But this, if it was true, was the terrible alteration in the rules of the game, that had haunted responsible world leaders for years, the end game in the struggle against nuclear proliferation for which his precedessor had fought so hard-and, characteristically, with so little success.
* * *
Detective First Grade Angelo Rocchia watched with pride the woman advancing through the restaurant, noting approvingly each head that turned for a second glimpse at the lithe movements of her figure. Men always had a second look at Grace Knowland. Her fluffy black hair was clipped in a pageboy bob that set off her higharched cheekbones, her dark eyes and her pert mouth. She was not quite medium height, but she was so well proportioned, so finely muscled, that her clothes, like the simple white blouse and beige skirt she was wearing tonight, always seemed molded to her body. Above all, Grace radiated a fresh, engaging vitality that belied the fact that she was thirtyfive, the mother of a fourteen-year-old boy, and had led a life not noteworthy for its placidity.
“Hi, darling,” she said, brushing his forehead with a quick, moist kiss.
“Not late, am I?”
She slid onto the red velvet seat beside him, right under his favorite oil of the Bay of Naples and Vesuvius. Forlini’s was, as Angelo liked to say, “the kind of place where things transpire.” A few blocks away from City Hall, it bad been for years a favorite hangout of top cops, judges, politicians, men from the DA’s office and minor Mafiosi.
He handed Grace a Campari and soda and raised his Black Label on the rocks to her. Angelo Rocchia drank very little, but he was fastidious about what he drank: “sipping scotch” and good wines, preferably the littleknown Chianti classicos of Tuscany.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers. I hope it wasn’t too difficult.”
Angelo lowered his glass and gave a slight move to his shoulders. “Each time, it’s the same thing. You think it can’t possibly hurt any more and it always does.”
Grace gently folded her hand over his. She had a pianist’s fingers, long, slender and strong, her almond-shaped nails trimmed short.
“What’s hard is making yourself understand there’s no hope.”
Grace saw a flicker of despair cross his face. “Let’s order.” She smiled.
“I’m famished.” Her gaiety was a forced effort to ease Angelo from the depression that inevitably gripped him on Sunday evenings.
“Evening, Inspector. Try the linguine. Terrific.”
Angelo looked up from his menu. Standing before his table was Salvatore “Twenty Percent Sal” Danatello, his corpulent figure bursting out of a pale-blue double-knit at least three sizes too small for him. The detective looked at him, a sneer of contempt easing over his face.
“How’s the family, Sal? Keeping your nose clean?”
The change in Angelo’s tone, the abrupt switch from the soft, intimate half-growl he used with her to this inquisitor’s voice, its timbre as cold, as cutting as a knife’s blade, always disturbed Grace.
“Sure thing, Inspector. You know me. Running a legitimate business. Payin’ my tax.”
“Terrific, Sally. You’re just the kind of decent, upright citizen this city needs.”
Sally hesitated a moment, hoping for the introduction Angelo had no intention whatsoever of making, then shufed off.
“Who’s that?” Grace asked.
“A wise guy.”
Grace understood the jargon of the New York Police Department. She watched the Mafioso’s disappearing figure with curiosity. “So it wasn’t his wife and kids you were asking about. What does he do?”
“Knows good lawyers. Been busted three times for loan sharking and walked every time.” Angelo snapped a breadstick in half and jabbed one jagged end into the butter dish before him. A sly grin crossed his face.
“Of course, The New York Times would say it was just another example of how we waste our resources prosecuting nonviolent crimes.”
Grace pressed her finger to her lips like a schoolteacher trying to hush an unruly classroom. “Truce?” It was a little sign between them, a convention they employed whenever the deeply held convictions inspired by their different vocations, hers as a City Hall reporter for the Times, his as a detective, clashed.
“Yeah, sure,” growled Angelo. “Truce. What the hell, The New York Times is probably right anyway. Sally’s collectors got a special, nonviolent way they clean up his bad debts.” ‘
Despite herself, Grace fell for his ploy with an inquiring tilt of her head.
“They put your fingers in a car door. Then they close the door.”
Angelo savored the horror sweeping her face just an instant. “It’s like the ad says. The man runs a full service bank.”
She couldn’t help laughing. He was a born actor, this detective of hers, with his Roman emperor’s profile, and his wavy gray hair that always made her think of Vittorio de Sica; hair she knew he had styled once a month to conceal the bald spot emerging at the back of his head.
They had met two years ago in his Homicide Squad office at 1 Police Plaza when Grace was doing a major takeout on violent crime in the city. With his dark suit, his white-on-white tie and shirt, the way he rolled his rs like a tenor at the Met, he had seemed closer to her idea of what a Mafia don should look like than a detective. She had noted the old-fashioned black mourning button in the lapel of his jacket, the nervous way he kept picking peanuts from his pocket. To stop smoking, he had explained.
For almost a year they had met for an occasional dinner every couple of weeks, nothing more binding between them than their deepening friendship.
Then, one steaming night in August, it had happened. They’d gone that evening to a little seafood restaurant in Sheepshead Bay. The bluefish were running and they had each ordered one broiled with sage and rosemary. For a long time they had lingered on the terrace, sipping espresso and the last of their Frascati in the fresh Atlantic breeze. Suddenly, there on the terrace, Grace had sensed a barely disguised yearning in the way Angelo’s eyes kept returning to the blouse she had partially unbuttoned in the warm night air. She’d been through three affairs since they met, each begun in promise and ended in pain. Angelo was not a handsome man; yet there was an undeniable appeal in his battered, craggy face. Above all, there was a solidity about him, a promise of strength like that of the old oak that has survived many an autumn storm. Walking out the door, Grace reached for his hand.
“Angelo, take me home with you,” she whispered.
Now, beside her, Angelo gave a soft groan as he contemplated the menu. They were after him, every time he took his Department physical, to lose a little weight. “Watch the blood pressure,” they’d say. Tomorrow, he thought, and ordered cannelloni, a bistecca Fiorentina, and a bottle of Castello Gabbiano Riserva 1975. Grace gave him a disapproving glance, then asked for a veal piccata and a green salad.
“Hey,” he mumbled, “I’m the policeman, remember?”
As the waiter moved away, they lapsed into silence. Grace seemed suddenly distant, absorbed in some private world of her own.
“What’s the matter?”
“I got some news yesterday.”
“Good or bade’
“Bad, I guess. I’m pregnant.”
Angelo set his whiskey down with a slow, deliberate movement. “You sure?”
She slipped her hand over his. “I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t going to tell you. Not yet, anyway. Your question caught me while I was thinking about it.” She reached for her glass and took a measured sip. “It’s one of those things that should never happen anymore, I know. I was careless. You see, after I had Tommy I had some trouble. They told me it was very, very unlikely I’d ever conceive again.” She giggled and the corners of her dark eyes crinkled with her laughter. “And until you came along, I never did.”
“I guess I should take that as a compliment.” Angelo slid his heavy arm along the top of their seat so that his fingers rested lightly on her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I suppose it’s my fault. I shoul
d have been watching out. I guess I’m out of practice.”
“Sure. I guess so.”
Grace studied the detective an instant, an appraising coolness in her eyes, waiting for another word, another phrase. It did not come. She twisted and stretched her long fingers on the tablecloth. “It’s strange carrying a life inside you. I don’t think a man can ever understand just what that means to a woman. I’ve spent the last thirteen years living with the idea it would never happen to me again.” She took another drink. Her eyes were downcast, her voice suddenly plaintive. “And now it has.”
Angelo let his regard travel around the crowded restaurant a moment, taking in the heads leaning conspiratorily together, making, unmaking deals. As he did, he tried to puzzle out the mood of the woman beside him.
“Grace, tell me something. You’re not thinking about keeping it, are you?”
“Would that be so terrible?”
Angelo paled slightly. He took his drink, swallowed the last of his whiskey, then stared moodily at the glass clasped between his fingers.
“You know, I never told you, Grace, about Catherine and me. She had troubles, too. We tried for years to have a baby. She kept miscarrying and miscarrying. We didn’t know why.”
He lowered his glass to the table. “We couldn’t figure out what God or nature or whatever the hell you want to call it was trying to tell us.
Until Maria was born.” Angelo was a long way from their crowded Italian restaurant. “I’ll never forget going into the delivery room that morning.
I was so proud, so happy. I wanted a boy, sure, but a child, that’s what mattered. And there she was, this little tiny thing all red and shriveled, the nurse holding her up there by the ankles. Those hands, those little, tiny hands, were moving, kind of picking at the air like, and she was crying.”
He paused a moment. “And then I noticed her head. It didn’t seem quite right, you know? It wasn’t round. The nurse looked at me. They know right away. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Rocchia,’ she said, ‘your daughter’s mongoloid.’ “
Angelo turned to Grace, the sorrow of that instant, of all the painful instants that followed it, on his face. “Believe me, Grace, I’d die before I’d hear those words again.”
“I understand you, darling.” Her hand closed over his.
“But they have a test now. It’s called amniocentesis. They can tell if a child’s going to be a mongoloid before it’s born.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I checked with my doctor.”
Angelo made no effort to conceal his astonishment. “So you’ve been thinking a lot about this?”
The waiter appeared with their dinner. They watched in awkward silence as he set their plates before them, then drifted off.
“I suppose I have. It’s caught me so much by surprise.” Grace picked at her veal. “You see, I know it’s the last chance for me, Angelo. I’m thirtyfive.”
“How about me?” There was an edge of petulance in his voice. “Do you really think a man is anxious to become a father at my age?”
Grace laid down her fork and meticulously dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “What I’m going to say sounds selfish, I know. And I guess it is.
But if I decide to have the child, it will be because I want it. Because I want something to help me fill the years I see ahead. Because this is a last chance and you don’t let go of last chances in life easily. But I’ll promise you one thing, Angelo. If I do decide to keep it, it’ll be my responsibility. I won’t burden you with the problems my decision causes. I won’t lay any responsibilities you don’t want on you.”
Angelo felt a sudden chill. “What do you mean? You’d want to bring it up like that, by yourself? Alone?”
“Yes, I think perhaps I would.” Again Grace rested her hand on his. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Not now at least.” She smiled. “Guess what? Our beloved Mayor’s giving a press conference at nine tomorrow to explain why he hasn’t been able to get the snow off the streets. Because of my piece in this morning’s paper.”
* * *
Much farther up Manhattan, on Central Park South, Laila Dajani stepped out of the Hampshire House, shiny black satin disco pants flashing beneath her fur jacket.
“Studio Fifty-four,” the doorman ordered her cabdriver.
The driver looked at her appreciatively in his rearview mirror.
“Hey, you must know people, lady.”
“I have friends,” Laila smiled. Then, as they approached Fifty-seventh Street, she leaned forward. “You know, I’m going to change my mind. Take me to the corner of Thirty-second and Park.”
“Got friends there tool”
“Something like that.”
Laila stared out the window to stop the conversation. When they reached Thirty-second and Park she paid the. fare, smiled at the driver and began to stroll casually along the avenue. Her eyes remained fixed on the taillights of the cab, following them until they disappeared from sight. Then she quickly turned and hailed another cab. This time, she told the driver to take her where she really wanted to go.
* * *
In Washington, D.C., the FBI’s fortresslike headquarters at Tenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, seven blocks from the White House, blazed with lights. On the sixth floor of that headquarters the Bureau maintained a nuclear-emergency desk manned twentyfour hours a day by a trio of specially trained agents. It had been there since 1974 when the FBI assigned nuclear extortion a priority so urgent it was reserved for only a handful of major incidents headed by the most dreaded occurrence of all, Presidential assassination.
Sixty times in the years since, the agents at that desk had been confronted with nuclear threats. Most had been the work of cranks or demented ideologues, the “don’t touch the Alaskan tundra or we’ll put a bomb in Chicago” sort of thing. But a significant number of those threats had seemed deadly serious. They had included threats to blow up bundles of radioactive waste in Spokane, Washington, and New York City; warnings of nuclear bombs alleged to be hidden in Boston, Detroit, Washington, D.C., and four other American cities, and in a Long Beach, California, oil refinery. Some had been accompanied by designs of nuclear devices that had also been deemed “nuclear capable” by the weapons analysts of Los Alamos.
The Bureau’s response to those threats had, on occasion, included the deployment of hundreds of agents and technicians to the threatened cities.
Yet no word of their activities had ever reached the public.
Within half an hour of receiving the first alert from the White House, two teams of agents were onto the problem, a Crisis Assessment Team whose task was to determine whether the threat was real or not, and a Crisis Management Team responsible for dealing with it if it was. The fact that the extortion message was in a foreign language had immensely complicated their job. The first rule in an extortion case is to look at the extortion note or telephone call for clues. The Bureau employed a Syracuse University linguistic psychiatrist whose computers had proven to be remarkably accurate in providing a thumbnail description of an extortioner based on the language he had used in his threat note or phone call. In this case, however, his talents had been useless.
As soon as the first warning had come in, a team of agents had gone to the Carriage House Apartments, a four-story yellow stone apartment house at the junction of L and New Hampshire, abutting the building housing the Libyan Embassy. Two of its occupants had been relodged in the Washington Hilton, and listening devices trained on the embassy next door had been placed in the walls of their apartments. The same thing had been done to the Libyan UN embassy in New York. Taps had also been installed on the phones of all Libyan diplomats accredited to either the United States or the United Nations.
That operation had provided its first fruit while the NSC was discussing the consequence of Agnew’s report. Two Libyan diplomats, the ambassador to the United Nations and the first secretary of the Washington embassy, had been located. Both had vehemently denied that their nation could
be involved in such an operation.
At 2031, just after Agnew had given his conclusive determination that the design was for a viable thermonuclear device, an “All Bureaus Alert” had been flashed out of the Bureau’s sixth-floor communications center. It ordered every FBI office in the United States and overseas to stand by for “emergency action demanding highest priority and allocation of all available manpower.”
FBI liaison agents to Israel’s Mossad, France’s SDECE, Britain’s MI5 and West Germany’s Landswehr were ordered to go through files, pulling out descriptions and, where available, fingerprint records and photographs of every known Palestinian terrorist in the world.
One floor above the communications center, Quentin Dewing, the FBI assistant director for investigation, was in the midst of organizing the mobilization of five thousand agents. Agents shoeing horses in Fargo, South Dakota, catching the last of the day’s sun on Malibu Beach, walking out of Denver’s Mile High Stadium, washing up the supper dishes in Bangor, Maine, were being ordered to leave immediately for New York, each order accompanied by a vital closing injunction: “Extreme, repeat, extreme discretion must be employed to conceal your movements from the public.”
Dewing concentrated his efforts in three areas. The nation’s bureaus were ordered to locate and take under permanent surveillance every known or suspected Palestinian radical.
In New York and in half a dozen cities on the Atlantic seaboard, FBI agents were in action in every ghetto, every high-crime area, “pulsing” informers, querying pimps, pushers, petty crooks, forgers, fences, hunting for anything on Arabs: Arabs looking for fake papers; Arabs looking for guns.
Arabs trying to borrow somebody’s safe house; anything, just as long as it had an Arab association.
His second effort was to lay the groundwork for a massive search for the device, if it existed, and those who might have brought it into the country. Twenty agents were already installed at the computers of the Immigration and Naturalization Service offices on I Street, methodically going through the 194 forms for every Arab who had entered the United States in the past six months. The U.S. address listed on each card was Telexed to the bureau concerned. The FBI intended to locate, within fortyeight hours, each of these visitors and clear them, one by one, of any suspected involvement in the threat.
The Fifth Horseman Page 5
