Thomas Harris - Black Sunday

Corley stirred in his chair.

Kabakov was tired of talking into Baker’s blank face, tired of the caution with which Corley phrased remarks to his boss. “It’s more than a hypothesis. Look at the facts-”

“I know, I know, Major. You’ve made it very clear. You think the target is the Super Bowl because this man—Fasil, is it?—organized the Black September attack at the Olympic Village, because the tape you captured at Beirut refers to a strike at the beginning of the year, and because the president plans to attend the game.” He might have been naming the parts of speech.

“And because it would happen on live television with maximum shock value,” Corley said.

“But this entire line of reasoning proceeds from the fact that this man, Ali, had a copy of Sports Illustrated, and you are not even positive that Ali was involved in the plot.” Baker peered out the window at the gray Washington afternoon, as though he might find the answer in the street.

Baker had Corley’s 302 file on his desk—the raw information on the case. Kabakov wondered why he had been called in, and then he realized that Baker, professionally paranoid, wanted to look at him. Wanted to expose the source to his own cop instincts. Kabakov could see a stubborn set in Baker’s face. He knows he will have to do something, Kabakov thought. But he needs for me to argue with him. He does not like to be told his business, but he wants to observe the telling. He’s got to do something,now. Let him stew about it. It’s his move. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Baker,” Kabakov said, rising.

“Just a moment, Major, if you don’t mind. Since you have seen this kind of thing, how do you think they would go about it? Would they conceal the plastic in the stadium and then, when the crowd arrives, threaten to blow it up if certain demands are not met—freedom for Sirhan Sirhan, no more aid to Israel, that kind of thing?”

“They won’t demand anything. They’ll blow it up and then crow about it.”

“Why do you think so?”

“What could you give them? Most of the terrorists arrested in skyjackings are already freed. Those at Munich were freed to save hostages in a subsequent skyjacking. Lelia Khaled was freed in the same way. The guerrillas who shot your own diplomats in Khartoum were turned back to their people by the Sudanese government. They’re all free, Mr. Baker.

“Stop aid to Israel? Even if the promise were made, no guarantees are possible. The promise would never be made in the first place and would not be kept anyway, if it were made under duress. Besides, to use hostages you must contain them. In a stadium that could not be done. There would be panic and the crowd would rush the gates, trampling a few thousand on the way. No, they’ll blow it up all right.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. With a half ton of plastic they could collapse both sides of the stands, but to be sure of doing that they would have to put charges in several locations and detonate them simultaneously. That would not be easy. Fasil is no fool. There are too many radio transmissions at an event like that to use a remote electronic signal to set it off, and multiple locations increase the chance of discovery.”

“We can make sure the stadium is clean,” Corley said. “It will be a bitch to search, but we can do it.”

“Secret Service will want to handle that themselves, I expect, but they’ll ask for some manpower,” Baker said.

“We can check all the personnel involved with the Super Bowl, check hot dog wagons, cold drink boxes. We can prohibit any packages being carried in,” Corley continued. “We can use dogs and the electronic sniffer. There’s still time to train the dogs on that piece of plastic from the ship.”

“What about the sky?” Kabakov said.

“You’re thinking of that pilot business with the chart, of course,” the FBI director said. “I think we might shut down private aviation in New Orleans for the duration of the game. We’ll check with the FAA. I’m calling in the concerned agencies this afternoon. We’ll know more after that.”

I doubt it, Kabakov reflected.

THE SOUND OF ABDEL AWAD’sendless pacing was beginning to annoy the guard in the hall. The guard raised the slide in the cell door and cursed Awad through the grate. Having done that, he felt a little ashamed. The man had a right to pace. He raised the slide again and offered Awad a cigarette, cautioning him to put it out and hide it if he heard approaching footsteps.

Awad had been listening for footsteps, all right. Sometime—tonight, tomorrow, the next day—they would be coming. To cut off his hands.

A former officer in the Libyan Air Force, he had been convicted of theft and narcotics trafficking. His sentence of death had been commuted to double amputation in view of his former service to his country. This type of sentence, prescribed by the Koran, had fallen into disuse until Colonel Khadafy assumed power and reinstated it. It must be said, however, that in line with his policy of modernization, Khadafy has replaced the axe in the marketplace with a surgeon’s knife and antiseptic conditions at a Benghazi hospital.

Awad had tried to write down his thoughts, had tried to write to his father apologizing for the shame he had brought on the family, but the words were difficult to find. He was afraid he would have the letter only half-finished when they came for him and he would have to mail it that way. Or finish it with the pen held between his teeth.

He wondered if the sentence permitted anesthesia.

He wondered if he could hook one leg of his trousers on the door hinge and tie the other around his neck and hang himself by sitting down. For a week since his sentencing he had entertained these considerations. It would be easier if they would tell him when. Perhaps not knowing was part of the sentence.

The slide flew up. “Put it out. Put it out,” the guard hissed. Numbly, Awad stepped on the cigarette and kicked it under his cot. He heard the bolts sliding back. He faced the door, his hands behind him, fingernails digging into his palms.

I am a man and a good officer, Awad thought. They could not deny that even at the trial. I will not shame myself now.

A small man in neat civilian dress came into the cell. The man was saying something, his mouth was moving under the small mustache. “… Did you hear me, Lieutenant Awad? It is not yet time to—it is not yet time for your punishment. But it is time for a serious conversation. Speak English, please. Take the chair. I will sit on the bunk.” The little man’s voice was soft, and his eyes were constantly on Awad’s face as he spoke.

Awad had very sensitive hands, the hands of a helicopter pilot. When he was offered a chance to keep them, to gain full reinstatement, he was quick to agree to the conditions.

Awad was removed from the Benghazi prison to the garrison at Ajdabujah, where, under tight security, he was checked out in a Russian MIL-6 helicopter, the heavy-duty model that carries the NATO code name “Hook.” It is one of three owned by the Libyan armed forces. Awad was familiar with the type, though his experience was mostly in smaller craft. He handled it well. The MIL-6 was not exactly like the Sikorsky S-58, but it was close enough. At night, he pored over a Sikorsky flight manual, procured in Egypt. With a careful hand on the throttle and pitch controls and a vigilant eye on the manifold pressure, he would be all right when the time came.

The reign of President Khadafy is a strongly moralistic one, backed by terrible penalties, and as a result certain crimes have been sharply repressed in Libya. The civilized art of forgery does not flourish there, and it was necessary to contact a forger in Nicosia for the manufacture of Awad’s papers.