22
Tom Boggs, David Oberman, and Karl Trustman, the man from Israeli security, stopped talking as Barry came into the office. It was the day of Second Seder, and Barry had joined the others for a briefing.
They all turned his way. Boggs was leaning against the wall with his arms folded against his body. David sat behind his desk, and Trustman, who sat on the couch, stood up to greet Barry. Trustman was a five-foot-eleven man, powerfully built with a bull neck that seemed to emanate directly out of his deltoid muscles. He looked like a power weightlifter. Barry noted the thickness of his wrists when he stuck out his hand to shake.
They eyed each other during the introductions. Karl Trustman had a narrow face with a wide forehead and bushy eyebrows. His deep-set eyes and small mouth held together with tight, thin lips gave him the look of a man in deep thought. His gaze was steady and firm. There was an aura of cool, collected calmness about him. He had control of every part of his body, directing it with total energy toward the object of his concentration. His grip was strong. He had the demeanor of a man resigned to the belief that life was a series of continuous struggles, but he wasn’t overwhelmed or fatigued by it. He was prepared for it.
“As I understand it, Lieutenant, we could be in great debt to your insight and perception.”
“Thank you. How far along are you all in the briefing?”
“We’ve told him all about Brenda Casewell,” David said.
“Uh-huh.” Barry sat down. “I called my partner in New York last night and he’s checking her out, but of course, we don’t have the time to wait around.”
“I agree,” Trustman said quickly. “You’re going to arrange for her to be taken out of the hotel before Eban’s arrival?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Other than that, there hasn’t been any indication of any danger to Chaim Eban, correct?” He asked his question quickly and directly, as if he were driving toward a set conclusion.
“I don’t believe she’s the only one here to do him in,” Barry said.
“But there isn’t any other evidence, hard evidence, to discuss, is there?” Trustman said. He seemed impatient.
“Well, she’s not the woman who lived in the apartment we investigated in New York. She’s associated with those people, but …”
“You haven’t located any of them here nor have you been able to run down any hard leads confirming their presence, is that correct?”
Barry began to feel like someone under interrogation. He looked at Boggs and David Oberman, but they were stone-faced, staring and listening.
“No, not what you would call hard evidence.”
“Good. Then I won’t recommend Chaim not appear tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see.” So the primary concern, Barry thought, remains Eban’s ability to raise the money.
“Perhaps you don’t,” Trustman said, perceiving some unhappiness in Barry’s expression. “I’m not trying to create a rosy picture here and deliberately avoid the possibility of evil or ugly actions occurring, but we Israelis are used to the fact that danger lurks around us continually. Since the Arab fanatics have turned to terrorism as their main form of offensive war, every Israeli man, woman, and child is constantly on a battlefield, no matter where he or she is. Eban knows this better than any of us. He lives with it daily.”
“I understand,” Barry said. He recalled Rabbi Kaufman’s intensity and recognized the similarity.
“Of course, I would appreciate your permitting me to work with you for the next day and a half.”
“Certainly,” Barry said. “I’ll go back over the check-in lists to see if I can come up with any more leads. In the meantime, I assume that Casewell has made no significant contacts. Is that correct, Tom?”
“Right. What’s more, no one’s approached her.”
“Maybe when we put the pressure on her tomorrow, she’ll make an effort to contact someone,” Barry said.
“Well then, there’s not much more we can do, is there?” David said. He seemed relieved.
“One thing,” Trustman said. “Have an alternate suite for Chaim Eban. Keep him booked into whatever you had, but at the last moment, make the change.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Barry said. “Thinking of some kind of sabotage, perhaps?”
“It’s a precaution,” Trustman replied, but he didn’t make it sound like anything special.
“All right. I’ll do that,” David said. “In fact, at the last moment, we’ll book him into the old main house. On the top floor.”
“Good. Well then,” Trustman said, turning to Barry, “what are your immediate plans?”
“I’ll go back and join my wife in the dining room for lunch and afterward I’ll spend time in the office.”
“Mr. Trustman will be at your table tonight and tomorrow night,” David said. “We want to keep him near Chaim at all times.”
“Fine.”
“And I’m in room 515 if you need me and I’m not around.”
The buzzer rang and David picked up his receiver.
“Hold on,” he said turning to Barry. “It’s for you. New York.”
“Thanks.” He got up and took the phone. “Hello. Yes, this is Wintraub. Hello, Baker, you black … What’s that? Go on.”
Barry listened for a while. “What about the Casewell woman? Uh-huh. Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”
“Got something?” David asked immediately.
“An Arab boy was murdered last night, killed in a manner similar to the way the JDL boy was killed, only whoever did it wasn’t as neat. The boy was beaten badly too. He was confirmed as an illegal alien. INS has picked up the entire family.”
“Think there’s some connection with all this?” Trustman asked, his eyes narrowing. Barry had the feeling he knew the answer but was simply after confirmation.
“No question. My first guess is that the boy was somehow involved in the JDL boy’s death, and it was a revenge murder. The police are thinking about the possibility of a kind of underground war erupting in New York because of all this.”
“What about the Casewell woman?” Boggs asked.
“No permit for a pistol registered in New York. Landlord told my partner she works for a travel agency, but he’s not sure which one. He really didn’t seem to know much about her.”
“She must be the one,” Boggs said. They all looked at him.
“I find it hard to believe they would place such an important mission in the hands of one woman,” Barry said. “Don’t you?” he asked Trustman. He didn’t agree or disagree. His neutral expression was cold, unnerving.
“If we panic and call off this rally, they would be victorious without firing a shot,” he said.
“We’ve got a lotta people to think about here,” Barry said.
“Hold on,” David said, lifting his hand. “Let’s not go haywire. I’m with Mr. Trustman on this. We’ll keep security tight and continue the investigation, but let’s not frighten a few thousand people on the basis of what we have.”
The three of them turned to Barry. He was the only one working with a relatively objective viewpoint. The others had interests that complicated matters. The Passover holiday was, after all, one of the best vacation moneymakers for the hotels, and the amount of money that could be raised for Israel was very significant. He had no choice but to simply nod back in understanding.
When the phone rang in the Wintraub’s room, Shirley screamed from the bathroom, “That’s my mother!” But when he lifted the receiver and said hello, he heard Rabbi Kaufman’s voice.
“Anything yet?” he asked.
“I’m working on one suspect, a female who just happens to be from the East Ninety-Third Street apartment house and carries a pistol.”
“Dangerous, but there are others perhaps more dangerous there too.”
“And how do you kno
w this?”
“Sources are not important. Information is important. Two men and a woman. One man in his early thirties, the other in his early twenties. The woman is around twenty-four. The older man is called Nessim, the younger, Yusuf. He’s your Joseph Mandel. The woman’s name is Clea.”
“Joseph Mandel’s apartment was in her name,” Barry said. “Mrs. Clea Mandel. You believe they’re all here?”
“Perhaps.”
“There’s a man from Israeli security here. His name is Karl Trustman. Do you know him?”
“My relations with Israeli security are a bit strained these days. We don’t see eye to eye on crucial points.”
“One more question, Rabbi. There was a murder last night, an Arab, illegal alien. Young boy. Apparently he was beaten, perhaps to make him talk.”
“I read about it,” Kaufman said in a neutral voice.
“I hope that’s your full involvement, otherwise …”
“One case at a time, Mr. Detective. These people you’re tracking … they are capable of great acts. Let your imagination run wild. Nothing is beyond them. Shalom,” he said. Before Barry could reply, Kaufman hung up. Barry sat there with the receiver still in his hand.
“I guess that wasn’t my mother,” Shirley said.
“Huh? Oh, no, no.”
“What’s the matter?”
“For the first time, I just had a feeling of impending doom. Maybe it was wrong to bring you and the kids up here with me.”
“And leave us on Passover?”
“You could have gone to your mother’s.”
“Thanks a lot. We’ll take our chances with Chaim Eban,” she said. He looked at her and laughed.
The festivities of the Second Seder were just as beautiful and as well coordinated as those of the First. Everyone in the hotel dining room seemed to be in an even more festive mood. There was much more noise, more music, and much more laughter. The dining room staff was also caught up in the jovial atmosphere, and the usual tension created by the pressure of service was absent.
Toby Marcus was radiant. Her sexual encounter with Bruno brought new color into her cheeks. She was filled with a revitalized energy and dominated conversations at her table. Her husband enjoyed her and found himself stimulated by her vibrancy. She paid more attention to him too. She seemed to have greater interest in him since her involvement with Bruno. Her affair improved all of her relationships.
Because of the anticipated arrival of Chaim Eban, Lillian Rothberg stepped up her activities. The itinerary was well planned out and the protocol established. She took an even firmer control of the family’s affairs, planning out what each family member would wear the day of Eban’s arrival and what each would do. She visited with more guests, stimulated more interest, and made more contacts.
Abe Rothberg grew tired just watching her. The more active she was, the more withdrawn he became. He longed to retreat to the sanctuary of card games and steam baths. All the noise and excitement was just confusing to him. A lot of people were running around looking important. It was hard to believe anything really significant was to occur.
Across the room, Nessim sat even quieter than he had during the First Seder, but like that first meal, no one at the table seemed to notice nor care. Clea watched him carefully, waiting for the slightest signal of his intentions. He was beginning to show some signs of nervousness, but only someone who had lived with him awhile would notice. His gestures were quicker. His sentences shorter and abruptly to the point. He looked at everything with a cat’s curiosity. His silences made her somewhat uncomfortable, and he seemed to withdraw deeper and deeper into himself. He didn’t touch her hand or give her his comforting smile. He was impatient with the smallest thing, and for the first time since she had known him, he muttered oaths of hatred and vengeance under his breath. It was as if he was psyching himself up for the job he had to do.
When Karl Trustman came to Barry’s table, he introduced him as an advance man from Chaim Eban’s staff. The Rosenblatts and their children were thrilled by his presence and asked him question after question concerning Israel and the wars with the Arabs. Barry was grateful for that. He was no longer the object of their intense attention. He relaxed and really enjoyed the Seder meal.
But the final words of advice Rabbi Kaufman had given him were continually cropping up in his thoughts now. “Let your imagination run wild. Nothing is beyond them.” What did that mean? What were the possibilities here? They could make various kinds of attempts on Eban’s life—try to shoot him in the lobby, in the dining room, perhaps while he made his speech. They might attack him in his suite or sabotage the rooms. Perhaps they would try to get him immediately, as soon as the helicopter landed.
All this was sort of conventional. Something more lingered between the words Kaufman had uttered. Of course, the rabbi didn’t know himself, but he probably hoped to stimulate Barry’s imagination. What makes him think I’m more capable of concocting gross acts? he wondered. The only advantage is that I’m here. I’m here, he thought and looked around.
Eban would be eating in this room tomorrow night, sitting only a short distance away. Perhaps they would try to poison him. He’d have to check into that and be sure no one could tamper with the food, but he was sure Israeli security had thought of that as well. Thinking these thoughts was stabbing in the dark, all right. Later, after dinner, he would get together with Karl Trustman, tell him what Rabbi Kaufman had said, and discuss the possibilities. He was sure Trustman could come up with more imaginative lethal acts.
And there were still the check-in sheets to reexamine, although his faith in that process was dwindling.
The sounds of the cantor’s voice drew him into a more soothing frame of mind.
Much later that night, Nessim opened the suitcase and neatly arranged the plastique explosives and the detonators. He taped each packet securely and once again checked the detonators. All the switches were in working order, all the batteries were fully charged. When he was satisfied, he took out a cloth sack and placed each packet within it. The sack had a strap that went over his shoulder. He tested its weight and was sure that it would provide no problem to him as he climbed down the fire escape. Then he looked at his watch. It was nearly time.
Clea had gotten up too. She was unable to just lie there and watch him prepare. She lit a cigarette and sat in the corner of the room, observing him quietly. He didn’t seem to notice her. All his concentration and attention was on his work. He was a technician of the highest order now, completely involved in his mechanisms and systems.
They had never really discussed the method of his sabotage. She had deliberately avoided it. Fearful of the full significance of what he was about to do, she chose to remain naive and stupid about it up to this point. She permitted herself to understand that Chaim Eban was to be destroyed. He was, after all, a military man whose work meant death to people of her father’s blood and heritage.
Although Nessim had rarely fanned the flames of her hate and revenge, he often made pointed remarks designed to keep her on one track—The Jews in Israel were responsible for the death of your father and mother, and the Jews in America support the people of Israel. She understood in a vague way that Chaim Eban was to be blown up in the dining room. She knew that it would mean the death of people around him. What she didn’t comprehend at this moment was the number of surrounding people who would be killed, nor did she understand that the true intent of Nessim’s mission was to eliminate as many of these people as possible. For El Yacoub and the Hezbollah, that was of equal, if not greater, importance.
Nessim had kept that from her, always stressing the significance of killing Chaim Eban. He didn’t emphasize the need to kill anyone else. Her understanding of explosives was even less than that of the average layperson. Most of all, she had no idea about the lethal potential and the power of plastique. The packets Nessim had in his cloth bag were relat
ively small. It was impossible for her to conceive of their intensity.
Without questioning him about it, she imagined that he had concocted a plan whereby he would plant these explosives somehow directly under the feet and the table of the Chaim Eban party in the dining room. This was the reason he was going down into the basement. Now, as she watched him work, the questions began to develop in her mind, only she was hesitant about asking them.
“When you’re finished with this tonight, will we be leaving?”
“No,” he said. He didn’t look up.
“Do you have to do something more to make it work?”
“Yes. I must do something in the dining room tomorrow.”
“Will we go after that?” Her voice betrayed her eagerness to leave the place of death.
“We will leave the building just before dinner, but we won’t leave the grounds until …” He stopped and looked up at her. “Until it’s finished. Then Hamid will be waiting for us at the help’s entrance.”
“Is Yusuf in the hotel now?”
“He should be working his way to our rendezvous in the basement, yes.”
“Maybe I should go down into the basement with you,” she said.
He smiled at her. “What for?”
“To … help. I could watch out or something.”
“No, you’d just be an added worry on my mind. Stay here and wait.”
He looked at his watch again and then lifted the cloth bag to his shoulder. She stood up. He was silent, staring and thinking. She approached and touched his arm.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
He kissed her and went to the door. First he looked down the corridor; then he stepped out and went right to the window. He opened it and crawled quietly onto the landing. She watched through the open doorway. He looked back, closed the window almost completely, and began his descent down the fire escape.
Yusuf weaved his way through the shadows of the corridor. Tandem had gotten him into the building through the garbage truck entrance succesfully. They had waited until the custodial men disappeared into a back room, and then Tandem directed him through a doorway that led to the basement. He had given him explicit directions about how to travel through it and drew a fairly good map from memory.
The Terrorist's Holiday Page 17