Lieberman's Law by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B

but it was Abe Lieberman’s congregation. He followed his partner out the door as the FBI men moved briskly past them as if they knew just where they were going.
    It had been a busy night and there had been too few of them. Most of the Arab students at the universities—Chicago, Northwestern, DePaul, Loyola—had simply refused to join in the desecration and the older Muslims in the city had categorically said that they were Americans and had no intention of breaking the law.
    â€œIf you do this, they will blame us, punish us,” Mohammed Ach Bena, a highly successful rug dealer in the Loop, had told the young man who had tried to enlist him or at least make a donation. “I am not a terrorist.”
    The group, which called itself the Arab Student Response Committee, had wound up recruiting a total of fifteen to join them in their night of desecration, the anniversary of the date the madman had murdered innocent Arabs at prayer. Even so, when the moment came to attack the Jewish temples, some of the active members of the committee chose not to show up.
    Those who took part were mostly young men and a few young women. After the coordinated attack at the Jewish houses of worship, they sat in the meeting room the University of Chicago provided for campus groups. About half of them were, students. They were tired. A few were unsure. A few closed their eyes. A few smiled at their success.
    â€œAnd no one was seen?” asked the young woman, a graduate student, who stood before them. “Except those we wanted seen.”
    Heads nodded. A few voices said, “Only the ones you wanted seen.”
    At her side stood a tall Arab in a gray suit and tie. He was well groomed, clean shaven, and very big. His face showed nothing but a broken nose and scar tissue that bolted over both eyes. He was clearly a man who had seen and suffered violence.
    â€œThe scrolls?” she asked the man. “The Torah? Where is Howard?”
    â€œSafe,” Massad said. “The Torah is safe.”
    â€œThe call?” she asked.
    â€œMade,” he answered.
    She nodded and told the group that they should leave, a few at a time, quietly carrying the books that were provided at the door if they did not have books of their own.
    One hour earlier, the big man with the broken nose had made two phone calls, one to the FBI and one to the Chicago police in South Rogers Park were they had struck two of their five targets. He had called from different phone booths, speaking quickly, calmly, and precisely to the person who answered the phone and saying the same thing: “We have struck our next blow to free the so-called United States and bring down the corrupt government run by Jews and their money. In the name of the memory of our too-long-dead Führer, we will bring the Jews and those who support them to their knees and shoot each one of them in the back of the head as they shot Adolf Hitler. We are his ghosts, his new army. Heil Hitler.” And with that he had hung up, wiped the telephone clean with a handkerchief and gone to his nearby car.
    They would wait a week, maybe more to be sure they hadn’t been seen and then take the next step. She had already planned it, had already imagined the frightened faces of the Jews. She was concerned that Howard had not come to the meeting as he was supposed to have done, but she would deal with him later. The attack appeared to have been a complete success. If so, this was but the start.
    It would be almost twenty-four hours before she realized what Massad had done, what he had not told her or the committee, and why Howard Ramu had not been there.

THREE
    â€œI DRINK TEA BUT I don’t like it,” the old woman said, pouring a cup for each of the policemen who sat in her small studio apartment on small unmatching furniture. The furniture was of acceptable size but not texture for Lieberman. Hanrahan chose to squeeze himself into one of the chairs near the window