THE SHORT , slight man who stepped out of the black Cadillac DeVille was wearing a black overcoat with a mink collar. The trousers of a black suit showed below the bottom edge of the coat. He was wearing a black homburg and highly polished black shoes. Hanging from a strap over his left shoulder was a man’s black leather handbag. The hat, the coat’s collar, the coat’s shoulders became immediately dusted with falling snow. The tinted glass window of the limo slid down silently. The man leaned into it and gave the driver some instructions in English. The driver answered in English and then the window slid up again, and the limo pulled away from the curb.
Standing in the falling snow on the sidewalk outside Clarendon Hall, Jassim Saiyed reached into the handbag, removed from it a package of Marlboro cigarettes, shook one free, and lighted it. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was fifteen minutes to eight. Puffing calmly on his cigarette, Jassim watched the crowd of smiling Americans entering the building.
THEY TOOK THEIR SEATS in row G, seven rows back from the stage, numbers 2 and 4 on the aisle.
“Good, huh?” Antonia said, grinning. “One of my best customers plays oboe with the orchestra. This was his Christmas present to me.”
Will was thinking that when he and Antonia became millionaires, they would come to places like this all the time, never mind free handouts from anybody. There was a sense of excitement and anticipation in this opulent place, resounding now with the repeated sounds of strings and horns tuning up. Leafing through the program, he noticed that one of the pieces they’d be playing tonight was something called “La Gazza Ladra,” which he saw was translated as “The Thieving Magpie.”
He showed this to Antonia, and then whispered, “I hope this isn’t anything personal.”
Antonia laughed.
A hush fell over the audience.
The concert was about to begin.
JASSIM LOOKED AT his wristwatch.
If Akbar’s calculations were correct, the intermission would begin at approximately nine o’clock. Jassim would go up the aisle, and out into the lobby, and hence into the street, where Akbar would be waiting in the Cadillac. He would arm the bomb’s timing device, and Jassim would come back into the hall, and take his seat again. Several moments later, after the Jew had started playing, Jassim would rise again from his seat, apparently on his way to the men’s room, leaving behind him his hat, his coat, and the bag containing the bomb. At precisely nine-thirty, the bomb would explode.
Jassim wondered why he felt so calm.
WILL WAS BORED to death.
The kind of music he liked best was what he heard back home in Texas. Songs about cowboys. Songs about women with broken hearts. Songs about true-blue hound dogs. The orchestra up on the stage there sounded like it was practicing.
He could hardly wait for the intermission.
TERROR WAS THE only thought on Jassim’s mind.
Strike terror into their hearts.
Deliver fatal blows all over the world.
He rose the moment the lights came up, placed his coat and his hat on the seat, and began walking swiftly toward the back of the hall. His watch read exactly three minutes past nine. He wanted to be back in his seat again by nine-fifteen, when the intermission would end. The aisle was thronged with concert-goers making their way to the rest rooms or the street outside. Patiently, Jassim milled along with them, but his heart was pounding inside his chest. He tried not to look at his watch again until he reached the lobby outside.
Nine-oh-six.
He raced through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk.
He looked across the street.
The Cadillac was parked exactly where Akbar said it would be.
But a policeman in a black rain slicker was standing outside the door on the driver’s side.
THERE WAS IN THE LOBBY a palpable air of anticipation. The first part of the concert had been agreeable enough, but this glittery crowd was not here for the Rossini or the Mozart. In fact, they were not even here for the Mendelssohn. They were here for the man who would beplaying the Mendelssohn. The chatter was about Christmas gifts received and exchanged, and plans for tomorrow night’s celebration, and the weather and the market and the latest war abroad, but the people here in the lobby or smoking in the falling snow on the sidewalk outside were merely trying to conceal their excitement over the imminent appearance of the Israeli violinist. Like children careful not to wish for sunshine for fear it might rain upon their circus, they dared not even breathe his name lest he vanish somehow in a puff of smoke, disappointing their expectations.
THE POLICEMAN STOOD leaning into the open window on the driver’s side of the Cadillac, a massive man in a slippery black coat, the snow falling everywhere around him. Akbar was handing documents to him. The policeman was examining the documents. Akbar was smiling at him politely. The snow kept falling.
Jassim looked at his watch.
THE TELEVISION MONITORS spaced around the lobby showed only an empty stage now, its lights dimmed. Will kept hoping they’d show a football game or something.
“Are you enjoying it so far?” Antonia asked.
“Oh yes indeed,” he said.
So far, it was putting him to sleep.
“So far, I love it,” he said.
“Just wait,” she said. “The real fireworks won’t begin till the Israeli starts playing.”
THE POLICEMAN did not walk away from the Cadillac until fourteen minutes past nine. Dodging heavy traffic on the street, Jassim ran across to it, and yanked open the rear door on the curb side. Slamming into the car, he whispered, “What happened? What did he want?”
“Profiling!” Akbar shouted.
“What?”
“Profiling,profiling,never mind, give me the fuckingbag!”
Jassim handed him the bag. He looked at his watch and then glanced immediately over his shoulder through the rear window. The intermission would end in less than a minute; the sidewalk outside Clarendon Hall was rapidly clearing. In the front seat, Akbar was working on the timing device. Jassim could hear his heavy breathing, could see perspiration beading on his forehead, could hear as well the ticking of the clock to which Akbar was wiring the detonator. He waited. His palms were sweating. He looked back over his shoulder again. The sidewalk was clear now. He caught his breath. Waited. Kept waiting. The windows of the car were beginning to fog with their exhaled breaths. It seemed to Jassim that he could hear the beating of his own heart in the steamy darkness of the vehicle. At last, he heard a faint click. The bomb was armed, the timer and detonator wires securely fastened to the two taped pipes. Akbar eased the device into the bag. He closed the flap, snapped the bag shut.