“See,” he said, tossing the ball from hand to hand. “I trained with this stuff. It’s practically inert.” He spread his hands and let the ball fall to the concrete floor. All three young men cringed as it splattered on the floor with a thud. Goldhersh was unmoved.
“I know that,” he said, speaking to Levy. “I wasn’t able to obtain military-grade detonators. You’d think they would be easier to buy than the explosive, but I tried and couldn’t get any. I must have tried twenty blasting supply companies, but they all wanted to see my explosives permit.”
One of the young men, Mr. Aleph, interrupted. “I told Abram I could take care of a detonator,” he said, with a slight smile. “All it needed was a lot of heat in a little space in a very short time. It didn’t take me long. Abram was looking in the wrong stores. I just went where I go shopping for everything else. The mall.”
He removed a box that said Blast Off Flight Pack from a shopping bag labeled Mostly Maine Hobbies. Dumping the box on the lid of one of the sealed drums, two dozen small cylinders rolled out, each about four inches, made of rolled brown paper. They had hard clay caps at one end and an odd, cone-shaped indentation at the other, with a small hole through the center of the indentation. They looked, to Levi, like unusual shotgun cartridges.
Estes Industries Model A8-3 Model Rocket Engine was written on the side of each cylinder. The box also contained short lengths of wire bent into U shapes with a bit of some material at the bend of the U. Finally, the young man removed a small, black, plastic rectangular box with two wires ending in alligator clips coming from one end. A label said Estes Industries Electron Launch Controller.
“Cost me almost fifty dollars,” he said, beaming. “These are model rocket engines. The wires are electrical igniters. Stick the wire in the hole at the end of the engine. Hook up a battery and the igniter wires to the controller, push the launch button and, boom, the engine ignites and hot flames shoot out the end. There are your detonators.”
Goldhersh turned to Levi.
“Will it work?”
Levi recalled the digital electronic detonators he’d trained with in the navy in mock raids in rubber boats. These toys were far from the sophisticated devices he’d used. Nonetheless, he was impressed.
“They’ll work,” he said. “The C4 will explode. But you’ve got one extremely serious problem.” He moved his gaze from Goldhersh to the three eager young men clinging to each word coming from a real member of the IDF.
“There is no timer,” Levi continued. “You press this button”—he gestured at the Electron Launch Controller, with its red button labeled LAUNCH—“and the C4 explodes. Whoever presses the button will be blown to small pieces before his finger gets off that box.”
Goldhersh spoke first, seeing each of the men nod. “We appreciate that quite well. These three heroes appreciate that. How many millions of Jews have already been killed, by that bomb, by the Arabs, by disease or starvation or torture in those camps? What are three more deaths if they are in a good cause?” He turned toward the young men. “Do you agree?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think only Arabs have the courage to kill themselves?”
“It is God’s will.”
Levi said nothing but walked off by himself into the darkness inside the empty building. After a few moments, he called out.
“Abram, can I speak with you for a minute?”
Goldhersh joined Levi. They stood in the dim light, barely able to see each other as more than a shape.
“Abram, I take it you are serious about this, about setting off that explosive?” Levi asked. “Three drums of C4, Abram, that’s like a bomb from a B-52. That will kill an awful lot of people, a lot of Americans. Are you really planning on doing that, Abram? That is a serious action.”
“Aren’t these serious times?” Goldhersh answered. “Has any time been more serious for the Jewish people? An atomic bomb has killed Jews, who knows how many Jews. Once again, Jews are put into camps, camps in the Holy Land and now camps even right here in America. Camps, Levi, camps. Does that sound familiar? Do you remember what happens to Jews in camps, Levi? I do. Those boys do.”
“But, Abram, bombs?” Levi asked. “Terror. Killing more people. Will that accomplish anything?”
“I need an Israeli to ask me whether terror works,” Goldhersh laughed. “Were you sick the day they taught Israeli history in school? You remember the Haganah? The Irgun? The Stern Gang? They were the so-called terrorists who drove the British from Palestine and let us create our own nation. They were called terrorists. They set off bombs. They killed people. And they won. Terror worked.”
“But Jews have been on the receiving end of more terror than we’ve dished out over the years,” Levi answered.
“That we have. That we have,” Goldhersh said. “Black September. The Munich Olympics. The Intifadah and all those public bombings, buses, cafes, shopping centers, flaming kites, for God’s sake. But you know what, Levi? You know what? Those bombs worked, too. Do you think that coward Sharon would have handed over the West Bank to the Palestinians, that he would have dragged our own settlers out of Gaza, if it hadn’t been for all those bombs they set off? I don’t think so. Why do you think I got all this stuff in the first place? It was to give to the settlers so they could set off bombs of their own.
“Terror works, Levi. History proves that. Look what crashing those planes into the World Trade Center did to the United States. Everything changed that day. Nineteen men willing to die changed everything.”
Levi’s thoughts wandered to the wine cellar under the house where Debra Reuben was at that very moment. He considered for a fleeting second whether to tell Goldhersh what was in that cellar. Not yet, he decided, and not without talking it over with Debra first. It’s the government’s bomb, and she is the government.
“So, where are you going to use that stuff, Abram?” Levi asked. “What’s the plan?”
“Come with me,” Goldhersh said, taking Levi by the elbow. They walked to a far corner, near an overhead garage door leading outside. A large object was covered with a blue plastic tarp. Goldhersh took one corner of the plastic and pulled. Under the tarp was a white Chevrolet van with the words National Park Service painted on the side.
“Young Aleph and Bet paid a visit to Acadia National Park last week,” Goldhersh said. “Actually, it was more of a shopping trip. They brought this back. Do you suppose our product will fit in the back of that van?”
“Of course it will,” Levi said. “But I don’t understand. You are going to blow up Acadia National Park. What will that do, kill a few bears?”
“No, my friend,” Goldhersh said. “Wrong national park. Wrong place. Wrong message. We want to get the attention of the government, the United States government. Well, where is that government? And what park service is in charge of all the parks there? We’re going to have our own march on Washington this weekend, Levi.”
CHAPTER 34
After six nights of sleeping alone, Shapiro found the bedroom door ajar. He’d undressed in the dark and climbed into bed as quietly as he could, not knowing if his wife was really sleeping or just pretending. In either case, they spent the night back to back, the gap between their spines either three inches or two feet. It did not matter, Shapiro realized. It might as well have been a brick wall—possibly permanent.