by Dane Hartman
“You weren’t given the signal to fire, Harry,” he was saying, doing his utmost to keep his temper under control. “There was an agreed-upon signal and it was never given. Why the hell did you open fire?”
“The opportunity was there,” he replied simply.
“That’s not the goddamn point! You endangered innocent life. What would have happened if you’d missed and that child had gotten hurt?”
“But I didn’t miss,” Harry pointed out, too tired to argue.
Bressler kept shouting, threatening him with suspension, though Harry had the feeling this was only his way of letting off steam. What with terrorists running rampant and policemen being shot on highways at night and gun-men shooting up the lobby of the Mark Hopkins, he couldn’t afford to lose any more men, no matter what the provocation.
In any case, Harry could hardly hear him what with the ambulances screaming up Van Ness.
At last, Bressler had calmed down enough to solicit Harry’s opinion as to who the dead men were.
“Dinner jackets,” Harry noted. “I’d guess the gentlemen bandits. Or their clones.”
“You don’t think it might be our terrorist friends? It would be helpful if we could tie this thing up.”
“Life doesn’t work out that way, I’ve found.”
Bressler regarded Harry carefully. “No, I suppose you’re right.”
At that instant he looked to his left where several detectives and ambulance attendants were clustered, working out the disposal of the bodies and the stolen goods. They were thrown into relief by the lights of several camera crews, for by now all the other independent stations and network affiliates had managed to get representatives to the scene. They weren’t especially pleased to discover that once again Ellie Winston had gotten there before them.
“That reminds me,” Bressler said, “There’s somebody I want you to meet.”
“Oh, and just who might that be?”
“You wait here, Harry . . .”
“I’ve got to get back to the office and write up this report before it all just slips out of my memory . . .”
“Stay there, that’s an order.”
Within moments he’d returned with a woman Harry dimly recalled seeing somewhere. But he could not think of where exactly.
“Harry Callahan, I want you to meet Ellie Winston,” Bressler said, “Anchorwoman at KCVO.”
That was where, Harry thought.
Ellie Winston was very pretty, but her face expressed deep skepticism. She smiled warily and took Harry’s hand as Bressler completed the introductions.
“Ellie Winston will be covering you.”
Harry gave Bressler a corrosive look but Bressler knew enough to avert his eyes.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Ellie then broke in to explain that she would do nothing to disrupt his routine. “I will be as discreet as possible, you will hardly know I’m there.” Then, sensing that she might wind up in the middle of a heated clash between Bressler and Harry, she quickly disengaged herself, claiming the press of deadlines as an excuse.
Harry very much doubted that Ellie Winston was the sort of woman who could be easily ignored. When he turned to Bressler for full clarification—and it was obvious it was nothing good—he obtained no response at all.
“I’m sure you’ll know how to handle her,” he said, “you’ve always had a way with the ladies.”
And then he was gone, speedily losing himself in the crowd which was still growing as news spread through the city of the violence that had struck at the Mark Hopkins Hotel on this warm summer’s evening.
C H A P T E R
T h r e e
Ellie Winston had no sooner returned to her office than she received a phone call—and because it was direct, on her personal line, and not transferred through the switchboard—she assumed it would have to be a friend, most likely David Whittier, an architect with an extraordinary reputation who happened also to be her lover, when either of them had the time to spare. Given the nature of their respective professions, that wasn’t very often these days.
But it was not David or anyone else she was acquainted with.
It was a woman but the voice was unfamiliar and, as was the case with the anonymous male caller that afternoon, the voice was vaguely accented, maybe Hispanic.
She identified herself as a representative of the People’s Struggle for a Free Puerto Rico and said that her group, which Ellie had not heard of before, claimed responsibility for the attack on the Mark Hopkins an hour before.
Although Ellie was not accustomed to receiving two such phone calls in a single day from terrorists, she was thoroughly professional. She reacted with neither shock nor uncertainty. Her main interest was in establishing the caller’s credibility.
Too often in the aftermath of violent episodes, cranks would assert that it was their organization that was the cause of it. Instant publicity at the cost of a dime.
But the woman anticipated Ellie’s reaction. “You will learn shortly from the police that the weapons employed in the raid were two M61 Skorpions and a Makarov. The Skorpions are of a Czech manufacture, the Makarov is Soviet.” She then proceeded to rattle off the serial numbers of each “so that there will be no doubt in your mind.”
From what Ellie had so far learned, the police had only had time to take the handguns used by the robbers into their possession. No department spokesperson she’d talked to had known of their make. That the woman was aware of information the police hadn’t obtained yet certainly underscored her credibility.
But what connection did the three gentlemen bandits have with a Puerto Rican liberation group? None of them, from all appearances, looked like they came from Puerto Rico; on the contrary, they gave the impression of being from solid Caucasian American stock.
The woman refused to address this matter. All she would say was, “There are many who act in support of our cause. We have friends everywhere who are able and willing to help the revolution. If we failed this evening to convince the people of this country that we are serious, then we will have no choice but to strike again, and with a far more powerful blow against the colonial American government.”
“Have you contacted anyone else in the media?”
“Not yet, but we will soon.”
“May I ask you why you’ve chosen to call me first and where you got my private number from?”
“I will not answer your second question except to say that we know a great deal about you. Where you go and who you see. But I will answer your first. You are widely known in the Bay area and you are considered the person to reach.”
Ellie didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.
“And that’s it?”
“You have the highest ratings of all news broadcasters, Miss Winston, that is enough.”
With that she terminated the conversation.
Ellie resolved to have her number changed, at home as well. But she had the feeling that it wouldn’t matter. She, who was always investigating and watching others, was now being investigated and watched too, but by whom?
She remembered the woman’s words: “We have friends everywhere who are able and willing to help the revolution.” Were there such friends even here at KCVO? Perhaps sitting only a few cubicles away in the newsroom?
“Miss Winston?”
She started and looked up to find herself staring into a pair of angry eyes. The eyes belonged to Harry Callahan.
She wondered how he’d gotten past the security guard downstairs, but supposed it couldn’t have been too difficult. If terrorists could acquire her personal phone number why shouldn’t cops be able to come into the newsroom without being admitted first?
By the look of him she had an idea of what was coming.
“Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”
Anything to calm him down, she thought. She would not ever want to be this man’s enemy.
“No coffee,” he muttered. “Too much coffee already
.”
He did appear to be a man fighting off sleep and beginning to lose.
“Tell me what can I do for you?”
She didn’t like the tone in her voice, sounded too officious, too formal. The man made her uneasy, that was part of it. But she was determined to brazen it out with him even though in the back of her mind she was thinking: Maybe I should get out of this.
“I am sure you are a good journalist, but you’d be doing me a great favor if you would find some other detective to follow around. I’ve got enough on my mind already.”
“I am sure you have. But your superior chose you and he must have had his reasons. In any case, I doubt whether he would assign anyone else to me. You are my one opportunity.”
“I don’t give a shit about your opportunities.” His voice was rising. “Do you know anything about me, Miss Winston?”
“Ellie. And no, except that you’re a homicide detective.”
“Ellie.” He pronounced her name quickly, a bit derisively. “Listen to me. I am very bad luck. My partners have had a way of dying or getting seriously wounded. Isn’t my fault, isn’t theirs. It’s just a lot of very bad luck. I function well on my own, always have, and that is how I prefer it. Nothing against you.”
“Inspector Callahan . . .” She waited for him to tell her she could call him Harry but that didn’t happen. “I won’t get in your way if that’s what’s troubling you. I have no wish to be shot at or prove myself a hero so don’t worry yourself on my account. If anything happens to me neither you nor the San Francisco Police Department need take any responsibility. The station handles my insurance.”
Harry was becoming exasperated. He didn’t know how he could break through to this woman without threatening her and he had no wish to do that. “Look, it’s not like you can decide whether you want to get shot at or not. It doesn’t happen that way. The fact of the matter is you are going to hamper my investigation and put me in a very bad humor.”
“You already seem to be in one. I doubt I could make you worse. Inspector Callahan, do you have any choice in the matter.”
“I wish I could say yes.”
“But you don’t. You have your obligation, I have mine. Let’s see if we can’t get along then. It might make things easier for both of us.”
“Shit.” He rose to leave.
“I may not be such a burden as all that. Listen.” She pressed the rewind button of the recorder on her desk, then proceeded to play back the conversation she had just had with the representative of the People’s Struggle for a Free Puerto Rico.
When it was finished she asked Harry if he’d heard of the group before. He hadn’t. She asked him if he’d been aware of the provenance of the guns. He hadn’t.
She then brought out the cassette made that afternoon from the man purporting to be a member of the so-called Alpha Group and played that for Harry as well.
When that was over she asked him if he had heard of this group before. He hadn’t. She asked him if he’d known of anyone else in the police department or in the media receiving a similar call. Again he hadn’t.
“Since these crazies seem to have a strange attraction for me and also seem to be interested in keeping track of me, it may be that I could actually help your investigation, not hamper it.”
Harry didn’t say anything.
She went on, “I mean, as the lady said, I do have high ratings.”
Harry asked if he could use the phone. In less than a minute, he was put through to the forensics lab. “Have you got a make on those guns used in the Mark Hopkins holdup yet?” He was looking at Ellie as he spoke. Several moments passed before he had his answer.
“One Makarov, two M61 Skorpions,” he said to her, confirming the woman’s information. He gazed down at the tape. “Your friend seems to be the genuine article.”
Then he turned and started for the exit.
“What time do you start work tomorrow?” Ellie called after him.
He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reply until he reached the door. Then he regarded her and said, “Noon.”
“Where do I find you?”
With Harry you had to work for every inch you got.
“Room 750, Justice Building.”
“See you then.”
He said nothing more. But that in itself was a concession. Ellie smiled to herself. Well, she had won a victory of sorts. She only hoped that it would be worth it.
As it happened, Harry did not begin work at noon but rather at eight-thirty in the morning, which was not the sort of hour he wanted to begin anything. But there was no getting around it. The wave of terrorist activities in the last twenty-four hours amounted to an emergency situation and a hastily called conference was deemed advisable to discuss measures that might be adopted to combat the growing threat.
Harry expected something big. And to be sure there were several men who to all intents and purposes ran the Justice Department, including the Commissioner who had arrived back from Washington on a Red Eye Special before dawn. He barely looked conscious. The D.A. was there, squashing cigarettes into an ashtray every few minutes. He got through half of one, then put it out in favor of another.
There were others who were vaguely familiar to Harry, the sort of men who are always quoted and getting their picture in the paper but never seem to actually accomplish anything in particular.
An FBI agent, introduced to Harry as Tim Connelly, was there, and he did not appear nervous at all. Maybe because his job was not on the fine. Then too there was another guest, Jake Brady, and he was particularly interesting because of the agency he represented. “I am with the CIA,” he had said, a terse but fascinating introduction and a terrific one to liven up dull cocktail party conversations.
It was the Commissioner who took the floor first. The only problem was that he had very little to say since he had been out of town while all hell was breaking loose in his district. After rambling for several minutes, he deferred to Connelly.
Said Connelly, “We’re dealing with a potentially grave situation here.”
To Harry this sounded like understatement. Why potentially? He wondered again about the competency of the FBI.
Connelly continued to say that he doubted that the men who held up the Mark Hopkins were tied to any terrorist organization. He did not credit the phone calls claiming otherwise with much veracity. How information about the weapons leaked out was another matter but in Connelly’s estimation there had to be a reasonable explanation. But the Alpha Group seemed to be very real. All they could hope for was that its promised manifesto would give the authorities some clues as to what it represented. This was when he offered the floor to Brady.
Brady was a tall, angular man going bald. He had the look of a ghost about him and there was a certain evil in his eyes as though he had conducted one clandestine operation too many and had lived to regret it.
“Gentlemen,” he began, clearing his throat more like an after dinner speaker who is about to inflict a clichéd anecdote upon his bored audience, “Although the identity, and the motives, of this Alpha Group are as yet unknown, this administration is convinced that it is a manifestation of a vast terrorist network, sponsored by the Soviet Union and its surrogate in the Western Hemisphere, by which I mean Cuba, to create discord and chaos. Moreover, we have reason to believe, based on reliable intelligence sources, that Libya and perhaps other Arab states are involved in fostering this network and in bankrolling it with petro dollars. Accordingly, with the cooperation of my colleague here, Mr. Connelly, it is my pleasure to announce that the Federal government is going to actively participate in bringing to justice all those who threaten our security and well-being.”
He gazed out at those assembled about the green felt conference table with no more interest than he would have had had he been observing an amateur baseball game in Golden Gate Park.
“As you know,” he said with a certain weariness in his voice, “the Central Intelligence Agency is not permitted to engage in c
overt operations within the borders of the country and for that reason my role will be limited to transmitting intelligence to you on a need-to-know basis. Mr. Connelly here will be in charge of the day-to-day logistics.”
“Does that mean that to all intents and purposes you’re running the show?”
Brady looked across the table at Harry.
“So that we can get to know one another,” Brady said with false cheerfulness, “would you please introduce yourself before asking questions.”
“That’s Callahan, Harry Callahan,” Bressler said resignedly.
“Well, Mr. Callahan, to answer your question, you might put it that way. The relevant Federal agencies that are involved in this do have the final authority, but we mean to cooperate in the fullest with the City of San Francisco and with its law enforcement agencies. I do not expect that there will be any tension. On the contrary, we are approaching this investigation as equal partners who seek the same goals.”
Bullshit was the one word that sprang to Harry’s mind.
“Next question?”
He did not expect to receive the next question from Harry; that much was obvious from the suspicious look that crossed Brady’s face.
“Specifically, how do you propose to do this equal partners number without everyone tripping over each other’s feet and endangering the legal rights of suspects, so we don’t end up blowing the case in court?”
“That was just what I was going to ask,” said the D.A., adding, “in slightly different terms.”
Brady seemed to regard these potential problems as relatively trivial and his tone was clearly patronizing as he answered, “Gentlemen, your interest and ours coincide in this matter. We intend to do nothing that will jeopardize either the course of the investigation or obtaining the appropriate convictions. Let us worry about the logistics, all right?”
There were other questions, but Brady deftly handled all of them, mostly by failing to respond to them directly. As befit somebody who had spent much of his life pursuing a clandestine trade, he was at his best when he was evasive.
At the conclusion of his address, the Commissioner again rose to advise everyone to wait behind. “We have drawn up a protocal for you, a division of labor I’d guess you’d call it. We are assembling task forces to concentrate on different aspects of this case. We plan a several-pronged attack here that will be coordinated on state, local, and Federal levels.”
