“You don’t sound too worried about it.”
“Let’s see if I’m right first.”
Chapter 36
The figure that descended under cover of darkness through the hatchway into Nineteen’s new irrigation works did so using his flashlight only sporadically; he knew this land well enough not to require its use any more than that. The hose he needed to perform his task was stored in a cabinet within. When all was ready, he would call for his trucks to make their way onto the property in the guise of the propane vehicles that provided the residents with most of their energy needs.
He slid by the massive tanks and was almost to the cabinet holding the hose when the thick fluorescent lighting snapped on. Arnold Rothstein stiffened and turned slowly.
“They’re empty,” Blaine McCracken said as he stepped out of the shadows.
“You were expecting me,” was all Rothstein could think to say.
“I also found your boxes containing the White Death already loaded into those explosive activators you’ve been using around the world. Excellent design. My compliments.”
“How could you have known to come here?” he asked McCracken, exasperated. “How?”
Just to McCracken’s rear stood Johnny Wareagle, Melissa Hazelhurst, and Sal Belamo with his arm held firmly in a sling. His free hand held a gun low by his hip. Blaine’s injured hand was bandaged as well, and his chin showed a gauze strip taped across it.
“I remembered Tovah saying that you had recently arranged for a system upgrade,” he said. “I figured you had your own plans for it.”
Their eyes wandered to the tanks simultaneously.
“How long since they’ve held water?” Blaine asked the old man.
“Since they were installed six months ago.”
“Backup system?”
Rothstein nodded. “Built at the same time.”
“With the groundwork laid well before that. I’d say dating back to the original construction of this kibbutz, because you planned to someday make use of it even then.”
“Apparently, Mr. McCracken, I underestimated you.”
“No, you just made it easy for me. The White Death we found at Livermore came exclusively from the empty crates you returned to Ephesus for. That meant the stockpile you were able to manufacture after you finally re-created the original formula was somewhere else. Here.” Blaine hesitated and took a single step forward. “At least was.”
Rothstein regarded him quizzically. “What do you mean ‘was’? What have you done with the White Death, McCracken?”
“Nothing.”
“But you said it was gone.”
“It is, Rothstein, but not thanks to me. You were too late. And so were we.”
McCracken had returned to Israel in the same jet that had brought him and the commandos of Nineteen to America, arriving a few hours before dawn on Monday. Accompanying him along with the survivors who were well enough to travel had been Johnny, Sal Belamo, and Melissa. Blaine’s numerous wounds had made for a very uncomfortable journey. Though none was serious, they all ached nonetheless, and the bandages and dressings had him feeling confined and restricted.
“Something’s wrong,” one of the commandos had said as they came within range of the front gate. “I don’t see the—”
She had stopped because suddenly she had seen, seen the security gate flapping slightly in the wind. Blaine had emerged from the lead car ahead of her. They had noticed the first of the bodies at the same moment. One of the guards had been dragged into the low underbrush rimming the entrance. Only her boots protruded. McCracken had swung round to find Johnny Wareagle inspecting the ground between their lead car and the gate.
“The killers are gone, Blainey.”
“How long, Indian?”
“Less than an hour. Three trucks, two of them heavy.”
“Tankers?”
“Possibly.”
Beyond the gate Nineteen had become a killing ground. McCracken had walked slowly with Johnny by his side, seeing things as they had unfolded. Women would have emerged from their houses at the first sign of trouble. But whoever had come in the trucks were well prepared. Bodies lay on porches or near them. Some of the rifles had been fired. Some hadn’t.
“You expected this,” Rothstein said before Blaine had finished his story. They were still standing in the cellar that held the works for Nineteen’s irrigation system.
“I feared it, thanks to you.”
“Me?”
“You tipped me off without even realizing it yourself. You said you lost me after the shootout with the Twins at the hotel in Izmir. That meant somebody else had to be behind the attack in Germany.”
“What attack? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“That’s the problem, Rothstein. Someone else was shadowing you all along, mirroring your moves. Waiting. And you played right into their hands.”
“And you’re saying they have the White Death? Impossible! A lie!”
McCracken slid forward and froze Rothstein with his stare. “The killings were no lie. Would you like to take a stroll with me and count the bodies? Eleven women were killed here tonight. It’s your fault, Mr. Rothstein. You used these women, and it cost those eleven of them their lives.”
“I didn’t know. How could I?”
“You didn’t bother to. Fanatics like you are convinced your vision is so pure that nothing can stop it from being attained. But it never happens. Sometimes you stop yourselves. Sometimes you get stopped.”
Rothstein tried to look strong. “And you are going to stop me, of course.”
“No, I think I’ll leave the rest of that task to someone else….”
Blaine and Johnny moved to the side to allow Tovah to wheel her chair forward. It was all her bony hands could do to manage the effort. A shawl covered her legs. A 9mm pistol rested atop it.
“Tovah!” Arnold Rothstein gasped.
“You lied to me, Ari,” the old woman accused.
“Only to spare you.”
She shook her head. “No. Again, to spare yourself. You began planning this forty-five years ago. Everything else was just a stepping-stone. And what you have sown the seeds for, what you have done to us — to our people — without realizing….”
“What?” Rothstein raised, dumbfounded.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Blaine asked him. “It’s right here before your eyes and you can’t see it.”
“Help me. Let me make amends. Tell me!”
As Blaine told his story, Arnold Rothstein sank to his knees and began to sob.
“Leave us,” the old woman told those around her sternly ten minutes later.
Blaine led the way toward the stairs.
“Tovah,” her brother pleaded, “part of what I did was for our own good, the good of Israel. I know you cannot see that now, but you will. I could have fashioned a world without fear for us. I could have ensured the safety and sanctity of our borders until the end of time.”
“And which end is that now, Ari? We have shared many, seen many. Tonight must come another,” the old woman said, and raised the pistol.
Blaine and the others were halfway up the steps by then and none of them looked back.
“Tovah, you must listen to me!”
“Ari,” Tovah muttered. “My poor Ari …”
Sal Belamo was the last one out of the underground structure, and Blaine lowered the doors after him.
“Listen to me, Tovah. Please lis—”
Rothstein’s words vanished behind the sealed door. The next sounds reached their ears as dull thuds.
A gunshot, followed by one more, and then another.
“Let’s go, Johnny,” Blaine said. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”