Thomas Harris - Black Sunday

There were the FBI agents, two of them, crouched behind a portable generating unit on the open floor. Thirty yards beyond them at an angle in the wall was a breast-high stack of sacked cement. One of the agents fired, and dust flew off the top tier of bags.

Running low and hard, Kabakov crossed the floor toward the agents. A flash of movement behind the breastwork, Kabakov was diving, rolling, hearing the magnum roar, and then he was behind the generator. Blood trickled down his forearm where a flying chip of concrete had stung him.

“Is he hit?” Kabakov asked.

“I don’t think so,” an agent replied.

Fasil was hemmed in. His breastwork of cement protected him from the front, and the angle of the bare concrete wall protected his flanks. Thirty yards of open floor separated his position from Kabakov and the agents behind the generator.

Fasil could not escape. The trick would be in taking him alive and forcing him to tell where the plastic was hidden. Taking Fasil alive would be like trying to grab a rattlesnake by the head.

The Arab fired once. The bullet slammed into the generator engine, releasing a steady trickle of water. Kabakov fired four shots to cover Moshevsky, charging across the floor to join him.

“Corley’s getting gas and smoke,” Moshevsky said.

The voice from behind the cement bag barricade had a weird lilt. “Why don’t you come and get me, Major Kabakov? How many of you will die trying to take me alive, do you suppose? You’ll never do it. Come, come, Major. I have something for you.”

Peering through a space in the machine that shielded him, Kabakov studied Fasil’s position. He had to work fast. He was afraid Fasil would kill himself rather than wait for the gas. There was only one feature that might be useful. A large metal fire extinguisher was clipped to the wall beside the place where Fasil was hidden. Fasil must be very near it. All right. Do it. Don’t think about it anymore. He gave Moshevsky brief instructions and cut off his objection with a single shake of his head. Kabakov poised like a sprinter at the end of the generator.

Moshevsky raised his automatic rifle and laid down a terrific volume of fire across the top of Fasil’s breastwork. Kabakov was running now, bent under the hail of bullets, hard for the cement bags. He crouched outside the breastwork beneath the sheet of covering fire; he tensed and, without looking back at Moshevsky, made a cutting motion with his hand. Instantly a new burst from the Galil and the fire extinguisher exploded over Fasil in a great burst of foam, Kabakov diving over the bulwark, into the spray, on top of Fasil, slick with the chemical. Fasil’s face full of it, the gun going off deafeningly beside Kabakov’s neck. Kabakov had the wrist of the gun hand, snapping his head from side to side to avoid a finger strike at his eyes, and with his free hand broke Fasil’s collarbone on both sides. Fasil writhed out from under him, and as he tried to rise Kabakov caught him with an elbow in the diaphragm that laid him back on the ground.

Moshevsky was here now, raising Fasil’s head and pulling his jaw and tongue forward to be sure his air passage was clear. The snake was taken.

Corley heard the screaming as he ran into the Superdome with a teargas gun. It was coming from behind the stack of cement, where two FBI agents stood uncertainly, Moshevsky facing them, full of menace.

Corley found Kabakov sitting on Fasil, his face an inch from the Arab’s. “Where is it, Fasil? Where is it, Fasil?” He was flexing the fractures in Fasil’s collarbones. Corley could hear the grating noise. “Where’s the plastic?”

Corley’s revolver was in his hand. He pressed the muzzle to the bridge of Kabakov’s nose. “Stop it, Kabakov. Goddamn you, stop it.”

Kabakov spoke, but not to Corley. “Don’t shoot him, Moshevsky.” He looked up at Corley. “This is the only chance we’ll have to find it. You don’t have to make a case against Fasil.”

“We’ll interrogate him. Take your hands off him.”

Three heartbeats later: “All right. You’d better read to him from the card in your wallet.”

Kabakov stood. Unsteady, splattered with fire extinguisher foam, he leaned against the rough concrete wall, and his stomach heaved. Watching him, Corley felt sick as well, but he was not angry anymore. Corley did not like the way Moshevsky was looking at him. He had his duty to do. He took a radio from one of the FBI agents. “This is Jay Seven. Get an ambulance in the east entrance of the Superdome.” He looked down at Fasil, moaning on the ground. Fasil’s eyes were open. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent,” Corley began heavily.

Fasil was held on charges of illegal entry and conspiracy to violate Customs regulations. Awad was held for illegal entry. The embassy of the United Arab Republic arranged for them to be represented by a New Orleans law firm. Neither Arab said anything. Corley hammered at Fasil for hours Sunday night in the prison infirmary and received nothing but a mocking stare. Fasil’s lawyer withdrew from the case when he heard the nature of the questions. He was replaced by a Legal Aid attorney. Fasil paid no attention to either lawyer. He seemed content to wait.

Corley dumped the contents of a manila envelope on a desk in the FBI office. “This is all Fasil had on him.”

Kabakov poked through the pile. There was a wallet, an envelope containing twenty-five hundred dollars in cash, an open airline ticket to Mexico City, Fasil’s fake credentials and passport, assorted change, room keys from the YMCA and the Bienville House, and two other keys.

“His room is clean,” Corley said. “A few clothes. Awad’s luggage is clean as a whistle. We’re working on tracing Fasil’s gun, but I think he brought it in with him. One of the holes in the Leticia was a magnum.”

“He hasn’t said anything?”

“No.” By tacit agreement, Corley and Kabakov had not referred to their angry clash in the Superdome again, but for a moment they both thought about it.

“Have you threatened Fasil with immediate extradition to Israel to stand trial for Munich?”

“I’ve threatened him with everything.”

“What about sodium pentathol or hallucinogens?”

“Can’t do it, David. Look, I have a pretty good idea of what Dr. Bauman probably has in her purse. That’s why I haven’t let you in to see Fasil.”

“No, you’re wrong. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t drug him.”

“But I expect you asked her.”

Kabakov did not reply.

“These keys are for two Master padlocks,” Corley said. “There are no padlocks in Fasil’s luggage or in Awad’s. Fasil has locked up something. If the bomb is big, and it would have to be big if it’s in a single charge or even two charges, then it’s probably in a truck, or close to a truck. That means a garage, a locked garage.

“We’re having five hundred of these keys made. They’ll be issued to patrolmen with instructions to try every padlock on their beats. When one clicks open, the patrolman is to lay back and call for us.

“I know what’s bothering you. Two keys come with each new padlock, right?”

“Yes,” Kabakov said. “Somebody has got the other set of keys.”

“DAHLIA? ARE YOU HERE?”THE room was very dark.

“Yes, Michael. Right here.”

He felt her hand on his arm. “Have I been asleep?”

“You’ve slept for two hours. It’s one a.m.”

“Turn on the light. I want to see your face.”

“All right. Here it is. The same old face.”

He held her face in his hands, gently rubbing his thumbs in the soft hollows beneath her cheekbones. It had been three days since his fever broke. He was getting 250 milligrams of Erythromycin four times a day. It was working, but slowly.