The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

“You see what I mean?” Trustman said. “And you’re playing nice guy cop.”

  “I don’t know any other way,” Barry said.

  Trustman just shook his head.

  Barry walked over to the dresser and opened Clea’s pocketbook. He turned it over and poured out the contents. Then he sifted through them until he found what he hoped for—pictures. There was one with the woman and a man standing on a dock, near some ships in the background. He took it to her.

  “Is this Nessim?” She didn’t reply. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll hunt him down and what happens from now on is all your fault.” Clea looked up for a moment. Barry waited. Then she looked down again. “You’ll remain in the room,” he said. “There’ll be a man outside all the time.” He turned to Trustman and said, “C’mon.” The Israeli security man looked at Clea with disgust. He hesitated and then reluctantly walked out of the room.

  Barry was talking to Tom Boggs. “You’d better stay here, Boggs. Keep her in the room and call down the moment you see any man approach it, especially if he looks something like this guy.” He showed him the picture. “Don’t try to deal with him. He’s got to be dangerous.”

  “Maybe I should have some help.”

  “We don’t want to scare him away, but you can put someone way down at the other end of the corridor. We’ll check with you continually.”

  “Where to now, Mr. Nice Guy?” Trustman asked.

  “It’s lunch. Let’s go to their table and show this picture to the others at it to confirm this is the man. Then, it’ll be a hotel-wide search for him.”

  “It’d be much easier if I just went back into the room for ten minutes.”

  “Maybe. I don’t think you’d get what you want, though. And I think your results would make us all wonder if we’re on the right side.”

  It was like a slap in the face. Trustman shut up and simply followed Barry to the elevator.

  “It looks like him,” Seymour Kleinman said. His wife nodded. “That’s definitely her. Why aren’t they at lunch? Something happen?”

  “We’re trying to find out,” Barry said, smiling to hide the intensity of his concern. The other couples at the table were even less positive about him. All the men recognized the woman, though.

  “I’m glad of that. I was beginning to think we were at the wrong table,” Barry said. Trustman shook his head.

  “They didn’t talk much and we … well, we don’t like to push ourselves on people,” Seymour said.

  “Do you think, after you’re finished with lunch that is, that you might come out to the lobby and look around for him some?” Barry asked casually. “Mr. Trustman here will accompany you.”

  “Well, I don’t know. What’s this all about?” he asked, now getting suspicious.

  Barry laughed.

  “I guess we can tell you,” he said, leaning over. “We think he did some shoplifting earlier today.”

  “Really? My God!”

  “You see,” Amy Kleinman said. “You don’t really know who you’re eating with at these hotel tables.”

  “I don’t like getting involved in that.”

  “All you have to do is point him out,” Barry said. “Then walk away. Mr. Trustman will take it from there.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Okay,” he said, “but just for an hour. I got a tennis court reserved for this afternoon.”

  “Understood. We’ll be in the lobby. Oh, keep this all to yourself,” Barry whispered and looked at the other couples.

  “Don’t worry. They don’t even know we exist.”

  29

  Nessim decided to take the elevator up from the basement. There was no one around at the time. He stepped out quickly when the door opened on the second floor. He was eager to get into the room and shower. He wanted to get out of his clothes. The sweat of the battle now made him feel dirty. He didn’t want to tell Clea about Tandem, and it suddenly occurred to him that it would be best to let her believe the plastique was still inoperable. She’d be easier to get along with. He’d tell her they had to remain to be sure the explosion occurred under Chaim Eban’s table. It was the best story he could come up with quickly.

  He turned and started toward the room and immediately saw the man standing near the window at the end of the hall. Although something about him seemed very suspicious, Nessim didn’t slow down his gait. When he could see the door to his room clearly, however, he noted that it was opened. It confirmed his instinctive feeling that something was wrong. It would be better to go downstairs and try to call Clea on one of the house phones. He stopped at an ashtray and casually took out his cigarettes, pounding one from the pack. He could see that the man was studying him intently. He turned a little and noticed another man all the way down the corridor, standing in the same fashion.

  Boggs reached up to his jacket pocket to take his walkie-talkie out slowly. This looked like it just might be the man. He was coming down the corridor, in the direction of the room, and he was about the same build of the man in the picture Wintraub showed him. I’ll just signal, he thought, to play it safe.

  Nessim caught his movement out of the corner of his eye. He did not see the walkie-talkie clearly, but he saw that the man was reaching for something metallic. The man also unbuttoned his jacket. Everything he did was ominous. Nessim lit his cigarette and threw the match into the ashtray. The man down at the other end of the corridor suddenly broke his stance and began walking toward him. This was a trap. How? Why? There wasn’t time to wonder about it. There was only time to act. He had to know if Clea was still in their room. But these men might stop him if he went back toward the elevator. It would reveal that he was afraid of something. On the other hand, all his instincts told him not to go to the room. Nevertheless, he turned again in that direction and this time saw that the man was talking into a walkie-talkie. He was definitely some kind of police or security.

  Boggs was shocked. The man was just standing there, looking at him. They said he was deadly. Hardik was coming down the hall, but he was unarmed. Why did they leave him alone up here? He wasn’t a real policeman. This was too much. The man wasn’t too big. He could tackle him, do physical battle, even ward off kicks and blows, but if he was armed …

  Nessim felt for his pistol. As he drew closer and saw the man’s facial features clearly, he recognized that he was one of the men with the Israeli security agent. He was cornered and Clea was either trapped or taken. He was sure of it now. The man was gazing at him in a most peculiar way. He was just waiting to set up the move against him, waiting for the other one to get into position. With the decisiveness and the firmness that came from being in the thick of things so long, Nessim moved to the right, hugging the wall.

  Boggs shifted his position. The approaching man had his hand in his pocket. There was a gun for sure. He had to do something. If he just stood there, the man might shoot first. If he just tried walking away, the man might feel threatened and shoot even faster. There was no time to wait for support. He was like a quarterback with all his defensive tackles down. It was pass or run. He optioned to pass and drew the revolver out of the holster.

  Nessim saw the move almost before it occurred. He dropped to the floor, his pistol in hand.

  “CLEA!” he shouted.

  She heard him and got up from the bed. Outside her door, Boggs froze with the gun in his hand. Hardik yelled, “HOLY SHIT!” and hit the floor himself. In a moment, Clea was at the door. She pulled it all the way open and stepped forward. The abruptness of her move seemed threatening to Boggs, who thought it was part of their plan. He imagined she had a weapon too. He spun and fired, without even looking. The bullet caught Clea in the neck, ripping an artery as it passed through her. The impact slammed her back into the room.

  “CLEA!” Nessim shouted again and then fired. He hit Boggs smack in the middle of his forehead. Bogg
s felt his head jerk back. For a split second, he was conscious and alive. He raised his hand to touch the spot and actually went “Ow!” Then he crumpled to the floor. Nessim spun on his shoulder to avoid whatever gunfire the man behind him would have. For a moment, he didn’t see him on his stomach. The man started crawling frantically toward the opened elevator. Nessim shot twice as the man reached the elevator door.

  He stopped crawling and the door closed against his body. Because it didn’t close all the way, it would not obey the command of whoever was calling for it below.

  Moments later, Nessim was at Clea’s side. He couldn’t believe the amount of blood that had already spilled from the wound in her neck. Frantically, he dabbed at it with his handkerchief. He ripped the pillowcase off a pillow to use that as well. Then he lifted her head. Her eyes opened and she smiled.

  “It’s very bad.”

  “No.”

  “They … know about us … somehow. But I told them nothing, Nessim. I … remained your little front fighter.”

  “Clea.”

  “Give it up,” she whispered. Her voice got lower. “I feel so …”

  He felt her body go limp in his hands.

  “Clea. Oh, God no. Clea.” He pressed her head against him, feeling the blood soak through his shirt. It felt warm, then cool. He kissed her face and stroked the beautiful long hair he had loved so. He lifted her body off the floor and placed her on the bed. For a long moment, he just stood there staring at her. Then he turned to the door of the room. The man who had killed her lay crumpled in the hall, his face in the rug. Nessim wished the man had a hundred lives so he could kill him again and again. He saw the walkie-talkie at his side and remembered that he had sent a message. There’d be more of them in moments. He looked back at Clea; her face was turned away from him. And then he stepped out of the room quickly to go out the hall window and down the fire escape. Nothing would stop him now.

  Barry Wintraub and Karl Trustman were still in the dining room when the message came down from Boggs. Shirley was waving at him madly across the room. He waved back and indicated he’d be with her in a while. A security man was at the doorway. They saw him searching for them and caught his attention. Then they moved to his side, got the message, and hurried to the elevator. The one servicing the section of the second floor that contained room 215 seemed stuck. Barry pressed the button again and again.

  “Better take the stairs,” he said, and turned quickly.

  “Over there,” Trustman pointed. They walked to it and ran up the two flights. The stairway came out near the end of the corridor. Before they stepped into the hallway, Barry grabbed Trustman’s arm and indicated that they should try to appear as casual as possible, just in case the man was still in the hall. But when they stepped around the corner, they were shocked by the sight. Hardik’s body lay at the elevator and Boggs was on the floor.

  “Oh my God,” Barry said. He started to jog. Trustman followed, gun drawn. When he got to Hardik’s body, he went down and examined him.

  “He’s dead,” Trustman said. “Hit on the top of the head.”

  “Christ, don’t let that elevator close. We’ve got to keep people off this corridor.” Barry drew out his pistol.

  They moved to the room slowly. When they got to the doorway, they hit the floor. Trustman, crawling on his stomach, reached Boggs. He felt for pulse, and then mouthed the word dead. Barry shook his head in disbelief. He hesitated and then stood up. The door of the room was wide open. He looked to Trustman, who peered in and then indicated, nothing. Barry pressed against the wall, turned into the room, and crouched quickly to avoid any gunshot. It was quiet. He saw Clea’s body on the bed and studied the scene.

  “He’s not here,” he said.

  “I know,” Trustman said, standing in the doorway. “The window to the fire escape’s opened.”

  Barry walked to the bed and looked at Clea. He saw the wound in her neck.

  “My God, how in hell … Boggs must’ve shot her,” he thought aloud. “What the hell happened? Why did he try to take him?” He felt for her pulse. Then he turned her head and saw the pool of blood. It sickened him and he turned away. “Listen,” he said, walking toward the doorway, but when he looked out, Trustman wasn’t there. He had gone out the window to the fire escape and disappeared to chase after Nessim.

  Barry dragged Boggs’s body into the room quickly and then went down the corridor to get Hardik. He lifted him off the floor and carried him back to the room as well. The elevator door closed. Fortunately, it’s lunchtime, he thought, so no one was on this floor. Except for the bloodstains, there was now no evidence of the battle. He knew what a scene like this could do to a hotel full of people, but the sight of all three bodies in the room disgusted him. It looked like a room in the city morgue. He lifted the phone and called David Oberman.

  “All hell’s broken loose,” he told him. “We can keep it from your people a while longer, but you’re going to have to call the local police now. Immediately.”

  “What … What happened?”

  “Tom Boggs and his man Hardik are both dead. Shot. Their bodies are in room 215 and so is the body of the woman terrorist, if she was actually a terrorist,” he said, looking at her. Incredibly, her face, soft and reposed in death, still maintained its beauty.

  “Oh my God …”

  “Karl Trustman’s gone after the man.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Down the fire escape.”

  “Fire escape?”

  “Yeah. I’ll talk to you later. I’d better follow.”

  “Is there anything special I should do … with the people, that is?”

  “I don’t think so. We could do more damage by panicking them.”

  “Chaim Eban’s going to land on that lawn out there in less than an hour. Should I try to turn him away?”

  “Sure.”

  “What if he insists on coming?”

  “Have him land on the roof, if possible. Can he do that?”

  “On the section above the dining room. We’ve landed there on occasion. It’s flat and it’s open and there’s an entranceway down the five floors.”

  “Talk to you later then,” Barry said and hung up. He looked at the carnage once more and then went out in the hall to go through the window and down the fire escape.

  Nessim was in a frenzy. When he dropped to the side of the building and tried going into the basement, he found that the door had been locked. He looked about frantically and saw some men walking toward him, coming from the direction of the golf driving range. Of course, to his right he could see cars going and coming down the driveway. He looked up the fire escape. In a matter of moments they might be coming down it after him. He tried to collect his wits, and in doing so, he realized he had a terribly large bloodstain on his shirt. The jacket closed over it well enough, but the feel of Clea’s blood against his skin almost brought him to tears. Impulsively, he started around to the front of the building.

  He hesitated when he came to the door. A security guard was standing there talking to a bellhop. Had the hotel been put on a full alert? Nessim joined a group of guests talking and walking into the front entrance. They all entered and he found himself in the lobby. He had to lose himself in the hotel, kill time until he could detonate the explosives. It was two thirty. That meant five hours more. His first thought was to go back to the basement, but then he wondered if that was the reason the side door had been locked. Did they expect him to do that? Had they expected him there? Were they waiting? Maybe Clea had said something without even realizing it, something that would lead them to believe he would go to the basement. No, he was better off losing himself in the hotel among the guests. He hurried through the lobby and headed for the health club. There was a place he could hide for hours, a place no one would think to look in.

  As Nessim walked past the front desk, Seymour K
leinman turned and saw him. He had been waiting patiently for the policemen who had come to his table. He had only forty-five minutes now to give them. Nessim didn’t see him there, nor did Seymour try to communicate with him. He watched him go up the small stairway to the left and down the corridor that led to the health club and indoor pool.

  If he’s wanted for a crime, how come he’s just casually walking through the hotel? Kleinman thought. Although he did look kinda upset.

  “Pardon me,” Kleinman said, turning to Mrs. Adelman, “but I was supposed to meet some hotel policeman here about fifteen minutes ago. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Mr. Boggs?”

  “I don’t know his name. He’s a big guy, wide shoulders,” he said, holding his hands out. “He was with a much shorter man.”

  “Oh. You probably mean Lieutenant Wintraub and Mr. Trustman. What’s your name again, sir?”

  “Kleinman. Seymour Kleinman.” He watched her jot it down. Her officious manner frightened him. “I didn’t even want to do—”

  “Is that the short man?” she interrupted, indicating the front entrance. Trustman had come into the hotel quickly. He stood there looking around the lobby.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He headed for him. “Hey,” he said, approaching the secuity man. Trustman turned and for a moment couldn’t remember who the man was. “Wasn’t I suppose to meet you out there?” he asked in a loud whisper.

  “Oh, yes, yes. You’re from the table.”

  “I just saw him.”

  “Where?” Trustman’s enthusiasm was frightening. “Down there,” he said, stepping back and pointing. “Toward the health club.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trustman rushed off. Kleinman stood looking after him for a moment. Then he shook his head and walked away.

  30

  The men’s health club was situated on two floors. Men entered on the upper floor and received locker keys, towels, soap, razor blades, shaving cream, whatever they needed, from a staff member at the desk. The carpeted locker room was right behind Nessim. It consisted of wall-to-wall lockers. There was a universal gym in the middle of the room. When Nessim entered, a half-dozen young boys were exercising on it. Two men were making arrangements for massages later that day.