Israeli soldiers were trained to avoid capture at all costs. Israelis taken into custody by their Arab enemies were unlikely to be treated in conformance with the Geneva Convention.
Levi’s military training kicked in without conscious thought. The man who’d kept his gun on Levi throughout the incident now had his back to him, having just leaped backwards to avoid the rubber gloves as they flew from the car seat. He faced the gloves, staring at them.
Levi saw the two black SUVs in front of the tollbooth, doors still open. He could hear their engines running.
Levi planted his foot firmly on the backside of the man with the gun. He shoved the man forward, causing him to fall onto the pavement, his hands landing on either side of the rubber gloves. His chest against them.
The man screamed as if he’d landed on hot coals. Levi sprinted to the SUVs. He jumped through the open driver’s door of one of the vehicles, reached in with his handcuffed hands and dropped the gear lever into drive, simultaneously stamping his foot on the gas pedal. The vehicle shot forward, the momentum slamming all four doors shut.
Levi lifted his hands to the top of the steering wheel. He spotted a pullout area to the right of the plaza. A brick building contained restrooms. A New Hampshire State Police cruiser was parked next to the building. Behind the parking area was a chain-link fence. Behind the fence was a road.
Levi turned the wheel sharply to the right, heading straight for the parking area. He would ram through the fence and escape on back roads. It was not much of a plan, he realized, but it was a plan.
The SUV jumped over the curb separating the parking area from the highway, accelerating as it headed toward the fence. The trooper’s eyes opened wide as he saw the black SUV speeding in his direction. He saw the FBI agents running and shouting.
The trooper reached down and drew his .40 caliber Glock, sighted carefully down its extended barrel, focusing. The gun bucked and he immediately returned it to his target. He squeezed again and again and again, placing four shots within a six-inch circle in the middle of Levi’s face. The SUV continued through the chain-link fence and slammed into a tree.
A SkyFox25-News traffic helicopter circling overhead to report on the mile-long backup at the Hampton tolls recorded the entire scene, which was forwarded to the television studio within seconds of Chaim Levi’s last breath.
CHAPTER 51
It was inevitable that the rally would be called the Million Jew March, despite a futile attempt by organizers to brand it as the Million Mensch March. It began with an announcement from Rabbi Simon Garfinkle of Congregation Beth Shalom, one of the rare Jewish mega-synagogues, with a congregation of more than 5,000 from northern New Jersey. He’d vowed to bring his entire congregation to the capital to pray for intervention in the Middle East.
Other rabbis pledged to join Rabbi Garfinkle with their congregations. Word about the march spread across the Internet with the instantaneous speed of a new joke or cartoon, emailed from brother to sister to mother to uncle to business partner to college professor to office mates until the question “Are you going?” blanketed the Jewish community.
As momentum built in the week leading up to what was planned as a two-day event, nobody knew how many people to expect. A million marchers was thought to be a conservative prediction. There was little else America’s increasingly desperate Jews could do.
Even before the first marcher arrived in the District of Columbia, the event had achieved one of its goals. Politicians, from all levels of government, were forced to choose sides. Were they with the marchers, prepared to be photographed in the crowd, or even on the podium, or were they going to be conspicuously absent? Invitations to join the marchers were widely distributed.
The response was as disappointing as it was predictable. The mall bombings, after the Coast Guard and FBI murders, tipped America decidedly into an anti-terror, anti-Jew frenzy. First Damascus, then coastguardsmen, then the FBI and, now, hundreds slaughtered by Jewish suicide bombers.
The twenty-two Jewish members of Congress, to a man and woman, agreed to appear. Two senators, one from New York, one from California, said they would be there but they preferred not to speak. One former secretary of defense said yes, but the gossip was that his Jewish wife left him no choice since she would be attending regardless of whether he did or not.
The rest of Washington’s elite found reasons to be out of the city or otherwise committed that weekend.
The ad hoc organizing committee struggled to find enough prominent speakers to fill two days, especially speakers who could demonstrate that support for intervention in Israel went beyond Jewish voters. The organizers were disappointed that year after year of Jewish political contributions, millions upon millions of dollars, seemed to have been forgotten. They were equally disappointed that African-American leaders seemed to have forgotten the thousands of Jews who supported the civil rights struggles, with their money, their time and, as demonstrated by the murders of Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner in Mississippi, their lives.
The march was scheduled for Friday and Saturday so it could include what was predicted to be the largest Sabbath service in history.
A large Washington law firm, whose senior partners were virtually all Jewish, donated office space for the march organizers. On Wednesday of march week, volunteers, mostly college students, struggled to deal with the chaos of constantly ringing office telephones.
“I would like to speak to whoever is in charge of the speakers who will address the march,” a caller said. “My name is Catherine Quaid.”
“Please hold,” a young volunteer said. She answered three other calls and was about to run to the coffee machine when she noticed the light still blinking on her phone. She pressed the button for that line.
“I think that Rabbi Garfinkle is handling all the speakers himself,” the volunteer said. “He is so very busy right now I am sure he could not speak with you. Could you leave a phone number, or, even better, an email address, and we will get in touch with you? I know they are sending out thank-yous already.”
The woman caller laughed. “So much for international fame,” she said. “Maybe if Rabbi Garfinkle can’t speak with me, somebody else, somebody in authority, can spare a minute.”
“I’m so sorry,” the volunteer answered, looking around. “I don’t think there is anybody who could speak with you. I’m so busy myself. I really have to go now.”
“Wait, don’t hang up,” the caller said. She took a deep breath, audible over the telephone. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Nicole.”
“Okay, Nicole. Let’s try it this way. Do you know who the president of the United States is?
“Of course, ma’am, it’s President Quaid.”
“Good. That’s a start. Well, I am Mrs. Quaid. Some call me the First Lady.”
“Oh my God. I am so sorry.” The young Wesleyan University junior hesitated. “Does your husband know what you are doing?”
Within seconds, Catherine Quaid was patched through.
“Joe, may I have a chat with you?”
Catherine Quaid took Joe Bergantina, the head of her Secret Service detail, by the elbow and directed him to the balcony overlooking the Rose Garden behind the White House.
“What is it, ma’am?” Bergantina asked. He liked Catherine Quaid. She had a mind of her own and didn’t take shit from anybody, including her husband. Wouldn’t want to be married to her, though, Bergantina thought.