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.
Jassim looked at his watch.
The time was twenty minutes past nine.
The intermission had ended five minutes ago.
But he still had ten minutes to get back to his seat, plant the bomb, and get out of the hall before it went off. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and ran across the street to the lobby entrance doors. The lobby was empty. The huge ornate brass clock over the center entrance doors read nine-twenty-one. There was violin music coming from within the hall. The second part of the concert had already begun. On all the television monitors circling the lobby, a miniature Svi Cohen was standing before the orchestra, violin under his chin, head bent as if in prayer, deeply engrossed in his playing. Jassim noticed that the Jew held the fiddle in his unclean hand. He was reaching for the brass handle on the door nearest him when a man wearing a gray uniform said, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Jassim turned to him, puzzled.
“I can’t let you in until the first movement is over.”
Jassim blinked.
“It started three minutes ago, sir. I’m sorry, those are my orders.”
The time was nine-twenty-two.
The Mendelssohn concerto had started at nine-nineteen, and the bomb was set to detonate at nine- thirty.
WILL WAS WONDERING how long he’d have to sit here. He was thinking that maybe him and Antonia could go for a bite to eat after this fiddle player did his thing, there seemed to be a nice Italian restaurant right across the avenue.
He was also wondering if anybody had ever tried to steal instruments from this place. Was there a room where they stored tubas and trombones and such? Or did all those musicians up there have their own instruments? He guessed maybe they did. Besides, he had to stop thinking like a thief. If Antonia went along with his scheme, he would never in his lifetime have to commit another burglary.
But, man, wasthis boring!
JASSIM LOOKED AT his watch again.
It was now nine-twenty-four.
The first movement of Mendelssohn’s accursed violin concerto was about twelve and a half minutes long. The Jew had started playing it at nineteen minutes past nine, which meant he would end the first movement at a bit past nine-thirty-one, perhaps later, nine-thirty-three, even nine-thirty-four, depending on how much artistic
