Brian Garfield: Target Manhattan

I see.

Someone-I assume it was Ryterband-called our public-relations office on the Monday. The twentieth of May that was. He gave his name as Willard Roberts and identified himself as a journalist with Business Week.

And he asked for an interview with you?

Yes. He evidently said the magazine was doing a cover story on the subject of the prime rate. He must have impressed our public-relations people with his plausibility. An appointment was arranged through my secretary.

For Wednesday morning, the twenty-second?

Yes. I’m told Roberts-Ryterband-insisted on that day and time, pleading the exigencies of the magazine’s deadline. All very plausible, you see?

Yes. Very well. You made the appointment, and he showed up on schedule. What time was that?

You can understand that I’ve asked a few questions myself, for my own clarification. My secretary informs me that he arrived punctually on the twenty-sixth floor. That was at ten o’clock. Actually he may have been a few minutes early. I had a meeting of the executive vice-presidents that morning at nine and it ran a bit long. Ryterband was kept waiting for perhaps fifteen minutes beyond the appointed hour before I could see him. He was visibly agitated when my secretary ushered him into my office.

Agitated by the delay or by nervousness caused by his intentions?

That would be hard to say. I assumed at the time that it was caused by the delay.

How did he begin?

My secretary was still in the room at that point. He was containing himself, I thought, with visible effort. He seemed to have to force himself to utter the amenities-how he appreciated my kindness in taking the time to grant the interview, that sort of thing.

Then your secretary left the room?

Yes. Then an immediate change came over the man. He seated himself, then stood up and went straight to the window behind my desk and peered upward toward the sky.

You must have thought that was a bit odd.

Yes, of course, I did. But he was talking all the time, in a hoarse voice. He was terribly upset. He berated me for the delay in admitting him to my office. He ranted on briefly, about the arrogance of executives and doctors and people of that sort who make it a habit of keeping people waiting. “Cooling our heels,” that was the phrase he used. I was on the point of having him thrown out of my office. Then he wheeled toward me with quite a terrifying grin on his face. I couldn’t describe it. For a moment I was terrified-by the sheer intensity of it. He’d broken out in a sweat. I can remember it vividly. My hands were locked onto the arms of my chair as if it were a dentist’s chair. It was quite remarkable, you see-all this happened before he uttered any threats at all. It was simply his face, his demeanor. It was like having some wild predator loose in my office.

How soon did he come to the point?

Almost instantly. He was standing by the side of my desk, looming over me. He was leaning on his palms, on the desk. He said I had to listen very carefully to him-he said thousands of lives depended on it.

Excuse me, but what time was this?

I’d say it must have been ten twenty or so. Not later than ten twenty-five.

Thank you. I’m sorry I interrupted-go on.

He told me about the airplane.

Can you recall precisely what he said? His exact words?

I’ve tried to reconstruct it, of course. But I was stunned by what he said.

I understand. But if you could try to recall what he told you…

He said his partner was “up there.” He pointed toward the ceiling, the top of the window. A rather wild gesture-he just threw up his arm. His partner, he said-or perhaps he said “my brother”-I’m not sure; he used the terms interchangeably later on, but I’m fairly sure that in the beginning he only referred to the man in the airplane as his partner. I’m sorry, I keep digressing. I’m trying to be accurate.

I appreciate that, Mr. Maitland. Take your time.

He said his partner was up there in an airplane. Actually he didn’t use the word “airplane.” I remember now-he was very specific, he pronounced the phrase with precise care. “A Flying Fortress bomber.” He said his partner was up there, above the city, in a Flying Fortress bomber. He said if I didn’t do exactly as I was told, his partner would rain high-explosive on the city of New York. That was his phrase, or something very close to it.

Then he told you his demands?

He may have. I’m afraid I can’t remember exactly the order of events. I was stunned… I’ve said that, haven’t I?

Just reconstruct it as clearly as you can, Mr. Maitland. Ryterband said his partner would drop bombs on the city if you didn’t cooperate. Then what happened?

He kept talking very rapidly. I had to stop him. I must have been rather dazed. It wasn’t so much what he’d said. We’ve had absurd threats before, of various kinds. But it was the intensity of his presence. That atavistic terror he somehow inspired. It’s very hard to describe. I found it difficult to think. I couldn’t follow what he was saying. I had to interrupt him, although I was afraid to. Does that make sense to you?

I think so.

I just don’t know what he was saying at first. I had to make him start again and speak slowly. He didn’t like that-it enraged him even more. He stormed around my office in exasperation. Under other circumstances it would have been comical-he seemed on the verge of apoplexy. I’m sorry. I’m not narrating this very coherently.

You’re doing just fine, Mr. Maitland. Just tell it in your own words, anyway you like. I’ll ask questions if anything is unclear.

Yes, of course. Very well-just let me get a grip on myself.

Your name?

Ira Rabinowitz.

Your position and title?

Chief security officer for the Beaver Street offices of the Merchants Trust Bank.

Is that your exact title, Mr. Rabinowitz?

Assistant Vice-President in charge of security.

Thank you…

We did our best with it, Mr. Skinner. My people in that bank can’t be faulted. If you’re looking for where to pin the blame, you’d better look somewhere else. We’ve got the best internal security systems of any bank in the city. We’ve never had a major vault robbery. Our losses in negotiable securities have been less than any bank’s. We keep tight tabs on our employees and it’s paid off. I just want to make it clear-what some nut does in an airplane, that’s not our job. That’s a job for the FBI or the United States Air Force. It’s not bank security. Our job is to protect the bank against robbery, and we do that job as well or better than any other security organization in the country.

I appreciate that. We’re not trying to pin blame on anyone at all.

I just wanted to make it clear.

Fine. Now, I wonder if you’d tell me when you were first brought into the case.

I had a call from Mr. Maitland’s secretary. She asked me if I’d mind stepping up to his office right away.

This was on May the twenty-second?

Wednesday. Yes, that’s right. The twenty-second.

What time was that?

About a quarter to eleven. In the morning.

And you arrived in Maitland’s office when?

Maybe two minutes later. My office is one floor below the executive suite. I used the stairs.

What did you find when you got there?

The secretary let me go right in. I found Mr. Maitland and another man in the main office.

And?

Mr. Maitland said this man was threatening to blow up the city if we didn’t fork up five million dollars in unmarked cash.

What happened then?

I guess I got a little sarcastic. I mean, this guy really looked like a nut case, you know? He was pretty big, but he had on this herringbone-tweed suit that looked like something they issue you when they let you out of the rubber room someplace. And he was covered with sweat. Eyes bulging out. He looked a lot more scared than Mr. Maitland did.