Thomas Harris: Black Sunday

“Vehicles first.” He picked up his pointer. “Roadblocks will be prepared here at Willow Street on both sides of the stadium and at Johnson, Esther, Barret, Story, and Delord. Hickory will be blocked where it crosses Audubon. These are positive roadblocks that will stop a vehicle athigh speed. I don’t want to see anybody standing beside a sawhorse waving down traffic. The roadblocks will dose tight as soon as the stadium is filled.”

An agent raised his hand.

“Yeah.”

“TV is bitching about the midnight setup rule. They’ll have the color van set up this afternoon, but they want access throughout the night.”

“Tough tit,” Renfro said. “Tell them no. After midnight nobody comes in. At ten a.m. Sunday the camera crews can take their places. Nobody carries anything. Where’s the FAA?”

“Here,” said a balding young man. “Considering the persons already in custody, the use of an aircraft is considered highly unlikely.” He spoke as though he were reading a report. “Both airports have been checked thoroughly for hidden ordnance.” The young man hesitated, choosing between “however” and “nonetheless.” He decided on “however.” “However. No private aircraft will take off from New Orleans International or Lakefront during the time the stadium is filled, with the exception of charter and cargo flights which have already been cleared individually by us.

“Commercial flights remain on schedule. New Orleans police will man both airports in the event someone should try to commandeer an aircraft.”

“Okay,” Renfro said. “The Air Force advises no unidentified aircraft will get into the New Orleans area. They’re standing by as they did on December 31. Naturally, they would have to solve that kind of problem well outside the city. The perimeter they are establishing has a 150-mile radius. We’ll have a chopper up to watch the crowd.

“Now, about infiltration of the stadium. We have announcements on the media requesting ticketholders to show up one and one-half hours before game time,” Renfro said. “Some of them will, some won’t. They will have to pass through the metal detectors provided by the airlines before they enter the stadium. That’s you, Fullilove. Are your people checked out on the equipment?”

“We’re ready.”

“The ones who arrive late will be mad if standing in line at the metal detector makes them miss the kickoff, but that’s tough. Major Kabakov, do you have any suggestions?”

“I do.” Kabakov went to the front of the room. “Regarding metal detectors and personal searches: No terrorist is going to wait until he’s in a metal detector with the bell going off to go for his gun. Watch the line approaching the detector. A man with a gun will be looking around for an alternate way in. He’ll be looking from policeman to policeman. Maybe his head won’t move, but his eyes will. If you decide someone in the line is suspect, get him from both sides suddenly. Don’t give any warning. Once he knows his cover is about to be blown, he’ll kill as many as he can before he goes down.” Kabakov thought the officers might resent being told their business. He didn’t care.

“If possible, there should be a grenade sump at every gate. A circle of sandbags will do; a hole with sandbags around it is better. A grenade rolling on the ground in a crowd is hard to get to. What’s worse is to get to it and have no place to put it. The fragmentation grenades they use usually have a five-second fuse. They will be attached to the guerrilla’s clothing by the pin. Don’t pull a grenade off him. Kill him or control his hands first. Then take your time removing his grenades.

“If he is wounded and down, and you cannot get to him instantly and control his hands, shoot him again. In the head. He may be carrying a satchel charge, and he’ll set it off if you give him time.” Kabakov saw expressions of distaste on some of the faces. He did not care.

“Gunfire at one gate must not distract the men at another. That’s the time to watch your own area of responsibility. Once it starts in one position, it will start elsewhere.”

“There’s one other thing. One of them is a woman, as you know.” Kabakov looked down for a moment and cleared his throat. When he spoke again his voice was louder. “In Beirut once, I looked at her as a woman rather than as a guerrilla. That’s one reason we are in this position today. Don’t make the same mistake.”

The room was very still when Kabakov sat down.

“One backup team is on each side of the stadium,” Renfro said. “They will respond to any alarm. Do not leave your position. Pick up your ID tabs at this desk after the meeting. Any questions?” Renfro looked over the group. His eyes had the finish of black Teflon. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

Tulane Stadium late on the eve of the Super Bowl was lit and quiet. The stadium’s great spaces seemed to suck up the small noises of the search. Fog rolling off the Mississippi River a mile away swirled under the banks of floodlights.

Kabakov and Moshevsky stood at the top of the stands, their cigars glowing bright in the shadowed press box. They had been silent for half an hour.

“They could still pack it in, some of it,” Moshevsky said finally. “Under their clothes. If they weren’t carrying batteries or sidearms it wouldn’t show on the metal detectors.”

“No.”

“Even if there are only two of them, it would be enough to make a big mess.”

Kabakov said nothing.

“There’s nothing we could do about that,” Moshevsky said. Kabakov’s cigar brightened in a series of angry puffs. Moshevsky decided to shut up.

“Tomorrow I want you with the backup team on the west side,” Kabakov said. “I’ve spoken to Renfro. They’ll expect you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they come with a truck, get in the back fast and get the detonators out. Each team has a man assigned to do that, but see to it yourself as well.”

“If the back is canvas, it might be good to cut through the side going in. A grenade could be wired to the tailgate.”

Kabakov nodded. “Mention that to the team leader as soon as you form up. Rachel is letting out the seams in a flak jacket for you. I don’t like them either, but I want you to have it on. If shooting starts, you’d better look like the rest of them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Corley will pick you up at eight forty-five. If you are in the Hotsy-Totsy Club after one a.m. tonight, I’ll know it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Midnight in New Orleans, the neon lights on Bourbon Street smeared on the misty air. The Aldrich blimp hung over the Mississippi River Bridge, above the fog, Farley at the controls. Great letters rippled down the airship’s sides in lights. “DON’T FORGET. HIRE THE VET.”

In a room two floors above Farley’s at the Fairmont Hotel, Dahlia Iyad shook down a thermometer and put it in Michael Lander’s mouth. Lander had been exhausted by the trip from New Jersey. In order to avoid New Orleans International Airport, where Dahlia might be recognized, they had flown to Baton Rouge and come to New Orleans in a rented car with Lander stretched out on the backseat. Now he was pale, but his eyes were dear. She checked the thermometer. Normal.

“You’d better go see about the truck,” he said.

“It’s there or it’s not, Michael. If you want me to check it, of course I will, but the less I’m seen on the street—”

“You’re right. It’s there or it’s not. Is my uniform all right?”

“I hung it up. It looks fine.”

She ordered hot milk from room service and gave it to Lander with a mild sedative. In half an hour, he dropped off to sleep. Dahlia Iyad did not sleep. In Lander’s weakened condition, she must fly with him tomorrow on the bomb run, even if it meant leaving a section of the nacelle behind. She could help him with the elevator wheel, and she could handle the detonation. It was necessary.