The Book of Names by Jill Gregory Page A

geek heaven. From the center of his horseshoe-shaped console, he could eavesdrop on conversations across three continents and watch history in the making, while two floors below, the caffeine addicts were lining up like lemmings to swallow flavored cups of mud.
    â€œWhat gives?” The blond hulk in the back of the bakery van parked on Avenue Z snapped the words into the phone. James Gillis was antsy, and his ass burned fromsitting here waiting. This was his first opportunity as lead Dark Angel, and he was impatient to prove himself.
    â€œDamn it, Sanjay, how much longer do you expect us to just sit here? Shepherd’s been in there for forty minutes already.”
    â€œHold on to your balls, big guy. Here’s the drill. Shepherd’s got the gemstone and the journal with him. Get them both. And after you’ve eliminated everyone, find the damned safe. We need to get whatever that old Jew has in there.”
    â€œNo problemo.” Gillis glanced at Enrique, the Puerto Rican locksmith with his toolbelt and Glock strapped beneath his Armani blazer. Enrique sat in the captain’s chair beside him, staring at the rain splattering the van’s windows. He was always cool—as patient and expressionless as a Mafia hitman.
    In the communications center, Sanjay checked that the bank of digital recorders on his left were still blinking.
    â€œIn that case,” he said, raising the volume and returning to the conversation in the brownstone. “Dark Angels—go. You are cleared to fly.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
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    â€œThese names you’ve written. . . ” The rabbi touched a hand to the pages beside his computer, the ones David had faxed him. “They match names that have been recorded in ancient papyri discovered in the Middle East.”
    David felt like the floor was sliding away beneath his chair.
    â€œThat’s impossible.”
    â€œConfirmation came in only this morning. Hear me out before you close your mind,” ben Moshe chided. “These names, and all those in your journal, were first written thousands of years ago—they were written down by Adam.”
    He held up a hand as David started to argue. “According to the Kabbalah, Adam copied down God’s
Book of Names
—the names of birds, beasts, and every living creature—for himself and for his sons. They, in turn, passed copies on to their sons, and so on, until eventually the Book reached Moses.”
    David leaped from his chair, unable to contain his incredulity a moment longer.
    â€œRabbi, with all due respect, I find it impossible tobelieve that Adam knew my stepdaughter’s name back in the Garden of Eden.” He pulled the journal toward him and began reading random names aloud. “Or Shen Jianchao’s. Or Noelania Trias’s. Or Beverly Panagoupolos’s.” David tossed the book down. “Come on, now.”
    Ben Moshe remained unfazed. “I don’t expect you to understand this all at once. The study of Kabbalah is a lifelong journey. It requires a mature mind and many years to uncover the mystical layers of the Torah. In past centuries, its secrets were restricted, passed down only from the rabbis to their most devoted students. But, David, I have dedicated my life to this study for over sixty years and I know as well as I know my own name what I am about to tell you.”
    David suddenly flashed on his mother’s tales of her great-grandfather, the mystic, Reb Zalman. “I’m listening.”
    Ben Moshe nodded. “Follow me now—Moses’s copy of the Book of Names was passed down to him from Isaac—one of Abraham’s two sons—and was stored for years in the Temple Vault in Jerusalem. But when the Romans destroyed the Temple in 70 C.E ., they carried off its treasure to Rome, and the Book of Names disappeared, along with the high priest’s breastplate. And with that breastplate,” the rabbi said softly, “went