Stephen Cannell - The Plan

The suburb of Herzelia Pituah was on the coast.It was the Malibu of Tel Aviv. Corporation presidents and high-ranking diplomats owned or rented villas there. Gaviel Bach's house, a sixties A-line, was well situated at the end of a land spit, a quarter of a mile beyond the main cluster of houses, screened off by a row of ficus trees. A pool in the back overlooked the Mediterranean.

The long driveway was shielded by a six-foot-high concrete wall. The ex-TV producer, ex-Mafia sister, ex-IR, and ex-fed parked their stolen cab in front of the two-car garage and got out.

"Rummage around in the glove compartment and pop the trunk," Kaz said to Cole.

"why?"

"Everybody over twelve is strapped down over here. That cabbie had to have some kinda weapon with him. I want the gun. We need all the firepower we can get."

They found a Russian-made Tokarev TT-33 and a box of seven-millimeter cartridges for a German Mauser. Kaz pulled out the nine-shot clip and turned it over in his hand; then he chambered the slide and dry-fired it.

"Piece of Russian junk. Used to be a nine-millimeter, but you can't get Russian cartridges anymore, so somebody rechambered it. Good luck." He handed it to Cole, who held it like a steaming turd between his thumb and index finger.

"I don't want this."

"I'll take it," Lucinda said, taking the gun, slipping it quickly into her purse.

Cole found the garage key under the flowerpot, right where Misha said it would be. He put it in the keyhole, and the electric door hummed, then opened. The room above the empty carport was long and narrow, about ten feet by four. At one end a series of shelves were stuffed with sporting equipment and old luggage.

On the second shelf, wedged in against the wall, was the Haliburton suitcase. Cole grabbed it and pulled it down.

"Feels light," he said as he popped the latches. They all gathered around and looked inside. It was empty.

"Maybe it's not the same case," Lucinda said.

"No, that's it," Cole said. "These things were very big with agency spooks in the Justice Department during the seventies. It's an odd size, bigger than a briefcase, smaller than a suitcase."

They stood in the small room, looking into the empty case as if the answer were somehow still miraculously inside. Finally, Ryan reached down and closed it. They had come so far. It didn't seem possible that this was the end.

"'Whattayou wanna do?" Cole asked.

"Let's take a look around inside," Ryan suggested.

"You think those tapes are lying around in some desk drawer? Come on, this shit is twenty-six years old," Cole said.

"Can't hurt to look," Kaz said.

They walked around the side of the house. Kaz checked the window frames for alarm tape but didn't find any. "Lemme have a credit card," Cole said.

Ryan handed over his MileagePlus card and Cole moved toward a door that appeared to lead to a pantry. Cole slid the card in beside the door handle and finally popped the lock, then handed the card back to Ryan, smiling. "Thanks for the press pass." They opened the door and went into the house. The last to enter was Ryan, carrying the empty Haliburton suitcase.

Silvio Candrate tracked Mickey Alo down at a business meeting in a Trenton hotel. Mickey had been trying to set up distribution and supply mutes for Hawaiian ice, which was a designer drug and the brain wreck of choice with the trendy club crowd in Manhattan. Silvio's call got to him at ten A. M. The sound of a screaming pneumatic wrench and clattering lug bolts provided background for the conversation.

"Mickey," he said "our friend in Israel called me. He thinks you should know that something strange is going on. I got a number you should call if you got a secure line. He's standing by this number for ten minutes."

"Ginune it."

Mickey went to a pay phone in the lobby of the hotel. He jammed in a coin and dialed the number. The operator came on and told him it was eight dollars for three minutes. He always carried ten dollars in quarters in his briefcase. He stuffed the coins into the slot and waited. After the second ring, the Ghost was on the line.

"Hello." His voice seemed surprisingly close.

"Whatta ya got?"

"We secure?"

"More or less; it's a pay phone."

"I found out who everybody is. The two late entries include a guy named Cole Harris, an ex-newsman. ." "Never heard of him."

"The other guy's an ex-fed named Solomon Kazorowski."

"Fuck! When's that labonza gonna leave me alone?" "You know this guy?"

"Yeah, I know him. He's been walking around in my asshole with a government searchlight for twenty years.

He got fired for busting everybody's balls. What's he doing over there?"

"I don't know. That's why I called. They're looking into something to do with a guy named Gavriel Bich. Ever heard of him?"

"No"

They met with an old woman, Bach's widow. I followed 'em to a house in a pricey suburb. They're inside now. I got an Israeli with me says Gavriel Bach was a big shot, ended up as a Supreme Court judge. I just figured before I closed this off, I'd check in with you, see if you got any last-minute instructions. I'm on a package rate. I'll do 'em all. Cost you nothing but the fallout."

"Just a minute, let me think." Mickey held the phone against his chest; something was buzzing around in his head. Bach's name was familiar but he couldn't place it. He put the phone to his ear again. "Tell me more about this judge. ."

"I'm gonna put the Israeli on." The Ghost handed the phone to Yossi Rot. "He wants to know about Bach."

"He was very big here," Yossi said in his soft voice. "He was a Supreme Court justice. Made the news when he died, maybe six years ago."

"Before that …?"

"I don't know. . prosecutor, I think."

Mickey slapped the buzzing thought down. "Put the other guy on." After a second, the Ghost was back on the line.

"If I remember, this Gavriel Bach tried the case against Meyer Lansky back in '71. He kept Meyer out of Israel, but what could that have to do with anything?"

"You want me to ignore it? I can just hit these people and get outta here."

Mickey wondered what they were after, but decided too much time had already passed. The presidential election was just three weeks away. It didn't matter what they were looking for. And if they died halfway around the world, it would remain a mystery.

"End it," he finally said, not giving a second's thought to the fact that he was ordering his sister's death.

The Ghost hung up the cell phone and moved back to the blue Mitsubishi. He looked at Frydek, Yossi, and Akmad Jarrar, who was leaning against the rear bumper. Inside the trunk was enough C-4 to blow the entire dock at Jaffa.

"Okay, Yossi, I want you to get up the driveway and put a physics package under that taxi. . Use a radio detonator in the C-four. When I hit the switch, I wanna shoot that fucking cab into space."

Yossi nodded, opened the trunk, and grabbed a satchel. Then he jumped over the wall at the foot of the property and, after picking a sheltered route, moved toward the house.

The photo albums were on the coffee table in Misha's sitting room and Lucinda flipped through them while Kaz, Cole, and Ryan moved through the house looking for the missing contents of the Haliburton suitcase. There were lots of shots of the grandchildren. Somebody, probably Misha, had written an identifying line under each one and dated it.

The photos were well organized. On a whim, Lucinda started searching for the album that contained pictures taken in 1971. She found it in its logical place, between 1970 and 1972. It started with January but she skipped to March, the month the trial had taken place, where she saw a handwritten caption that said, "Gav builds 'crooked' pillars after Lansky trial." These shots showed Gavriel Bach stripped to the waist and grinning at the camera. In several pictures, he was troweling concrete onto a large pedestal at the head of the drive, next to the house. Lucinda moved with the album out into the living room. She could hear the men somewhere in the house, opening and closing drawers.