The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

  Mrs. Goldstein remained upstairs in her bedroom, under sedation. Mr. Goldstein sat in the living room, his head resting on the palm of his right hand propped up by the elbow. His face was pale, and there were lines of darkness around his eyes, over his chin, and across his cheeks where he did not shave. He was a small man, made much smaller by his terrible grief. After each had entered and approached to shake his hand, the mourners looked at him through sideward glances. The women kissed and hugged him and then backed away, holding handkerchiefs to their faces. He looked up with red, glassy eyes. He was a man caught in a daze. None of it seemed real. He had the feeling that in a few moments all these people would disappear and he’d be seated, reading a book. It had all been a momentary daydream. He was lost in a fantasy. He hoped that was somehow true. David had been their only child. They had placed all their hope in him. He was to carry them into the future. Now they had no one but themselves. It was too much, too much to believe.

  Bill and Toby Marcus stood up when Abe and Lillian Rothberg entered the house. They greeted one another first, the women kissing, the two men shaking hands. Lillian squeezed Bill’s hand and Toby took Abe’s upper arm. The four of them stood by silently for a moment, other mourners staring at them as if they held some magical powers, as if they would do something to change the course of events. Lillian was such a doer, such a leader and organizer. Surely she would make some statement, commit some action that would lift the gloom. She would clap her hands and begin to dictate orders. This half of the room into the kitchen. You people over there, prepare the table. We need this furniture moved.

  “Where’s Sylvia?” Abe asked.

  “She’s upstairs. Doctor Wasserman got here earlier. He gave her something.”

  “She can’t sleep forever,” Lillian said.

  “I know,” Bill whispered. “Better talk to Hymie.” He turned to indicate him.

  “Oh, Abe,” Lillian said, taking her husband’s arm. He patted her hand and they started across the room.

  “Hymie,” he said, extending his hand. Hymie Goldstein looked up with what seemed to be incredible physical effort. He took Abe’s hand and just held it. Lillian knelt down, squatted beside him, and placed her head against his shoulder. She sobbed gently, and tears began to come from Hymie Goldstein’s eyes. His mouth quivered. Abe looked about nervously. They weren’t helping. They were bringing everything to a horrible head.

  “Lillian,” he said. She lifted her head away and stood up, turning her back to them. Toby was at her side with a handkerchief.

  “Looks like you were right, Abe,” Hymie said. “You called it.”

  “I didn’t call anything,” Rothberg said softly. He hoped no one was listening.

  “The kid became committed to the cause. I didn’t stop him. I let it all go on and I never discouraged him. He appreciated that. But Sylvia’s fears were right. She was right. What have I done?” he asked, his hands up.

  “Easy, Hymie.” Abe patted Hymie on the shoulder and the man’s arms dropped to his lap. “He wasn’t killed in a battle. He was mugged on a street. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “He was killed in battle,” Hymie said, shaking his head. “The others keep dropping by. They know. Some of them are here now—his friends, members of the JDL. Look at their faces. They’re plotting revenge, and I hope they get it.”

  “None of that’s gonna do any good now.”

  “It’ll do good; it’ll do good. Those vermin have to be exterminated before they strike out again and again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abe said. “None of this makes any sense.” He wanted to turn away and sit with Bill Marcus, but Hymie grabbed his jacket sleeve.

  “Abe,” he said becoming more animated. He leaned over, one hand on the arm of the easy chair. “I’m asking people who want to give something in Daniel’s memory to give donations to Rabbi Kaufman.”

  “Who?”

  “Kaufman. He’ll be here soon. David’s leader.”

  “Oh, Kaufman. If that’s what you want, Hymie, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “It’s what I want,” he said. He clenched his teeth, and his eyes grew bigger. After a few moments, he sat back and looked dazed again. Toby and Lillian moved into the kitchen. Abe joined Bill Marcus by the picture window. He was talking to Doctor Wasserman. They paused as he joined them.

  “Bad business,” Abe said.

  “Just horrible. We’ll never be free of it. Never,” Bill said.

  “Hear anything about the killer?” Wasserman asked.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Sometimes I think we oughta go back to the old block police system, sorta make each neighborhood responsible for itself,” Bill said.

  “And make the city a thousand armed camps?” Wasserman asked.

  “That’s what it is anyway.”

  “Violence breeds violence. It’s no solution,” the doctor replied.

  “So what is the solution?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that what you’re suggesting isn’t.”

  “The only solution for the Jews is a strong and powerful state of Israel,” Marcus said. “That’s the only reality our enemies will understand. They don’t want to compromise and negotiate. We’ve got to be bigger and stronger and capable of delivering the greatest deathblow. That’s the only solution. You’re comin’ up to the New Prospect for the holidays, aren’t you, Doc?”

  “We’ll be up by the third night. I’ve got many things to do yet.”

  “Just as long as you’re up to hear Chaim Eban.”

  “And contribute,” Wasserman said, nodding his head.

  “And contribute. Right, Abe?”

  “And get in some golf if the weather permits,” Rothberg said. It took the fire and enthusiasm out of Marcus’s face. He smirked, but Wasserman smiled.

  “Damn right. You’re about my handicap, aren’t you, Abe? Five, give or take a stroke?” Wasserman went on, still smiling.

  “Sure, but on that course,” Abe said, feeling a little more like talking, “everyone’s handicap goes up fifty percent. Why I remember once …”

  He stopped talking just as Rabbi Kaufman entered the house. Four members of the JDL stood beside him. Their presence brought an immediate silence. Two young men came out of the kitchen and joined them. All of them stood erect—their entire demeanor one of anger and aggression. It was as if a strong gust of air had come into the room. None of them wore expressions of sorrow or sympathy. Kaufman’s face was tight, his lips pressed together, his eyes reduced to slits because of his nearly closed lids. He began across the room. A couple stood aside to make room for all of them. Everyone stepped back and turned.

  Hymie Goldstein didn’t realize they were there until they were right on top of him. He looked up slowly, and then the expression on his face changed radically. He seemed to have renewed energy. He lifted his hand and shook Kaufman’s vigorously. His face registered the light of hope. Then he stood up, still holding the rabbi’s hand. It was as if Kaufman could transmit strength.

  They spoke softly. No one could hear the words, though nearly everyone strained to do so. Whatever he said to Hymie Goldstein encouraged him even more. He nearly smiled. Then he turned and shook hands with each and every one of the JDL members.

  “I can understand how Hymie feels,” Bill said. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be the same way if I were in his shoes,”

  “It’s not the solution,” Wasserman repeated. Marcus turned and looked at him, this time with obvious disgust.

  “I’ll say this for you, Doc. Your kind must’ve been in the majority during World War Two. Otherwise why would six million of us have strolled into the gas chambers?”

  “C’mon, that’s not fair, Bill,” Abe said.

  “Exactly,” Marcus replied.

  11

  Nessim looked out the study window and watched as a tray of c
offee and small cakes was taken out to Clea and Yusuf. They sat in the warm sunlight of the spring afternoon and enjoyed the hospitality of their new sudden hosts, Paul and Beatrice Tandem. The house in Monroe was off on a side road, a thousand feet in. The long driveway and plush lawn with weeping willows and lines of hedges appeared as elegant and as peaceful as anyplace they had ever known. The house itself was a large stone and wood building consisting of twelve rooms. There were two floors and an adjoining two-car garage. Farther right from that was a shack for tools and garden equipment.

  “Here we are now,” Hamid said, entering the study with Paul Tandem. “All set to talk things over.”

  Nessim turned and took the easy chair near the window. Paul Tandem was a light-haired, blue-eyed, six-foot-tall, well-built man in his forties. He had a wide forehead, but his hair came down over it, hiding that characteristic. His face narrowed considerably below the cheeks, and consequently he had an unusually small mouth. He had a cocky demeanor.

  Nessim immediately decided the man was cold and unfeeling, but there was something more. He had seen this kind of type A, hollowed-out individual who looked like the shell of a person before. Tandem had eyes of glass that went no deeper within him than was necessary. Nessim was sure he had fingers of ice, and when they shook hands, that was confirmed.

  Paul Tandem was a man who walked and talked with Death, Nessim thought. Death was with him at the breakfast table in the morning. It sat beside him when he had his quiet moments in this study. Men like Paul Tandem made Nessim aware of his own mortality.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Commander,” Tandem said. He extended his hand, with its rather large palms but short stubby fingers. He grasped Nessim’s hand and gave it a manly squeeze.

  Nessim nodded.

  Tandem went on, “Heard a great deal about you and your ability.”

  “Good,” Nessim said. He looked to Hamid. He was impatient with small talk.

  “We want to get right down to it,” Hamid said. “We’ve deliberately left only a short time for preparations. El Yacoub will be here tonight.”

  “El Yacoub,” Tandem repeated, smiling widely. He took pleasure in the sound of the name, but to Nessim he looked like he was lost in a daze.

  “Sit,” Hamid said.

  Tandem moved quickly to the black leather couch. It was a neatly kept study with paneled walls, a thick cream-colored nylon rug on the floor, and a desk with its supplies and contents carefully arranged. In fact, the room looked unused. Hamid began to unroll a thin piece of oak tag paper.

  “Hotel floor plans?” Nessim said, looking over his shoulder.

  “It’s construction plans. El Yacoub will bring more detailed and more elaborate material to study. The Obermans—they own the hotel—have made arrangements for Eban to stay for dinner and overnight. He is to make his speech about 9 a.m. and then visit with some rich people in a cocktail party later that evening in the nightclub.”

  “I see. This dining room holds all the guests?”

  “They feed three thousand people,” Tandem said. “At one time.”

  “The exact timing of Chaim Eban’s schedule is not yet set, but he has to eat when everyone else eats. He has to show himself to the contributors as much as possible,” Hamid said.

  “What did the organization have in mind?” Nessim asked.

  “Mr. Tandem here seems to think the structure is vulnerable. We do too.”

  “It damn well is,” Tandem said. “I know something about construction. I was in that business for a while.”

  “I’m to collapse part of the building, is that it?” Nessim asked.

  “Like Samson on the Philistines,” Hamid said. “I suppose there are a number of possibilities,” he added, looking at the diagram.

  “This basement appears to run under the dining room, the nightclub, and the lobby,” Nessim said.

  “The command would like you to use the Kennedy Airport method,” Hamid said.

  “Detonation through radio transmission?”

  “Exactly. Tandem has suggestions about where to plant the plastique and detonator devices.”

  Tandem approached and pointed to a number of spots on the plans. “Steel girders,” he said.

  “El Yacoub’s bringing much more detailed material,” Hamid said again, “but we want to give you the main idea. Think it over.”

  “You’ll get three thousand of ’em in the dining room,” Tandem said.

  “Is there any security in the basement?”

  “Security? Hell no,” Tandem said. “You’re in the Catskills, not the Middle East. They don’t patrol all over. Security is mostly a cosmetic thing.”

  “Cosmetic?”

  “Yeah, for show, to make the guests feel secure and protected,” Tandem said. “Not that they really feel threatened in any way,” he added.

  “The plastique?” Nessim said, turning to Hamid.

  “The Claw will have it tonight when he arrives.”

  “You’ll be able to enter this basement from a number of places,” Tandem said. “But the best way is from the outside here”—he pointed to the diagram—“late at night.”

  “We have you in a room next to a fire escape,” Hamid said. “It drops right near that entrance.”

  “It you went down through any of the lobby exits, you could be seen. That would attract some interest,” Tandem said. “It’s just something we can avoid,” he added proudly.

  Nessim looked at him. “Apparently you worked there?”

  “I was head of their security for five years.”

  “Gave you a bad deal, did they?” Nessim asked, smiling.

  “You might say that,” he replied. “They killed my son.”

  Clea smiled tentatively and crossed her legs as Paul Tandem, Hamid, and Nessim came out to join her and Yusuf. Yusuf had been sulking the whole time. He knew that they had been discussing strategy, and he resented the fact that he was not permitted to be in on all of it. Nessim knew how he felt and tried to give him a reassuring look as they took seats.

  Beatrice Tandem, a small woman with rather wide hips and a small bosom, stood up quickly. Her face was round, with puffy cheeks and a long thin mouth. Her nose seemed lost under the wide, smiling blue eyes. Nessim sensed something immediately childlike about her expressions. He had seen mothers like that in the Middle East. They became silly and giddy in the face of tragedy. It was the mysterious workings of the brain, setting up defenses against reality. He understood why she would be the way she was and did his best to make his awareness unnoticeable.

  “More coffee?” she asked, clapping her hands together.

  “Yes, yes,” Paul said. “More coffee.”

  She scurried off, her long skirt flying out and snapping back with the exaggerated movement of her arms. There was a moment of silence.

  “I meant to ask you, Hamid,” Nessim began, breaking the short silence, “about that woman with El Yacoub.”

  “Brenda Casewell? Her husband was an American sailor. Remember that American ship the Israelis ‘accidentally’ attacked during the ’73 war? He was killed on it. We were going to use Brenda’s apartment for a meeting place, but when El Yacoub discovered that empty one next door, he decided on that. He has an inbred, instinctive feel for caution. This way no one could tie Casewell in with us. She’s rather a bitter woman and El Yacoub knew her grandfather.”

  “You see what I’ve been telling you,” Nessim said turning to Yusuf. “We’re careful from the top down. Caution is the sister of courage.”

  Yusuf nodded but looked away quickly.

  “Isn’t it peaceful here?” Hamid said. “Like an afternoon on Sheep’s Head Hill by the Jordan, right, Nessim?”

  “Yes,” he said. He sat down. His eyes lifted slowly and confronted Clea. She looked frightened. He wanted to get her alone and hold her and tell her this was all nothing, nothing.
He would do his work and they would still be together. It wasn’t his time yet. The plan provided for his escape.

  “While we’re all here together like this,” Hamid said, “I might as well describe how we’re going to work your entrance to the hotel. The Claw was rather pleased to learn you and Clea were available.”

  “Clea?”

  “Yes. The Jews are having this Passover holiday, you know. It’s a big family gathering.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We have reservations for you and your wife in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Martin Jaffe.”

  “What about me?” Yusuf said suddenly.

  “You’re to stay here and wait until it’s over.”

  “I want to go. I want to help.”

  “Well …”

  “Tell them, Nessim. I can help. I’m ready.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not possible,” Hamid said.

  Yusuf slammed the palms of his hands down on the arms of the wooden chair and stood up.

  “Easy,” Nessim said.

  Yusuf looked at him and then walked off, toward the front of the house.

  “He’s too anxious,” Hamid said. “El Yacoub was very upset by what happened in the city.”

  “Nevertheless, he is dedicated and wants to contribute. We should find a way to use him in this,” Nessim said.

  “You want him along?”

  “I could use him. Planting the plastique. He could be of help since Clea is there, just to support the cover.”

  “Well, we will have to speak to El Yacoub, but frankly …”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Nessim said quickly. “Leave it to me.”

  “Whatever you say. You know what has to be done once you’re in the hotel.”

  “What exactly has to be done?” Clea asked. She looked from Hamid to Nessim and then to Paul Tandem.

  “‘We’re …” Tandem started.

  “I’ll talk to you about it later,” Nessim said, cutting him off. He gave Tandem a strong look and Tandem smiled. Clea caught Nessim’s visual warning.

  “Do you come from the Middle East, Mr. Tandem?” she asked.