Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"This is my girlfriend, Lauren."

"Thank you, Mr. Paradise," she said.

"It's okay, y'all take care now and don't wear that hunk a' gold on yer wrist, son."

'Thank you."

Jerry looked at his own watch, then out to the empty water. He sighed, shook his head in disgust, then started back up the gangplank.

"Can we give you a lift someplace?" Ryan said.

Jerry turned and smiled at them. "I was expecting a buddy to pick me up. I'm camping on the beach down at White's Cove, but he's not here."

"We can take you," Ryan said.

"I don't wanna put y'all out."

"Hey, you kidding? Jump in."

Lucinda and Jerry helped Ryan into the boat, then Lucinda followed.

The Ghost was the last to board. He pushed his hat back on his head. He knew it made him look goofy, just another fat fisherman.

Lucinda started the small outboard, and they headed out of the harbor with their deadly passenger.

The Ghost had found Armando in the Island Bar. He'd shown him the picture of Ryan that Mickey had sent him. "He's screwin' my girlfriend," he'd explained to the puzzled Mexican. "Chingada-mi novia," he said as Armando nodded gravely. The Ghost gave his new friend a hundred dollars and told him he'd pay a hundred more after he'd frightened Ryan away. The Ghost told Armando not to kill him, just scare him. It had worked out exactly the way he'd planned. He was alone with the target, heading out to the boat where the Ghost would close his contract. If everything went the way he wanted, he'd be back on the plane to Atlantic City by morning.

At nine A. M. that same day, Cole and Kaz met at Rubio's for breakfast. The specialty at the Washington restaurant was eggs Florentine, so both of them ordered th e d ish and told the waitress to keep the hot coffee coming.

Neither Cole nor Kaz had been to bed. Kaz had spent the entire night abusing old friendships, making calls to buddies in government. At midnight, he'd awakened Kirk Allen, a friend of many years who was waiting out his federa l r etirement in the FAA. Kaz told him that maybe there wa s m ore to the Anita Richards plane crash than a short landin g c urse at Cleveland International Airport.

"If you got something, Kaz, you better spit it out. This is the Democratic candidate's wife. Dicks are on the chopping block. You gotta squat to piss around here this morning."

"Just tell the forensics team to look for anything unusual. Explosives, a pneumatic control problem, tampered instruments. . anything. That plane didn't go down 'cause it was voodooed. The only curse in Cleveland is on the Indians."

"If you got something, Kaz, and you're holding out on me, I'm gonna come after you with a seminary knife."

"If I get anything useable, I'll get back to you."

While Kaz had been sniffing that trail, Cole Harris had driven all the way back to his brother's house in Rye, New York, arriving at midnight. The reason for the trip back to Hamilton Boulevard was in an old black leather suitcase buried underneath his brother's ski equipment in the basement. Cole pulled the suitcase out while Carson and his wife Bea nervously looked over his shoulder. The experience in the kitchen a week earlier had shaken them. They had told the police nothing in an attempt to protect Cole, and, although they didn't want to say it, both of them were hoping he would get his things and leave.

Cole put the suitcase on the tool bench and popped it open. Inside were hundreds of reporter's spiral notebooks. They contained his notes from twenty years of on-site reporting from all over the world. He started looking for the two or three that he had filled out back in March of 1971. He finally found two notebooks that were held together by a large, red rubber band.

On the cardboard cover, he had written:

Israel, 1971

Meyer Lansky

With the notebooks under his arm, Cole climbed the stairs into the living room where he sat in good light and flipped one open.

"You gonna go through that here?" his sister-in-law asked, nervously.

"Yeah, if that's okay."

"Uh, well, I guess," Carson said, glaring at Cole. "It is kinds late, y'know. "

"You probably don't want another news-gathering experience. Why don't I get outta here."

Cole bummed five hundred dollars from Carson; then he stood and kissed his relieved sister-in-law, hugged his brother, and went to the nearest all-night coffee shop.

He sat in the rear with his back to the wall, away from the window, a survival technique he had learned in Lebanon, then started on the first book, marked 'Tuesday, March 10th. " His mind went whirling back to that day in 1971. He'd been attached to the UBC European bureau and had been sent to Jerusalem to cover Meyer Lansky's lawsuit against the State of Israel. The world press, about a hundred newsmen, were wedged into the courtyard of the Ottoman Palace of Justice in the Russian section of the walled Old City.

It was stiflingly hot with no breeze and the mood was ugly. They were all there to witness the outcome of one of Israel's strangest legal battles.

The Jewish State of Israel was made up almost entirely of immigrants. Section 2(b)3 of the Israeli constitution said that any man born of a Jewish mother should be granted the "right of return" to Israel. Every Jew deserved a place in the new Jewish State.

Meyer Lansky, after a career of questionable activities in Miami, New York, Las Vegas, and other hard-core mob enclaves, had petitioned the State of Israel for the right to return. Confident that he would spend his final days in the Promised Land eating kippered herring and wearing a beanie, he'd nailed a mezuzah to his door in a Miami suburb and waited for the news of his citizenship. But there was an asterisk on the Law of Return that said if you had a bad reputation or were suspected of criminal activities, the minister of the interior could block your repatriation. This is what happened to Lansky.

But he had one course left open to him. He could sue the Israeli government and attempt to overturn the ruling.

Lansky had hired a lawyer named Yoram Ahoy, who had served with honor during the Six Day War. Yoram was joined at the counsel table by a Miami lawyer named David Rosen. They had tried to make the case that Meyer had never been convicted of a crime and had been tried unfairly, without evidence, in the world press.

On the other side of the aisle was the Israeli prosecutor, Gavriel Bach. He was tall and slender with patrician good looks. Gavriel Bach had resolved to keep underworld elements out of Israel, no matter what the cost. In the middle of the trial, the press heard that three months earlier the Justice Department had invited Gavriel to Washington and the rumor in the press corps was that some sort of unusual deal had been struck.

The United States government was setting up a case against Lansky and feared that, if he settled in Israel, they would not be able to extradite him. The feds hoped that once indicted, Lansky would turn state's evidence on mobsters in the United States.

Another rumor said that an undisclosed number of Phantom F-4 jets had been offered for sale to the Israeli Air Force if they would refuse Lansky citizenship. These leaks had been heavily reported but denied by "official sources." There was no proof any of it was true.

Lansky's case had been argued before the Israeli Supreme Court for almost a week, and on that stifling day they were gathered to hear the outcome.

As Cole reread his twenty-five-year-old journal, memories flooded back of the skinny, foul-mouthed, sixtyeight-year-old mobster who had come to hear the judgment. Lansky was dressed in a threadbare department store suit; his tie was crooked and twisted under his collar. As he came through the side door of the courtyard, the world press surged, shouting questions.