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After returning to Mossad headquarters, Tyreen Mackenzie and Jacob Chernow had listened several times to the intercept. Danny Nagier's parabolic dish was positioned near Raza's Beirut office, which issued proclamations in his name after a successful act of terrorism.
Voice Analysis had quickly confirmed it was Raza's voice. But there was no way to establish from where the call had been made, or if it was a recording. It could have been made any time from any place. It had taken Raza eleven seconds to deliver the quotation: Have you seen how your Lord dealt with Ad, at Iram of the Pillars, the like of which had not been created in any land?
They had quickly identified the words as being from the Koran, book 87, verse 7. Nagier's cryptologists said it could take days to crack anything hidden in the tract --- if anything was. Even Tyreen could sense their skepticism.
Tyreen and Chernow had focused on the book and verse numbers. The seven: was that the seventh month? But July had passed. The seventh day? Was Raza planning an attack for a Sunday? That assumed Raza was calculating by a Christian calendar. He could just as well be using an Islamic or even a Judaic one. That would mean a Friday or Saturday.
Perhaps the eight and seven were meant to be added together? The fifteenth day? The fifteenth of this month had gone. The next was a full three weeks away. Raza wouldn't tip his hand that far ahead. Were all the figures supposed to be put together? That came to twenty-two. Was something going to happen on the twenty-second of this month?
Tomorrow was the twenty-second. But he couldn't go to Bitburg or the Prime Minister and say how he'd come up with the date. Bitburg would say he'd finally let his intuition overwhelm him. Being able to say that would make Bitburg's day. Doing it in front of the Prime Minister would be twice as satisfying.
Before coming here, Chernow had phoned every scholar in comparative religions in Israel and asked for a commentary on the Koran verse. They'd all said it would take days. He should have remembered Steve often spent a month poring over a sentence.
He'd called the Connaught. The hotel operator said Professor and Mrs. Vaughan were out. He'd asked when they'd be back and was told it was policy not to reveal such information. He'd left his name and said he'd phone later.
He'd just put the phone down when it rang. It was the Prime Minister's secretary.
The sun was almost gone when Chernow and Tyreen were shown in to Prime Minister Isaac Karshov's office. A police motorcycle escort had cleared the road and taken them through all the traffic lights.
Bitburg was already there, standing at the large picture window. The room's only wall decoration was a map showing Israel and its Arab neighbors.
Karshov was a smallish giant of six-five, with the confident air of a boxer who still kept his hands active. He wore scar tissue over both eyes like badges of office He stood behind a chrome and glass desk, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck to reveal an old-fashioned string undershirt. Black chest hair, turning gray, curled over the undershirt. He came forward quickly to shake Chernow's hand. It was like being gripped by steel. "Shalom, Jacob." He had a voice which sounded like a rasp being worked on steel.
"Shalom, Prime Minister."
Karshov then took Tyreen's hand, welcoming her and thanking her for her help.
"I haven't done anything, sir," she protested.
He waved away her protest, gesturing toward the large conference table that ran down the center of the room. Dotted over its protective green felt were several ashtrays. In the center was a basket of fruit. Chernow had never seen anyone touch it.
Bitburg left the window. "Nagier's people picked up this an hour ago." He handed Chernow a sheet of paper and walked to the map.
Chernow read aloud the single sentence. "The seed will bear good fruit." Handing the sheet to Tyreen, he glanced at Bitburg. "Danny's people get a fix on it, Walter?"
Bitburg stabbed a finger into Beirut. "Nagier reckons it's the Bir Abed district."
Chernow grunted. The Teheran cabal had recently opened a bureau in the Beirut suburb. One more office for Danny's microphones to eavesdrop on.
He glanced at the paper as Tyreen handed it back and read the sentence again. In Beirut, the bombers sometimes spoke of sowing seeds.
"What do you think, Jacob?"
"It's Raza. And it's almost certainly a signal to launch a new bombing campaign."
"Why do you say that?"
Chernow told them about the trip to see The Syrian, leaving very little out.
When Chernow had finished, Bitburg's eyes began to carom. "This mysterious Syrian of yours could have been wrong."
"He's not, Walter. He was right over Kuwait. Right over the attempt to kill Egypt's President --- over a dozen terrorist operations. And he's right now. I can feel it in my gut."
Bitburg smiled thinly. "Ah, yes... your gut. The pity is that this Syrian is now dead, so there's no way for us to question him a little further."
Chernow looked steadily at Bitburg. "What exactly do you want to know?"
Bitburg coughed and looked away. "Well, for a start, where is Raza?"
"I've told you. Only Ayatollah Muzwaz knows."
"Can't Nagier's people get their listening devices close to him so that we can actually have something to listen to --- not just all this second-hand stuff?" asked Bitburg.
"Danny's still trying. He's lost two good men already in the process," Chernow replied.
Bitburg cleared his throat. "I still say that whatever your Syrian claimed, there's nothing to suggest the idea that Raza is about to do anything. Except maybe escort another shipment of drugs."
Karshov's eyes seemed to recede further as his eyebrows knitted.
Bitburg gestured toward the paper in Chernow's hand. "My judgement is that this intercept really proves nothing. I grant you, the reference to seed could refer to bombs, but it could just as well not." His eyes were settling. "There's always a danger, in my view, of overlooking the obvious." He paused and looked at Karshov. "I would suggest that until we have more proof, we be extremely circumspect. A wrong move could be fatal for us. We know how close we came to annihilation over the Gulf."
Chernow nodded. "What happened there changed a lot of things, Walter, for sure. All of them not only bad for us, but for the world. It gave terrorism a new license to terrorize."
Karshov sighed. "I read your joint report. It's the most scary thing I've read since sitting in this office."
Chernow met the Prime Minister's gaze. "The situation is frightening, Prime Minister. That's why I recommended you get our labs cracking to stockpile the PEG-enzyme and warn our allies."
Bitburg's eyes had started a new dance. "Start a crash program and we'll have more rumors than we could cope with. Remember what happened when we issued gas masks before Saddam launched his Scuds? There weren't enough masks to begin with, and we had near mayhem in the streets. It'll be the same once the word's out that we're mass-producing this stuff."
Karshov gave another sigh. "Sit down, sit down. Anywhere."
Bitburg flopped into one of the chairs around the conference table, folding his arms across his chest. Chernow turned his chair around, so that he could lean his chin on its back.
"Let me come to the point," began Karshov. "If we press the alarm button and nothing happens, we could be in a very difficult situation. London and Washington are already convinced we'll do anything to wreck their plans for the Middle East. Their plans, which we are supposed to go along with. Meet with a bunch of terrorists. Let them have what they want. The West Bank, our settlements, Jerusalem itself. Never mind we built all this from nothing, or that we were legally given this land. That's yesterday. Today, London, Paris, and Washington say it's time to give it back. So they can have peace. No more Arabs threatening to cut off their oil. No more problems. For them. But for us? That's our problem."
He took a deep breath before continuing. "So now, we call them up and say, 'Look, we think there's trouble on the way.' You know what they'll say? 'It's those bloody Jews in Tel Aviv playing games.' So we don't call, but trouble comes, then they'll say, 'It's those bloody Jews playing more games.' Either way, we're damned if we do, and damned it we don't. So, what do we do?" He looked into their faces, not bothering to hide his raw uncertainty.
Bitburg cleared his throat again. "If there is a threat, then it is directed against us."
Chernow looked at Bitburg. "The next time, they'll try to terrify our allies into making us do what they want."
Bitburg slowly shook his head, his eyes beginning to carom.
Karshov ran a hand over his face. "Let's all have a drink." He rose to his feet and lumbered to the cabinet, which looked like a safe. "I'm afraid I forgot to order the ice."
Tyreen looked at Chernow. She could use a good stiff vodka, but wasn't quite sure about the propriety of requesting alcohol in such august company. She went to the other extreme. "Mineral water if you have it, please, sir."
"The same for me, Prime Minister," said Chernow.
"Walter?"
"Scotch, neat, please." Bitburg placed his hands on his knees. "Prime Minister, our army patrols are picking up activity on all the borders. Shin Bet says there's renewed unrest in the Strip. Nagier's people say more terrorists have come down from Damascus to Beirut in the past month than in the last year. Amman could be about to play fast and loose with its promise not to support them."
"It could all be a diversion," said Chernow.
Bitburg spoke quickly. "If it's a diversion, it means the main target is somewhere else. Then it's someone else's problem."
"How well you delineate things, Walter," said Chernow.
Karshov carried over the glasses in both hands, his eyes on Chernow. "Convince me, Jacob. In the name of God, convince me that, terrible it should happen anywhere, to anyone, it is not going to happen to us."
Chernow sipped his mineral water. Karshov could sound like an Old Testament prophet. But he had a politician's need to have answers kept short. "The Arab nations are still not ready to make a serious direct attack against us, Prime Minister; there would have to be consensus between Cairo and Damascus, and the United Stares will see that that never happens. That way, it helps Washington keep a toehold in the region."
Tyreen sipped her own mineral water, wishing that she had asked for a vodka instead.
Karshov nodded. "That still leaves Raza, Jacob."
"When he's proven himself to the cabal, he'll use his anthrax --- against our allies."
Bitburg's eyes continued to carom. "Another big if, Jacob. If he has it. If he even knows how to use it. If he can do so before he's detected. Too many ifs for me, I fear."
The Prime Minister drained his glass. "Out of ten, where'd you rate this one, Jacob?"
Chernow smiled quickly. Karshov's scale for assessing a problem was legendary. "All that will delay him will be the logistics of getting his anthrax in place. Where will he use it? I'd give Europe nine to ten. Anywhere else, a point or two lower, with us at the bottom."
Karshov looked at both men. "So, do we alert only our own people, or everyone?"
Btburg pursed his lips. "If there has to be an alert, then I say we keep it to the absolute minimum. That way, we retain our credibility."
Karshov stared hard at Bitburg. "I've long given up trying to convince the world that what we say is true," he said. "Jacob?"
"We tell our people, for sure."
"And our allies?"
Bitburg was beginning to lose control over his eyes. "We must have proof, Prime Minister," he said, before Tyreen could say anything. "As Director, I must insist that..."
"Walter, stop behaving as if this is a board meeting at the bank," growled Karshov. "But you're probably right. We do need more than Jacob's instinct, much as I trust it." He turned to Chernow. "Any suggestions?"
"Let me put together a team."
Karshov stood up. "Anyone you like. What you like. Just tell me what is going to happen. And when."
As the others also stood, the Prime Minister grasped Chernow's hand firmly, staring into his eyes. For a moment, Chernow was tempted to tell Karshov about their fear for tomorrow. But a look at Bitburg's face with its caroming eyes stopped him.
The few friends he allowed into his flat teased Chernow that he actually enjoyed living alone in spartan conditions. It wasn't that he enjoyed living alone; there simply had been no one since Ruth. Shortly after her death, he'd sold their Jerusalem home and moved here to Tel Aviv. Besides, the living room had a wonderful view of the Samarian hills through one window and an uninterrupted view down to the shore through the other.
He and Tyreen had come directly here from Karshov's office. Now, while Tyreen took the opportunity to catch a few winks, he took the opportunity to be alone, to think. For an hour, he'd run through his mind everything that had happened. The proof Bitburg kept asking for was not there, and not likely to come. That kind of proof only surfaced afterward.
Finally, he'd begun to make his calls. The first had been to Danny Nagier. He was with the cryptologists, still trying to tease a hidden meaning out of the Koran verse. Nagier would be the team's electronic ear.
In New York, Matti Talim's answering machine was on. Chernow left a call-back message. Matti was soon going to have little time for the new romance in his life. Pretty, too, from the photo he'd seen: thickish brown hair framing an oval face and a nice smile. Not Matti's usual type. Dr. Miriam Cantwell was Deputy Director of the Emergency Room in New York's City Center Hospital.
Chernow called Washington. Bill Gates, the CIA's Director of Operations, said Lou Panchez was out of Columbia. Chernow explained the situation and asked for Lou to be seconded. No problem, Gates said. At this level, interagency cooperation was still good. It was only the politicians who soured things. Gates added that Lou was heading for New York, probably to see his sister. Chernow had met Liza Panchez once. She was an editor with the Associated Press. He remembered her as being friendly but tough.
There was no need to call MI6 to ask that Tyreen Mackenzie be seconded to Mossad for the duration. Nonetheless, he was going to phone London. It was eleven o'clock at night there. Steve and Dolly would be back. He could imagine them, sitting in their room, discussing the day, the way they did every evening. He started to dial the Connaught.
On the television across the room, there was a cookery program. A pretty Sabra was explaining how to make an Arab dish. She kept stressing the culinary links of both races. If only someone could forge all the other links that had been broken.
When the hotel operator answered, he asked for the Vaughans' suite. There was a pause, then Steve's cautious voice. "Hello. Professor Vaughan speaking."
"How are you, Papa?"
"Jake, how did you find us so soon?" Steve's pleasure was childlike.
Chernow laughed. "Tante Hannah."
"Ach... who else?" He heard Steve call out. "Hey, Dolly, it's Jake. Jake, let your Mama tell you what a wonderful day we..."
At that moment, the roar of the explosion came traveling through the telephone wires. Then silence.
"Papa," Chernow shouted. "Papa!"
But the line was dead. Chernow gave an almost inhuman sound, which drowned out yet another reminder from the cook of the unity between Jew and Arab.
In one fleeting moment, which held both the past and the future, Chernow saw in his mind the words from the Koran verse, saw the intercept Bitburg had handed him, saw Tante Hannah reading Steve and Dolly's itinerary. They were all part of Raza's tomorrow that was here today.
During the afternoon, a mist had crept up the canyons from the East River. Matti Talim saw that here on Park Avenue, its cold embrace had shortened tempers. The rush for cabs was more vicious, a need to beat the traffic lights more frantic.
Talim liked the fog. You could get away with more under its blanket. Chernow had said that when he'd taken him on his first assignment, to London. On a cold, foggy November night, they'd bugged the embassy of another of those African nations aiding terrorists. Since then, he'd been one of Chernow's Men. After Iraq, Chernow had sent Talim to New York. The posting was a prized one, because New York, with its burgeoning Middle East population, had replaced Washington as Mossad's prime focus of interest in North America.
The fog gave people on Park a haunted look. Perhaps it was a fear of being trapped. Miriam had said that was why the Indians parted with Manhattan for a few baubles; they'd have taken anything for the place. She was still the only New Yorker he knew who could be truly unblinkered about the city.
Around Talim, the powerful and pretentious moved with a weariness, as if this was what was required of them. They seldom gave him a second glance. Those that did saw a medium-height, brown-haired, lightly tanned figure in a windbreaker and ski pants. Those who still remembered Montgomery Clift said it couldn't be. Even at his physical peak, Clift had never moved like someone who was serious about working out.
Fitness was a way of life with Talim. But when he'd realized he was going to finish in the top twenty in last year's New York Marathon, he'd deliberately dropped back. His need for obscurity overrode everything else.
When he had finally told Miriam who he was, because there was no way he could keep it from her if their relationship was to have any meaning, she'd asked if that was why he was so skeptical. He'd replied that his work was a continuing education in human frailty.
She'd called him her thirty-four-year-old cynic. Miriam labeled everything. He supposed medicine did that to you.
Ahead, Talim saw the jostle operation was moving to a climax. He'd spotted its beginning a couple of blocks back. The four young Hispanics had singled out the elderly white couple who were clearly tourists. One by one the youths had cruised past, checking for jewelry and how tight the woman held her handbag. Now, as the couple prepared to cross the street, the team's blocker was ready to make his move.
Talim quickened his pace, cutting through the crowd. The couple were looking at the stoplight. Only tourists waited for the walk sign. The blocker was alongside them, ready to trip and fall in their path as the couple stepped off the sidewalk. The other Hispanics were nearby. When the blocker fell, he would bring down the couple with him. The other gang members would rush forward to help. In the melee one of the youths would make off with the woman's handbag. It happened a thousand times a week in the city.
Talim reached the couple as the blocker made his move, beginning to turn and stumble in their path. Without breaking his stride, Talim gripped the kid firmly by the arm, pulling him to one side. The crew, moving in, hesitated.
"Not this time," murmured Talim, pushing the blocker away.
The old couple smiled vaguely at him, and Talim smiled back. He walked with them across the street and stayed close until they turned into the Drake Hotel, two more who believed it could only happen to somebody else. New York was full of people who never listened. They were like Bitburg.
A week ago, Bitburg had sent a Double Flash --- the most urgent of Mossad's priority signals --- saying the Syrians were using the United Nations Building to broker a new arms deal with China. Talim suspected the Syrians were too smart for that, but a Double Flash brooked no argument.
He'd had a crew from Swift Renovations spend a great deal of money and ingenuity to install more of Danny Nagier's bugs in the offices of the Syrian and Chinese delegations.
Chernow had created the company to handle all Mossad's needs in the United States, and its staff were experts at anything from refurbishing a safe house to providing backup for a take-out. But their specialty was surveillance. Talim knew more than one New York cop or janitor had received generous kickbacks for looking the other way while Swift's technicians went about their business.
Once the bugs were in place, he'd spent his day in a van parked close to the UN, listening to the Syrians and Chinese. Some of it had been interesting, but there'd been nothing about an arms deal.
Talim's suspicion had hardened that this was another of Bitburg's attempts to show he knew what was going on. An hour ago when he'd signed the surveillance log, he'd told the crew to wrap up the operation.
Striding up Park, Talim continued to think about the report he'd send Bitburg. Plenty of detail, Bitburg loved that. But nothing for him to point to and say the operation should have continued. A mention that his crew had done their usual good job and that the bugs had worked perfectly. Final costings to follow.
With a bit of luck, when he saw them it would be weeks before Bitburg came up with something else.
Turning into his apartment block, Talim decided he'd send Chernow a copy. He'd read between the lines and understand.
Talim crossed the lobby and checked his mailbox. It was stuffed with the day's usual junk. He'd read somewhere that the average New Yorker received fourteen pounds a year. With the junk was the envelope containing his tickets for the Pramoggia concert at Madison Square garden the following night. He'd kidded Miriam that he'd come down to Emergency and drag her away if she phoned to say she couldn't make it.
Dumping the junk in a trash box, he took the elevator to the nineteenth floor. He wondered whether the couple at the Drake knew they were staying under the same roof as the celebrated tenor. But what would they have made of Pramoggia's passion for teenage girls?
Pramoggia traveled the world's concert tour with a bevy of them. One was a Sudanese whom Chernow had recruited a year ago. Before Pramoggia moved on to Los Angeles, Talim would meet the girl and she'd tell him everyone the tenor had met in New York. Pramoggia's renowned support for the PLO had made him a legitimate target for Mossad.
The door to 1905 looked the same as all the others, mahogany veneered. But the Ingersoll had been replaced with a mortise lock and key made by a Mossad locksmith. The day before Talim had moved in, a Mossad crew had fitted the lock when they'd changed the original door. The replacement had an inch-thick steel plate in the middle, strong enough to resist a hand grenade or incendiary bomb.
He opened the door, and from force of habit immediately locked it behind him. He switched on the light, breaking the camel hair he'd placed across it. Tel Aviv sent a fresh supply of hairs every month. It wasn't foolproof, nothing was. The trick was to make it as hard as possible.
The apartment was large and airy. It consisted of a living room, two bedrooms, and a superbly equipped kitchen. Talim only used it for making popcorn and coffee. Eating out was part of the job, to go where the enemy ate.
When he'd moved in, he'd thought the Mossad must have furnished the place from their Baroque Period range. Everything was all gilt, flocked wallpaper and tables and chairs with bowed legs. It was like Versailles without the garden views.
But he'd come to like it when he'd seen how well his own rugs blended into the richness. He'd bought them in a street market in Tunis and they'd accompanied him from posting to posting, along with his collection of favorite books. Once they'd fitted into a shelf; now they occupied most of one wall.
He walked to the sideboard and checked his answering machine. Miriam had called to say she'd be over when her shift ended, and would he order a pizza? Afterward, they could watch a movie on television, just like any other couple. It was a good feeling, one he'd never experienced with the other women he'd dated. The nearest had been Liza Panchez, until they'd both realized there was not enough between them to make it really work. Liza had said she'd always be his friend. Sometime, a friend was better than a lover, she'd added. Miriam had shown he could have both.
Brentano's had called to say his copy of the latest Mossad exposé had arrived. Once a year, someone wrote a book claiming to take off the lid. It was fun spotting the errors.
Liza's brother Lou had called from JFK. He said he'd phone again when he'd checked in at the Roosevelt. They hadn't seen each other since Iraq.
Chernow's message was the last on the tape. There was no clue as to what he wanted; Chernow was always economical on the phone. Talim decided he'd fix himself a drink before calling back.
He removed his windbreaker, revealing a shoulder holster, which fitted like a back brace.
Bitburg had sent a memo the other day reminding all field operatives to carry out regular target practice. Talim had faxed Chernow to say he'd go to Coney Island and ask the shooting gallery attendant to let him use his Walther P38 to knock down coconuts. If you do, send your prize to Bitburg, Chernow had faxed back.
Talim wandered to the kitchen and made himself a whiskey and soda. He'd acquired the taste in London. Jiggling ice in the glass, he ambled back to the living room, went to the window, and looked down on Park.
His view was slightly distorted. The Swift crew had coated the window with a clear varnish that would neutralize a bugging device. They had also fitted a second window inside the original frame. Its glass had withstood repeated test firings from an Uzi.
A noise from the fax machine broke the apartment's silence. The second bedroom had been converted into a safe room, and, like all the other safe rooms in previous apartments, it was totally sound- and bug-proof.
The message was marked "Urgent from Black Tiger." Every Israeli Prime Minister had an animal codename. The text was brief. "Alert your A-list of potential attack."
The list contained the names of all prominent Jews and organizations in New York. Talim could reach them all in minutes through his computer modem. But first, he'd call Chernow. He picked up the phone beside the fax and began to dial.
011 --- the international entry code. He'd tell Chernow the collective wisdom here was that if they were going to strike, they'd do so in Europe.
972 --- Israel. It was almost midnight there. The last A-list warning had been the week before Iraq invaded Kuwait.
3 --- Tel Aviv. He began to dial Chernow's private number.
At that moment, the room began to sway. A split second later, Talim knew this was no earthquake. Only a large quantity of high explosives could produce that deep WHOOF. He dropped the phone in its cradle and ran to the window.
Several thousand tons of concrete and steel, which had formed the Drake's frontage on Park, was avalanching into the street, burying people and cabs pulling in and away from the hotel. A huge chunk of masonry hit a bus, crushing it. In moments the avalanche had raised a barrier twenty feet high across Park. A great cloud of white smoke mushroomed from the Drake.
Talim thought of the Sudanese girl, the elderly couple, the opera groupies, and Pramoggia, and said a silent prayer. No one deserved to die so obscenely.
Then professionalism took over. The white smoke indicated the bomb was so powerful it had sucked the oxygen from the air. He immediately ruled out the IRA. No motive. The Colombian drug barons settling a score with one of their own? They'd blown up hotels before. But that had been in South America. Only one of the Arab groups would have both the means and motive to strike in the heart of New York.
The phone was ringing. As Talim ran to answer, a second great explosion rent the air.
"Matti?" Lou Panchez was shouting in his ear. "The Plaza's just blown!"
Talim could hear screams and shouts in his earpiece and the wail of sirens. He forced himself to stay calm. "Where are you, Lou?"
"On Fifth. I was on my way to see Liza." The Associated Press was in Rockefeller Plaza, near the Plaza hotel.
"I'll meet you there," said Talim. The news floor would be as good a place as any for an overview.
"Right!" Lou had raised his voice even more. "Matti, I figure this is why Chernow's got me detached."
So that's why Chernow had called. Then it had to be Arabs. "Welcome to the team, Lou."
"Some welcome! They're going crazy down here!"
The sound of a third explosion came through Talim's earpiece.
Then above the roar came Lou's yell. "Jesus H. Christ! It looks like the Pierre! Whole place is covered in smoke. But it sure looks like..."
"I'll see you at Liza's," said Talim, hanging up. He didn't need a commentary when he had a ringside seat.
Karshov's warning and Chernow's recruiting Panchez were both part of this. The realization that he also would be made Talim shiver, not from excitement or fear, but out of knowledge.
Outside the apartment door he heard the first fearful voice, a man's, followed by a woman's, then a jumble of panicked voices. It would be the same all over the city.
He called Miriam's direct line number. A man's voice answered and told him to hold on. In the background, he heard frantic activity, then her surgeon's clogs.
"Cantwell."
"Miriam, how bad are things with you?"
"Bad, Matti. We've just had a Code One declared. That means expect up to a hundred casualties." City Center was the nearest hospital to the devastated hotels. "We're pulling in doctors and nurses from anywhere. Even from those fancy private clinics on Fifth and Park. Paramedics, students, anyone who can thread a needle. Right now, we're in the eye of the storm. Ten minutes, this place will be crazier than usual."
Even so, people would still move around her with respect. She commanded it naturally.
"Jesus, Matti, what sort of slime did this?" Her sudden anger gave her voice a cutting edge as sharp as her scalpels.
"The kind of people who do this everywhere."
"Why here? What has this country done?"
"It's the price of democracy. The logical extension of being the world's policeman."
"Then maybe it's time we gave up, and only looked after our own. If we'd done that, this would never have happened."
"Maybe, maybe not." He understood her anger.
In the background, he heard her name being paged over the hospital loudspeaker.
"Matti, I've got to go and scrub. I'll see you when I see you." She hung up without saying goodbye. It was another of her ways.
As he put down the phone, a fourth explosion engulfed the night. He ran back to the window. It was the Mayfair House, further along on Park. He watched, numbed, as its upper floors fell into the street. A couple of fire trucks and an ambulance making for the Drake disappeared beneath debris.
This was not terrorism, but full-scale war.
Talim went to the phone to call Chernow. The line was dead.
Zipping up his windbreaker, he stuck a camel hair across the light switch, opened the apartment door, and stepped into the corridor.
The commotion broke over him. Locking the door, he strode past the old woman railing that this was God's plan to punish New York, past the man shouting just as loudly that Nostradamus had predicted this, past all the fearful, angry, or dazed men and women. One grabbed Talim's arm, asking him where he was going. He firmly shook her off and pushed open the door to the emergency stairs. There were 1,075 steps to the ground. He'd counted them the day he'd moved in.
Talim emerged on the AP newsroom floor. He still breathed easily, though he had run all the way, dodging the emergency service vehicles. As he'd reached Rockefeller Plaza, several monster earthmovers had lumbered up Fifth Avenue. Helicopters with powerful lifting winches were descending toward all four hotels. The first detachment of the National Guard had arrived to help the police keep everyone not directly involved well back. He'd never known a city that could respond so quickly to disaster. Miriam would have said it was because New York was a permanent one.
Talim stood for a moment, taking in the scene. The atmosphere in the large, open-plan newsroom was like he remembered it from other major stories he'd seen breaking here --- the massacres in Tiananmen Square, the bloody end to Ceausescu's dictatorship, the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the start of the Gulf War.
Then, as now, there was a controlled calmness. Reporters were like intelligence operatives, detached, no matter how horrific the event. That was another reason Chernow had recruited several as assets. Talim decided he'd try and call him from Liza's office. She'd pretend not to listen. She'd learned that from being around Lou.
Talim could see him in her office on the far side of the floor. Liza was on the phone as usual and Lou was standing behind her, reading off her VDU screen --- a big man with a big man's way of standing, loose and gangly. Lou looked tired. Tired and worried.
Liza saw Talim and waved him over.
Crossing the floor, he felt the extent of what had happened.
At the Plaza, the explosion had been sufficiently powerful to hurl debris several hundred yards. So far, thirty-five bodies had been recovered. The injured already totaled over fifty.
The Pierre's celebrated La Forret restaurant had taken the brunt of the casualties, killing sixty diners and staff.
Several eyewitnesses all described the Mayfair House roof garden rising even higher above the Manhattan skyline, while at the same moment, they'd seen a pinprick of light expand, followed by the explosion and collapse of the hotel's upper floors. Already, a score of bodies had been recovered.
The death toll at the Drake was a confirmed twenty-eight. Among them was Pramoggia.
From his jacket pocket, Talim removed the concert tickets and dropped them in a trashcan as he entered Liza's office.
Liza was the senior night editor. With her girlish good looks, people often found that hard to believe. She was typing swiftly in short bursts onto the VDU. The phone was cradled beneath her chin and she was concentrating hard. She waved at Talim and fired another burst onto the screen.
Lou turned to Talim. "They've hit London and Paris as well. Four hotels in each," he said, without preamble.
"Holy shit!" said Talim. "How bad?"
"Dead? Close to four hundred, and climbing. At least a thousand injured. Liza's talking to her White House man. The President's calling an emergency cabinet. He'll want to kick ass hard on this. A lot of ass."
"Anyone claiming?"
"Not yet."
"It's got to be Raza. No one else would have had the resources."
"I guess."
"So what's the President going to do? Bomb everyone who's given Raza a bed for the night?"
"It's not like the old days. His Arabists have an overview for everything. And there's a permanent hands off the Middle East clause built into it."
"Maybe this will open their eyes?"
"I doubt it."
"Me, too."
Lou stared out into the newsroom. People found it hard to believe he and Liza were twins. He looked at least ten years older. It was a combination of the eyes that were permanently red-rimmed and clothes as unfashionable as his sideburns and Zapata mustache. But he'd never been one for caring what others thought.
He turned back to Talim. "What now?"
"First, I call Chernow."
Liza finished her call and turned to them. "What do you make of this? You think this is Raza's only shot, or just an opener?"
He knew that look. It was her best-guess stare.
"A dozen hotels. More dead and injured than we've seen in a whole year of terrorist attacks. I figure that'll satisfy even Raza's bloodlust."
"Chernow go with that?"
"You want to ask him?"
"You ever tried to ask him anything? You wish you'd never asked."
"Can I ask for a phone?"
She waved to one by the couch. "Say hello to him for me."
Liza fielded another call as Talim began to dial. There was no answer from Chernow's home number. Talim started to dial the Mossad switchboard in Tel Aviv when out of the corner of his eye he saw Liza stiffen and wave him to stop. He put down the phone.
"We've got a claim," she said, pushing a button on her desk console. "I'll put it on broadcast."
Out on the floor, Talim saw reporters starting to congregate around the city desk where a rewrite man with a headset was poised over a keyboard to type up the call while it was being recorded. A number of senior news executives had crowded into Liza's office. They all stared at the wall speaker behind her desk.
There was a hiss, then a woman's voice filled the room. "I speak in the name of Raza the Freedom Fighter for all oppressed people of Islam! What has happened in your three temple cities of fascism and imperialism is no more than a warning to heed carefully our demands."
Talim thought the voice had an intensity bordering on religious fervor; a fanatic teetering between sanity and madness.
"Our first demand is that each member of the Permanent Council of the United Nations, in the name of the entire Assembly, will pledge that the Zionists will be removed from our land, which they call Israel. This pledge will be given within twenty-four hours."
Talim swore softly. "No way, lady. No way at all."
"Our second demand is that before it ceases to exist, the Zionist state agrees to destroy all its nuclear weapons. Similarly, all other tactical weapons placed there to aid and abet the existence of the Zionist state by its allies will also be destroyed."
"She's leaving Israel naked," gasped Liza.
The voice spoke again deliberately. "Thirdly, all profits from oil fields and mineral exploration from Nigeria to the Persian Gulf will be redivided. At present, the peoples of these lands only benefit by forty percent. They will from now on receive eighty percent. Further, one billion dollars will be provided by the said oil and mineral companies to be divided among the oppressed lands that they have exploited for so long."
Lou's jaw worked. "She's using the jargon of legality to hijack the world!"
"Fourthly, every member of the United Nations will sign a properly binding protocol to ensure no pornography or drugs will continue to sully the purity of Islam. What you do in your world is your business. We want no part of your decadent culture, or your corruption of our moral values." The voice paused briefly, then resumed. "The second, third, and fourth demands must be completed in full within seven days. You have twenty-four hours to agree. Any attempt to negotiate or vary the terms of these demands and you will receive further proof that we possess the means to destroy your brutal, fascist society that oppresses us!"
In the silence, a button light blinked on Liza's console. It was an unlisted number. Liza picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.
"He's right here." She nodded to Talim and handed him the phone.
"Yes," said Talim, already knowing who it was.
"Go to the consulate and wait there," instructed Chernow.
No one in Trekfontein saw the Bantu arrive. He came from the west, to keep the prevailing wind in his face and to mask the sound of his powerful motorcycle. The African National Congress had bought it for him, just as they had purchased the pouch of aerosol paints slung over his shoulder.
The Bantu parked the machine in one of the thickets of ebony at the foot of the turreted rocks. Even when he crouched he was tall, with the powerful legs of a natural runner. For hours, he remained perfectly still in the thicket, watching the revelry on the sports field.
As the night wore on, the dancing became increasingly abandoned, the voices more drunken. It was the early hours before the last of the townspeople had driven uncertainly home back across the veldt. When the last of the lights had gone out, the Bantu waited another hour. Then, slinging the pouch across his shoulders, he padded barefoot across the ground.
The night was almost pitch-black and oppressively hot. The moon fitfully appeared behind the cumulus thunderclouds. He hoped the storm would hold off until he had completed his work. The rain would hide his tracks. He would have come and gone like a thief in the night.
Nelson Mandela's aide had said there must be no stealing, but the Bantu had stolen all his long life to eat, to live.
He reached the first homestead and paused to lick his finger and raise it in the air. He changed direction to keep the faint breeze in his face, so that a dog would not sniff his scent. He removed one of the cans from the pouch and began to spray a pristine white wall with the letters: ANC.
In twenty minute, the Bantu had worked his way into the town, defacing a score of building with a variety of African National Congress slogans. He began to smile as he imagined the fury when those snoring drunkenly behind the open bedroom windows awoke. Increasingly confident he would not be spotted, the Bantu quickly peered into houses, his eyes looking for something to steal. A small trinket would buy him bread and leave enough over to visit one of Soweto's beer halls. But there was nothing within easy reach.
He completed daubing the colonnades of the Dutch Reformed Church and paused to select another target. Hi eyes settled on the imposing building across the street. A block further away glowed the night light over the door of the police station.
The Bantu swiftly crossed the broad street that had been designed to allow ox-driven wagons to turn, and reached the building. He could dimly make out the letters over the front of its verandah: Grand Hotel.
The roof of the verandah was flat. Above it was the hotel proper, a white expanse of wall broken by the windows of the bedrooms. All but one were closed.
Standing on the balustrade of the verandah, the Bantu hoisted himself onto the flat roof. He crouched for a moment, listening. Across the town, a dog was barking. It must have picked up his scent. It would soon be time to leave. He chose green and yellow aerosols and began to spray the wall with the title of the ANC's anthem: "Nkosi ikelel I Africa."
Once more, the moon emerged from behind a thundercloud, making it easier for the Bantu to work. His arm moved up and down to cover the hotel frontage with six-foot-high lettering.
The second word brought him to the open bedroom window. He peered in and could not believe his luck. The moonlight picked out an expensive leather bag beside the bed. It alone would fetch enough on Soweto's black market to keep him in food and beer for a month. The bag was open and in the pale light he glimpsed some things that made his heart race even faster. There was not one camera, but several. Each would guarantee him a fortune. He put down his aerosols.
For the first time, he looked at the woman asleep on the bed. She had kicked off the sheet and lay on her stomach, with her back to him, her great mane of red hair spread over the pillow. Her skin was the color of ivory in the moonlight.
Unease joined the Bantu's feeling of excitement. The law was clear. Any black who entered the bedroom of a white woman was held to be intent on rape. On conviction, a man could be sent away for twenty years.
Yet that bag and cameras, the Bantu knew, could secure his livelihood for even longer.
With the utmost stealth and speed, he slipped over the windowsill. The dog was still barking.
Lila stirred on the bed. A combination of the warm night and the tension that always went with a mission had made her drift in and out of sleep, her mind restlessly picking up on the smallest thing. Why was that dog barking? The fascist pig of a police captain had said the dogs of Trekfontein were trained to bark only at Kaffirs. How did they manage that when there were none around to practice on? It wasn't the barking that had once more awoken her, it was a sound she had last heard in the streets of Beirut --- the faint but unmistakable hiss of aerosol of the graffiti gangs going about their business in the dead of night.
Lila turned as the Bantu slid across the window frame. She saw his face gleaming with the sweat of sudden fright. He had nothing in his hand. She could smell his sour body smell. She had no weapon; she never carried one on a mission. To do so was to court disaster.
The figure remained rooted to the spot, breathing softly. An animal about to spring.
Lila tensed herself. If she could get a grip on his carotid artery, she would stop him, kill him even.
He hadn't moved.
Lila groped for the panic button, built into the bedside panel, which controlled the room's lights, television, and radio.
The manager had made a point of explaining the button was linked directly to the police station, that it was part of the price whites had to pay to go on living in a land where they were increasingly threatened.
Lila pressed the button. A red light glowed on the panel.
In a coupe of strides, the figure had crossed the floor, snatched up the camera bag, and was out of the window.
Lila leaped from the bed in pursuit. By the time she reached the window, the figure had raced along the verandah roof and shinned down a corner post. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet and was off, running at full tilt.
Lila leaned out of the window and began to scream. "Stop! Thief! Stop him!"
More dogs were barking. The first lights were coming on. A uniformed figure was running from the police station. She recognized the police captain.
But the Bantu had vanished into the night with the bag containing the bottle of Anthrax-B-C.
By the time Lila had dressed, the captain was at the bedroom door. With him was the hotel manager. He rushed to the window. "What happened, missie?"
Lila told him.
She could not stop trembling. She should have hidden the bottle in the wardrobe or chest. She should have kept the window closed. Basic precautions. Instead, she had behaved like someone on her first mission --- not thinking. Kids in Beirut got killed for that. Raza would kill her.
The captain spoke into his walkie-talkie. "We got a Kaffir on the loose. Get everybody out!"
He turned to Lila, smiling reassurance. "It's only your cameras, missie. It could have been a lot worse."
Outside in the street, voices were drawing attention to the slogans. The first police Land Rover had arrived. Its powerful searchlight began to play over the crudely daubed words on the hotel front.
The captain ran for the door. Lila followed with the manager.
By the time they reached the street, three more police Land Rovers had pulled up. Each contained a pair of constables armed with rifles.
The length of the street, figures were appearing in windows. The captain picked up a bullhorn and began to speak. "This is the police. There's a Kaffir on the rampage. He could be armed. Stay indoors. If you see him, call the station."
"You'll never find him in this dark," said Lila.
"We'll find him," said he captain grimly. He turned to he nearest Land Rover.
Lila clutched his arm. "I'd like to come with you. To make sure all my cameras are safe. There's twenty thousand rands' worth of equipment there."
"Okay, missie. Get in."
The captain briefed his men, sending one Land Rover out on the reservoir road, a second toward the road that led to Johannesburg. The third was ordered to check the area around the rocks.
"Give your searchlight plenty of play. Make as much noise as you can. It'll panic the Kaffir. He'll run into our arms," said the captain. He gave a short, barking laugh. "He'll wish he never came near you!"
Lila squeezed in between the captain and the driver. In convoy, the Land Rovers roared down Trekfontein's main street and separated at the bottom.
"The Kaffir must have come here by some sort of vehicle," explained the captain as the vehicle began to bounce over the veldt. "But he may just panic and make a run for it. These Kaffirs can run fifty miles without any problem. Just like a hyena."
"What'll you do when you catch him?" asked Lila. He gripped the dash as the Land Rover raced over the uneven ground.
"Let's catch him first," laughed the captain.
They'd only drive a few miles before the radio under the dash hissed. "This is Bravo-One to all units. We have located his motorbike at the bottom of Impi Kop."
The captain spoke into the microphone. "This is Command to all units. Bravo-One, check the rocks. He may try to double back after you pass. Bravo-Two, work your way back from the reservoir. Bravo-Three, when you get five miles down the Jo'burg road, turn back. Even our Kaffir won't have run any further. We're heading south of the rock in case he tries to head for home the long way."
Its searchlight constantly sweeping the darkness, the Land Rover dragged a cloud of dust behind it across the veldt. The moon had disappeared. Away to the east, the first faint glimmer of gray light was emerging.
Across the veldt, the lights of the other vehicles rose and fell. From time to time, the radio crackled with reports of sightings. Each quickly proved to be groundless.
"Move it, man!" barked the captain. "I want this Kaffir before the rain comes."
The vehicle lunged forward up an incline. The captain turned and grinned at Lila. "You look sick as a dog, missie."
Lila smiled wanly. "My editor will fire me for losing those cameras."
The captain patted her arm. "I'll give you a full report to show him. No way he can blame you for a Kaffir doing this."
Once he knew, Raza would send someone. There'd be no place to hide. She'd be hunted down. She'd seen it happen before --- when she had been one of the hunters.
"What's that?" yelled the captain, pointing the searchlight. Ahead, the veldt stretched, broken with clumps of dark bush, trees, and tall grass.
The light beam picked out the black mass of the buffalo herd a quarter of a mile in front. They were picking up speed as they ran, hunched together and bellowing.
"Something's scared them," yelled the captain. He reached for the mike. "Command to all units. Circle toward Impi Kop."
Lila sat silent and numbed beside him, both hands clutching at the dash for support as the Land Rover continued to bucket and plunge across the plain. They passed behind the herd.
Ahead, the ground sloped sharply upward to a tree-lined crest.
"My great-grandfather drove an entire Kaffir tribe from here. Just him and a handful of other boys. He was sixteen, but he could already hit a bok or a Kaffir at a hundred yards and going at full speed," the captain said.
"There! There, there!" yelled Lila. "I saw something move!"
The captain swept the searchlight toward the tree line.
The Bantu was running with total concentration. His head was hunched into his shoulders and his arms pumped steadily, helping him maintain a fast, constant progress over the ground.
Lila saw that the camera bag draped over his shoulders was thumping rhythmically against his back.
"You've got good eyes, missie," said the captain. He spoke into the mike. "Command to all units. The Kaffir's on Impi Kop. Get beyond him in case we miss him." Letting go of the searchlight, he reached for the carbine in its rack behind the bench seat. The light swung wildly over the ground.
Lila turned to the captain. "If you shoot him, you could damage my cameras." A ricochet could break the bottle. She could still be dead before nightfall.
The Land Rover reached the trees. The copse was bigger than Lila had realized. The trunks rose out of a tangle of undergrowth. The driver stopped and jumped out from the vehicle. He removed a second rifle from the rack.
The captain gave another laugh. "We're going to have to hunt our Kaffir on foot." He adjusted the searchlight so that its beam automatically swiveled on its pod, sending a swath of light into the copse.
On the veldt, the lights of the other Land Rovers were converging toward the trees.
"Kaffir, come on out," called the captain. "You're not going anywhere."
Every few yards, he repeated the words. Suddenly a bush moved to Lila's left and the face she'd glimpsed in the bedroom rose into view. He held his hands high in the air. He looked fearfully at the two rifles.
"Okay, baas, I surrender," said the Bantu.
The captain nodded. "Take that bag off your shoulder, Kaffir."
The Bantu removed the bag. The constable walked over and picked it up. He walked back and handed it to Lila. She began to rummage through it.
The captain nodded again toward the Bantu. "You taken anything out, Kaffir?"
The Bantu repeatedly shook his head. "No, baas, nothing."
Lila's hand found the bottle. She felt it all over. The glass was intact. She began again to shiver all over.
"Everything there, missie?" inquired the captain solicitously.
Lila made a show of producing and checking the cameras. She turned and smiled at the captain. "No harm done."
"Very good, missie. Now, you jut go back to the Land Rover," said the captain quietly.
Lila nodded, suddenly understanding. She turned and walked away.
Behind her, the captain spoke to the Bantu in the same tone. "Now, Kaffir, you know better than to do what you did. And if you didn't, Mr. Mandela and his people should have told you."
"Baas, you take me to police station, yes?" asked the Bantu fearfully.
The dawn was coming fast. On the far side of the copse, the other Land Rover were arriving. Lila heard the captain's order. "Turn round, Kaffir."
Lila turned in time to see the captain's rifle jump sharply, the barrel kicking upward at the recoil. The Bantu was flung violently forward on his face as the heavy soft-nosed bullet entered his back.
The captain and constable dragged the body between them to the Land Rover and dumped it in the back.
"The trouble with Kaffirs is that they always try to escape," sighed the captain, politely motioning for Lila to get in. "The law's clear enough. We're entitled to use whatever force is necessary to detain them, especially when it's someone as dangerous as our Kaffir. If you hadn't pressed your panic button, he could have raped and then murdered you. When a Kaffir like that tries to make a run, you've got to be firm."
After that, they rode in silence back to the town. People were already cleaning away the graffiti, and they cheered as the police convoy passed.
When Lila entered the hotel lobby, the manager was waiting. In his hand was a message slip. Seeing the camera bag, he beamed with relief.
"Looks like you're going to be leaving us," said the manager. He glanced at the paper. "Your editor called. He wants you to catch the next flight to Athens. I've already checked --- there's a ten o'clock out of Jo'burg tonight. You'll be there for breakfast."
"Thank you," said Lila. Raza's call meant that everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The hour was close for her to play her part.