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  “Could you open the back, please? I want to see this ‘stuff.’”

  The two of them looked at each other. “Okay, okay!” said Jef, pulling the keys from the ignition. He walked to the back, unlocked and opened the right-hand door, then stood back. “What’s under the tarp?” the officer asked. Jef didn’t answer. “Let’s have a look.”

  Jef lifted one corner to reveal the case of Budweiser. “Like I said, officer, a party. We borrowed the van to ferry the brews back to my place. I guess we just weren’t thinking about this being a … well, a van.”

  “Let’s see your ID, son. You don’t look old enough to drink.”

  Jef reached into his back pocket and handed over his license.

  “Well, Mr. Jacob Miller from Providence,” he said, reading from the license. “You may be old enough to drink, but I’m going to have to cite you. You’re not allowed to drive this thing on Storrow Drive. Please wait in your vehicle.”

  Jef climbed back in, his hands shaking. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

  “Just wait,” Deborah said. “And hope to hell that they don’t radio in for a trace on the van. Mitch doctored the plates.”

  They heard the crackle of police radio coming from the patrol car behind them. Suddenly, the siren screamed and the cruiser swung out around them, speeding away in pursuit of someone or something else. They followed its flashing lights in the distance as it exited and sped across the Longfellow Bridge, heading toward MIT.

  “What the hell was that? Should we wait or what?” Jef asked.

  “What we should do is step on it and get off Storrow Drive at the next exit. We’re going a different way, the right way. I’ll navigate.”

  21

  The flinty wind blowing across the pier was not enough to erase the smell of the harbor, a pungent potpourri of old wood, dead fish, creosote, and gasoline. Jef fussed with the hood of his sweatshirt as he paced back and forth on the dock. “Where is he? It’ll start getting light soon. How the hell is he going to get here, anyway? The T doesn’t run at this hour, and I don’t think he’d risk a cab. What were we thinking anyway, leaving him there. We should have waited for him.”

  “Hey, Jef, cool it. Mitch knows what he is doing. He’ll show. He’ll show. Let’s get this thing on board. You drive.” She tossed the keys back to him.

  The boxy war-surplus LCVP that served as the yacht’s dinghy was moored at the end of the dock, looking like it might have just disgorged a jeep and a platoon of troops to invade Boston. Jef cautiously edged the van forward toward the ramp formed by the opened bow of the boat. Even with the tide high, the ramp angled sharply downward, and the van scraped bottom as the front wheels cleared the edge. Jef quickly shifted into reverse and squealed the tires as he pulled back for another run. This time he gunned the engine and shot the van over the lip and down the steep incline. He slammed on the brakes but still skidded into the bulkhead, smashing the left front headlight on a protruding fitting.

  There was not enough room to open the driver’s-side door, so Jef slid to the other side and kicked open the sticking door. It banged against the side of the boat. “It was a piece of junk, anyway,” he said, squeezing past the van and back onto the dock.

  Over the wind, Jef could hear a distant, high-pitched buzzing that reminded him of one of his little brother’s model airplanes. It grew slowly louder. A helmeted figure on a Vespa rounded the corner from the street and rumbled down the rough boards, racing toward them without slowing. At the last second, the rider throttled back just enough to step off and stumble into them, letting the scooter fly off the end of the dock in a long arc just to one side of the LCVP. The buzzing ended abruptly as the scooter splashed into the water and quickly sank.

  Mitch took off his helmet and tossed it to Jef. “I always wanted to try something like that.”

  Jef looked down at the helmet, then up at Mitch. “You nuts? You could’ve ended up in the harbor with the scooter. And that looked like a perfectly good scooter, too.”

  “It was hot. They’ll never find it now. It’ll just be another Vespa gone missing from behind Grad House. Happens all the time. I’m just glad I had these with me to cut the chain.” He pulled a pair of folding bolt cutters from his pocket. “Where’s the van?”

  Deb gestured toward the boat. “We already drove it onto the LST,” she said. “We were just waiting for you.”

  “Not an LST,” Jef corrected. “An LST is a huge sort of armored barge. This is just 36 feet of plywood, a glorified swamp boat. Anyway, let’s shove off. What happened, Mitch?”

  “Nothing. I had to take a leak and I ran into Rocky in the john. He just likes to talk and talk, and I always just listen and listen. Didn’t want to put him off, ’specially since he’ll be clocking me out at the end of the shift.” He followed Jef onto the landing craft. The three of them squeezed past the van and climbed up to the cockpit. “Hey, this is pretty neat. And just the thing we’ll need for the other end. Like Normandy, only without the enemy fire, right?”

  “I told you we had everything covered. Like you said, a walk in the park, just a walk in the park.”

  Jef cranked the big diesel engine, which was reluctant to start. Finally it chugged into deep-throated life. Ever so slowly, he backed out from the pier. “You’re going to love this.” He deftly steered the craft until he was clear, then shifted into forward and accelerated out into open water. He shouted above the growl of the engine and the slap of the water. “As planned, I had a harbor pilot take the Delft out Saturday so we can load and leave without drawing attention. Told him it was for a party this weekend. I paid him in cash, of course. He wasn’t a bit suspicious. Yakked on about his college days. I gave him a bottle of Johnny Walker and told him it was from my uncle. Said he wished he’d had a rich uncle, too. Oh, yeah, and the fuel is topped off—maxed out everybody’s credit cards. Soon as we hoist this baby on deck, we are ready to go.”

  With the lights of the harbor and the city behind them, they headed through the light chop toward a distant dark spot barely discernible against the horizon. The yacht, as they approached it from the stern, was neither very beautiful nor impressive, but as they pulled alongside Mitch almost gasped. The gleaming white hull, longer than a football field, seemed to be lit from within in the predawn glow. “Holy shit, this is one big mother.”

  “Wait until you see the insides. It’s another world.” Jef cut the engines to dead slow and edged alongside the yacht. “When we get close enough, you two get those lines around those cleats there and there.” He cut the engine, climbed on the gunwales, and deftly stepped from the boat to the rungs of a ladder welded into the side of the yacht. He clambered up toward the deck, shouting orders as he went.

  Once the LCVP was hoisted by the davit and secured on deck, Jef lowered the bow ramp and opened the back of the van.

  “We need to get the stuff stowed right away. Once in the open ocean, I wouldn’t worry, but here close to home there is always some chance the Coast Guard will want to snoop.”

  With only one dolly, it took the better part of an hour to unload all the rods, ferry them to the elevator that had once lifted ammunition, and get them below deck. Then began the laborious process of winching each one by hand down into shafts conveniently left in the lead-laced concrete ballast that had been added when the ship had been converted into a yacht. When they finished, Mitch told them to wait and ran back up on deck. He returned with the scintillation counter, which he checked as he walked slowly in circles.

  “Look’s good, hardly even a twitch,” he said.

  “Okay, crew, let’s go up to the bridge,” Jef said, waving them toward a flight of stairs. “We’re ready to sail.”

  22

  2003 — Migdal turned from the sweaty men in the tiny room to look out the narrow window for a moment. The sun, just set, had left the sky above the Old City ablaze. He let the beauty of it wash over him, let the whispering voices of Jerusalem’s winding streets and jumbled buildings remind him of his promis
es, remind him of why he was here, in this small room, with these people.

  When he turned back, he was smiling, but Hashim knew him well enough to know this did not mean he was happy.

  “Migdal, Migdal, is this really so big a thing we ask?” Hashim spread his arms in a dramatic gesture that turned his robe into a black sail in the slight breeze coming through the window. “It’s just another business deal.”

  “I cannot, you know that, Hashim. It is simply impossible.” He thought of tearing the paper in his hands into small pieces but instead simply placed it on the table and slid it across to Hashim. Hashim pushed it back.

  “Since when was anything impossible for Migdal Rozeyn? You have done it before. The impossible. This impossible thing, in fact. Oh, yes, we know all about it. You can do it now for us, for us all. It is about balance, about restoring balance.” A resonance had entered Hashim’s voice, as if the bass boost on a boom box had just been turned on.

  “It is not the same, Hashim, and you know it. Your client will use it. Israel did not, will not.”

  “And since when do you know the Minister of Defense? Or those ultra-orthodox jackals who surround him and howl in his ears? Since when do you know his mind or his heart?”

  “I know him well, like a brother. Didn’t you know he actually is my brother,” Migdal said, trying to lighten the tone.

  “Ah, so your family tree has branches I would not have imagined, my American cousin. And did you not once call me brother? Have we not traded as brothers, with trust, with fairness?”

  “I am not your American cousin. I am an Israeli citizen. And this would not be a fair trade. It would be treason, betrayal, not just of me, but of the whole organization. It would be an abrogation of what we are all about. For me to agree would betray you as well, Hashim. Were such a thing ever to be discovered, even hinted at, Trade Now would be doomed. You would be out of business.

  “No, we do not trade in death. I will not be a part of this, not in any way.”

  “You misread the request. It is for medical research. The lab is a legitimate scientific endeavor. The research they undertake will enhance the prestige of the Palestinians in the eyes of the world scientific community. It legitimates us as contributors to learning and progress.”

  “Hashim, you yourself do not believe that. How can you expect me to believe it? You know. All of you know.” He turned to the two silent men seated just beyond the dimming light from the window. “This is one shipment that would be returned to Israel, in a different package, a package with death stamped on it. Do you take me for a traitor?

  “The answer is no, Hashim. I do not know what web you may have become caught up in, my friend, but I will not be lured into it.”

  One of the two men in the shadows stood. “Some of your own already call you traitor,” he said with contempt. Speaking in Arabic, he turned to Hashim, “This is a waste of time. Remind him that he has no choice. Remind him that he has a wife and a young son.”

  Migdal understood. “You threaten me? You threaten my family? And still you would pretend this is about trade? No, I think we are done for today. Perhaps we are done for more than today.” He began stuffing papers into his briefcase, among them the document that was the focus of their dispute. Perhaps I am already a dead man, he thought. No, they think I am their only source. No, that is doubtful, but I am their choice of the moment.

  Hashim turned to glare disapprovingly at his companions. “Tariq, please. Business that is born of threats is bad business.”

  To Migdal he said, “We will leave aside this business—for now. Let us speak instead of other trade. On what might we be more in agreement, friend, brother?”

  Migdal, looked down at the papers in his hand, unsure of whether to continue or to make a point by walking out. The price of either option might be far higher than he could compute at the moment. At long last he said, “Okay, okay. Ga’ash Lighting has a pending contract for fixtures at a new park in The Netherlands, but they are already working to capacity. Perhaps there is a small metal shop in Gaza that could subcontract for the poles. This is interesting work with some new materials. It could be lucrative and a learning opportunity. Is there anybody? Could Rashid and his crew handle something like this.”

  “I think a better fit would be Mediterranean Metals.”

  Tariq spat. “They collude, they cower. Give it instead to Rashid, who at least has a spine.”

  Hashim stiffened. “This is about trade, about the well-being of our people. Our peoples,” he corrected. “This is not about politics.”

  “And is standing up to the Zionist oppressors not about the welfare of our people.” He emphasized the last word to make clear it was singular.

  Migdal shook his head slowly as he began again to return papers to his briefcase. “Am I your oppressor now, Hashim? I don’t know what is happening, but this may be a matter for the Committee. Perhaps you … no, perhaps neither of us is any longer well-suited to this work. You know that Trade Now can never get involved in contraband or weapons. As it is, there are rumors, accusations. And it must be neutral, always. We must all negotiate for freer trade, for mutually beneficial business arrangements that build the Palestinian economy. Not good deeds, but good deals, as it says on our website.” He snapped his briefcase shut.

  “Still, I will work on the Ga’ash deal. I will pretend you never made the other request. I hope we can do better as brothers and as businessmen next time, Hashim. I look forward soon to sitting down, as we have so many times, just you and I, building a better world for our sons.”

  “Inshallah,” Hashim said with a slight nod of his head.

  “Yes, God willing. Salaam. And to you also, Tariq, and to your silent friend there. Go in peace.” Migdal pushed past the two seated men, half expecting to be stopped. Outside in the twilight, he headed downhill, striding quickly over the cobblestones until he was just beyond the view of the window above. He turned into a narrow alley before retrieving his cell phone. He scrolled down through the address book until he found an entry with only the initial “L” and dialed it.

  “It’s me,” he said as soon as he heard a click. He continued without waiting for a response. “Look, I hate this. I thought I was done with it all, but I have a package for you. It will be at the old drop. Better retrieve it tonight. You’ll understand. And get the Institute to keep an eye on Shira and Binyamin for a while. I can’t leave for Haifa yet.” He closed the phone without saying goodbye.

  In the window that Migdal could no longer see stood Tariq Mustafa, looking out over the city in the fading light. “This is a waste of time, a complete waste of time. We know he can do it, and you know we can make him.”

  Hashim, well aware of how effective Tariq and his people could be, nevertheless said, “In this case, I think not. Migdal will not piss himself and promise the moon like those cowards from the instrument maker that you coerced last month. He has proved himself resourceful and unshakable since he was barely more than a boy. Remember how he got here. You know what he did.”

  “Yes, yes, we know how he got here. We also know what he has been doing ever since, which is why he is the one to fulfill the contract. He is a known quantity, as the Americans say.”

  “You may have measured the quantity incorrectly, Tariq. I think it will take more than threats to persuade him.”

  “Exactly,” he said, turning toward the door and gesturing for his companion to follow. “Exactly.”

  Once on the street he spoke again. “Sabir, my aptly named compatriot, your patience will be rewarded. We will get what we are after, and our Mister Rozeyn will help us. I want you to see to that, do you understand?”

  “Of course, I do. It is done.”

  23

  His hotel room was small and stuffy, and Migdal slept fitfully until he was awakened by the steady ring of his cell phone. He looked at his watch: 2:20. It was Shira, crying, almost in hysterics. He tried to calm her enough to figure out what she was saying, although he was already making som
e dreaded guesses. “Are you all right? Is Bini all right? Just tell me. Are you both okay?”

  “But they came into his room, they came into our home, they cut our son. They cut our little boy. Do you understand, they carved an X into his hand.” She continued to cry.

  “Look, take care of his hand first.”

  “I already did. It’s not too serious. I put a sticking plaster on it.”

  “Okay, then both of you get over to Avi’s. Now. I’ll call and tell him you’re coming. You’ll be safe there. I’ll get a taxi for you. Don’t use the phone. I’ll have the taxi wait around the corner. Go down the fire escape when you see the taxi waiting. It will be all right. The driver will be one of Lev’s people. Everything will be fine.”

  “Mig, what’s happening? I thought it was over.”

  “I did, too,” he said quietly. “I’ll meet you at Avi’s when I can. I love you. Everything will be okay. Now hang up and take care of Bini. Take care of him, he needs you.” He knew that giving her that charge would bring out the best in her. When she was taking care of others, she could be anything, she could be superwoman.

  He made two quick phone calls to arrange for Shira and Binyamin, then dialed a third number. A sleepy voice answered. Migdal said nothing.

  “Hello, who is this? Is it you, Tariq?”

  “No. Migdal.”

  “What are you calling for? It’s the middle of the night. You’ve awakened the baby.”

  Migdal was silent for several more seconds, then said, “Tell Tariq that he and his crew can pick up the goods in Europe. I’ll provide details later. Remind him that I am the only person who can get him what he wants. The only one. And remind him that I may have left Mossad, but that does not mean that I am without friends. They do not look kindly upon acts of terrorism inside Israel, however small those acts or small the targets. Tariq and his goons have miscalculated badly.”