98 – Portland, Maine
“Look at that,” Debra Reuben shouted, pointing at the small television on the kitchen counter. The sound was off. The five people were sitting around the kitchen table, eating dinner. As usual, the talk was about the bomb and what to do with it.
“That’s me. Oh my God, that’s my picture,” Reuben shrieked. “Turn up the sound.”
Shapiro was closest. He reached across to the counter and jabbed at the volume button.
“... Reuben,” the voice on the television said. “The highest ranking surviving member of the Israeli government is believed to have secretly entered the United States more than a month ago and conducted a covert rendezvous with the special forces team that smuggled an Israeli nuclear bomb into this country.
“President Quaid directed Attorney General Harrison to spare no effort to locate Reuben. The FBI announced that capturing Debra Reuben shares top priority with its efforts to locate the nuclear weapon brought with her into this country. Hundreds of agents were reassigned to locating the woman.
“Find Reuben and you’ll find the bomb, President Quaid is reported to have told the Attorney General.”
The television image shifted to a bullet-riddled windshield of an automobile, a man slumped forward against the steering wheel.
“Reuben is believed to have met along the coast of Maine with Lt. Chaim Levi, the Israeli special forces operative who captained the stolen sailing vessel used to sneak the bomb past a Coast Guard cordon. Levi was shot dead by police while attempting to run a security roadblock in New Hampshire.”
“Turn that thing off,” Reuben screamed. “I can’t look at that picture of Chaim.”
Nobody spoke.
Sarah got up from her chair and stood behind Reuben, bending forward to place her arms around her friend, who sat immobile in her chair.
“I’m so sorry, Debbie,” Sarah said. “For everything, for Chaim, and now that they have that picture of you.”
Sarah looked at the others, still seated around the table.
“Well?” she asked.
“Debra, you can’t go outside, not at all, is that understood?” Shapiro was frightened. The FBI was looking for her, now, in addition to him.
All eyes focused on Abram Goldhersh. He sat, shaking his head from side to side.
“Use it or lose, that’s all I have to say. We use it or we lose it, damn soon, too. They’re closing in on us.” He stood and walked to the living room.
Sarah followed her husband out of the kitchen. She stopped in the kitchen doorway and turned toward the people remaining in the room.
“Come on,” she said to them. “We need to talk, more, enough to reach a decision. My husband, in his own stubborn way, makes a very convincing argument.”
Shapiro and Reuben sat on either end of the living room sofa, Sarah on the recliner. Abram Goldhersh stood, facing the others. He spoke as if he were delivering a lecture.
“I say the time has come. We either dump the thing in the ocean, which in my mind would be a sin, a sin to God, a betrayal of Israel and of every Jew on the face of the planet, but that’s my opinion.”
“In your humble opinion that is,” Shapiro interrupted. “Sorry. Go on Abram.”
“We either dump it in the ocean or we use it in whatever way we all decide is best for the Jewish people. That’s what I say. No more waiting. That time has ended.”
“Can’t we threaten to use it, Abram? We don’t really want to kill people, do we?” Sarah said, sadness in her voice. “I say we threaten to use it unless the United States frees Israel, or, or something.”
“That’s a little vague, Sarah,” Debra said gently. “I think we need to make a specific demand, something they can do right away and then, well, we’ll make another demand, and then another.”
“This is a bomb, Debra,” Shapiro said, “not a magic wand. We’ll be lucky if this works once. I’m skeptical that Quaid will give in to a threat, even a real one like this. I think the man has lost his sense of reality. There’s something missing from him.”
“Yeah, like a sense of right and wrong,” Sarah said. “And to believe I voted for the man.”
The arguing dragged on past midnight. Eventually, though, a consensus was reached.
Something had to be done, they agreed.
They would not use the bomb without fair warning.
They would make a demand first, a clear demand for something that could be done immediately, one thing that would immediately benefit the largest number of Jews.
They argued about the demand until they reached agreement. Next, they discussed how to deliver their demand. Their decision on that was to use the simplest method.
“We mail a letter to the President. Mail it from far away. Wear gloves when we touch 9/11? They never found out who mailed them. They can’t trace mail.”
“My cousin Maurice, in Seattle. He can drop it in a mail box,” Abram said.
“We’ll send it to him by FedEx. Now, what do we say in the letter?”
The final version of the note, printed in block letters on the elderly HP 1200 laser printer attached to Abram’s computer, was simple and straightforward.
“We are the people who have the bomb. This is a real threat. You will close every camp. Every person will be released by noon Friday. There will be no repercussions against any person held at the camps. You hold almost 500,000 innocent Jews. That is the population of St. Louis. If you do not comply with this demand, St. Louis will be destroyed by midnight Friday.
“How do you know we are telling the truth? The name of the sailboat that brought the bomb into this country was SWIFT. You kept it secret for a reason. This is the reason.”