The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

  The lieutenant watched staff members outside the hotel move about the front entrance and the driveway like soldier ants around the dirt hill. The hotel crawled with life and activity. There were the sounds of car doors slamming, voices shouting orders, and car horns beeping. He saw a group of about six chambermaids laughing and talking as they made their way out of the hotel and down to the help’s parking lot.

  When he returned to the hotel lobby, Barry found it filling up quickly as more and more guests, dressed and perfumed, had come down to wait for the signal for dinner. They were as immaculate as storefront mannequins. Children looked trapped and imprisoned by their fresh clothing. All their movements were restrained by the watchful eyes of parents and grandparents. The adults milled about, sat on the lounge chairs, and carried on quiet discussions. Way off in a far right corner, a small group had gathered in front of a large color television set placed on a shelf. Barry went right to the office.

  A heavy young woman sat before a board made up of what seemed to him to be a thousand tiny lightbulbs. Some were red and some were blue. She wore earphones and her hands, despite their swollen nature and thick fingers, moved with remarkable accuracy as she pulled plugs and jabbed others. The wires attached to them made an incredible maze across the board, yet she somehow found the ones she wanted when she wanted them. In the few moments that he watched her, he got the impression that she was part of the whole mechanism. She never turned from the board and her hands moved at the beck and command of the lights and the buzzing from within the abdomen of the switchboard.

  Mrs. Aldelman beckoned to him and took him to a desk in the far corner. Another young girl sat nearby, looking very serious and officious. She wore a tan blouse and dark skirt. He thought she was cute and was grateful that she didn’t wear tight pants.

  “This is Jenny Thomas,” Mrs. Alderman said. “She can help you for about a half hour.”

  “That’s about all I have right now anyway,” he said, smiling.

  Jenny watched Mrs. Aldelman, intent on her command.

  “Just tell her what to look for. There,” she said, indicating a small stack of papers, “are all our check-ins to date.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mrs. Aldelman said and put her glasses firmly back on her face.

  Turning to Jenny, Barry said, “Pull out any party of three consisting of two men and a woman.”

  “Two men and a woman? In one suite?”

  “No. Doesn’t hafta be. Just as long as they checked in together, in a single party so to speak.”

  “Okay,” she sang, “but I don’t think there’ll be many of those.”

  “Might make it easy to find then,” Barry said. He sat down beside her and started going through the lists.

  The names, rooms, and the home addresses were all down in columns across the pages. He was beginning to think that all his work might be futile because there was a strong possibility that the three broke up their group and checked in under separate names. There were so many possibilities.

  “I’ve got one here,” Jenny said.

  “The Feinsteins?” He looked at the list. “Do you know them by any chance?”

  “Yes. Two men in their late sixties or even early seventies. One’s the wife’s brother. They’re always together.”

  “Forget that, but keep looking for that sort of thing.”

  “Sure,” Jenny said, a half smile on her face now. “If I find what you want, will you tell me what it’s for?” she whispered, an eye on Mrs. Aldelman across the room.

  “Maybe,” he teased. He looked back at his sheets.

  He saw it nearly fifteen minutes later. It hit him like a slap across the face. The numbers had been in his mind all the time, buried with all the other details and facts he had accumulated during the past few days, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be jolted by them. What bothered him was the fact that he never considered the possibility of it being there. He had overlooked that detail. How stupid, he thought. It better be the end of that kind of stupidity. He lifted the sheet off the table.

  The fact that it was there before him, typed clearly in black and white, made him aware of the fact that he had one big advantage going for him in this affair. They, whoever they were and wherever they were, did not know that he was here, that he had come specifically because he believed something was planned to occur. He was hunting for a relatively unknown prey, that was true, but the prey did not know the hunter was among them.

  “You can stop looking,” he said. “I’ve got what I want.”

  “Oh?” Jenny looked over, but she could never discover what it was that excited Barry.

  There, next to the name Brenda Casewell, was the address from East Ninety-Third Street.

  “I want to make a phone call,” Nessim said to Clea as they got up from their table in the lounge. “I saw some pay phones in the lower lobby. Let’s go there.”

  “Where’s your cell phone?”

  “I can’t make a call in here, and I don’t want to go out on the hotel grounds to do it. It might attract attention. Just come along,” he said a bit sternly.

  Clea followed him out. She had been with him long enough to sense when something was troubling him. It was nearly impossible to see it in his face or hear it in his tone of voice, but there were always vibrations in the air, a kind of current that had developed between them. Most of the time it was smooth and calm. She bathed in the warmth of it, enjoyed the touch of his invisible fingers. But now she sensed static. It had come so suddenly, seemingly without any warning and it worried her. She reached for his hand. He gripped it unusually tightly.

  She did not question him further. It was not the way with Nessim. He would only move into his shell, throw up thicker walls and protection. It was best to simply wait. When he was ready, if he was ready, he would talk. As hard as it was for her to get used to the idea, they were in a battlefield of sorts. That was the only real preliminary preparation Nessim had made with her.

  “You must think of us as being involved in a war. Think of it all the time, if you can, and you’ll never be careless. In a setting such as the one we are about to enter, there will be a great tendency to question our entire purpose. Everything will be so peaceful and benign. It will be difficult to think of these people as the enemy or as plotting and working against us, but that is what they’re doing. That is the main purpose and thrust of their whole activity. The man they will be honoring has the capability to engineer many strategies of death and defeat for our people. There is no way to measure the immense good we will be doing by destroying him and that potential.”

  She listened to him quietly, thinking to herself that she had somehow become his private student. He was tutoring her in the ways of terrorist war, but even more so in the ways of reality. As she listened, she thought she was getting an even better insight into who he really was. Nessim was the most complicated man she had ever met. He was capable of great passion and softness, yet he was as deadly and as ruthless as anyone could imagine a man could be. He had never broken out into hateful tirades against the Jews. He had never demonstrated viciousness before her. He was as quiet with his violence as he was with his love, but he was also capable of great passion and physical lovemaking, so she assumed from that that he was capable of great hate.

  They walked silently and quickly through the lobby, down the carpeted stairway with the beautiful thick banisters. The thickness of the carpet muted their steps. She was touched by the elegance of the hotel, which had the capability of making everyone who was a guest in it feel like a king or a queen. That was its magic and its power. Nessim stopped by one of the phones and took out all his pocket change, setting it on the little shelf before him. The phones were not enclosed. He was bothered by that, but he would have to make do. Clea waited quietly by his side.

  He lifted the receiver and followed the directions printed on the
phone. When the operator came on, he filled the phone with the required change and waited, pressing his body up against it and hunching his shoulders over it in a sort of protective gesture. He was happy that Hamid answered.

  “All is well,” Nessim said quickly, “but there is one thing. The woman from the Ninety-Third Street apartment is here.”

  There was a silence on the other end. Nessim listened intently, skilled in detecting meaning from the rhythms and nuances in the voices of people.

  “She hasn’t made contact with you, has she?” Hamid asked.

  “No, but why wasn’t I told about this and why is she here?”

  “She’s insurance,” Hamid said. “It’s the Claw’s way. Chaim Eban must not leave the New Prospect alive. If something should go wrong, if your work doesn’t succeed, she is prepared to do the job.”

  “But why wasn’t I told?”

  “It’s the Claw’s way,” Hamid said again. “He believes each person is part of a strategy and must know only what he or she has to know to do the job. This way there can be no betrayals or mistakes that would harm another part.”

  Nessim was silent.

  “You can’t find fault with this,” Hamid added. He sensed how Nessim felt.

  “Another man might be more upset.”

  “Only a man with more ego than we need.”

  Nessim felt the verbal blow. Hamid was right about that, but he wasn’t thinking so much about his own damaged pride as he was about possible damage to his strategies.

  “How is Yusuf?”

  “Impatient, but don’t worry.”

  “Okay,” Nessim said. He hung up.

  Clea looked at him closely for some indication or hint as to the true result of his phone call.

  “How was Yusuf?”

  “He’s all right.”

  “Something has angered you?”

  “In a small way. It’s not important now.” He looked at his watch. “The dining room doors will be opened now. Let’s go up.”

  She wanted to say something more, be more affectionate, ease or comfort him in a way, but two laughing couples came down the corridor. Nessim moved away from the phone quickly.

  It was a nervous and overly cautious gesture that frightened her. They walked toward the stairway again. But it was only a few moments later that he relaxed. She felt the muscles in his hand ease and his grip become more loving.

  When they entered the dining room and stopped to give their name to the maître d’, Nessim was all smiles and warmth again. Her heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. She looked about at the immense room and became interested in the upcoming experience. Their mission was forgotten for the moment.

  18

  “What are the possibilities that this is just a coincidence?” David asked. He leaned back in his chair. Dressed in a blue suit and white tie, he was all set to play host to three thousand people for the First Seder of Passover. Barry sat at the edge of his seat.

  “Oh, that’s always a possibility. Not sayin’ it isn’t, but don’t forget, this address at East Ninety-Third Street was the lead that started me on this in the first place.”

  “Um …” David nodded slowly. “Well, I’m going to want Tom Boggs in on this right now.” He leaned over and pressed the intercom. “Have Boggs come right to my office,” he said and looked at his watch. “It’s six forty-five. I’ve got to get to the dining room. We’ll be opening the doors in fifteen minutes.”

  “My wife must be going crazy.”

  “I’ll have one of the bellhops go get her and the kids and escort them over. You’ll be sitting at table five. It’s situated immediately adjacent to mine, where Chaim Eban will be eating in two nights.”

  “Good.”

  “Tom will know how to handle things in the hotel itself. He is fully aware of our policies and how we like things done on the hotel grounds.”

  “Right.”

  “He should be here at any moment. I’m sorry I can’t stay to introduce him. But he knows about you now, so …”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Talk to you later,” David said. He stopped as he came around the desk. “Do what you have to do, but remember to keep everything as subtle as you can.”

  “Understood.”

  Barry stood up as David left. He walked around and studied some of the plaques and awards the Obermans had received over the years. A few minutes later, Tom Boggs walked in. At six feet two inches and weighing nearly two forty, Boggs was a powerfully built man. He had thin blond hair and blue-green eyes. The only thing that marred his good looks was a small scar under his chin where he had been gouged by a shoe spike during a game. Barry didn’t recall his facial features, but he did remember seeing him play years ago.

  “Tom Boggs,” the man said, extending his hand.

  “Barry Wintraub.”

  “We’ve got something going here, is that it?” Boggs asked, moving around the desk. He took David’s chair quickly.

  “Mr. Oberman’s told you why I am here?” Barry said. Boggs nodded. He sat back in the chair. Barry went on, “I’ve gotten a good lead and I want to check it out immediately.”

  “How?”

  “I want to get into a room and search it.”

  Boggs nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “Figured this would be the best time. Everyone’s down for dinner, the suspect included.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female. Brenda Casewell’s the name. She’s in room 416.”

  Boggs looked at his watch.

  “Okay,” he said quickly. “Let’s go right to it.”

  Barry liked his firmness and was relieved that Boggs offered no cautious, hesitant lines. His sports training’s responsible, Barry thought. It’s made him a man of action. On the hotel grounds, he is pretty much in control of things the way he might be on a football field.

  “Good,” Barry said. “For a moment I was afraid you’d be worrying about search warrants and that whole bag.”

  “We’re a sneaky group of bastards when we have to be,” Boggs said with a grin.

  They walked out of the office and went right to an elevator. It opened to let a group of guests out. They stepped back to let them pass.

  “How many security men in plainclothes like yourself?”

  “Four. We have six uniformed men on a rotation around the building and the grounds. We’re not prepared for any kind of an attack though,” he said as they entered the elevator. “Just how sure are you guys about this terrorist possibility?”

  “Not sure at all. Just working on some leads.”

  “Don’t mind tellin’ ya, it’s the most exciting thing’s happened up here since we had a streaker go through the lobby during one of the Senior Citizen weekends.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothin’. Most of the old people didn’t see him or hear him or care, for that matter.”

  “No other security problems?”

  “Some gate crashers occasionally. A few robberies here and there. Once in a while we have a fight or two over at the staff’s quarters, but other than that, this is a soft job. Until you came along, that is.”

  “Maybe it’ll stay soft. Although I know you’re not really a softy,” Barry said. Boggs smiled.

  They stepped out on the fourth floor. A couple, waiting for the elevator, stepped in after them.

  “Down this way,” Boggs said. Barry followed close behind. They stopped at 416 and Boggs knocked softly. There was nothing happening inside, so he knocked louder. Still nothing. He took out a ring of keys and fit one into the lock. Barry looked behind him, but there was nobody in the corridor. Boggs opened the door and they stepped inside.

  “Know what you’re looking for?”

  “No,” Barry said, going right over to the dresser. He pulled out the top drawer a
nd ran his hands under the clothing. He did the same with all the drawers. Then he spotted the suitcases on the floor in the closet.

  “What’s this woman look like?” Boggs asked.

  “Don’t know. Just discovered her name next to an address in the check-in sheet, that’s all,” Barry said. He snapped open the second suitcase. There was some more clothing in it. He lifted out a blouse and held it in the air before him, recalling the blouse in the Mandel apartment. This one was nowhere near the same size.

  The Casewell woman, whoever she was, was bigger in the shoulders and probably bigger breasted too. He imagined her to be a chunkier woman. There wasn’t that same strange, enticing odor either. This was a different woman. He was sure of it. Perhaps David Oberman was right. It was all a fantastic coincidence.

  “Whaddaya lookin’ for? A blouse for your wife?”

  “Just tryin’ to picture the woman,” Barry said. “Clothes make the woman,” he added, smiling. Then he folded the blouse and put it back.

  “She didn’t bring as much as most women do,” Boggs said. “That closet’s only half full. Shit, that’s about a weekend’s worth.”

  “Yeah.” Barry contemplated the clothes in the closet for a few moments. Then he ran his hand through it, pulling the dresses apart, one by one. He stopped when he got to a raincoat. It felt much heavier on one side. “Wait a minute,” he said and put his hand in the pocket. When he pulled his hand out, it held a .45-caliber automatic.

  “Holy shit,” Boggs said.

  “Yeah,” Barry said. “Holy shit.”

  Toby Marcus was in a bitchy mood. Bruno hadn’t come looking for her in the lounge as she had hoped he would. She wanted him to find her surrounded by men. Consequently, she drank two or three too many and had a gruesome headache behind her right eye. She forgot she had to sit with the Obermans and wouldn’t be anywhere near Bruno in the dining room. And Dorothy came up from the teen room, or wherever she was, much too late to shower and change for dinner. She had to go like she was.