Shapiro reported that he’d found a glider field about sixty miles west of Washington. He could launch from there.
“Sixty miles in an airplane without an engine?” Sarah asked. “Is that really possible?”
Shapiro laughed.
“Sixty miles is a training flight,” he said. “I do that before breakfast. Speaking of which, we’ve been at this all night. Let’s go to bed and sleep on this decision. We need to have another long, serious talk. We’ll talk over breakfast.”
The others went up to bed, leaving Shapiro in the living room for another night on the sofa.
Shapiro was surprised to see Katz sitting on the sofa when he returned from the bathroom. He sat next to her.
“Ben, are we doing the right thing? Is it even a sane thing?” she asked, keeping her voice down so none of the others, upstairs, could hear. “Everything happened so fast. It seems out of control. I can’t believe what we’re talking about doing. How do you feel about it?”
He took both her hands in his. They were ice cold. He lifted his right arm and invited her to snuggle against him, lifting the blanket from the sofa to cover both of them. She rested her head on his shoulder. He inhaled the clean fragrance of her hair.
“Judy, that’s why I went into the other room. I knew all about flying in Pennsylvania and Maryland. I’ve gone there on glider vacations. It really is the best gliding around. I needed some space to think, that’s why I went away for a bit.” She snuggled closer to him.
The two sat quietly, immersed in their thoughts and fears but relishing the comfort of each other. Shapiro pulled her closer; her body felt warm and he began to stir. But a chill quickly overcame him—a chill from fear. A chill from knowing that his future was likely to be short; a chill at the loss of his wife and child. He wondered whether his determination to go through with the plan would survive the night.
“Ben,” she whispered. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight? We can just cuddle if that’s all you want. I’d rather not be alone.”
He hesitated, sorting his thoughts. Since learning of his wife’s death, he had not so much as looked at Katz with the admiring eyes he’d devoured her with from the first time they met for lunch. It felt more like cheating to be holding her now, so soon after Sally’s death, than it would have seemed when they were on the brink of a divorce.
On the other hand, I don’t know how many nights I have left, he thought.
As he was about to let his body win its struggle with his mind, he heard the first of a series of tiny snores on his shoulder. He did not move until his right arm was entirely numb. Then he slipped it from under her head carefully, slowly, so as not to wake her. He lowered her gently onto the sofa and covered her with the blanket.
Shapiro slept on the floor next to the sofa, his hand resting on her hand where it dangled from the couch.
They refined the plan in the morning. They had considered taking two cars—one to drive the bomb to Maryland, Shapiro towing the glider with the other. In the end, they decided that only doubled the chances of getting caught.
Shapiro would drive from Maine to Plymouth, Massachusetts, to retrieve his sailplane. Abram’s Nissan Pathfinder could tow the glider trailer. Shapiro would return to Portland where he’d back the trailer into the Goldberg-Goldhershes’driveway. After dark, they’d retrieve the bomb from the pool and strap it into the plane’s rear seat.
Reuben would drill him in how to work the bomb’s detonator and, if she had the nerve, would take him through a dry run arming and disarming the device. Then he would say goodbye and get on the road, driving straight through to Maryland. They plotted a route that avoided all cities, keeping him entirely on secondary roads.
They debated whether to issue a warning.
“No, they had their chance,” Abram barked. “We warn them, and Quaid escapes. Would you have warned Hitler?”
Katz filled a paper shopping bag with enough sandwiches, apples, and granola bars to feed Shapiro for a week. She smiled when he walked into the kitchen. They did not discuss what had happened, or not happened, the previous night.
The drive from Portland to Plymouth was the least risky leg for Shapiro. Nonetheless, he stayed off the interstates, doubling his travel time. It was late afternoon when he pulled into the familiar grounds of the Plymouth Soaring Society, parking next to the hanger where the towplane was stored.
His glider was where he’d left it, inside the enclosed trailer, its wings removed and resting in padded cradles on either side of the fuselage. The plane’s tail extended through the covered slot in the trailer roof.
Shapiro hoped to hitch the Nissan to the trailer and depart without seeing anyone. He’d finished attaching the safety chains from the trailer to the Pathfinder’s towing hitch when he heard his name called out.
“Willy, you dog,” Shapiro said. “How ya doin’, buddy?”
“I’m doing fine,” the tow pilot said. “Haven’t seen you in weeks. I thought maybe you’d took up golf or something.”
Willy looked around Shapiro’s shoulder at the trailer attached to the Pathfinder SUV.
“Leaving us for good, or going on vacation?” he asked.
“I’d never leave you, Willy,” Shapiro said, smiling. “No, I’ve been working my butt off. Finally finished up and thought I’d head up to Sugarbush for a week. I’ll send you a postcard.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll look out for it,” Willy replied. “And the box of chocolates.” The old tow pilot looked at Shapiro strangely. The humor left his voice as he spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. “Ben, we go back a ways. I gotta tell you this. There were some guys asking about you. FBI, they said. Just routine, they said. I didn’t tell ’em squat, Ben. But I thought you should know.”
Shapiro placed an arm on his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks for the news, Willy,” he said. “I appreciate it, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me over the years.”
The return drive to Portland was as slow as the drive down to Plymouth, again avoiding highways. It was close to midnight when Shapiro backed the glider trailer up the driveway. He locked the SUV and walked into the darkened house, careful not to wake anyone.
Shapiro half expected—half hoped—that Judy would be on the sofa when he arrived. It was empty. He was so tired from the drive he simply lay down fully clothed. He was asleep within minutes.
His last waking thought was to wonder how many nights he had left.
CHAPTER 65
President Quaid was surprised when the door to his bedroom slowly opened. The reading light on the headboard of the presidential bed was on, but the novel he had tried to read lay facedown on the blanket. Quaid was on top of the blanket, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide open, legs spread, arms out at his sides.
“Are we making snow angels?” a familiar voice said. Quaid, startled, turned his head. His wife stood in the open doorway. A black negligee was visible beneath her white terry bathrobe.
“Come in, come in.” Quaid’s legs came together. He pushed himself to a sitting position and smiled. “You haven’t been in this room in months, Catherine. What’s the occasion?”
He smiled again, his campaign smile this time—the 600-watt smile he flashed when he wanted to move the masses.
She sat in a lotus position, legs crossed, facing her husband. They looked at one another, each waiting for the other to speak.
Damn, she looks good, Quaid thought. The woman never ages. He recalled their private joke about Catherine having a portrait of herself locked in a closet, a portrait that aged rather than she. She’s doing better than I am. He scratched unconsciously at the top of his head, knowing that with each scratch more hairs fell out. The inside of his cheeks were raw from his constant chewing.