City of Secrets by Stewart O’Nan Read Free Book Online Page B

you
were
listening. TNT is more stable, more powerful and works when it’s wet. Which is why it’s always preferable over dynamite, and why it costs more.”
    â€œIs that what we’re using?”
    â€œWe don’t know yet. It would be nice.”
    Asher pulled on his jacket and locked the door behind them. Teacher or doctor, businessman or electrician, he had a heartening confidence. His accent was Slavic, maybe Czech, yet he showed no sign of having been in the camps. Now that Brand had him alone, he wanted to ask him what he’d done during the war. Instead, he thanked him for the lesson.
    â€œIt’s good,” Asher said. “Everyone should know these things.”
    Brand thought Asher was downplaying both his generosity and the singularity of the subject matter until Eva asked if they’d gone to the high school.
    â€œDid he tell you about the miners?” She bit down on an imaginary blasting cap. “He loves to scare people with that old wives’ tale.”
    Before this, Brand had taken his going along as Asher’s backup as confirmation that he was second in command. Now he realized that—as always—it was because he had the car.Eva, Fein and Yellin, possibly even Lipschitz knew how to set off a bomb. Why was he always surprised to discover he was wrong? By now he thought he should be used to it.
    As Eva had forecast, the snow came, falling overnight, softening the graves beneath his window, topping the city walls like frosting. The tourists were thrilled, snapping away at the domes and the olive groves, and all day he was busy. The Peugeot’s wheels spun in the slush. It reminded him of Riga and his grandmother’s warm kitchen, the tiled niche beside her oven where he drank hot cocoa after playing outside, the feeling returning to his cheeks. Back in his flat he kept his sweater on and turned up his Primus stove as high as it would go, nipping at his Johnnie Walker, and still he was freezing. Below, Mrs. Ohanesian picked at the
Moonlight Sonata,
trying the opening bars over and over, her budgerigar chittering like a critic, until, mercifully, she conceded defeat.
    He thought the snow would be gone the next morning, but it lingered, further postponing the operation. The longer they waited, Brand reasoned, the more dangerous it would be, with so many people knowing at least a piece of the plan. He’d begun to hope it would be canceled altogether when, late that night as he was listening to Trieste under the covers, the phone rang downstairs and Mrs. Ohanesian hollered for him.
    â€œThe Edison Cinema,” Asher said. “Eight o’clock tomorrow.”
    â€œThat’s fine, thanks,” Brand said, because behind her door Mrs. Ohanesian would be listening. While he was let down, he wished he could pull on his jacket and go right now, if only so he didn’t have to wait another day.
    Standing there, he weighed calling Eva, though she had to know, and decided not to. If the British were listening, he didn’t want to make it easier for them.
    When he woke, it was snowing, the Dome of the Rock just a shadow behind the swirling curtain. Had no one checked the weather?
    The schools were closed, and the souks, the city wisely staying inside. All day Brand sloshed through the empty streets, feeling eyes on him as he passed the armored cars guarding the central prison. The underground had more fighters than guns. The police training school, the various barracks. Any armory, he supposed. How many weapons would a pillbox have? Even they were fortified. In comparison, the substation was easy pickings.
    As the day faded, the wind shifted. The snow turned to freezing rain, and the fares disappeared, the tourists retreating to their hotels. Greta had nothing for him and he sat in the queue at the Jaffa Gate, reading the
Post
and listening to the Voice of Fighting Zion, waiting for his shift to end. Sleet ticked against the roof, crystals melted on