Serializing a new novel.
Chapter 23: The Search for Fred Smith (May 2002)
As Eli and Fay are on their way to Israel, the search
continues by the mobsters for Fred Smith, who betrayed the
Bartons.
*
New York . . . a meeting in a carpark.
"You found something, you say?"
"Don't know, could be.
"Fred Smith. We followed his trail from Switzerland to
Israel"
"To Israel? No! He hates Jews."
"Yes, that's correct. We can't understand it. We know that he
arrived there some weeks after leaving New York. We managed
to find someone in the Swiss Airport to go through all the
departures. It cost us but it was worth it. Then the trail
goes cold. We don't know where he went. There is no sign of
him, but there is also nothing to show that he left the
country."
"Find him. What became of the other one, Dean Barton?"
"Nothing. Not one lead."
"You think maybe that Fred Smith is in Israel because he
thinks Dean Barton is there?"
"Unlikely. They were never friends at school. We could look
around to see if Dean Barton is there while we are setting it
up for Fred to disappear."
Fred Smith sat on a bus driving through the hills to
Jerusalem. His backpack was in the luggage compartment of the
bus below. He was uncomfortably squashed next to a very obese
lady who sat beside him, a squirming child on her lap. He
felt that his luck couldn't get any worse. It must start
improving.
He thought back to the many months that had passed since he
had left New York, jubilant at the thought that he would soon
be three million dollars richer.
He had arrived at Zurich airport and booked into the youth
hostel. With his casual clothes and backpack, he felt he
would fit in best in such a place. Besides, if they had
managed to track that he had gone from Boston to Switzerland,
no one would think of looking for him anywhere but in the
smartest of hotels.
As soon as he had deposited his belongings, he had showered
and changed into his business suit and made his way to the
bank where he had deposited the three million dollars. He
would take out the money and place it in another, quite
different bank, and another, quite different account, before
making further plans.
He had walked into the bank building with a jaunty step.
Everything seemed to be going well, as he had handed in the
withdrawal slip. Then he had noticed a look of surprise as
she looked at the computer screen. He noticed her hand go
under the counter and then, glancing back, saw two guards
speak into receivers and slowly begin walking up the long
ornate hall towards him.
Later he was to thank his years of playing American football
for saving him from this particular jam, as he had walked
quickly towards the exit door and narrowly dodged the guards
before running around the corner and into a large department
store.
Somehow he had made it back to the youth hostel. Once there
he realized that he was now in a foreign country with little
money and a bleak future.
"Hey man, why do you look so gloomy?" he had heard as he sat
despondently on his bunk bed.
"Yeah. Things can't be as bad as all that," said another.
The sounds had passed around him without response, until one
sentence caught his attention.
"Let's go to a kibbutz in Israel since we're short of money.
We still have another three months before we have to go back
to college. Let's go to a kibbutz. George went there last
year. He says it's great. It doesn't cost a penny. You do a
bit of work each day. The food is OK and they even give you a
bit of pocket money."
The fog of despair began to lift. Fred decided he would get
friendly with these people and go with them. Who would think
of looking for him in Israel? His round-the-world ticket
would allow for a change of schedule, so he wouldn't have to
spend any money to get there. He would have no living
expenses once he was there. It would give him time to think
out a strategy.
Now, sitting on the crowded bus Fred realized that it had
been a stupid idea. Who could have known that the work in the
fields would have been so arduous? How could he have known
how difficult it would be to find a job that would earn well
and take him away from his small uncomfortable bed in an old
wooden hut?
He had looked down on his father, working in the gardens of
the school for such a low salary. He had looked down on his
father for his lack of education. Yet here he was, a graduate
of one of the top American private schools, yet working
harder than his father ever had and receiving a pittance in
return.
However, at last he had found a way to leave. He patted his
pocket to make sure that his merchandise was snug and safe in
his pocket. He was heading for Jerusalem where, he was told,
good profits good be made by selling illegal drugs to
disaffected teenagers and backpackers on world tours.
Little did he know he had left the kibbutz just in time. At
that very moment two men with New York accents were asking
about him and were less than pleased to hear that they had
only just missed him.
