‘Okay, Mark.  Thanks.  I think I’ll give
him a call.  It sounds like Tiferet might be just the right person to help me.’

‘Great.  Let me know how you get on.’

‘Sure.’

As Jake returned the receiver to its cradle
he wondered.  Just because Tiferet was known did not mean that he was
innocent.  What had he really learnt?  There was no evidence whatever to
indicate whether or not the Professor was on the side of the angels.  No; for
the moment, he would play it carefully.  There was no sense in dropping his
guard until he was certain.

It was not until the middle of the
afternoon when Jake finally managed to make contact with Kevin Saint-George but
it proved to be almost a complete waste of time.  Kevin promised to ask around
about the lifting of Voodoo-type curses but he had no immediate remedy to
offer.  His only real advice was that, as Jake knew that the images he had seen
were externally created, he should try and face them to challenge their validity. 
Whilst Jake appreciated the soundness of the advice he was not certain that he
could implement it.

As the day wore on, however, he did not
experience any recurrence of the visions and the next test of his mettle came
when Fiona returned from work in a flaming temper.  It was quite obvious that
she already knew that Jake had failed to keep his appointment with Mitch which
could only mean that they had already spoken.

Coincidence, or something else?

Jake kept his first uneasy thoughts to
himself.  If Fiona was not having an affair he did not fancy the lashings of
her tongue when he made the accusations.  As it was he realised that their
marital relationship was sinking rapidly into a quagmire from which there
seemed no escape.

And, so it was that they went to bed that
night in silence.  Sleep, however; was a long time in coming as Jake brooded
over his suspicions without coming to any sensible conclusions.  Mitch was a
client of Fiona’s firm so it was entirely possible that they spoke quite
innocently on the telephone.  There really was no need to make anything more of
it.  So why was he fretting?

At last he dropped off and immediately
found himself in that grey upon grey vista.  This time, however, he was aware
that he was dreaming and he determined to face the adversary when it appeared. 
He stood his ground and waited.

Everything was quiet and still.  There was
not a trace of movement anywhere.  Involuntarily, Jake shuddered.  Despite his
knowledge that this was merely a dream the feeling of danger was acute. 
Something was there.  Something was stalking him and, whatever it was, it had
the power to tear him apart; mind and body.

‘Stop it.’

It was no use thinking like that.  The
enemy had to be confronted.  He had to face his fear.  That was the only way to
conquer it.

The sensation intensified.  Unseen; the
thing approached.  A grey unformed monstrosity that had no part in creation.

And Jake could feel its icy breath upon
him and he knew that its fanged mouth was inches from his face.

‘Give me the ring.’

‘No.’

‘Give me the ring.’

So insistent.  So commanding.  Jake had to
resist it; he had to.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Give me the ring.’

‘Show me your face.’

Again came that fleeting glimpse of a
little girl who was malevolently staring at him.  Her eyes so full of
accusation…and so, so, familiar.  Somehow she belonged to Jake’s past but to a
past he realised that was blocked off in the deepest recesses of his memory.

‘Who...are...you?’

And she was gone and so was the creature.

Then, from out of the mists, came a human
figure.  His face hidden by a cowl.

‘Jacob Tranton,’ spoke the newcomer softly
in a slightly foreign accent, Tiferet, it had to be, ‘Why do you resist?’

‘Who are you?’

The man shook his head.

‘This could be so simple.  All you have to
do is to give me your ring and then you may resume your life untroubled.’

‘And, if I refuse?’

It was only in Jake’s imagination but he
knew that the figure was smiling in anticipation.

‘If you refuse...?’

And everything seemed to change.  The
infinite greyness had gone and Jake found himself looking down upon his body as
it lay next to Fiona upon the bed.  It seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

It was Fiona who was no longer herself.

Her skin was sallow, tight, almost as if
she had been mummified and she lay there with un-lidded eyes staring at his
hovering spiritual form.  She looked as if she had been dead a thousand years
or more.

It was with a sense of revulsion that Jake
watched, mesmerised, as the form of his wife sat up and looked down upon his
unprotected sleeping body.  In horror he realised that her rotting belly was
distended as if she was in an advanced state of pregnancy.  It was a thought
that filled Jake with revulsion.  She opened her mouth in a cavernous grin and
Jake became aware that the void was filled with living things that squirmed and
wriggled in phosphorescent shades of pink and white.  Long, maggoty creatures
that danced and cavorted within that gullet seeking a route into the world of
life.

He knew that he had to fight back.

‘This is not real,’ he told himself.

‘Not real,’ came the echoing voice, ‘Then
face reality.’

Again, everything changed and it took Jake
a second to re-orientate himself.  He was in bed, his eyes closed, but awake
and, within him, there came the certain knowledge of what he would see when he
opened them.  No, he was being ridiculous.  That was totally impossible.

Wasn’t it?

All he had to do was to open his eyes to
find out.  It was so simple.

He had to know.

And he opened his eyes.

Nothing.  The room was in darkness.  It
was impossible to see but there was an awful smell like ancient decay.

Jake reached for the bedside light and
switched it on.

What was that smell?

He turned over to look at Fiona and wished
that he hadn’t.  She was just as he had seen her in the dream; a dead pregnant
thing with the putrescence of the grave.  It had to be a lie.  The bastards
were still playing tricks with his mind.  He knew what to do.  Wake Fiona up. 
No way could the illusion survive her temper at being disturbed.

Trying to control his revulsion Jake
leaned over the rotting corpse resplendent in its burial shroud and reached
down to shake it by the shoulders.

It was as his eyes met hers that it
happened.

A skeletal arm barely covered by strips of
paper-thin flesh reached up and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip.  He tried
to pull away but it was impossible.

Jake began to panic.

The other arm came up and took hold of him
and he knew exactly what was in the corpse’s mind.  Its mouth, like the mouth
of a skull, opened and he found himself staring into that maggot filled maw
from which issued a hissing voice of command.

‘Kiss me.’

And, with unbelievable strength, the thing
yanked downwards and Jake saw himself coming ever closer to that open mouth
infested with worms and the slimy things from beneath the ground.

He closed his eyes and felt that fetid
breath upon his face; the cold dead tongue weaving its way between his lips. 
There was nothing he could do.

And Jake screamed.

Only to find that he was still lying
down.  It had been another dream and the real Fiona was already awake, looking
at him with an expression on her face that seemed to be some way between pity
and loathing.

‘You’re not making a habit of this, I
hope?’

(Loathing.)

And then she smiled.

‘Oh, Jake.  You’re really having a bad time
of it, aren’t you?’

There was no reply he could give.  All he
could do was to shake his head sheepishly.

‘You think you can get back to sleep?’

‘I’ll try.’

But he did not think he could.

The two of them lay down again but Jake
did not shut his eyes.  He did not want to return to that dream world
controlled by his enemies, whoever they might be.

…………………………………………

Inevitably, Jake did return to sleep and
he was not troubled by another nightmarish instalment.  Indeed, he was pleased
to find that he did wake up quite refreshed and he got himself ready to attend
the auction.

There was no point in taking a car to
London’s West End.  The traffic would be diabolical and parking virtually
impossible unless he wished to fork out the price of the congestion charge and
a car park place which he knew from bitter experience could be exorbitant.

Instead, he ended up taking the tube to
Bond Street and was soon entering the double glass doors to the Phillips
auction house.

There was a fair bustle of activity but he
was quickly directed to the appropriate room and he found himself a seat at the
back where he would be able to see exactly who would arrive.  Whilst the place
filled up quickly there was no sign of Ben Tiferet which did cause Jake some
surprise.  Surely the Professor was not intending to miss this occasion.  There
was, of course, one possibility; that he had sent someone to bid on his behalf.

As the first lot was called Jake was
overcome by a sudden feeling of panic; that an innocent movement might be
misconstrued as a bid.  Oh come on, he told himself, don’t be ridiculous.  The
auctioneer must know the difference between a cough and a genuine bidder.

Despite his attempt at self-reassurance
himself Jake found himself sitting ram-rod still whilst each lot was being sold. 
And so, some good time later that felt like forever, Lot 165 was called and
Jake braced himself to see who was bidding.

The goblet was displayed and again mention
was made of the engraved stone mounted at the side.  Yes, Jake was certain of
it; this was indeed another part of the biblical Breastplate of Judgement that
had been worn by the Israelite high priests.  The bidding was opened at three
hundred pounds and there was immediate interest.  Jake watched as the price was
raised until it had reached the five hundred mark.  Now it should be possible
to tell who the serious buyers were.

There was still, however, no sign of
Tiferet.  So who was his agent?

A girl nodded at the call of five hundred
and fifty pounds.  Yes, she had been bidding since the cup had been first
called.  From the back all Jake could see was that she had deep auburn hair cut
above her shoulders and she was wearing a smart brown jacket.  Was she the
enemy?

‘Do I hear six hundred pounds?’

Not a murmur was heard.

‘How about five hundred and seventy five? 
Who will offer me five hundred and seventy five pounds for this beautiful
piece?  A cup that graced the table of the Rothschilds themselves.’

Was that a movement to the right?

‘Thank you.  Five hundred and ninety,
sir?  Yes, thank you.’

It was a grey-haired man in a suit.  That
was all Jake could see.

‘Six hundred pounds.  Surely someone will
give me a round six.  Yes, thank you miss.’

The girl again.

There was a low murmur from the man on the
right.  Jake could not make it out but the auctioneer obviously did.

‘Seven hundred pounds, sir.  Thank you.’

He looked around the room to see if there
was any further interest.  Pointedly, he directed his gaze to the girl but she
did not budge.

‘All right.  Going once at seven hundred
pounds.  Going twice at . . .’

‘One thousand one hundred pounds,’ shouted
the girl to a resounding gasp from the audience.  Whoever she was she wanted
this cup desperately.  She had to be Tiferet’s person.’

Unperturbed as ever the auctioneer began
again.

‘Going once at eleven hundred pounds. 
Going twice at eleven hundred pounds.’

He looked at the man who shook his head.

‘Gone to the lady in brown.  And the next
item is...’

But Jake did not listen any further.  He
watched as a teller walked over to the girl and took some details and then when
he returned to the back of the room, stood up and followed him.

‘Sir?’

‘Could we go outside a second?’

‘I’m not supposed to.’

‘This will only be a tick.’

They passed through the door and Jake
slipped a ten pound note to the other.  It was the most he could afford.

‘Lot 165.  I wonder.  Do you think you
could tell me the name of the buyer?’

The man returned the money with a
supercilious air.

‘I’m sorry sir.  It is not our policy to
reveal the details of buyers without their express permission.  I suggest you
wait after the auction and speak to the young lady yourself.  Excuse me.  I
have a job to do.’

‘Bastard!’ but Jake only said it to
himself.  What size bribe would these jokers have taken?

And then he heard a cough from behind him
and Jake spun around.  In a way he was not surprised to see Ben Tiferet
standing there.

‘The young lady’s name is Cherry Linford. 
Come on.  We have to talk.’

Friend or foe, there was no point in
resisting, and Jake followed the Professor in silence from the building and
towards Oxford Street.  Soon, they reached a café with pavement seating and
Tiferet motioned for them to sit down.

‘I take it,’ Jake began once coffee had
been ordered, ‘That the girl does not work for you?’

Tiferet smiled and his amusement seemed
quite genuine.

‘Not at all but I know all about her.  You
don’t trust me, do you?’

Jake did not reply.

‘I’ve no way of persuading you that I’m
not your enemy but I can only beg you to listen to me.’

‘All right, I’m listening.’

Listening but not believing.

‘Good.  Now, about the girl.  Maybe you’ve
heard of her.’

‘Cherry Linton, did you say?’

‘No, Linford.  Cherry Linford.  She’s an
artist.  Her work’s quite well known.’

Jake thought about it.  Yes, the name did
ring a bell.  Hadn’t he read about her in one of the local papers?  She had
made a name for herself painting angry abstracts or something.  He tried to
remember the article.

‘I see you do know her.  I need to know
why she wanted the cup so much.  She could be the enemy but somehow I do not think
so.  Did you notice another person bidding for it?’

‘Yes.’

‘He must be their agent.  I am certain of
it.  You saw that he stopped when the Linford girl made her final offer.  That
worries me.  I cannot imagine for one moment that they are on a limited
budget.  It must mean that they have some other way of acquiring the cup.  That
could put her in danger if she is innocent.’