“He certainly has impacted the lives of a lot of people,” Washington replied, “if it is indeed him.”
“Carter, if his letter does come, do we print it? What are our parameters?” Chuck returned to his desk and was leaning with his elbows on the back of his chair.
“As you’re well aware, the Bureau can only make recommendations; we can’t make you do anything one way or the other. You’ll make the final decision. I think the content is the key. What kinds of demands are being made? Is the threat implied or real? When Ted Kaczynski sent his manifesto, it was 35,000 words long. Cost the Washington Post nearly 40 grand to print the stupid thing. He promised to stop the bombings if it was printed. Who knows what this guy’s going to ask for.”
“What’s the FBI’s plan? How do you stop the invisible man?” Cole asked.
“Research. That’s what we are best at. This guy will make a mistake. Somebody will rat him out. We will be waiting. We’ll get him.”
“What if you don’t?” Cole looked straight into Carter Washington’s eyes.
“We’ll get him. Sooner or later. Hopefully, sooner.” Carter looked down at the floor. “For the first time, we have what we think is the name and ID of a very bad man. He gave us his name, first mistake. Left fingerprints, second mistake. We are connecting lots of dots. Those dots make a picture. We’ll get him.”
“So, we wait.” Chuck smiled a half-hearted smile.
* * * * *
The printer buzzed, and the ink cartridge zipped back and forth across the page. Jason Reed stood blocking the view of anyone who might see the paper coming out of the printer. When the printing was finished, he sat down and slipped the sheet into a 9 by 12 manila envelope.
With a couple of keystrokes, he deleted his document from Microsoft Word. The CD tray slipped open and in a subtle, almost undetectable, motion, Reed put the powerful ceramic magnet he slipped from his back pocket into the tray and, with the flick of his thumb, closed it. As the sound of the CD started with a soft whir, the monitor began to flicker with images and text. Suddenly it went blue. Reed hit the button for the CD tray and slipped out the magnet. The old homeless man on his right continued to snooze. To make sure the job was done completely, Reed put the magnet in his palm and rubbed it slowly around the side of the computer tower, holding it over the area of the hard drive for several moments.
He then pushed the power button. After the fan was silenced, he hit the power again. The monitor was black except for a pulsing cursor in the upper left corner.
Reed raised his hand and called to the young librarian two rows away helping an elderly woman. “Excuse me, Miss.”
The young woman excused herself from the old woman with a look of relief. “Hi, what’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure. The screen went black,” Reed said sadly.
“Let’s see.” The young woman said, bending past Reed. He breathed in slowly and deeply, taking in the sweet flowery smell of her perfume.
“Take your time. I got nowhere to go.”
“These things have been dropping like flies lately. Hard drives dying, ya know? Looks like another one bit the dust. Good news is, we get new Compaqs when these die.” She stood and called out to a pale, flabby man with greasy hair. “Hey, Allen, got another dead one!”
He made a fist and pulled it down near his head and hissed, “Yessss!”
“’Fraid you’ll have to move to another one. See if you can’t kill it, too.” She smiled and gave Reed a friendly pat on the shoulder. She went back to where the old woman was waving frantically. As soon as she was engaged in trying to teach the woman how to use the computer, Reed quietly slipped out of the San Francisco City Library and made his way toward 901 Mission Street, the home of the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Hey, you goin’ in there?” Reed asked a bicycle messenger.
“Right now.”
Reed held out the manila envelope face up, exposing a $5 bill under his thumb. “Take this in for me?”
“Got anthrax in it?” The long-haired kid on the bike smirked.
“Just a letter to the editor.” Reed laughed.
The bike messenger took the envelope and the bill, stuffing the envelope into his shoulder bag. When he looked up, Reed was gone.
Envelopes from the messenger’s bag were dropped into a large plastic mail tub, already a foot deep with mail. The messenger stuck his clipboard in front of an overweight, overworked secretary at the service desk. She signed without looking up at the messenger or at the tub. A moment later, the messenger, bike and all, was out the door and down the block.
At 1:07, an intern from the mailroom dropped three pieces of mail into the plastic mailbox on the door to Cole Sage’s office. On top was a yellow sheet of paper with a notice from Chuck Waddell alerting the staff to possible security violations and asking for their vigilance in looking for suspicious persons or packages. There was a white envelope from the payroll office and a manila envelope with “Mr. Sage Cole” written across the center in black felt-tip pen.
At 1:10, Cole and Washington returned from lunch. Washington went to speak with the Chronicle ’s head of security, Milt Hafer, and Cole headed to his office. As he walked through the door, Cole grabbed the mail from his box, tossed it on his desk, hit the light switch, and turned the knob up on the air conditioning. He sat behind his desk and pushed the yellow notice aside to see his name written across the large manila envelope.
The metal clasp was through the hole on the flap and folded down on either side. Cole bent up the clasp and lifted the flap. It was not glued down. Cole’s heart rate quickened as he slid his fingertips into the envelope. He pulled the envelope apart far enough to see the type on the sheet inside. He slipped it out and laid it flat on top of his desk.
It was a plain white sheet of paper. The typeface was nothing unusual, about 12 points in size. His eyes flashed down to the signature, and his hand came up and covered his mouth. Cole picked up the phone, called Hafer’s office, and told Washington the letter arrived. When he called Chuck Waddell and said the letter arrived, Waddell said nothing. Cole took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began to read.
This is a call to all those who see what is happening on this planet. We must JOIN TOGETHER to tear down the oppressive hierarchies that will destroy OUR MOTHER THE EARTH. Let those with ears hear. Let those who have seen rise up and join this fight. It is time for this war to truly have two sides.
You may say, “But we must end racism, we must stop hunger, we must have equality between men and women.” Oh, my children, environmental issues, social justice, and human rights are all one struggle!
I am not about labels. Anarchists, communists, anti-racists, animal liberationists, earth liberationists, feminists, queer liberationists, these names mean nothing to me.
I am about pure light. Mel Lyman was the centralizing of the light of the world. Jesus showed us how it could be, but it didn’t work. Mel was not the son but THE God of the World, come to show the way. You wouldn’t listen.
He said, “No turnin’ water to wine and raisin’ the dead this trip, just gonna tell it like it is. You’ve waited a long time for this glorious moment, and now that it’s actually HERE, I expect most of you will just brush it off and keep right on waiting, that’s what those damn fool Jews did LAST time I came.”
His prophecy was fulfilled. Those same Jews are still running the world and leading us to an OIL ARMAGEDDON.
I WILL NOT LET THAT HAPPEN. I am the ANGEL OF LIGHT that Mel never got the chance to use. I am the AVENGING ANGEL that will purify the sins committed against OUR MOTHER THE EARTH.
This struggle is not just political but also spiritual. Our motives must be pure, as should our focus on God’s will to restore the balance of nature and stop the rape of resources and the continuation of the fluorocarbon conspiracy to warm the earth to polar elimination.
Violence is a necessary element in the struggle to overthrow oppressive governments and to eliminate secret banking cartels. Will
people die? Yes! Are they going to die from the melting of the polar ice caps, hurricanes, floods, and famine brought on by the punishment of global warming? Of course! So, to stop the deaths of millions, we may have to sacrifice thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands. It is a righteous cause; these deaths are the recruiting tool to attract the masses who must be jolted back to their senses.
The people dwelling in the centers of commerce driven by oil and the mechanisms of global destruction are considered legitimate targets. If you have ears, FLEE THE CITIES. If you have eyes, see what is coming.
We are not terrorists, we are ECO-ANARCHISTS. This is a call for the total removal of oppressive governments from this planet. The people must once again band together to live on the earth the way the creator planned. There are no greater crimes committed than by those members of world governments. They are some of the most extreme terrorists in all of history.
Today, I stand alone. Soon I will demonstrate my power and welcome those who will see and understand my army of liberation. I alone bear the burden of leadership. I alone have sat at the feet of the returned Christ. Mel Lyman’s time was cut short; he had to return to the Eye of Creation. I know in my heart it is HIS TRUTH, though unspoken, I bring you.
My actions will be swift, and they will be only the beginning. Know this: The explosion in your city will be the call to arms. Let the people gather together in the park where I leave my sign. If the governments of the world open the doors of power to my people throughout the earth, there will be no further attacks. If they do not, I will lay waste your cities until you surrender.
As we mix blood and soil for the salvation and atonement of man’s sins against OUR MOTHER THE EARTH, know that the pains of birth and these the pains of Earth’s rebirth will in time be forgotten, and the joys of a new life will be all that remains.
Today the war for OUR MOTHER THE EARTH is declared.
The Power belongs to the people.
Jason Reed
Field Marshall
Mother Earth Liberation Army
CHAPTER 9
The decision to print Jason Reed’s letter was unanimous. The Editorial Board of the San Francisco Chronicle agreed the document must be printed. The only point of discussion was where in the paper it would appear. In his demands to have the piece printed, Reed made no demands or suggestions as to where. That, too, eventually was unanimously agreed. The Board decided it would appear on the Editorial page preceded by a disclaimer from the publisher as to the paper’s beliefs and policies and their indignity at being held hostage by Reed’s threats.
The letter from Jason Reed would appear in the next morning’s edition. Some on the Board worried that it was too much time between receiving the letter and its appearance in the paper. They were the most vocal at an emergency meeting the night before; however, the senior members overruled and agreed they would have their normal Tuesday morning board meeting. Special Agent Carter Washington gave a history of printing such manifestos and the long-term effects of their appearance.
Since the Chronicle printed the letters from the Zodiac Killer in the late ’60s, the demand for printing the ravings of madmen had not changed much. The occasional lunatic rants were still ignored. The serious threats such as Unabomber Theodore Kaczynski’s “Manifesto” were treated with careful respect and printed as a last effort to prevent further violence. The letter sent by Jason Reed was an unknown quantity. He claimed to have committed the bombings in Chicago, but there was no real proof. He made no specific threat as to future events. His willingness to kill innocent people by the dozens just to get attention for his message made his implied threats more terrorizing than had they been outright. The letter would be printed, and the threats he made in it would be taken seriously.
On doorsteps and in newsstands across the Bay Area, people picked up the Chronicle and a great many read the letter from Jason Reed on the Editorial page. The local morning news shows led off with quotes from the letter, and by 9 o’clock Pacific Standard Time, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News did feature stories on the letter and the bombings, complete with interviews with former FBI profilers, eco-terrorist experts, psychologists, the Baseball Commissioner and 10 or 12 “man on the street” comments. Reed got more attention than he planned on.
What no one planned on was a march that same day, licensed by the city six months prior. The Friends of Earth and several other ecology and animal rights groups were joining in a march to celebrate the 35th Anniversary of the founding of Greenpeace. The marchers were to gather at the University of San Francisco, march down Fulton Street to Arguello, and enter Golden Gate Park at Conservatory Drive. The route was to be lined with members of Greenpeace. It was a great opportunity for all the smaller groups to show solidarity in numbers and protest what, in their eyes, was total disregard for all things ecological. It was to their great good fortune that the eco-anarchist rantings of Jason Reed appeared the same morning. To the casual observer, it would appear that these were the very people Reed was appealing to and were gathering to show support. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
The march was to begin at 9 o’clock, and the walk to the Flower Conservatory in Golden Gate Park should have taken no more than 30 minutes. The faithful gathered in the west parking lot of SFU and unfurled their banners, flags, and signs. Peacefully, and with great precision, they made their way onto Fulton Street with the protection of both motorcycle and mounted police. The group was lively and in great spirits. There was singing and chanting and flowers thrown to the marchers by the Greenpeace comrades. The sun was shining, and a gentle breeze cooled the marchers and flapped their banners.
Just as the first marchers entered the park, they heard the sound of a loud explosion. No one paid much attention, and the procession continued on course.
At 4:30, some five hours earlier, Jason Reed planted a small explosive device in the flowerbed about 30 feet from the stairs leading up to the Conservatory of Flowers. Dirt and flowers where blown into the air and cluttered the sidewalk around the planters. The damage was minimal, and the police on the scene all agreed it was a prank intended to add a little excitement to the march. Pieces of an M-80 firecracker were found in the flowerbed, and the police figured several were tied together. The marchers gathered on the grass in front of the Conservatory and prepared to listen to speeches through a solar-powered sound system.
Sitting on a bench just outside the ring of the crowd sat Jason Reed. For a brief moment, his heart raced after the explosion, and he saw marchers round the curve in the street. He thought just for that moment that the people were gathering in response to his call. In his lap was a copy of the Editorial page folded to just the size of his letter. He read and reread the piece over and over. He brought his message to print, just like Mel Lyman did, only bigger. This was not the American Avatar. This was the San Francisco Chronicle!
Reed scanned the crowd. Were these his people? The signs and banners bore the right messages. The long hair, tie-dyes and gypsy skirts gave the crowd the right look. Reed thought of using this gathering to bring people to his side. He decided to mingle and talk to a few people, maybe find a woman. It was a long time since he had been with a woman. She was weak, though; she would have turned on him eventually. He buried her deep, much deeper than he normally would have. Thinking about a dog or coyote digging her up and eating her was painful to him, so he made her one with the earth. Mother Earth would take Jacqueline to herself, break down her flesh to energize the soil. It was a natural thing.
Reed approached a tall thin woman with rimless glasses and long curly salt and pepper hair. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said.
“Yes, it is.” She smiled and showed straight white teeth.
“Did you see this letter in today’s paper?”
“Yes, but that kind of violence doesn’t help us, does it?” she said sweetly. “If we claim to love animals as ourselves, then how can we threaten to kill each other?” the woman asked with a hurt look in her eyes.
&nbs
p; Reed didn’t respond; he just walked off. Several yards away, he approached a thickly built man with a sign that said “Unite Through Strength.”
“I agree,” Reed said, pointing to the sign.
The man didn’t respond.
“Did you see this in the paper?” Reed held up the Editorial page.
“I don’t read the lies of the capitalist media machine. They are owned by the oil companies and agro-conglomerates.”
“But the letter is real!”
“How do you know? Could be a plant to cover a bio-accident or give the CIA a reason to start another war.”
“Then if not behind Reed, how do we unite?”
“Never heard of him! We need cell groups. It’s the only way. Know who to trust, trust who you know. Individual acts that are positive and eco-friendly will bring knowledge of how easy it is to band together to undo the harm done by big business. Start today and plant a tree. Cleans the air, adds beauty to your world, and gives you a sense of being one with the earth! Peace through understanding, health through eating raw, and unity through spiritual strength. That’s how I live, and I recommend it highly.” The man with the sign smiled and turned away.
Reed felt his face burning. “The fools!” he growled.
I must control my anger, he thought. The time was not right, and he had to diffuse his rage. The weaklings he was surrounded by would not jeopardize his plans. They would either fall in line and be part of the solution, or they would be sacrificed to bring on the final victory. Their love of Mother Earth, no matter how naïve, would provide enough good Karma to outweigh not seeing the true light and joining him.
Reed looked around the meadow. He wanted to enlist this group. He estimated there were 5,000 people sitting and standing in the area in front of the Conservatory. A group of 30 or more stood or sat on the stairs waiting to start the program. They could have made good foot soldiers, but it was too late. Reed looked at his watch: 10:49, and the seconds were ticking down to 10:50. Eleven, ten, nine, eight. Reed turned and started making his way to the street. Four, three, two. As he crossed the street and disappeared into the bushes, the concussion from the explosion pushed him forward.
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