“Another Father? Who, Satan?”
“It is hard for you to conceive of a philosophy of someone who may not think. In your world, it’s hard because your understanding and your values are different.”
“So, that’s all you’ve learned, then?”
“You tell me something and, tomorrow, I try to repeat it, if I didn’t write it down, I couldn’t tell you what you said. Let alone a year ago, let alone eight months ago, let alone a week ago. I am forgetful. I forget one day to the next. I forget what day it is or what month it is or what year it is.”
“Charlie, why did you call me? You bored or something? I figured you had something I could print; maybe Reed would see it, and change the course he’s on. Did you know Mel Lyman? Your paths ever cross? We printed Reed’s letter; if you got something to say, we’ll print that, too. So, what are we doing here?”
“You just sell those newspapers for public opinion, just like you are all hung on public opinion, and none of you have any idea what you’re doing. You are just doing what you are doing for the money, for a little bit of attention from someone.” Manson took a long pause. Cole thought for a moment that he hung up. “I can’t dislike you, but I will say this to you: You haven’t got long before you are all going to kill yourselves because you are all crazy.
“The worlds a chess game, and the pawns make all the money for the kings who sit protected. We are all terrorists, we have started the revolution with the pollution, and it will stop. People won’t stop, they love the cars and the toys that pollute, and why should we care? It won’t affect us? One way or another, it will stop. We have started it with the trees.”
“I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree. A tree that looks at God all day and lifts her leafy arms to pray. Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.” Cole laughed. “I learned that in school.”
“That’s it. Good luck, brother.” Manson giggled, and Cole heard the dial tone.
As he sat looking down at his half-eaten toast, Cole remembered an interview he saw with Charles Manson years before. The interviewer asked him, “Are you crazy?” and Manson replied, “Of course I’m crazy, I am completely insane. But before, it meant something. Now everyone is crazy.” You may be right, Charlie, he thought. He picked up the toast and took a bite.
* * * * *
Across town, Jason Reed returned to his room from Bay Shore Marina. He bought a three-pronged sea striker, a wicked-looking spear tip with barbed ends, and six feet of chrome marine chain. The old man in the back of the shop was happy to drill a hole in the striker and fit it with a heavy-duty chain clasp after Reed gave him two pulls from his hip flask. Reed had the end of the chain fitted with the same kind of clasp.
Reed broke into a cold sweat fitting the triggering mechanism into the suitcase. The wiring was difficult and one short, one misstep, and the bomb would detonate. The concept was simple enough. The arming device was a toggle switch he picked up at the Radio Shack store. Wiring the toggle switch was not a problem. The circuit that would detonate the bomb was more complex. Once the arming device was set, a pressure switch would delay the current until Reed raised his finger, allowing the completion of the circuit, and then—and only then—the bomb would explode.
Reed examined his work closely. There would be no second chance, no do-overs. If it didn’t work, he would be captured. That could not happen. He ran his finger over the piece of black electrical tape covering the arming switch. Everything was ready.
The suitcase was not extremely heavy, but it was heavy enough to require Reed to focus and concentrate on not looking like he was struggling. Once on the Muni bus, he looked like any other tourist. As he glanced around at the other passengers, he spotted at least three people with luggage of various sizes. He was just another less-than-fashionable guy with a suitcase riding public transportation. He was miles from an airport or bus station. Market Street was a menagerie of highbrows and street people, each walking his own path. Not a cop in sight. Jason Reed was invisible.
With a stride that showed definiteness of purpose, Reed entered the San Francisco Shopping Centre. He walked to the foot of the escalator, set the suitcase down, and took off his backpack. With a quick unzip of the backpack, he took the clasp on the chain and clipped it to the handle of the suitcase. A second later, he thrust the three prongs of the sea striker into the grooves of the step as it began its collapsing arch to flatten and recycle. The prong grabbed and the barbs held. The screeching of metal echoed off the walls of the atrium. The striker jammed into the edge of the step and stopped the escalator.
The loud pounding pulse of an alarm blared out. People screamed, and several fell face-first as the escalator jerked to a halt. Bodies rolled and tumbled. Grunts and groans mixed with the alarm. The rhythmic pulse seemed a counter-rhythm to the cries for help. An old lady in a white pantsuit who lay bleeding and twisted called to Reed for assistance. She had come to a stop at the base of the stairs and tried to crawl from the escalator. Reed pulled back and shoved her with his foot flat against her side, sending her sliding across the smooth polished floor. She laid face down, panting and sobbing.
To his right, a security guard appeared at full stride. Reed dropped to an Indian-style crossed-leg seated position. He tore the tape from the triggering switch, depressed the switch with his thumb, and laid his palm flat against the suitcase, his forearm along the top just like he practiced for hours in his room. It was comfortable, and he knew he could stay in position for as long as needed. He tore the tape from the arming switch and flipped it to the “on” position.
“I have a bomb!”
The security guard slid to a stop, nearly falling over only 20 feet from where Reed sat. A man shoved a woman to the floor as he pushed past her running for the exit. A fat Asian man in an Alcatraz sweatshirt tripped on the taunt chain as he ran down the escalator, sprawling to the floor and nearly landing on the old woman in the white pantsuit. The screaming and panic turned the passive shoppers into pushing, clawing beasts as they dropped their bags and packages and ran for the exits. It had begun.
CHAPTER 13
Nine blue uniformed San Francisco police officers surrounded Jason Reed, guns drawn, faces grim. Reed sat calmly, hand resting on the top of the suitcase, index finger depressing the detonation switch of the first nuclear weapon to be used against the United States of America. The adrenaline of the first few moments of the siege faded away, and the peace of determination now warmed Reed. Ten minutes passed.
Reed was a bit disappointed by the lack of recognition he received when he identified himself. He realized that his impression of police as illiterate thugs must be true. They didn’t read the newspaper, that was simple, but hadn’t the Feds prepared for him? Maybe Cole Sage had not told anyone of his call. No, he thought, no negative energy. This was his moment. He would not let it be drained by ungrounded thoughts and worries; these who surrounded him were the beat cops, the first to arrive. The suits would arrive soon. Then he would make his final statement.
It didn’t take long for Carter Washington to get the call. The FBI Task Force was rolling within minutes and in position outside the San Francisco Shopping Centre within 10. Washington was given command of any situation that might arise from Reed’s threats. His first order was to evacuate the surrounding 10-block area. All available buses and light rail were put into service, and traffic on Market Street was blocked off for a mile in both directions to allow anyone with a car fast access and passage from the area.
If Reed truly had a nuclear weapon, all was for naught, but Washington was committed to removing the threat by any means possible. As he stood in front of the San Francisco Shopping Centre, his cell phone rang.
“Carter?” a familiar voice said.
“Yes?”
“This is the President. I want you to know I am behind you. You’re a good man, and whatever happens out there, your best will be good enough.”
“Thank you, sir,” Washington said softly.
“You believe in prayer?”
“Yes, sir. My mother always got good results.”
“When we hang up here, I’m gonna empty the Oval Office, and I’m gonna start praying for you that you’ll be given the wisdom to do what is needed. That all right with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything you need? Anything, you got it.”
“I think the thing I need is your prayers,” Washington replied.
“Then I better get to it. God be with you. Carter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s going to be fine. I believe it to my soul.”
“So do I, sir.”
“Call me when it’s over.”
“Will do. Thank you, sir.”
The call was over. Washington flipped his phone closed and walked through the doors into the San Francisco Shopping Centre. He stopped just inside and took a long look around the lobby and up to the beautiful 500,000 pounds of steel and glass that made up the dome. He thought it odd that so many, spent so much time, and money to build something so beautiful, only to have one man sit waiting to bring it all down.
A tall, ruddy-faced officer approached Washington. As he neared, Washington glanced around for Reed but saw nothing.
“I’m McMartin, sir. The man you’re looking for is around the other side.”
“Look, you’re the senior man here, right?” Washington asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need you to be as honest with me as you can. I’m Carter, and you are…”
“David, sir.”
“Okay, David. You and I are all that’s between this place coming down and maybe hundreds of people being hurt, getting deathly sick, or dying. I don’t want that to happen. Moreover, I don’t want it to happen to us. How many men do you have in there?”
“Nine total.”
“Anybody you wouldn’t trust with your life?”
“Couple.” David McMartin looked Washington directly in the eyes.
“First order: Get them out of the building. Anyone spoken to Reed?”
“No, sir.”
“Has he said anything?”
“Only that he has a bomb.”
“David, we think he has a nuke.”
“In a suitcase, sir?”
“Yes. I need to talk to him. I want you to pull your people back. Get rid of those you don’t want here. Don’t tell them what I’ve told you yet. In time, in time. Ready?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
Washington offered his hand, and the two men shook.
As they walked to the far side, Washington thought he heard McMartin say something. “Pardon?”
“Sorry, I was praying.”
“We’ll be all right.”
As they rounded the upward spiral of the first escalator, Washington saw Jason Reed for the first time. Always one to pride himself on reading a first impression, Carter Washington smiled.
“Doesn’t look like much,” he whispered to McMartin.
“See his finger? We figure it’s the switch. If he let’s go, it will blow.”
“Let’s not give him any reason to do that.”
McMartin signaled to his men to fall back. Carter Washington took a long, deep breath and approached Reed.
“Mr. Reed, I’m Special Agent Carter Washington of the FBI. What’s going on here?”
“You the top guy?”
“I’m the one here for now. What’s in the suitcase?”
“My promise.”
“How’s that?”
“I told Cole Sage. You know him?”
“I do. Why don’t you tell me, though? First-hand.”
“I’m not ready to set it off. Not yet. So no need to stall for backup to arrive. See, if your sharpshooters or anybody shoots me or rushes me, I lift my finger, the bomb goes off. Still want to chat?”
“What do you want, Reed? I mean, really. Certainly, you don’t want to die. I read your letter in the paper. You have some good points, but is this the best way to get the job done?”
“When this bomb does its job, millions around the world who believe like I do will take to the streets. It’s like the bell at the start of a fight. Ding, round one.” Reed smiled, obviously pleased with his attempt at humor. “I have decided that my message has not reached enough people. Did you know the cops didn’t know my name?”
“Is that what this is about? Fame? Let’s stop right here then. You will be famous. I’ll even get you on Larry King. First, let’s drop this whole bomb idea.”
“Drop the bomb idea.” Reed laughed. “Did you realize what you said? That’s very funny. Drop the bomb.”
“You seem like a smart guy, Reed. Why wouldn’t you want to see this to the end?”
“I’m smart enough to know you’re up to something. We are not friends. You’re not here for a chat. I am focused on my mission, and you are not going to talk me out of it. Is that clear? We can save each other a lot of time and energy if we can agree on that one point. Get Cole Sage down here. I want to do my last interview. Just Sage, nobody else. Tell him to bring a yellow pad and a pencil. A yellow one, got it? I have a feeling I will fatigue quickly. From the Marina to here shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes, especially with an escort. Go.”
Washington took his radio from his waist and spoke in quick sharp bursts. “Jamal, get SFPD to pick up Cole Sage at his house ASAP. Fast, got me? Real fast.”
“I’m on it,” the radio crackled in return.
Washington flipped open his cell phone and pushed a button. “Cole, Carter. A police car is on its way to pick you up. I’m with Reed. He wants one last interview.”
“Tell him just him, no coats or jackets, sweaters, nothing like that. Shirtsleeves.” Reed’s tone was firm and unwavering as he interrupted.
“Reed says just you, a pad and a pencil. And Cole, shirtsleeves.”
“Where are you?” Cole finally spoke.
“The big shopping centre on Market. I’ll meet you out front.” Washington paused. He could hear a siren on Cole’s end of the line.
“They’re here. I’m gone.” Cole hung up the phone.
“He’s on his way, Mr. Reed.”
“Then your job is done. Goodbye.” Reed made a flipping motion with his hand as if brushing away a fly.
Washington made an amused huffing sound through his nose and turned and walked away.
It took only 12 minutes for the police cruiser to deliver Cole to the front door on Market.
“Cole, you okay with this? You don’t have to—”
“Nice disclaimer. You learn that in the academy?” Cole smiled and raised his eyebrows.
“Here’s the deal. You’re on your own. Get whatever he wants off his chest and take your time. You probably can get closer than anyone else will be able to. Take in every detail of that suitcase you can. Don’t make notes. He might ask to see what you’ve written. You’ve interviewed a lot of people. I’m not going to tell you how to do your job but—”
“Carter, I get it. What are you going to do?”
Washington took Cole’s shoulder and turned him away from an army of police lining the sidewalk. “I have no idea. The trigger to this thing is a reverse switch; if he lets off pressure, it goes off. Can’t shoot him, can’t grab him. It seems to be his game. Our best defense is to stall.”
“How’s he gonna know it’s me?”
“What do you mean?”
“He has never seen me that I know of. Can’t you send in some Ninja Fibby and take him?”
“No prep time. He might not know what you look like, but he knows your background, and he knows your voice. He knows what you’ve written, and he knows what you talked about. You’re it, brother.”
“Well, let’s get to it.” Cole shrugged.
“One last thing. I talked to Sarah last night. Fine lady, but she’s a lifer, Cole. Lifers are funny. Sooner or later, the Bureau wins out over everything. It already won out over you. You’re a good guy, Cole. Trust me, let
it go.”
“Why are you doing this? Why now?”
“I don’t want any unnecessary distractions. Just focus on Reed.”
“This isn’t friendly advice, is it?”
“Pure FBI,” Washington said with a deadpan look.
Cole turned and walked toward the doors.
“One more thing.”
“Now what?”
“Don’t piss him off.” Washington smiled.
“You’ll be my role model,” Cole said over his shoulder as he went through the doors.
“‘Say, can I have some of your purple berries? / Yes, I’ve been eating them for six or seven weeks now, / haven’t got sick once. Probably keep us both alive. / Wooden ships on the water, very free and easy—’” Singing echoed from the cavernous space.
“Reed?” Cole called out.
“Around here!” A voice replied from around the back of the escalator.
Cole rounded the escalator to see a man sitting cross-legged behind a cordovan suitcase. It was a very odd sight, this small man with short-cropped greying red hair leaning against the suitcase, both arms resting across the top.
“Reed?” Cole asked, as if there were another possible option.
“Mr. Sage. At last.” Reed’s head bobbed in amusement as he looked Cole up and down.
“Something funny?”
“I thought you were black.” Reed laughed.
“Nope.”
“Have a seat,” Reed said, pointing at the floor in front of him. “Would you mind turning around once?”
Cole complied and turned slowly, extending his arms to shoulder height.
“Got your yellow pad, I see. Got a pencil?” Reed asked.
Cole pulled the newly sharpened yellow No. 2 Ticonderoga pencil from his shirt pocket.
“Nice that you can follow instructions. Wonder why I specified a pencil?” Reed’s voice and demeanor took on a serious tone.
Helix of Cole Page 21
