by John Altman
The ramsad played, pounding hard on the keys, lip curling, as they came through the gate, through front and back doors simultaneously, into the shafts of moonlight. Seizing him by the upper arms, they lifted him from the bench, turning him around, throwing him onto the floor, tying his wrists at the small of his back with strips of plastic, jerking him upright again, setting him on his feet like a plaything and then leading him toward the doorway, out of the room, out of the house, into his future.
Ellicott Street NW,
Washington, DC
A man wearing rubber gloves and a surgical mask wiped bloody Windex from framed pictures of snowmen, roller coasters, kids licking ice cream from sticky fingers.
As he worked, a cat came out from under the sofa: a tortoiseshell Maine coon. The cat meowed, butting his shin. The man frowned beneath his mask. One for the shelter, he thought. But when he packed up his gear a few minutes later, he changed his mind and brought the cat home as a gift for his five-year-old daughter.
Two miles away, another five-year-old, a boy, slept peacefully in the ambient light coming through a bedroom door left ajar. In a room down the hall, the boy’s mother received a phone call. She listened closely. She asked if there had been some mistake. She hung up slowly, numbly, and then balled her fist to her mouth to hold in a rising scream.
Princeton, NJ
Outside the window, a black squirrel chittered on a branch.
Inside, the air was overheated and dry. Settling into a burgundy club chair, Dalia noted that McConnell had not stood to greet her, or even offered a hand. This was to be a negotiation.
He waited until the door had closed. “Next week,” he said, “the Air-Land subcommittee of Senate Armed Services finalizes their budget proposal.”
She waited.
“By now, I was supposed to have developed a program with your input. So I face a quandary, Dalia. Either I tell them that we lack results because you confessed to espionage—in which case you end up at Naval Consolidated Brig, Miramar—or I take the bullet.”
She kept waiting.
“Of course, I’d hate for it to turn out either of those ways. But …” He plucked distractedly at a loose thread on the seam of his slacks. “Really, it’s a question of doing the least harm to the fewest people. If I lose my job, how can I hire Horowitz? Kids gotta eat.”
She waited again.
“Election year coming up.” He plucked the thread free and dropped it carelessly to the floor. “We could use you in our corner. Consulting with Air-Land next week. Training and Defense Command the week after that. CENTCOM the week after that. And so on. People get nervous. No new ground combat vehicle this year. We could arrange something here at Princeton. A permanent position. There is the matter of those pesky international espionage charges. But I think the president would do you a solid, you ask nicely. Doesn’t like to leave debts unpaid.” He unfolded his legs and reversed direction. “So that’s my pitch. What do you say?”
She hesitated.
“Oh, but there is one more thing. Off the record—and I make no promises.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “A prisoner came into Jabalia. Two years ago, from Khan Yunis. We’ve got a friend there, shares information sometimes in exchange for petrol. I never told you any of this, by the way. But this prisoner fits the description of your son. Apparently high-value, kept personally under guard by a general of al-Qassam …”
The light in the room seemed to brighten, then dim. His voice came from some faraway misty vale.
“Give me the sign and we’ll set wheels in motion. Quietly. See what we can do. Whatever happens, Dalia, it remains absolutely hush-hush. And again, I make no promises. And I would need your guarantee—”
“Anything.”
“The Air-Land subcommittee …”
“Anything.”
“We’ll sit down with the provost, try to—”
“Anything.” She could not stop saying it. “Anything.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Oh, my God.” The room was wobbling. She looked up at a glowing light in the ceiling. Brighter, ever brighter. “Oh, my God,” she said again. “My God. My God, my God, my God. Thank you.”
END
Acknowledgments
This book is the result of a team effort. People who made invaluable contributions include the gifted editor Michael Carr, whose corrections and suggestions immensely improved the initial manuscript. Another extraordinarily talented editor, Courtney Vatis, took over from there; her inspired insights and revisions improved the book again. Ananda Finwall, managing editor, did the final proof, smoothing off the rough edges. Compositors Tom Williamson, Keith McFarland, and Andrew Klein did the heavy lifting of putting the book together and helped with interior design. Head designer Kathryn Galloway English came up with the beautiful cover and was astonishingly generous with her time and her talents. Megan Wahrenbrock, director of production, oversaw the entire process, organizing and keeping track of literally everything. Devin Mahoney, operations manager, made sure the book actually arrived at the printers and warehouses. Greg Boguslawski, retail sales manager, and Anne Fonteneau, vice president of sales, helped moved it, crucially, into the hands of readers. Bryan Barney and Jesse Bickford brought their significant expertise to the production of the first-rate audiobook. Publicist Lauren Maturo worked astoundingly hard—and well—to launch the book in a challenging marketplace. And without the efforts of Josh Stanton, CEO of Blackstone; his assistant, Josie McKenzie; and Rick Bleiweiss, Head of Business Development, none of the above would have come to pass in the first place.
Jeff Rotman offered vital insight into Israeli mindsets. Clint Mundy helped with automotive details. Leslie Silbert was generous, as usual, with her support and guidance. Many others contributed as well. You know who you are. Thank you!