Epilogue
Abram Goldhersh drove his Nissan Pathfinder into his driveway in Portland, Maine, exhausted, emotionally drained, dejected. He’d driven from the glider field due east, toward Washington, waiting to see the flash.
It never came.
He listened on the radio for news of the bomb.
He heard nothing.
On the drive back to Maine, Goldhersh heard a report on Fox Radio News about a glider landing on the National Mall in Washington. Nothing was known about the pilot, the reporter said, Park Police and the Secret Service had surrounded the plane and quickly removed it, saying nothing about it.
That was all he learned.
He parked the SUV and entered his house. It was late night, after 11:00. Sarah ran to the door. She’d heard him pull up.
She opened her arms for her husband and attempted to surround the huge man with herself, unsuccessfully. Home, with his wife, he finally let loose. Sarah felt his body shaking and heard his sobs. After five minutes of silently holding her husband, she released him and walked him into the living room.
“He lost his nerve,” Abram said sadly. “He let us down. He let Israel down. Why does God do this to us?”
Sarah led him into the living room.
“Abram,” Sarah said to him. “Debbie has something to tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear anything more. Israel is lost. Who knows when there will be another chance like this one?”
Goldhersh noticed Debra Reuben standing in the living room, next to the fireplace, watching him and Sarah. He looked at her sadly, the tracks of tears still on his face. He looked at her and said nothing.
“Abram,” Reuben said, comfort and a hint of something else in her voice.
“Abram,” she said, this time sounding excited rather than despondent.
“There’s another bomb, Abram. A bigger bomb. In Africa. In Ethiopia. I sent the other pilot there to wait.
“Judy is going to him. She had to get away from what we were doing. I told her to take a message to him. I didn’t tell her about the other bomb, just to find the pilot and deliver my message. That’s why she left.” Debra walked to table, where she’d left her drink, poured more vodka into the glass and downed it in a long, desperate gulp.
Goldhersh stared at the woman for a long moment, smiled, then walked to the closet he used as an office. He powered up his computer and started typing.
“Dear President Quaid,” he wrote. “We showed we can deliver a bomb to your doorstep. Now let me tell you about our other bombs.”