Serializing a new novel.
Chapter 8 New York (July 2000)
We leave Dean at the Mir Yeshiva in Jerusalem, and return
to Fred Smith who has plotted to send Dean's parents to the
Amazon on a trip from which they will not return.
That muggy July day had begun badly for Fred Smith. He woke
up late. It took a long time to get a cab to stop for him.
Now at last he was at the apartment block. He was about to
cross the road when he saw the charade played out before him.
A familiar figure came out from the service entrance and
seemed to be there one moment, gone the next. A bus began
filling up with young men. Moments later, two security men
appeared from the main lobby rushing to opposite corners and
then down the street.
Something felt bad. Something felt wrong. He thought back to
Brazil. The helicopter pilot, Pedro, had said he would
contact him on his return, but he hadn't. Why? Was the man
unreliable?
Now Fred began to think along different lines. Maybe Pedro
too had "disappeared."
Was that why these "disappearances" never came to the
attention of the law? Were the witnesses, people like himself
and Pedro, eliminated after they had played their part?
Fred thought for a moment, then turned and walked rapidly in
the opposite direction. He hailed a cab. He would leave
immediately for Switzerland. He would draw the money from the
bank. He had the number of the account. There was nothing to
stop him. Then he thought of the fact that the people he was
dealing with weren't stupid. If he didn't appear at the
meeting they would head for the airport and look for him
there.
He needed to do two things. He needed to change his
appearance and to head for a different airport. Fortunately,
he had his passport with him. These days he went nowhere
without his passport. In spite of all the assurances he had
been given, he expected the police to discover his role in
Brazil and to come for him. At the first hint of trouble he
was prepared to flee.
So he went around always with his passport and enough dollars
for a ticket to Switzerland. Now he was grateful for these
precautions.
Fred walked away from the corner. The gunmen were nowhere to
be seen, but he felt vulnerable there, so near to the
apartment block where he was supposed to attend a meeting. He
hailed a passing cab. "Macy's," he said.
Some time later, he was dropped off in front of the
department store. First he made his way to the cash
withdrawal machine. He took out credit card after credit
card, tapped the numbers, and gave a sigh of relief as each
time the money came sliding out.
Next he folded the bills carefully into his inner suit
pocket. He went first to the camping department and bought a
large rucksack. Then he walked from counter to counter
selecting casual clothing, Levis and checked shirts and a
rugged looking sweater, until the once-empty bag was filled
with a variety of clothing and camping needs. He completed
his purchases with a large, floppy canvas sunhat.
A well-dressed city man walked into the changing room; a
hitchhiking student walked out. Once, years back, he had
traveled by Greyhound bus. Now he was about to do it
again.
They may look for me at the airport, he thought to
himself, but on a Greyhound bus? No, that wouldn't occur
to them.
Once on the bus, he looked around at the other passengers
with their battered belongings and realized what was wrong.
Everything looked too new. He lay low in his seat and
pretended to be asleep as the bus filled up and took off for
Boston.
Five hours later, as the skyline of Boston was silhouetted
against a scarlet sky, the bus pulled into the station. A cab
took him to Boston's Logan airport.
Fred walked to the ticket counter. He remembered his friend
talking about taking a year off and traveling around the
world. "I've bought a special ticket," he had told him. "It
starts in the States and ends here, but allows for a year of
travel. All that is necessary is to give four countries and
the rest can be filled in as you go."
That sounded a good idea. He could go to Switzerland, draw
the money, and then immediately leave for another country.
The clerk was less than helpful. He was used to selling
tickets at the last moment to one, or maybe two,
destinations. This type of ticket was usually bought well
ahead of time, and at a travel agent. Then, too, he was
surprised as the ticket was paid for from a stack of dollar
notes. However, he worked his way stolidly through all that
was required, as a long, impatient queue built up on his
counter.
Later, sitting squeezed into a tourist class seat, Fred
thought to himself, "Less comfortable than first class, but
also less conspicuous."
When the announcements had been made and the drinks trolley
was rattling down the aisle, he began once again to think of
the day's events. What had been the meaning of the men with
guns? What was happening?
"Meet at the apartment eleven sharp," he had been told. "From
there we'll go to the firm's lawyers to sort things out."
Something had gone wrong, that was for sure and he wasn't
staying around to find out what. Only a week ago, his future
seemed so secure: a top job as well as three million in a
Swiss bank. Instead he was traveling to a strange place, with
a minimum of belongings and cash, and no idea of what lay
ahead.
Fred forced himself to make plans. As soon as he arrived in
Switzerland he would change into his business suit and draw
the money. Then he would change back into the casual camping
gear and leave. He would take the first plane out. Once he
had the money there would be no point in hanging around. He
patted the money belt that he had strapped below his
clothing. Now it had a few hundred dollars. Soon it would
contain three million.
He thought of how this would mean he would never again see
his family in the small town outside Boston. The idea was
oddly pleasant. His old man had beaten him regularly when his
school results had been unsatisfactory.
"They have scholarships at this fancy school I work in. You
have to pass these exams. Once you are there, the sky's the
limit. Look, there are even two Jew boys there. If they can
get into the school, then why shouldn't you? If you want to
be rich one day, then you must pass the exams. See? First get
in there, mix with those rich kids and one day you will be
able to help your old Dad."
Fred didn't know if it was the beatings — or his
determination to get away from them — that had spurred
him on, but he had succeeded. He became a scholarship boy. He
had stayed in the boarding school, in spite of the taunts
about his father being the school gardener. Anything was
better than his father's belt lashing down on him.
Well his father had been correct. The school had led him to
riches, though not quite in the way he had envisaged. One
thing was sure. The money was for him, not for a brutal old
man who loved the bottle.
