by Sarah Lovett
Well, so was she.
“So . . . you’ve got another bomb, right?” she asked slowly.
Church didn’t move a muscle. “What are you, bomb squad?”
“I’m not stupid.” Sylvia felt herself mirroring the investigator’s tension, told herself to breathe. Inside the vehicle, the level of mistrust was palpable. She stared back at Church. “You were part of the Calbomb Task Force. Detective Red Church. You helped track down Dantes.” Her eyebrows arched. “You even made Vanity Fair. Not a very good picture.”
“Nobody said you were stupid,” Church said finally.
She glanced at her wristwatch, then the sky, depressed by the sight of a distant metal bird climbing toward the clouds.
Church followed her gaze. “They all look alike.”
“Fuck,” she whispered.
6:05 A.M. Flanked by Purcell and Church, Sylvia crossed the already warm asphalt of Alameda Street. The route was becoming familiar. She couldn’t resist looking up as they passed by the Metropolitan Detention Center. The narrow vertical windows caught the sun’s rays, measuring the hour with light. Dantes was there somewhere. She shuddered at the thought of him.
Just fifty feet beyond MDC, they entered the dimly lit, almost deserted lobby of Roybal Federal Building, passing quickly through the security checkpoint.
On the fourth floor, Sylvia followed the investigators through a maze of hallways lined with glass cubicles. It was too early for most employees to be at work, but computer monitors glowed green, and the clatter of fingers across a keyboard echoed across the floor.
Sylvia felt comforted by the human sound. Her stomach hurt, her hands were shaking from caffeine withdrawal; when she glanced down she noticed one shoelace was untied.
The investigators led the way into a long, narrow conference room. A wall of tinted windows offered a view of downtown. A twelve-foot-by-six-foot aerial map of LA covered the opposite wall. The air was too cold, the overhead lights had been dimmed. At the far end of the room, light emanated from a suspended white screen. Sylvia heard the hum of a projector but couldn’t locate the source; her eyes were still adjusting to artificial twilight.
There was a soft whir followed by a click.
An image appeared—two paragraphs of enlarged black type projected starkly against the white screen.
“Yesterday while you were with Dantes,” Detective Church began, “a CO discovered a threat communication in his cell. Look at the paragraph on the left.”
Sylvia studied the message:
dear friend
thru me the way into the woeful city
thru me the way to eternal pain
sacrifice the children of heathens
until no innocents lay claim
first circle broken
8 circles remain
I do your bidding faithfully
M—
Church cleared his throat and said, “A second communication—apparently written by the same individual—arrived at FBI offices with yesterday’s mail.”
dear feds
babbel, babbel, babbel
no more Limbo
2nd circle soon complete
release yr prisoner DaNTes, prophet apocryphal
or hungry for next
Vvv
M—
“You were close to the money when you said we’ve got ourselves another bomb,” Church said. “We’ve had initial contact from a possible bomber-extortionist.”
“And his name is M,” Sylvia said quietly. She almost asked what Quantico’s psycholinguistic experts had to say about the content of the extortion notes: the literary and religious references.
But she stopped herself.
Her entire body was mobilized for fight or flight; she ignored the juvenile urge to cover her ears with her hands. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Your credentials checked out for BPP, or, trust me, you wouldn’t be sitting here,” Purcell said.
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Sylvia said warily. “I’m not FBI or behavioral sciences, not ATF or bomb squad. And you guys don’t hand out information freebies.” She slowed her speech as if she was addressing someone who barely spoke English. “So why am I here?”
When no one answered, she stood, abruptly claustrophobic.
“Sit down,” Purcell ordered.
“Not until you give me some kind of explanation.” Sylvia remained standing.
“Sit down,” Purcell repeated, enunciating for a disobedient child.
“No.”
As threat posture stiffened Purcell’s compact body, Church thrust an arm between the women. “Hey, come on, let’s all chill out.”
He leaned toward Sylvia. “Thirsty?” Without waiting for a response, he walked over to a small table that had been equipped with pitcher and plastic cups. He was whistling.
Reluctantly, Sylvia acquiesced, sinking into a chair. She could feel the first scratchy symptoms of a sore throat; even with full climate control, her skin had broken a sweat. Church set a full cup in front of her on the table. The water soothed her throat, and she finished it in two gulps.
Now Detective Church perched on the table’s edge, staking out the high ground. “You big on anniversaries, Doc?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“One week and we all get to celebrate the anniversary of the Getty bombing,” Church said. “We’d love to skip the fireworks display.”
Frustrated, Sylvia shook her head. “The timing of my visit to MDC is based on the fact Dantes is about to ship out of state, and because my security clearance was held up by desk jockeys.” Classified at level six—the Feds’ highest security level—Dantes was en route to Colorado’s Supermax.
After three beats, Church dipped the small black remote he held in his right hand.
While the screen went to white, Purcell said, “The information we’re about to share with you is extremely sensitive. The Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico is convinced the threat is real. We’re talking about a volatile situation with an extremely high possibility for loss of life.” Underneath her carefully mowed speech slunk the faintest of Southern accents.
Nobody said a word. The only sound was the projector.
Click, whir. A second slide, this one an enlarged photograph.
“This Polaroid arrived with the second threat communication,” Purcell said.
Sylvia was staring at a close-up of an improvised explosive device. A time bomb. But not just a utilitarian construction of timer, fuse, primer, and main charge.
The casing was elaborate: a wooden chest, carved and inlaid with metal and stones. Handles on both ends seemed to be brass or a similar metal. In stark contrast to the ornate container, the wired time-delay device appeared to consist of an ordinary alarm clock with a fat, white face, black numerals, and black hands; these were set at eighteen minutes, thirty seconds past one o’clock.
It was not unlike bombs attributed to John Dantes.
“Does anyone know if that’s timed to blow today?” Sylvia asked.
“You want to stake any money it’s not?” Church snorted. “Then you got bigger balls than me.”
“You must have hundreds of bomb threats every day. What makes this one real?”
“Obviously the references can be connected to Dantes,” Purcell said slowly. “Less obviously . . . when the paper is exposed to light, a series of figures, possibly numerical, become visible on the page.”
Whir, click. The third slide revealed a series of small wedge-shaped forms: two angled left to right, nine stacked in horizontal rows of three.
“We’ve developed several possible theories regarding their significance, but more pertinent to this discussion, we’ve seen something similar on another bomb,” Purcell said.
“The Getty?” Sylvia asked.
“On remains of the bomb that blew up the museum twelve months ago.” Purcell nodded. “That information is not public.”
“So only Dantes should know,” Sylvia said sl
owly. “And he’s serving a life sentence.”
“This UNSUB—we’re calling him M,” Purcell said. “We’re dealing with a copycat, a wannabe. Or we’re dealing with a collaborator.”
“Apparently he’s a fan of Dantes—and Dante.” Sylvia stared at the slide.
“Whatever the perp’s profile, we’re under the gun,” Detective Church’s deep voice rumbled. “We need information, and Dantes isn’t cooperating. The bastard’s telling us to pound sand.”
Sylvia felt cold, slightly dizzy, as she stood. She began walking toward the door, hungry for air that wasn’t pumped through ducts, recycled, sanitized.
None of this has anything to do with me, she thought.
Behind her, she heard the faint and indecipherable voices of the two investigators. She kept going.
When she heard the third voice, she stopped in her tracks. John Dantes. It took her a moment to realize the deep, resonant sound was a high-quality recording issuing from wall speakers.
Addressing unknown inquisitors, Dantes said, “You want a conversation, you listen to this: I’ll talk to one person. You get her back in here, you treat her respectfully, and you negotiate through her. Her name is Sylvia Strange. Dr. Strange to you.” The low rumble of his laughter vibrated through the speakers. “We made it easy for you—she’s even got clearance.”
The sound cut abruptly, but Sylvia took her time. When she turned to face the investigators her true voice got lost. A hoarse impostor said, “He’s crazy.”
“Crazy or not, you’re going in,” Church said.
“If I don’t?”
“Your life will become unpleasant. Your professional conduct has been questioned recently in New Mexico. If you refuse to cooperate with us, we’ll be wondering why, and we’ll be paying close attention to your every move. We’ll be deciding Dantes must have a special relationship with Sylvia Strange—maybe you belong to his fan club.”
Church dropped a shiny black object on the table: a pair of sunglasses. “Dantes said these are yours. Armani. You should be more careful where you leave your things.”
While the silence settled, he looked at her, his expression oddly sympathetic. His posture—broad shoulders inclined in her direction—expressed a certain intimacy.
He said, “You’d go in without threats. We’ve got a bomber out there. If he means business—and we think he does—you’re in a position to save lives, Dr. Strange.”
His fingers were on a file about an inch thick, and he opened the cover to reveal a stack of documents and photographs. He held them out—an offering. “Anything and everything about John Dantes.”
She ran her tongue over parched lips. Seconds ticked away along with the opportunity to turn tail. Finally, she nodded, accepting the file in hands that were less than steady. “What exactly do you need me to do?”
City—as Sodom, Babylon, Athens, New York, or Los Angeles—represents the gravest sins of humanity, the transgressions of man against God. The city Dis must pay for its sins. Boo-hoo.
Mole’s Manifesto (unpublished)
Tuesday—7:20 A.M. Welcome to LA, city of his childhood daze.
Welcome to Los Angeles, where Fat Cats feed off the city, gorging themselves until they swell to bursting.
Welcome, all ye gluttons for punishment.
Last night’s haze has cleared; his hunt was successful. He enjoyed his requisite three hours sleep, and now he is alive and well along with the half dozen other working stiffs exiting the Red Line car with the blessings of Ram’khastra, Angel of Rarefied Air, Sui’el, Angel of Earthquakes, and Sut, Angel of Lies.
Lucky duck; he thinks of his very own Angel Face and how good she made him feel when he returned home early this morning. Summoned from sleep by her lover, she smiled from her dreams, reaching out to caress him . . . skin golden in moonlight off the ocean. Honey-colored hair in wisps around her sweet face; she reminds him of a child except for the delicate breasts, the slim waist, the gently flaring hips, and golden fleece between her thighs—the proof she is no child but woman.
His woman. His Angel Face.
Riding the escalator, he rises from the depths of the subway tunnel at Union Station. A leather backpack is slung over his left shoulder; although it’s heavy, it’s nothing a workingman from San Pedro wouldn’t carry for a long hot day in the city.
A pretty redhead passing in the other direction on the escalator turns to send him a mischievous wink. As she moves, her red skirt billows around her long slender legs and a speculative smile plays over her unnaturally scarlet lips. She sees a healthy, attractive male in his late thirties. A man she wishes would stop to talk, flirt a minute, perhaps agree to meet for dinner . . . and rescue her from her humdrum life, because she fears she’s suffocating.
But he is already out of reach . . . and anyway, he has his own Angel Face; this very moment she’s hard at work in San Pedro: order up, three eggs, sunny-side, whole wheat, a cup of joe.
As the escalator reaches bunker level a glittering ribbon of reflected light snakes yellow and red across his slightly dilated black pupils: he catches the subliminal image of Marilyn Monroe. Tarzan’s jungle call of the wild sounds above him, echoing down from the tiled domes of hightech movie star heaven, Mecca of the urban artist.
Ah yes, LA, village of angels. Perhaps until this moment, he hasn’t realized how much he’s always missed his home. Doesn’t every man have a soft spot for the city of his lost innocence? It was here on these streets that he grew to manhood. Here, he discovered his reason to exist. Found his cause, his driving force.
Found his one and only hero. And lost . . .
But he’s not a bitter man. Not one to hold a grudge.
Smiling at yet another pretty woman—they sprout like weeds in LA—he strides casually through the long cool tunnel. Passengers from the train platforms above merge down a dozen ramps. Subway, bus, train—this station is the transportation hub of downtown.
Easily, he hefts the backpack, redistributing the weight across his shoulder. Inside the pack, the nine-by-nine-inch metal case is aluminum. It weighs less than thirty pounds. The system works on VHF or UHF radio communications.
Seven miles as the crow flies.
That’s how far away a man can stand and still arm and fire, still detonate a bomb.
A couple of pounds of ammonium nitrate; three or four sticks of commercial dynamite; a few sheets of PETN or RDX; a handful of C-4.
Choose your recipe, choose your poison.
Explosive ingredients that will destroy buildings and send wood, metal, and glass shrapnel spiraling into space, start fires, and sever local utility and communication feeds.
Explosives designed to extinguish civilian targets and to bring a city to its knees.
In M’s case, all in the name of his compatriot, his brother, John Freeman Dantes.
Boom.
Remote control blasting. It used to be a product of fertile imaginations. In the past decade it has become as real as the sturdy aluminum he totes in his leather backpack. It is his genius to understand each job—parameters and goal—and how to accomplish it with 1.5 million or twenty-five bucks.
If you think he’s some blue-collar grunt, some hick from the hills, you got another think coming.
Abreast with fellow commuters, going with the flow, he recognizes snatches of Lebanese, Spanish, Arabic, and even understands a bit of the discussion about an elder son from Peking who wishes to marry a doctor, and the furious rantings of a Russian who owes money to gangsters. He blends into the growing crowd. Who besides the redhead will remember the clean-cut, athletically built man with the puckish features and clipped salty brown hair who wears a light jacket, blue shirt, khaki slacks, loafers? And sunglasses.
God help him if he neglects to wear sunglasses in Los Angeles.
Past the restricted entry to transportation, passengers find themselves in the cool, vast, vaulted dome of Union Station. A few dine on croissants or sip lattes from a vendor. Fewer still read newspapers and consume
burritos at Velarde’s.
It’s too early to find customers at the bar, a dark and frosted deco set from the 1930s. If all goes as planned, he will be in another world by the time commuters, couples, and business types are nursing martinis and old-fashioneds, posturing Bogart and Bacall—and discussing the explosion that will make CNN headlines.
Bombs are all the rage.
Although the original ticket counter has long been closed, the polished wooden ledge still stretches the length of one room just as it did sixty years earlier, when it was part of a more civilized era. An era, he reminds himself, when the city’s oldest Chinatown neighborhood was razed to build this Spanish-colonial-revival-marries-art-deco romance.
He passes a uniformed police officer and nods politely, stepping beneath one of several arched doorways. Slipping out of darkness into the hard white heat of concrete days, he breathes deeply, relishing the faint scent of chlorine. His nose is damn good; it has saved his skin more than once. He’s managed to scent his own death in the air when the mix of chemicals turned deadly. Today he is just breathing LA’s distinct perfume, a poison all its own.
Crossing the parking lot that fronts Union Station, he picks his way past construction detour signs and turns onto Los Angeles Street. He has a vehicle parked just three blocks north. At the moment, he is a foot soldier.
With care, he shifts his leather backpack to his other arm. The weight hangs more heavily now, but he doesn’t slow, continuing his even stride, crossing over Highway 101. Below him, a river of cars and trucks form a solid south-flowing current that threatens to flood Anaheim. He catches sight of a child whose face is pressed to the dusty rear window of a station wagon. He waves; the child sticks its tongue out.
At this more human level, along the rail of the on ramp, transients have cast their blankets, marking their territory with cardboard, old rags, piss, and sweat. The freeway squatters’ village reminds him of nomadic encampments he has encountered deep in forsaken deserts. For an instant, he imagines tasseled camels, veiled women, and tents billowing like the sails of vessels beached in the Taklimakan, the Sahara, the Nubian, the Libyan, the Kyzyl Kum, and the Kara-Kum.