by Dane Hartman
Just then, the dispatcher’s voice could be heard all the way across the lobby. One of the policemen lowered his eyes to the two-way radio he held in his hand. The robbers could not hear what the dispatcher had said, but they guessed that she was inquiring as to what the officers had found, if anything. And when the young cop with the radio responded, after a moment’s hesitation, they could not hear him either. He had spoken quietly, and in code which he repeated twice for emphasis.
But while the robbers might not have known the meaning of the code, they were reasonably certain that he was alerting the dispatcher to the fact that a robbery was in progress and that an emergency situation existed.
One of the robbers reacted by shooting the cop. He wasn’t thinking of strategy. It was an instinctive response. The cop wasn’t wearing a bullet-proof vest, otherwise he would have suffered nothing more than a bruise. Instead, he was thrown against the opposite wall, a hole in his chest that barely hinted at the enormous damage done to his left lung.
Now there was utter tumult. The three officers who had just dropped their guns lunged for them again. The forty-odd people trapped inside the lobby began to run in all directions, fleeing for whatever cover was available or else heading for the elevators in hopes of finding refuge on other floors.
The robbers had not wanted this to happen; it was out of their control now, and they would have to fight their way to freedom. But however much chaos ensued, they made sure always to keep an eye on the laundry bag stuffed with valuables. Without that, they wouldn’t have much to show for their efforts.
“Victor Two, Victor Two.” The dispatcher’s voice blasted out of the radio. There was an urgency to the call that Harry did not usually detect since emergencies were, after all, simply a part of a day’s work to the dispatcher.
“This is Victor Two,” Harry said, taking hold of the mike.
“We have a possible 1080 at the Mark Hopkins. Four officers are on the scene but we’ve lost communication with them. Backup assistance is being requested from all units in the area.”
“This is some kind of day,” Harry muttered, thinking of the disasters that had already befallen the city and its police force within the preceding twelve hours. “All right, this is Victor Two, 10-40.”
Harry was on O’Farrell and he swung south toward Nob Hill. It took him only a few minutes to arrive on the scene and by then the streets surrounding the Mark Hopkins were already filled with radio cars, their lights blinking, their sirens creating a furious din. There was obviously no need for discretion now. The trio who’d invaded the hotel were undoubtedly expecting them.
Ellie Winston was a woman who lacked patience. Which was one of the reasons she’d gone into the news business. Something was always happening twenty-four hours a day and she had attained a position that insured she would be in on it whenever she wanted.
She was bright and pretty and efficient and—if her detractors were to be believed—somewhat ruthless. She was apt to use her good looks and her abundant charm to ensnare the unwary. And it was true that she would often overlook the niceties of civilized behavior if it meant that she could gain access to a good story. But above all she was impatient. She was thirty-one years old and she had the feeling that if she didn’t move quickly enough, everything would fall apart on her. There would be other women behind her, she realized, and maybe they’d be more intelligent than she, more articulate and more determined, and the day would come when they’d overtake her. The men in power might one day decide that she’d gone too far and cut her down to a size they felt more appropriate. And then there were her own insecurities and self-doubts, the sense she had sometimes that she did not deserve her good fortune and status as a local celebrity who might soon—so the rumors went—be selected by one of the networks to anchor the national news desk in New York.
So it was in an effort to keep up with an ongoing story—and possibly to stay ahead of it—that Ellie had abandoned the editing she should have been doing to monitor the police band radio in the newsroom. It was possible, she thought, that she would be able to discover this Harry Callahan’s whereabouts on her own without having to wait for Bressler to call back.
But she was getting far more than she bargained for. From the various exchanges taking place between the dispatcher and several units throughout the downtown area, it was clear that something very unusual was happening at the Mark Hopkins.
“Get a crew together,” she instructed one of her assistants, “and do it fast. We’re checking this one out.”
Already phone calls were coming in, confirming that a very conspicuous police presence was making itself visible in the Nob Hill area. Ellie was becoming anxious that another news team would arrive there first and get the most dramatic footage, cheating her of another exclusive. That she had already had one exclusive that day, in the wreckage of the airline terminal, meant nothing to her. Each story was new, each story was a challenge, and a dozen victories did not make up for one loss.
But before she could get up from her desk, the phone rang.
“Jimmy,” she called to one of her colleagues, “would you get that, please? I’ve got to get out of here.”
The man she’d addressed as Jimmy took the call, then turned back to her, “I think you ought to take it, Ellie.”
“Not now. Take a message and I’ll get back to whoever it is.”
“I’m serious, Ellie. It’s about the bombing this morning.”
She grabbed the phone but before picking up, signalled to Jimmy to start the recorder going.
“Hello, this is Ellie Winston, who am I speaking to, please?”
“My name is not important,” said a man in a voice that had a slight accent, but just what kind of accent Ellie could not immediately discern. “All that matters is that I am a representative of the Alpha Group. This morning we destroyed the international terminal at San Francisco Airport and while we deeply regret the loss of life that resulted, we must point out that in this war there are no innocent victims, there can never be innocent victims. Without violence, we would remain ignored or ridiculed. We cannot allow that, do you understand? We are striking for the rights of oppressed peoples everywhere, for those who suffer from exploitation and the imperialism of the United States and its big business surrogates. Tomorrow you shall receive a manifesto which will state our objectives and offer a resolution to the problem confronting us. All the news media will have this manifesto in their hands by noon. All the news media will be obliged to publicize our manifesto without comment, without alteration, or otherwise we cannot be held responsible for the consequences. Is that understood?”
Unable to get a word in edgewise throughout the anonymous caller’s entire statement, Ellie now said, “I am not sure anything’s understood.”
“It will be,” the caller said cryptically. “Good day, Miss Winston.”
“Now, wait a min . . .”
It was too late. He had already hung up.
“Did you get that, Jimmy?”
The assistant dutifully pressed rewind, then the play button. He’d gotten all of it.
“And what do you make of it?”
“I think he’s crazy. What the hell is the Alpha Group?”
“Beats me, never heard of It before.”
“You think he’s for real?”
“I think so, somehow I do.”
“Should I call the police and let them know we’ve received this call?”
Ellie considered this for a moment. “Just sit tight on it until I get back. You could try calling a couple of the other stations though, feel them out, see if they received similar calls. That way we’ll know how to play it on this evening’s news.”
The phone rang again. Jimmy knew enough to answer it this time.
“Ellie, your camera crew’s waiting downstairs,” he said.
“Wish me luck.”
She was out the door before he could wish her anything.
The gentlemen bandits, as they were known in those cities whe
re, with impeccable manners, they had carried off many hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of cash and jewelry, were no longer able to maintain their image. Instead, they were hunkered down behind the reservations counter of the Mark Hopkins, repeatedly firing their automatics. Their first targets, naturally, had been the three policemen who had attempted to spare themselves the fate of their fallen colleague.
In this objective they’d been none too successful. For one thing, by throwing their guns aside when ordered to do so, they had lost precious seconds in scooping them up again. For another, they had no cover.
Two men were instantly cut down, though only one sustained fatal injuries. The other, his thigh covered with blood, groped for his weapon and returned the fire. Unfortunately, one of the panicking guests—a portly man with a briefcase—got in the way. When his massive stomach burst open with a strange sucking sound, he dropped his briefcase and gazed with astonishment at the injury. As he clutched his gut, trying to prevent his intestines from falling out, he kept shaking his head dazedly as though this was a dream from which he might eventually awaken.
The third officer managed to escape the initial fusillade; perhaps because he was the youngest—a rookie with only half a year on the force—he possessed the greatest agility and he’d thrown himself to the floor before the rounds were impacted in the wall beyond him. But he found himself in the frustrating position of having to hold his fire. What sense did it make to begin shooting when the enemy could not be seen and the only ones who could possibly be hurt would be innocent people?
Naturally, there was pandemonium. Those who weren’t screaming were shouting, though what message they were trying to communicate wasn’t at all clear with all the commotion. Several men, who looked like sales representatives of some massive conglomerate, were attempting to pile their way into an elevator. One of the robbers—the edgy one who’d been the first to pull the trigger—didn’t like the idea that they should escape so easily. It was more a matter of hurt pride than a strategically vital move, but nonetheless, he turned his gun on them, and fired several times into the heaving mass of black jackets.
How many were hit wasn’t immediately discernible. But there could be no question that the conglomerate would be recruiting new sales representatives in the very near future. At least two men were critically injured and both of them toppled into the elevator as it was about to close, their bodies sprawled out at awkward angles. With them in the way the doors were unable to shut.
Others, in their desperation to get out of the path of the bullets, found themselves stumbling, and all that did was add to the confusion and further impede flight.
A great number, not so emboldened as these sales representatives—nor so intoxicated with alcohol—decided not to go anywhere but remained flattened out on the floor of the lobby, hoping that they would simply be ignored.
The three men who’d been responsible for this mayhem knew that they could not stay like this forever and so they rounded up half a dozen hostages, four women, one six-year-old boy and one man, and began to make their way, slowly, very slowly, out of the lobby.
Neither of the two surviving officers could get off a shot, not with the hostages forming a human wall around the three gunmen.
As soon as they reached the exit, they discovered what looked like an entire army; snipers were deployed everywhere, behind parked cars, on adjacent rooftops, but they had no clearance to fire.
Observing these events was the news crew from KCVO-TV. In spite of her apprehensions, Ellie had been the first newsperson on the scene and she had fully exploited her advantage, positioning herself and her cameramen directly in front of the hotel. And because there was so much chaos no one in authority had ordered her back. If I don’t get a Pulitzer one of these days, she was thinking, it won’t be because I haven’t had the right story.
To one of the police sergeants standing nearby she said, “Excuse me, are you acquainted with a homicide detective by the name of Callahan?”
“Dirty Harry, you mean?”
“Dirty?”
“That’s what everyone calls him. He’s right over there.”
The sergeant indicated a tall confident man whose face, however, looked to her like a battle had taken place on it. His eyes were bloodshot, he had two days growth of beard, but beyond that there was a sense that he had lived too long and done too much, and all within the last twenty-four hours. He was handsome in a way, but not in a way that Ellie was attracted to. Why was Bressler so eager to have her accompany him on his rounds? Well, perhaps she would find out soon enough.
The sergeant said, “You want to know how he came to be called Dirty, you watch.”
Harry had just emerged from his unmarked car. It was a two-door Coronado and it was almost as battered as its driver. With seeming indifference, he regarded the strange procession of gunmen and hostages as it eased its way through the crowd onto the sidewalk.
“We need a car and a driver!” one of the robbers declared. “Only one car, no one following us. When we are safely outside the city we will let the hostages go.”
It was assumed that this would be the sort of strategy the perpetrators would employ and the police had already contrived a response, which was not to say that there wasn’t going to be any improvisation along the way.
Harry stepped forward. “You got yourself a driver,” and turning his head resignedly to where the Coronado was parked, he added, “and you’ve got yourself a car.”
“Who are you?” the robber demanded.
“Harry Callahan.”
The name seemed to make no difference to him.
The hostages were pushed forward. Of the six, the child seemed the least frightened, bewildered yes, but hardly as tearful or as anxious as his elders.
Just as they came within a few yards of the car—the three robbers squeezed into the middle, the hostages on the outside—Ellie Winston instructed her associates to turn their video cameras on them and to ignite their high powered klieg lights.
The harsh glare of the lights took the approaching hostages and their captors totally by surprise. For a few uncertain moments, they were paralyzed, unable to make out where they were going; hands flew up to protect the eyes, heads turned away . . .
No one had anticipated this, not even Harry who liked to think that he was prepared for any eventuality. But that did not mean he failed to capitalize on the situation. This was where the improvising came in.
Lifting his .44 Magnum out from the holster strapped underneath his jacket, he raised it with one hand while simultaneously shielding his eyes with the other. The intense lights burned into his retinas. His target was practically a blur. Nonetheless, for his purposes, a blur would just have to do.
Of the three masked figures, one was particularly exposed. There was a young woman to one side of him and an elderly woman to the other, but his head was almost completely visible between the two.
The blast was loud and decisive. The black mask turned bright red and then disappeared from sight altogether as the robber tumbled back, falling against one of his comrades who lost his balance in turn.
Naturally, the gunshot had the effect of sowing confusion and panic among the hostages who started running in all directions.
This left the two remaining gunmen in the open which was just what Harry had intended. Before the second could adequately regain his balance and determine where the shot had come from, Harry had shot him too, the round catching him between his shoulder blades and pitching him back against the sidewalk.
The lone survivor happened to be carrying the laundry bag and even under such obviously urgent circumstances, he could not bring himself to abandon it. Instead, he began to race away, hoping that as soon as he reached the crowd of curiosity seekers, of whom there were more and more all the time, no one would dare fire for fear of taking an innocent life. How he would get away with his ill-gotten gains was another matter entirely.
Harry saw that it was senseless to pursue him—the gunman
had too much of a start on him—and he recognized how dangerous it would be to try to bring him down. He was getting too close to the police barricades where the onlookers had assembled, and because there were so many of them, they couldn’t flee from the gunman even if they wanted to; they’d all crush each other. So they contented themselves with screaming and grappling futilely with their neighbors in an effort to wrest a path free.
Since Harry could not fire at the man himself, but rather at a more conspicuous, and less risky, target—the laundry bag bulging with jangling jewelry and less noisy wallets—he aimed right for the middle of it. It wasn’t hard to hit. The round drove through the bag, puncturing a gaping hole out of which spewed bills, gold necklaces, diamond rings, and emerald chokers.
The .44 round did not strike the fleeing man himself; there was simply too much bulk for it to go through, but it did cause some of the jewels to explode back like shrapnel. The robber staggered for a few paces as the momentum kept him going and then he collapsed under the weight of the bag.
The police had to fight their way through the crowd to get to him. No longer fearful of being hit by stray bullets, people were eager to get hold of any loose valuables and cash before they could be retrieved by authorities and restored to their rightful owners.
When the leaking bag was hoisted off the prostrate robber, a portion of his dinner jacket and shirt came with it, stuck to the canvas by blood. His entire back was shredded. He might be the first person Harry was aware of ever to be killed by women’s jewelry.
With the boldness and ingenuity that had characterized her earlier actions, Ellie was somehow able to penetrate the mob of policemen, onlookers, and souvenir hunters to film additional footage of the dramatic events that would be edited, encapsulated, and commented upon for that evening’s local news broadcast.
But while she coolly maintained command of her crew, she was careful not to let Harry out of her sight.
Harry at the moment was being reprimanded by Bressler.