103 – Portland, Maine
They refined the plan in the morning. They 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.
The plan that evolved had Shapiro driving from Maine down 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.
Debra 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 map-blasted a route that avoided all cities, that kept him entirely on secondary roads.
Their main concern was that the bomb would be detected by a radiation monitor. Their hope was that the devices were stationed at high traffic locations such as toll booths, tunnels and bridges. It would take nearly twice as long following a route that avoided such locations, but Abram insisted that Shapiro avoid them at all costs.
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?”
Judy 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. Shapiro had been surprised to find Judy and Debra huddled in a long, deep discussion most of the morning, while he made final preparations for his trip, printing out pages of maps from the Internet of both his driving route and his flight path.
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 tow plane spent the nights.
His glider was where he’d left it, inside the enclosed trailer, its wings removed and resting in the padded cradles on either side of the fuselage. The plane’s tail extended through the slot in the roof of the trailer. The rest of the plane was covered by the enclosure around the trailer.
Shapiro hoped to be able to hitch the Nissan to the trailer and depart without meeting anybody. He finished attaching the safety chains from the trailer to the Pathfinder’s towing hitch when he heard his name called out.
He turned slowly.
“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.”
The tow pilot 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 the Bush for a week. I’ll send you a postcard, OK?”
The small grass airstrip at Sugarbush, Vermont, near the ski area there, was the closest airport to Mount Washington and the Presidential Range in New Hampshire, the highest peaks in the East. It made for exceptional high altitude soaring and was a popular glider location.
“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,” he said. “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 oughta know.”
Shapiro placed an arm on his friend’s shoulder and spoke slowly. “Thanks for the news, Willy,” he said. “I appreciate it, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me over the years.” Shapiro suddenly realized he’d never see this man again. The odd thought struck him that the credits were just about to roll in the mental movie of the lifetime of Ben Shapiro that played constantly in his head. His arm on the pilot’s shoulder was followed by a hug, an action that shot the older man’s eyebrows up to where his hairline used to be, decades earlier.
Without another word, Shapiro got in his car and carefully drove over the grass area near the hanger, inching ahead so as not to bounce the plane inside its trailer. He sped up once he was on pavement.
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 on the sofa fully clothed. He was asleep within minutes.
His last waking thought was to wonder how many nights he had left.