The Terrorist's Holiday

by Andrew Neiderman

  The sound of the detonation was deafening beyond imagination. Because of the closed-in nature of the area, the trapped sound waves were amplified. The belly of the basement became a giant speaker squeezing the noise and sending it rushing out. It gave the impression that a series of explosions was going on all along the basement. Custodians, chambermaids, everyone put his hands to his ears and cowered in fear. And this had only been one-sixth of the potential blast.

  Directly above the exploded girder was the far right corner of the hotel dining room. The tables had been set for dinner, and only a few staff members were there with the maître d’. The explosion shook the entire floor, however. Tables on that side rose off the floor and slammed down, sending their dishes, glasses, and silverware bouncing and crashing to the floor. The chandeliers above shook violently, smashing their glass teardrops against one another and sending down a rain of fragments. Even though the floor on that side of the building sank only inches, it created a deep incision between the wall and the floor in corners and sides.

  Depending on where they were located in the hotel in relation to the area of the explosion, guests and staff members reacted with proportionate intensity. Those just outside the dining room took hold of one another or of furniture, or they pressed their bodies against the nearest wall. Although the vibrations and sounds could be felt and heard throughout the building, people in the health clubs, on tennis courts, in the indoor pool, skating rink, stores, and luncheonettes interrupted their activities for only a few moments. Some people thought jet planes had broken the sound barrier. They waited to see whether the noise would continue or whether someone would tell them something had happened. Apparently, nothing had, so they went on with their recreation.

  When the rumbling stopped and the dust began to settle, Barry stood up and looked around him. The floor of the basement was strewn with debris. A water pipe on the right side had busted and a heavy spray was shooting up. The size of some of the chunks of material around him was astounding. He was amazed he hadn’t been badly battered or killed.

  The ceiling still creaked and strained with the weight of the building on that side. The girder on the left with its supporting ribs was now shouldering the weight of the whole area. He heard shouting and saw custodians and two of the sheriff’s men approaching. He brushed down his clothes and walked toward the girder. It dangled from the ceiling, bent away from the floor. Then he scanned the basement and imagined what would have been had all those girders gone together.

  “You all right? What happened?” the first deputy asked.

  “Someone committed suicide,” Barry said and started away. Despite the awesome destruction and wreckage around him, he felt successful.

  The terrorists had been stopped. Thousands of people had been saved. He had no notion of, nor did he imagine, any more could be. Yet a small wristwatch continued to tick under the main table in the dining room. Nessim’s legacy remained.

  33

  The compromise between David Oberman and the police was to keep the truth subdued until after Chaim Eban left. That way, the guests would no longer have reason to feel threatened by any further attempts on his life and there would be no panic or mass exodus from the hotel. With the police off the grounds and the terrorists killed, everyone would get the impression it was all over before he knew about it.

  The official word given out about the explosion was that a boiler had blown in the basement. The dining room was thoroughly cleaned up and minor repairs were done. Construction men were called in to repair the damaged girder. Those who knew about the murder of Karl Trustman in the steam room and asked more about it were told that it had been a family grudge fight and the police were investigating. The bodies of Boggs, Hardik, and Clea weren’t taken out of the hotel until evening. Boggs and Hardik were both bachelors, but their immediate families were notified they were killed in a security matter. Details were held back. There was fear that someone would get to the media, and they didn’t want that to happen until Eban departed.

  Chaim Eban himself was in David’s office getting a briefing when the charge detonated in the basement. Jerry Wilson, the agent from the State Department security; Chaim Eban; and Yael Brand, a tall woman in her forties who served as his personal secretary, sat around David’s desk and listened to him relate the chronology of events.

  Dressed in Israeli military attire, Chaim Eban sat back with his fingers together in cathedral fashion and listened. He was a little over six feet tall and had dark brown hair and hazel eyes. There was a slight smile on his cleanly shaven, lean face. The corners of his eyes had the deeply worn creases of a man who had spent years under the desert sun squinting. There was a deceptive sense of peacefulness about him. He sat with tight, but not stiff, posture. Added to this correct, military demeanor, however, was a sense of warmth. It was in the softness of his voice—though talking with him only a short while, David got the feeling he was a man who seized command quickly, listened with an analytical ear, and cut right to the heart of things.

  The sound of the explosion interrupted them. David called down to the basement immediately, but no one knew what was happening.

  “I’d better get down there,” he said. Eban rose too. David said to him, “If you go out into that lobby, the people will just mob you again.”

  “He’s right,” Jerry Wilson said.

  “I’ll call you immediately,” David added. He waited a moment. Eban nodded and sat down again.

  Instead of calling, David did the best thing. He brought Barry Wintraub back upstairs with him to give Chaim Eban the whole story firsthand.

  “There’s no sense in calling for more security now,” Jerry Wilson said after it was all related.

  “Oh no, no,” Chaim replied. “Our New York detective here has done the job. You have our deepest gratitude.”

  “I’m only sorry we lost good men in the process.”

  “We could’ve lost a helluva lot more,” David said. “I shudder to think about it.”

  Later, Barry went back to his rooms to shower and rest. He intended to call the city and report everything. Shirley and the boys weren’t there when he arrived, but they came in while he showered.

  “I’ll tell you all of it,” he told her, “but it’s going to take the rest of our holiday.”

  Lillian Rothberg was ecstatic. All the arrangements for the evening were to be kept. Whatever problem had been brewing was resolved. She rehearsed her introductory remarks for the Eban speech to be given in the nightclub after dinner. Abe was still upset about what had happened to Bill Marcus, but she didn’t feel the loss of Toby really would have any significance on the course of events. Toby wasn’t doing that much anyway.

  After Eban had been settled in his suite, Lillian was called to go over and meet with him. He was as charming as she had expected. Pictures and headlines flashed through her mind. He wanted her by his side as much as possible.

  “We are, after all, in debt to your organizational abilities, Mrs. Rothberg.”

  “Please. Call me Lillian.”

  “Lillian,” he said, smiling.

  The dinner was to be one of the most exciting events of the holiday period. A small band had been set up near the front of the dining room, and it played the same Israeli and Jewish music that had been played during the day. A banner had been made by the stagecraft people. Hanging down from the ceiling over the dais, it read shalom chaim eban. People came in dancing, clapping hands, and hooking arm to arm. The dining room staff was thrown off rhythm by the men and women in the aisles, stamping their feet and singing, but there was no anger or annoyance. Everyone was caught up in the joviality.

  The public address system was set up. Rabbi Tannenbaum, from the nearby synagogue, was to give a short blessing and welcome to Chaim Eban, but Eban would make no remarks now. He would save his talking for later. He didn’t appear until most of the people were seated in the dining room. The
n he came through the entrance with David, Gloria, and Pop Oberman; they were followed by Jerry Wilson, and Yael Brand, who held hands with Bobby and Lisa Sue. Abe and Lillian Rothberg with their daughters, looking terribly embarrassed, were in the rear.

  People came to their feet and applauded. There was shouting and waving of napkins. Eban lifted his hand in a gentle salute to the crowd. Women leaned forward to kiss him. Men stuck out their hands. He shook as many as he could as he moved quickly to the head table. The band continued to play. It paused, and then three thousand people rose to sing “Hatikvah” in Chaim Eban’s honor. The flag of Israel had been raised just under the American flag above the dais.

  Barry held Shirley’s hand. He felt a special significance when they sang “Hatikvah.” Chaim Eban, only a few feet away, looked to him and nodded with meaning. Barry was proud of himself in a new way. When he turned and looked at the crowd and saw all these beautifully dressed people, when he saw the faces of the young and the faces of the old, when he looked into the faces of his own children, he felt a real sense of gratitude that he had been given the opportunity to save them. Certainly God had chosen him, had placed him here so that he could accomplish what he had. It restored his faith. He began to wonder about the order of things. He was touched by his personal memories of Torah and the sound of his own voice singing the bar mitzvah. As funny as it all seemed to him at times, he had tried to run away from who and what he was. How ironic it was that people who battled his heritage had given it back to him.

  But it was seven ten. Nessim’s watch ticked on, like an organ of his body outliving him. It ticked equally distant from the bodies of Chaim Eban, David and Gloria Oberman, Solomon Oberman, David and Gloria’s children, the Rothbergs, and the members of Eban’s party. It ticked against the mass of plastique explosives, closing in on indiscriminate death; for as a thing of no consciousness, it did not know or care about the people around it. It would destroy anyone, anywhere. It had been placed there by desperate men who sought to move events on the other side of the world. It encompassed all the conflict, all the bitterness, and all the sorrow of that part of the world. It had come over the oceans and through other countries to get to this spot in the Catskills and no amount of music or singing could drown out its ugly voice.

  A lone car moved in the darkness of the road adjacent to the New Prospect. Hamid, by himself in the front seat, pulled over to the side and turned off the lights.

  “Okay?” he asked. El Yacoub leaned forward.

  “Yes. This should do.”

  They stared for a few moments in silence.

  “There has been nothing in the news, nothing on the radio, nothing to suggest …”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see. It won’t be long now. I have seven fifteen.”

  “Who do you suppose called Tandem’s wife? I could make no sense out of anything she said.”

  “It’s not important now. We could do nothing now anyway.”

  “Still, I wish we knew.”

  “We’ll know all in a matter of minutes.”

  The Claw leaned back into the darkness of the backseat. He melted in with the shadows. Only his eyes were illuminated, reflecting the lights from the hotel gates across the street. There was also the glow of the small dial on his wristwatch. He touched it with his thumb as if he could stroke the seconds and encourage them.

  “When can we start to eat?” Jason asked. Shirley tried to ignore him, but he tugged on her dress. “Huh?”

  “When the rabbi is finished,” she said, smiling at Mrs. Rosenblatt, who glared.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too,” Keith said.

  “Relax, boys.” Barry nudged Jason gently. Keith began tapping his fork on his lap. Shirley caught the action out of the corner of her eye.

  “Put that back on the table,” she said. He didn’t, so she reached over to take it out of his hand and the fork clattered to the floor. She looked up, smiling. “Children,” she said. Lucille smiled back, but the Rosenblatts just stared stone-faced. “Pick it up,” she ordered out of the corner of her mouth. Reluctantly, Keith went down on his knees and crawled under the table to get the fork. When he sat back again, Shirley and Barry closed their chairs in on him tighter to keep better control.

  “Dad.”

  “Quiet, Keith. The rabbi’s getting ready.”

  “But I want to ask you something.”

  “Can’t you wait?”

  “I guess so,” he said, lowering his head. Barry looked at him.

  “Okay, quick. What?”

  “Why do they have watches under the table?”

  “What?”

  “Watches. How can people tell time if it’s under the table, huh?”

  “Where did you see a watch under a table?”

  “There,” he said, pointing to Chaim Eban’s table.

  Barry hesitated a moment and then stood up.

  “What is it?” Shirley asked. Everyone at the table was looking up at him.

  “Nothing.” He took a few steps toward the Eban table and then squatted, leaning over and bracing himself on his hand. When he saw it, he felt glued to the floor.

  “Vot’s he doin’?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. Shirley didn’t reply. Everyone at the table turned to see. The rabbi began his blessing.

  “Excuse me,” Barry said, tapping Lillian Rothberg on her leg. She looked down in astonishment. Denise started to laugh. “I think I dropped something and it rolled under your table. I’m sorry.” He started to crawl under. Bobby and Lisa Sue watched him, but everyone else’s attention turned to the rabbi.

  It was seven eighteen. Barry studied the packet frantically. His understanding of these things was obviously limited, but he followed the wire that went into the plastique and decided that had to be the key to disarming it. He gambled and detached it. Nothing happened. He looked at it a moment and then ripped the watch off. When he held it in his hand, he couldn’t believe the sweat that had poured out of his body during those moments. His whole body trembled. He felt as though he might faint under the table. Turning, he saw the children peering under at him. He smiled weakly and backed out. Jerry Wilson saw him but didn’t say or ask anything. He seemed to understand it was better to wait.

  “Barry, what the hell are you doing?” Shirley asked as he returned to the table. They were all looking at him, and people at nearby tables who saw him crawl in and out were staring at him as well.

  “I … er, thought I saw a valuable piece of jewelry dropped under that table, but it only turned out to be this old watch,” he said, opening his palm. They all looked. Mrs. Rosenblatt shook her head and leaned over to her husband.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “you make udder arrangements and get us at annuder table.” He nodded obediently.

  Chaim Eban’s name was mentioned and the crowd cheered again. Barry sat back, his arm around his son, who looked at him with satisfaction.

  “Does the watch work, Dad?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Can I have it later?”

  “You sure can,” he said. “You earned it.”

  After the dinner ended, Barry told Jerry Wilson what he had been doing under the table. Wilson went back and removed the whole packet. When he examined it and the watch, he told Barry how closely it had come to going off.

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” he said.

  “Apparently this was their backup device if something went wrong. I’ll discuss it with Chaim and recommend he leave the hotel tonight. Staying over is a luxury he can no longer afford. Who knows what they’ll send in here next.”

  Later on, Eban agreed. When the festivities and the speeches ended, the Eban party made ready its departure. Barry accompanied David Oberman to the roof of the building to watch the helicopter take off. They stood together in the cool night now filled with stars and watched them load up. Chaim Eb
an walked over to them as the helicopter was started. He shook David’s hand and then held Barry’s.

  “Once again we owe you a great deal, Lieutenant.”

  “This time it was my son’s inquisitive mind. I’ll never stifle him again.” Eban laughed.

  “We could use a man like you. If you would ever like to take a vacation in Israel,” he added smiling, “at our expense …”

  “These free vacations are gettin’ kinda rough.”

  “Shalom, Barry Wintraub.”

  “Shalom.”

  Eban shook his hand firmly and then turned to join the others in the helicopter. They watched it ascend into the night.

  “Well,” David said. “You’ve got a full week yet. Now you can really enjoy the hotel.”

  “I guess so. If I can relax. It’ll be more like collapse.”

  “If you can’t, you’re welcome to come anytime you can. In fact, you and your family have a standing invitation to a free Passover here from now on.”

  “My mother-in-law won’t be so happy to hear that.”

  “Bring her, too.”

  “Now I’m not so happy.”

  They laughed and then looked out over the hotel grounds. Lights twinkled in the distance, and cars could be seen going and coming on the Quickway, a highway to New York and upstate.

  “I see my father’s light is still on,” David said, looking at the old main house. “I guess I’ll go over there and sit with him a while. Maybe I’ll try to describe the events of the past three days.”