by Sarah Lovett
“But the FBI’s working on another little study,” he said. “Like it or not, you’re part of the team. You wrote your own book on attachment disorders. It must be psychologically cool to reveal yourself these days. Shrink as confessor. Your missing father was the centerpiece of your literary effort. He walked away, didn’t he, Sylvia? You still don’t know if he’s dead or alive.” He shrugged. “But that’s all in the past. Let’s look at the present. Over the last eighteen months, you’ve published papers in Homicide Studies, in the APA journal, in the Journal of Behavioral Sciences. You authored a chapter on pathological attachment for your imaginary friend, Leo Carreras. You made sense, he was full of shit.”
Dantes thrust his jaw forward like a man begging for a punch, and said, “You’re a sucker for a hard case. Rapist, psycho, terrorist—Dr. Strange doesn’t walk away. Not like Daddy. Give the pretty lady a shiny quarter.” His mouth was a flat line. “For another twenty-five cents, what is Sinai and Olivet?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, frustrated and frightened; her gaze slid past the clock; they were out of time; he was playing games. “Mount Sinai?”
“Moses, the ascension, and funny cars at Angels Flight. My mother introduced me to that funicular railway when I was five and the fare was a nickel. Perfect synchrony.”
“You wrote about her—”
“Last ride, ten o’clock,” he cut her off. “The chance to see Bunker Hill in all its glory. Have I told you the story of Prudent Beaudry? Five hundred bucks bought him that chunk of land, and he named it after the battle.” He strained against the chains.
“If you want to know me, go see my city of fallen angels. What have I written about this place?” His smile was humorless. “Do your homework—I did mine.” His body hunched inside the protective vest, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t envy you your job.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“You’ll use up precious moments of your life absorbing John Freeman Dantes. How he thinks and feels, what he loves, what he hates. You’ll try to fit his crimes in a context that not only makes sense but also explains the motives, the methods of future bombers. If Dantes bombed the Getty, why did he work so hard to avoid taking lives for fifteen years? Why does he target the city he worships? Why doesn’t it all add up into a neat package?”
He shook his head. “You’ll strive to find earthshaking truths, but in the end—”
“Please help us,” she pleaded, exhausted and disappointed by impending failure. “There’s a bomb out there. We don’t have time—”
He interrupted harshly—“We have too much time.”
Sylvia pushed herself away from the table in disgust. “You claim to care about this city, but you won’t stop a bomber who’s threatening to kill and maim innocent people?”
“They don’t have a clue. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.” Dantes glared past her, through walls, as if he could see his enemies on the other side. Arrogance altered his posture, lengthening his muscles. He shook his head. “Not a fucking clue.”
“Then help them—help us—instead of playing some private game.”
He turned his febrile gaze on Sylvia, staring at her for a moment, as if memorizing her features. He spoke in a tired voice. “The interview’s over.”
“I’m not leaving.” She stood, both hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles gone white. She spoke in a low voice. “You write about justice, you speak of compassion—is it all a lie?”
“Did Mona Carpenter promise you she wouldn’t kill herself?”
Sylvia closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“Did she lie to you?” Dantes leaned forward, straining against his bonds, until the tendons in his throat were taut. “Or did she lie to herself?”
“I don’t know.”
“In your heart—not your mind—in your heart do you believe you should have saved her?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right,” he whispered. His gaze lingered on her face—forever—until, finally, he closed his eyes. “She needed you.”
Sylvia had the sensation of falling, as if physically he’d released her.
He said, “I don’t have the information you need.”
“Goddamn you. I’ll tell you why you asked for me—you’re afraid. You’re human, not a god—you asked for me because you need my help—”
“‘He that violates his oath profanes the divinity of faith itself,’” Dantes intoned, drowning out her words. “It’s written in stone, at the source.”
“You can’t sleep at night because the nightmares never went away,” she said. “You want absolution.”
“Tell the bomb boys I can’t help them.”
“You’re lying.”
For the first time in this room, this hour, he allowed the depth of his rage to break the surface. A shadow transformed his features, turning his face raw and ugly.
He bolted against the chains and they clanged against the mesh wall. “Don’t you fucking tell me what’s truth!” As his words echoed in the room, the primordial creature dove again, disappearing deep into a murky psychic sea. Tremors wracked his body.
And then it hit Sylvia—however fleeting and archaic the thought, she was watching a man falling into madness.
What would bring him back?
His muscles were so taut his hands trembled. “Welcome to my humble hell,” he whispered.
9:09 A.M. Sylvia walked away from the meeting with Dantes knowing he’d lied, knowing he’d told some truths—lie and truth each obscured by the shadow of the other.
The recirculated oxygen she breathed was the same O2 that had entered the lungs of John Dantes. The intimate exchange of molecules had allowed no access into a bomber’s mind, his thoughts, into what was fact and what was fabrication.
She stepped from the transport cage just as the U.S. marshal entered; the door clanged shut behind his back. She found herself alone in the dimly lit basement; no sign of Purcell or Church. She stood for a few moments while she regained her bearings.
She hated not having answers—when it came to people and their behavior, the need to know why and how was embedded deep in her psyche; that need had driven her to become a psychologist. When she was very young she’d believed answers could change the world. Now she accepted the fact that small glimmers of truth were often exceptional.
But even a little bit of truth could save a life.
Sylvia walked quickly to the elevators, rode up to the ground floor of Roybal Federal, and stepped out into what should have been the lobby. Instead, she found herself in a glaringly fluorescent hallway. The service route was unfamiliar—she was trespassing through areas not usually seen by civilians. Passing two U.S. marshals, she pushed open a heavily reinforced door and stepped into the world of bureaucrats. Industrial-weave carpet the color of new grass muted each footfall. The narrow halls were painted blue-green instead of beige, and work by neighboring inmates was framed and carefully displayed.
She collided with Special Agent Purcell as the smaller woman suddenly rounded a hallway corner.
“Follow me,” Purcell ordered.
“Where’s Church?” Sylvia kept pace stride for stride.
“Manning the command post.” Purcell pushed open an exit door, stepping out into hot air and blinding sunlight.
“What command post?”
Purcell said, “Thanks to Dantes we’ve got ourselves a bomb.”
A bomb has a heart. If you doubt me just hold a ticking bundle in your arms and see if you don’t feel the thrill of new life.
Mole’s Manifesto
9:11 A.M. The lure of danger is exerting its influence like gravitational pull.
Uncomfortable in the hot bright air, M approaches the shadow of the building on Spring Street just as the first wave of law enforcement and public safety officials arrive. A quartet of men, focused and deadly serious, flow from their vehicles; they are dealing with a bomb threat. He recognizes Detective Church, LAPD, i
n the process of establishing a command post.
M has reason to be here, too. Credentials.
His pulse doesn’t even jump when a fast-moving cop crosses his path, almost shoving him out of the way. Around him, employees, tourists, and city residents populating courtyards and sidewalks are still unaware of atmospheric changes. Not for long.
Keeping pace with his neighbors, he observes an unmarked sedan as it pulls around the corner of Spring toward Temple. In the distance, a fire truck rumbles. Too soon for sirens. Official emergency schematics will focus on maintaining order, preserving crowd control, avoiding panic, averting chaos.
M has always found social psychology—behavior of the masses—entertaining. The collective consciousness of fear follows a surprisingly predictable course. At this very moment, he feels the first shift, subtle, fast moving. Expressions alter—pedestrian faces registering surprise, then concern. They glance at each other but nobody is totally spooked. Not yet.
Within minutes, a state-of-siege mentality will override the normal bureaucratic pace of everyday city business.
Danger is something he knows well—it comes with the tools of his trade.
Ammonium nitrate. Acetic anhydride. Paraformaldehyde.
PETN. Acetone. Mineral oil.
Datasheet. M-118. M-186.
Recipes for mass destruction.
M is the cook, and his expert hands—with almost delicate bones—always find their mark. The hands of a bomber scarred by experience. Hands of a collaborative artist. Of an extremely careful man.
Always cut a perfect fuse.
Always double prime.
Always wear cotton, silk, or wool; man-made fibers melt.
Never allow yourself to become insolent or brazen unless you’ve grown weary of this world.
Never turn your back on the beast.
Golden rules for the art of improvised death. There are many more. Rules for the kitchen. Rules for the field. M’s learned them over the years. He’s learned the hard way.
Like Dantes . . . who knows the rules of safety, too.
He smiles hesitantly at a passing woman, asking, “What’s going on?”
He sees her double take, the look of concern. He hears her fading response, “Maybe a fire?” as she breaks stride, then continues on.
Ah, yes. Now, he can feel them reacting; the faint seepage of panic is like blood as it dissipates in calm ocean waters.
He is guessing here—officials will cave in and decide to evacuate. The extortion note implies a connection to Dantes; the location, the importance of the building’s occupants, and its symbolic weight for LA all tip the scales in favor of extra precautionary measures.
Your average bomb search in a large building is best carried out by informed employees and public safety officials without full evacuation. It’s cheaper and more efficient to allow building security to patrol familiar territory, with the backup of fire department and bomb squad personnel who will deal with suspicious objects or possible devices.
Usually it all comes to naught.
Most bomb threats are hoaxes.
But this isn’t your average bomb scare.
It’s all part of the big plan. Project Inferno. Carefully orchestrated, already embedded in the very heart of the city, its veins and arteries, its central nervous system. He has spent months laying out a fastidious grid of destruction. Now hell is just a hop and a skip away. He watches the FBI and ATF agents—chests puffed, ready to piss on their territory—pulling up in their respective bureau vehicles.
He is careful not to laugh out loud. But damn, he feels good.
Always—it never fails—there comes a time when the poetry, the artistry takes over, and then the technique, the anal precision, the pain fades away underneath a pure and rarefied hum. He is humming now.
M is invisible—blending in with purpose—walking past the perimeter, flashing his credentials. Not one eyebrow raised.
He is a man who creates his own history. Months earlier,
he decided upon a position at a consulting firm. With his résumé, how could they refuse to hire him?
It is his job to track earthquake damage, to map underground systems, to know the city’s infrastructure and how it works—under normal conditions and in crisis. He shares responsibility for public safety.
He nods when he hears, “No radio communication, and check in at the command post.”
“Right.”
He scans the crowd for eyes that flicker with recognition, for faces that sign their own death warrants because he cannot afford to be recognized.
He is less than fifteen hundred meters from Metro Detention and the Roybal Federal Building. The hair on his arms stands erect. Dantes is so close he should be able to read M’s mind.
I’m thinking of our years together—especially that day when I died and you went on to become the esteemed professor, the underground outlaw bomber, the famed author and idolized cult hero.
If your public had known the truth they would’ve slapped you from your pedestal sooner, Dantes.
I know damn well what you’re thinking, friend.
You’re faced with the coward’s dilemma.
You’ve lived a lie. Isn’t it better to take it to the grave?
You’re trapped in a coward’s nightmare—and the only way out is down to hell.
I never took the coward’s path. I took my punishment like a man. And I’ve nursed my grudge until it’s burnt a sweet hole in my brain.
I died. His smile faded. And you stood me up at my funeral, Dantes.
In contemporary terrorism, criminalists must focus on the political bomber, the man who believes the urgency of his cause justifies the death of innocent people.
Leo Carreras, M.D., Ph.D., and Sylvia Strange, Ph.D.,
Profiles in 21st Century Terrorism
9:21 A.M. “Move away from the barricades!”
Sylvia stayed close to Special Agent Purcell.
They were just outside the federal building—at the corner of Temple and Los Angeles Streets—and an LAPD uniformed cop worked hard to stay cool while he maneuvered a DPS sawbuck, inching it toward a growing crowd of onlookers.
“The hell’s going on?” a large, bombastic woman draped under a bright red muumuu challenged the officer. “I have files for the mayor’s office.”
“No deliveries, ma’am. Step away from the barricade.”
“The hell I’m not, and don’t you ‘ma’am’ me—”
With fleeting pity for the beleaguered cop, Sylvia tuned out the exchange and focused on Purcell, who was moving very fast. They traveled west on Temple toward Main Street. Between snatches of the agent’s terse cellular exchanges and a monosyllabic Q&A session, Sylvia was getting a rough picture of the situation.
City officials had agreed to cordon off a five-block perimeter between First and Temple from Hill to San Pedro; motorized traffic already snaked around the crowds of curious spectators. Under the direction of uniformed officers, a steady stream of pedestrians had just begun to flow from the fortified area. Law enforcement, the fire department, and emergency personnel were working with somber efficiency. They’d hit the street, code 2, urgent, no sirens.
The bomb squad was on the way to look for a bomb—that search would be based upon information that had come from Sylvia’s interview with John Dantes.
But which information?
Purcell refused to comment on that subject; she was too busy with her cell phone.
The federal agent flashed her credentials at the jittery LASO deputy manning yet another barricade, this one at the corner of Main Street. They turned south.
Sylvia thought the Civic Center complex, with its various plazas, was beginning to take on the surreal look of an abandoned city. As she followed Purcell gratefully into shade cast by a tall building, she heard music blasting from someone’s radio, a fluid male voice urging the listener, “Live and die in LA.” The sound faded and exploded again: “I love Cali like I love women—”
The rest of the song’s lyrics were lost as Purcell gestured down the block. “Church wants to talk to you.”
Sylvia could see the detective conferring with two other men and a woman; they were roughly 150 feet away, at the opposite end of the block. Apparently, the command post consisted of two unmarked sedans angled together, a bomb squad van parked in between, roughly three hundred feet from City Hall’s south entrance.
“Our supervisory agent should be here any minute,” Purcell continued. “The chief of police is on his way in from Westwood.” The federal agent exhaled a soft stream of air. “The evacuation started with the mayor’s office.”
“The bomb’s at City Hall?”
Purcell answered the phone instead of the question.
Sylvia walked away from the agent, calling over her shoulder, “I didn’t ask to be part of this—you demanded my help.”
“Where are you going?” Purcell called, hand over mouthpiece.
Without slowing, Sylvia pointed toward Church.
In his suit and gray fedora, LAPD badge clipped to belt, the detective paced from van to cars. He shot her a look, raising one finger in acknowledgment as he simultaneously barked into a telephone. Because of the danger of accidental detonation of a possible improvised explosive device, handheld radio communication would be kept at a minimum.
Sylvia glanced back over her shoulder and caught sight of two ATF agents—identifiable by their jackets—jogging across the street. Then she saw Special Agent Purcell moving forward to head them off. The top of Purcell’s dark curls would barely tickle the ATF agents’ formidable chins, but she had puffed up her chest, ready to do battle in the agency turf wars.
If the situation ran true to form, the LAPD and the fire department and the various SOs would join in the fray—all jockeying to be top dog. Questions of agency jurisdiction weren’t easily settled, especially in dense urban areas, where indelible boundaries could never be drawn.
Sylvia skirted the vehicles and the command post, continuing another twenty feet to the corner of First Street. She stopped near the perimeter barricades.
She heard a baby crying, she saw the faces of curious spectators, but she wasn’t aware of individual features. Bodies and buildings seemed to melt together, glazed by heat, stress, and optical illusion.
