“That’s what I’m trying to change. That’s why I wrote to my congressman…”
“Looks to me like you’ve hit a wall. You didn’t accomplish anything except to get frustrated and obsess on Vialli for a month.”
The boat pulled away from the Washington, headed for Haifa. The white buildings of the city stood out sharply from the hills, reminding Woods of the Azores. He sat back against the seat and looked aft toward the diminishing carrier.
When the boat touched the quay the sailors jumped off to moor it firmly. The officers waited for the Air Boss, the senior officer aboard — always last on and first off — to go ashore first, then filed off after him, looking forward to what they thought awaited them.
Woods and Big stood on the shore, shielding their eyes from the sun, not sure which way to turn. Officers and sailors, conspicuous in their brilliant white uniforms and covers, congregated in small groups. Israelis in passing cars and buses stared at them, then at the enormous ship sitting in the middle of the bay.
A short man with curly black hair approached Woods and Big who were still unsure about which way to go. “Taxi?”
“You speak English?” Big asked.
“Sure. I grew up in New York. Where you want to go?” the driver asked, grinning.
Woods chuckled. “To the train station. We want to go to Tel Aviv.”
“No problem. Let’s go.”
Having been ashore in foreign ports before, Big asked, “How much?”
“You got money?”
“What?”
“Money. You got Israeli money?”
“No. Just dollars.”
“That’s fine. Five dollars.”
“Okay. Let’s go,” said Woods, surprised by the reasonable fare.
The ride to the train station took only five minutes. Woods and Big looked out the windows of the cab like the tourists they were. Haifa was a bustling vibrant city.
The people who noticed the cab also saw the white uniforms and tended to stare, more curious than hostile. Woods paid the driver and walked into the train station carrying his gym bag. Big followed. The train station reminded Woods of those he had seen in Southern California, a small station house with a lot of open space. They looked around and walked to the ticketing office.
“Hello,” Woods said. “Do you speak English?”
“Little,” the man said kindly, leaning his head to one side to allow him to hear better.
“We would like to go to Tel Aviv. When is the next train?”
“Left just now. Two hours more.”
He moved away from the window toward Big, who was watching the people in the station. “We just missed it. Next one is in two hours.”
“So we wait I guess,” Big said. “Unless you want to forget about this and go back to the boat.”
“No. I’m not going to forget about it. We can… hold it. What do you say we go to Nahariya instead?”
“What for?” Big asked, already knowing whatever he said wasn’t going to matter.
“To meet her family.”
Puzzled, Big asked, “Whose family?”
“Irit’s. You know. The one he was with when he got killed.”
“Murdered.”
“Touché. What do you say?”
Big didn’t like the idea at all. “Do you even know her name?”
Woods grimaced. “I’m sure I’ll remember by the time we get there. Plus I’ll bet everybody in Nahariya knows who she was.” He shifted his weight to his other foot to relieve the pressure on the one that was killing him. His white shoes never had fit him, and he was too cheap to replace them, since they rarely wore whites.
“You ever been there?”
“No. But it isn’t that far. I mean the whole country is about the size of San Diego County.”
“You don’t even know where we’d go once we got there.”
“There’s got to be some kind of hotel or something, and if not, we can ride the train straight from there to Tel Aviv and sleep on the way. What do you say?”
“I think you’re nuts. But since this is your rubber room we’re living in, I’m just along to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Lead on.”
Woods went back to the ticket window. “Is there a train soon to Nahariya?”
The man glanced at the clock on the wall. “One half hour,” he said.
“Half an hour, Big, what do you say?”
“It’s your script, Trey. Whatever you want to do.”
Woods turned to the man at the window. “Two to Nahariya please.”
Sami was asleep and afraid. This was something new for him, to be fast asleep and have his unconscious mind yelling at him in fear. He had to wake up, but he couldn’t. He had been pushing himself too hard lately, too many late nights, too much anxiety from everything riding on his shoulders.
Something was in his eyes. Something red. He stirred waking slightly, his eyes still shut. Redness flashed across his eyelids again and his heart raced. What the hell — He opened his eyes in his dark bedroom inside his townhouse. He sat up and looked around. The room was a mess, his clothes were on the floor right where he had left them. He was about to lie down again, when the red light moved across his face again. Sami had no idea what was going on. The red light had come from the window, through the gap on the side of the window shade.
Padding over to the window in his bare feet, he opened the shade slightly and peered out. The red light was there again. Sami grew annoyed. Some neighborhood kid had decided that climbing into a tree and shining a laser pointer into his bedroom would be great fun. What a prick —
“Sami,” a gruff voice whispered.
The voice scared him. It was no kid. “Who’s there? What do you want?”
“Downstairs.”
The laser pointer was switched off and he heard the man climbing down the tree. Sami was confused. Whoever it was knew who he was and where he lived. Still barefoot, he went down the stairs to the front door and peeked through the peephole. Nothing. As he strained to see outside in the darkness, pressing his nose against the door, he heard a soft knock. “Shit!” Sami exclaimed, jumping back. He stood in the dark, his heart pounding. Then, turning the handle, he cracked the door open.
Someone shoved at the door, pushing it wide open, as a hand hit his chest, knocking him backward into the townhouse.
“What the—”
“Hi, Sami,” Ricketts said in Arabic, reaching up to put out the porch light and then closing the door behind him.
Sami stared at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” Ricketts said, still in Arabic.
“At…” Sami looked at his wrist, which had no watch.
“Three o’clock.”
“What are you doing here?” Sami asked again in English.
“Speak Arabic,” Ricketts said.
Sami was happy to. He continued in Arabic. “What were you doing in the tree?”
“I’ve been knocking on your door for fifteen minutes. There was no answer.”
“So you climb in a tree and shine a laser pointer into my bedroom? Can’t that make you go blind?” he asked.
“It wasn’t a laser pointer.”
“What was it?”
“A laser sight.”
“A what?”
“A laser sight. From my weapon.”
“What weapon?”
“The one I carry.”
Sami stared at him. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You were pointing a weapon at me in my bed? Loaded?”
“What good is an unloaded weapon?” Ricketts asked.
“You could have killed me!”