In the steady hum of his ostentatious office in the City Post Office adjoining Union Station in Washington, D.C., the postmaster general of the United States blinked rapidly.
"Exploded?"
"That's correct. The FBI has been here, demanding our cooperation."
"Stonewall them!" the postmaster general roared.
"I thought you would want it that way, and that's what I did do."
"Good. You're a good man, whatever your name is."
"Finkelpearl, sir."
"Take no calls, Finkelpearl. I'm sending a man. His name is Reilly. Talk to no one until you talk to him."
"Understood, Mr. Postmaster."
The postmaster general hung up, muttering, "This is all the service needs."
Ten minutes later, Finkelpearl was back on the line. "Sir, it's happened again," he croaked.
"Another bomb?"
"Thirteen relay boxes have exploded. All in a narrow radius of this facility. It's a reign of terror."
"My God. Is someone attacking the postal service?"
"I cannot speak to that, Mr. Postmaster."
"Or has one of your employees gone off the deep end?"
Postmaster Finkelpearl cleared his throat. "That's not impossible, as you know."
"Wait for Reilly. And remember the watchword. Stonewall. Stonewall. Stonewall."
"I'm stonewalling as best I can."
After New York signed off, the postmaster general was dictating a preliminary statement for the benefit of the media when the incoming calls began coming in a barrage.
"The director of the FBI, on line 1."
"I'm in conference."
"The commissioner of police for New York City. Line 2."
"Tell him to liaise with the FBI. I talk only to federal agencies."
"Yes, Sir."
"Postmaster Finkelpearl on line 1."
The postmaster general hesitated. "Patch him through."
"Mr. Postmaster, this is Finkelpearl."
"I know. Out with it."
"Did you send a postal inspector named Smith to interview me?"
"Smith? No, I told you to await Reilly. He's en route."
"An Inspector Smith just left my office. He showed an inspector's badge. Then Reilly appeared."
"Did you talk to him?"
"I-I'm afraid he managed to get a name out of me."
"What do you mean, a name?"
"They think the bombs were made by one of ours."
"Is that possible?"
"We've had employees shoot other employees, take hostages, steal the mail and destroy it. Just last month, we were breaking in a new man on an optical reader here. The damn fool couldn't punch in the zip codes fast enough to keep pace with the mail stream, so he would stuff postcards into his mouth, chew and swallow them whole."
"That's disgusting."
"Pressure will do that, sir."
"We're not the only game in town any more. Federal Express and UPS are eating our lunch. If we don't get competitive by the end of the century, we'll be reduced to shoveling junk mail. There's good money in junk mail, but it isn't enough. We need more market share, especially in the lucrative express niche. Business won't trust us with their overnight packages until we demonstrate unrelenting reliability in the first-class department."
"I understand the problem, sir. What do I do?"
"What name did you give him?"
"Al Ladeen."
"Al Ladeen. Al Ladeen. Do I know him?"
"I don't see how. He came on board only last year."
"Finkelpearl," said the postmaster general.
"Yes, sir?"
"I think you may have given up one of your own to a federal agent in disguise."
"That's what Reilly thinks."
"We're really screwed now. This is no longer an internal USPS matter."
"What shall I do?"
"Stonewall your end. I'll stonewall my own. If we're lucky, Ladeen is at this moment a face-cancel case."
"Sir?"
"Sucking on the muzzle of a smoking .45."
"Let's hope so."
"You know the drill.. . . They all go that way in the final sort."
Hanging up, the postmaster called out to his secretary, "Tear up that press release and get in here. We're starting over."
The paper went into a waste basket and the postmaster general began again. "In an enterprise as large as the USPS, as in any military organization that depends upon conscripts and volunteers, there are always bad apples," the postmaster general began. He stared up at the office ceiling. Washington traffic hummed outside. Making a mouth, he wrinkled his forehead into fleshy gullies. "Add some boilerplate from my last speech, throw in a sprinkling of happy horseshit. And don't forget to end with 'We deliver for you.' "
"Yes, sir," the secretary said, rising.
After the door had closed, the postmaster general of the United States of America leaned back in his chair and groaned, "What next?"
That was when the call from Oklahoma City came in.
"This is Heydorn. Manager, Oklahoma City."
"Is there a problem, Oklahoma?"
"We've had a shooting here."
"And you call me with that?" the postmaster general exploded. "If I had to field every call when a postal employee went nuts, I wouldn't get any work done." Lowering his voice, he added, "Look, can you keep a lid on this a day or two? We have a pony-distress situation up in New York City."
"Mr. Postmaster, the shooting was not in this building. It was in the new Wiley Post Federal Building."
"A postman was shot?"
"No, the postman did the shooting."
"That makes it tougher to media manage. Damn."
"He massacred an entire courtroom full of people. Including the judge."
"Federal or local?"
"Federal."
"That may be a good thing. Maybe I can pull some strings. Get it swept under the rug or something."
"The FBI has already been to see me."
"You didn't give the bastard up?"
"I handed over his file."
"You utter clown! Who do you think you're working for?"
Manager Heydorn's voice tightened. "The United States Postal Service."
"And who are you answerable to?"
"Why, you, sir."
"Don't you understand the table of organization? Have you ever heard of chain of command? You don't talk to other agencies first. You clear it with me first. What's gotten into you?"
"But, sir, this is Oklahoma City. We've had more than our share of tragedy out here."
"Don't snivel! I can't stand sniveling. No one snivels in my outfit."
"I understand, sir. But we have a rogue letter carrier who's wanted by the FBI for mass murder"
"For which I plan to hold you responsible, Oklahoma. Didn't you read my directive about anger management?"
"We painted all the walls a soothing pink, as directed."
"Including this man's cubicle?"
"He's a letter carrier. He has a route. He can't deliver the mail if he's staring at a pink wall all day."
"What about the premium coffee?"
"Er, I haven't felt the need to deploy it. My employees all seem pretty level-headed. Their psychological tests all came back good. No undue stress. This isn't the big city, you know."
The postmaster general's voice became low and urgent. "I hereby order you to declare an emergency-sanity maintenance coffee break. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Until you hear from me, say nothing, give up nothing and above all, we haven't had this conversation."
"I understand, Mr. Postmaster."
"Remember, loose lips sink ships."
The postmaster general hung up furiously. "Two in one day. God damn the bad luck!"
When his secretary buzzed him again, he was tempted to ignore it. But then, maybe it was good news this time.
"An Inspector Reilly on line 2. It sounds urgent."
"I'll take it."
Reilly's voice was twisted like a bent paper clip when it rattled out of the receiver.
"What's wrong?"
"Sir, I just came from the General Post Office."
"You knock that fool Finkelpearl in line?"
"He understood his responsibilities, sir. But I'm afraid there's more bad news."
"Not more blown boxes?"
"No."
"A shooting?"
"No, it's-"
"Out with it!" the postmaster general roared.
"I'm trying. I left the building not fifteen minutes ago. Took a cab to my hotel. Then I heard it. It was the damnedest sound I'd ever heard in my life. Like an explosion, a sonic boom and an earthquake all run together. I'm looking west from my hotel-room window now. All I can see is a column of smoke."
"What are you trying to say?"
"It's gone."
"What is?"
"The building, sir. It's been obliterated."
The postmaster general of the United States slowly came to his feet, his mind racing. He was thinking, He can't be talking about his hotel. He's calling from his hotel. He can't be calling about any old building, because I don't care.
The postmaster general swallowed so hard his Adam's apple went away. "Say you're not going to tell me I've lost a post," he croaked.
"Sir, you might want to turn on CNN."
The postmaster did. The office TV was recessed into a cabinet. He used a remote.
CNN was live with the story. They were remote telecasting an aerial shot of midtown Manhattan. Madison Square Garden was in the shot. On the Hudson sat the glass puzzle that was the Jacob Javits Center. It looked as if a thousand mirrors had dropped out of a million frames.
But east of it lay a pile of smoking ruins that occupied an entire city block. Stone rubble. And among the smoke and fires, the postmaster general of the United States could see the broad, cracked steps like something out of ancient Rome, and tumbled and broken all over them lay the remnants of the twenty Corinthian columns of the General Post Office, the largest postal facility in the entire nation.
At that exact mouth-drying moment, the intercom buzzed and the secretary's hushed voice said, "The President of the United States on line 1."
Chapter 12
The sun was sinking behind Harold Smith's back when his system beeped without warning.
"What's that?" asked Remo, who had returned to the green vinyl divan. The Master of Sinanju hovered behind Smith, reluctant to relinquish his honored position beside the man he called Emperor.
"Incoming bulletin."
Smith logged off the e-mail files and brought up an AP bulletin.
New York, New York-General Post Office Explosion (AP)
A massive explosion rocked midtown Manhattan at 4:44, demolishing the General Post Office and Mail Facility on Fifth Avenue. Rescue crews are on the scene. Casualty figures are unknown but the loss of life is feared to be great.
"My God!" croaked Smith.
"What's up, Smitty?" asked Remo, coming off the divan.
"The General Post Office in New York City has been demolished by an explosion. The explosive force must have been tremendous."
"Is that the big place on Fifth Avenue with all the columns?"
"It was," Smith said dully.
"What the hell is going on?" asked Remo. "Why would anyone want to blow up an entire post office?"
"Perhaps to show that it can be done."
"Huh?"
"At the very least, the person or persons responsible for the mailbox bombings have just covered their tracks in the most absolute fashion possible."
"Are we fighting Muslim terrorists or the US. Postal Service?"
Smith logged off the AP bulletin, and his eyes were stark.
"I believe we are fighting both."
"Both?"
"This e-mail account strongly suggests a terrorist network of Muslim fundamentalists. Al Ladeen is clearly of this group. And he was an employee of the post office."
"Yeah..."
"It is possible that others of his cell are also employees of the post office."
"You know, that could explain a lot of things. All these mailmen going postal, for example."
"Postal?" asked Chiun.
"That's what they call it," said Remo. "When a mailman goes nuts and starts killing other mailmen, they call it 'going postal.'"
Chiun stroked his wisp of a beard, his narrowing eyes turning reflective.
"In the days of Alexander, messengers often arrived crazed with thirst and exhaustion. It was very common for them to lay the message that they carried at the feet of their king and expire on the spot."
"That's because they had to run barefoot three or four thousand miles to get the word out."
"In those days, it was not so far," Chiun sniffed. "A certain Greek scribbler once said of the messengers of Persia that neither darkness nor cold nor rain could deter them from their duties."
"Isn't that the motto of the post office?" asked Remo.
"Adopted from Herodotus," said Smith.
"Yes, that was the Greek," said Chiun.
"According to these files, this cell has been operating for less than a year," Smith added.
"So why are they acting up only now? What do they want?" asked Remo.
"Unless I am misreading the events in Manhattan, they are making a statement."
"A statement. Of what?"
"That they exist. That they can strike us with impunity."
"That's what the fanatics behind the World Trade Center bombing thought. Look where they are now. All rotting away in a federal pen, including the Deaf Mullah."
"I must inform the President of our findings," said Smith, reaching into a desk drawer. Out came a cherry red telephone, a standard desk model, except that its blank face lacked a dial or keypad. He placed it on the desktop.
"My guess is he's already gotten word," Remo said dryly as Smith picked up the receiver and placed it to one ear.
Smith waited. The dedicated line activated an identical telephone in the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House by the simple act of Smith lifting the receiver. The line rang audibly in Smith's ear. And rang. And rang.
At length, a female voice came on the line. "Who is it? Who's at the other end of this thing? Is this Smith? Speak up. I know you're there. I can hear you wheezing."
"We are undone!" Chiun wailed. "It is the meddlesome queen!"
Coloring, Smith hung up, "Evidently he is not in the residence," he said nervously.
"Probably on the campaign trail, trying to scrounge up a few last votes," grunted Remo.
"He will have to return to Washington," said Smith. "This is too important."
"It will be too late to save his doomed presidency," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
"What makes you say that?" asked Smith, turning.
"Because those who squat on the Eagle Throne are by their nature doomed. I have dwelt in this mighty land many years now. I have seen the Presidents come and go, like untrustworthy viziers. I know them by heart. The Unshaven President. The Pretender. The Peanut Farmer. The Jelly Bean Eater. The Inarticulate One. The Glutton. Say but the word, and we will dispense forever with this succession of fools. Do not deny that your loins yearn to occupy the Eagle Throne in all its pomp and circumstance."
"We stay out of elections," Smith said flatly.
Chiun made his voice conspiratorial. "You have the power to abolish them."
Face puckering in a lemony frown, Smith returned to the e-mail.
Remo whispered to the Master of Sinanju, "Don't you ever get tired of trying?"
"He who ceases to try engineers his own defeat. He who never gives up cannot be defeated."
"He who hectors his Emperor to distraction may find his silken skirts on the street."
Chiun stiffened. "He would never-"
"We're all expendable on this bus," said Remo with a thin grin.
Face tightening, the Master of Sinanju took his right wrist in his left hand and his left
wrist in his right hand. His kimono sleeves slid along his forearms and came together, concealing both hands and the jade nail protector that Chiun wore like a badge of ignominy. He composed his features into bland inscrutability.
A low growl from Smith's throat caught their attention.
"Find something interesting?" asked Remo.
"This appears to be a recipe for a homemade ammonia-fertilizer bomb similar to the one that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City."
"Big surprise there."
"A bomb whose chief stabilizing ingredient is junk mail," added Smith.
"No kidding."
"And here are plans to fill up a mail truck with the concoction."
"A mail-truck bomb?"
"Yes. And I would wager such a weapon was responsible for the disaster at the General Post Office."
Smith's eyes suddenly jumped behind his glasses. "My God!"
"You keep saying that. How many times can you be surprised at what these guys are capable of doing?"
"I am looking at one of the claims faxed to the FBI in the wake of this afternoon's mailbox bombings."
"So?"
"Several were received. Some came from the usual terror and jihad groups. A few were organizations never before heard from, such as the Eagles of Allah and the Warriors of God."
Remo looked to Chiun. "W.O.G.?"
The Master of Sinanju shrugged. "Are messengers of Allah not usually wogs?"
"It is very likely that these new groups are in fact one and the same," Smith went on. "It is common practice among Middle Eastern terrorist groups to operate under multiple names in order to confuse the issue and make themselves seem more numerous and threatening than they really are. One new group called themselves the Islamic Front for the A.P.W.U. This is the name on this fax file."
"What's 'A.P.W.U.' stand for?"
"See for yourself."
Remo did. He looked. Then looked again. "Isn't that-?"
"The eagle graphic we saw before, yes. I recognize it now. It is the new emblem of the United States Postal Service. But look below it."
Remo's eyes went where Smith's bony finger pointed. He read aloud. "'Islamic Front for the American Postal Workers' Union.' A terrorist group has infiltrated the postman's union?"
"No, it is far graver than that."
Abruptly Smith turned in his chair. It swiveled to the big picture window. Smith looked past them at Long Island Sound, which was turning fiery orange in the dying afternoon light.
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