by Howard Fast
The cords were off. Masuto took the child in his arms. He was on his knees, rocking her back and forth, clutching her tightly. “It’s all right, baby, it’s all right now. Everything’s all right now. We’re going home.”
Bit by bit, her screams turned into whimpers. She buried her face in Masuto’s shirt, and holding her tightly, he rose and went into the next room. The thin man still lay curled up, clutching his groin and moaning in pain. The other man was unconscious on the floor, his face in a growing pool of blood. Beckman had both the automatic pistol and the revolver stuck into his belt, and he was massaging his right hand and grimacing with pain.
“Sure as God, I broke my hand, Masao. How is she?”
Still holding the child with her face in his shirt, Masuto took his handcuffs from his back pocket and threw them to Beckman. “Cuff them both,” he said shortly, “and stay with them. I’ll be back with the car in an hour. She’s all right. I’m taking her home.
“This one needs an ambulance,” pointing to the unconscious man. “I broke his nose.”
“He’ll live.”
When he put Ana down on the seat next to him in his car, thinking how much she looked like one of those Japanese dolls they sold in Little Tokyo in downtown Los Angeles, with her jet black hair, her straight bangs and her round face, she had stopped sobbing and was able to smile at him and say, “You look funny, daddy.”
“Why?”
“Your face is so dirty.”
“We’ll go home, and we’ll both wash, and everything that happened is only a bad dream.”
“It was real,” she whispered.
“Yes, it was real,” he said to himself. “Only too real.”
He drove onto the freeway. There was no traffic to speak of at this time of the day, and in exactly twenty minutes he was in front of his house in Culver City. Kati must have been at the window, because Ana was hardly out of the car when Kati had her in her arms.
11
THE
EXOTIC
WOMAN AGAIN
It was half past two in the afternoon when Masuto returned to the cottage on Fountain Avenue. The two dark men still lay on the floor, their wrists handcuffed behind them, the shorter man with a smashed face that was a bloody mask, blood all over his clothes. Beckman was leaning against the wall with the two guns stuck in his belt.
As Masuto entered, the skinny man started to shout at him in a language that Masuto guessed was Arabic, and then switched to English. “My brother needs a doctor. He is dying.”
Ignoring him, Masuto asked Beckman about his hand.
“I don’t know, Masao. It hurts like hell. I never hit anyone that hard before.”
“Are you animals? My brother is dying!”
In response to this, the man with the broken nose moaned with pain.
“This place stinks,” Beckman said. “Can we get them out of here?”
Masuto did not reply. He stood there silent, staring at Issa.
“How did Kati take it?”
Masuto ignored him, staring at Issa.
“If they both died here,” Masuto said thoughtfully, “no one would know the difference.”
“Masao!” Beckman was shocked. Masuto met his eyes, and Beckman sighed and shrugged. “If you want it that way.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Issa screamed.
“What’s your name?” Masuto demanded. “Your real name?”
The thin man pressed his lips together.
“Give me the revolver,” Masuto said to Beckman.
“It’s just a cheap Saturday night special,” Beckman observed, handing it to him.
“It works.” Masuto spun the cylinder. “It’s a rotten gun but it works. I guess that’s what one asks of a gun.” He pointed the gun at Issa, who cringed and closed his eyes.
“Open your eyes and look at me when I speak to you,” Masuto said quietly. “I asked you your name. I am not asking for evidence or anything that may be used against you. I simply asked your name.”
“Issa Mahoud.”
“And his name?” pointing to the other.
“Sahlah Beeden.”
“Then you are not brothers?”
“We are brothers in the struggle for justice.”
“And what struggle is that?” Masuto asked.
“The struggle to liberate my homeland from the Zionist pigs.”
Masuto turned to Beckman and said, “Read them their rights, Sy.”
“This is an admonition of rights,” Beckman said tonelessly. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning—”
“Stand up, both of you,” Masuto said when Beckman had finished.
Issa struggled to his feet. “My brother can’t stand up. He needs an ambulance.”
“Get him on his feet, Sy.”
Beckman dragged Sahlah to his feet, and they marched the two of them outside to Masuto’s car. “They’ll make a mess of the seat,” Beckman said. “Maybe we ought to call an ambulance.”
“The hell with the seat,” Masuto said coldly. “We deliver these two ourselves.”
With Beckman’s help, the two men got into the back seat of the car. A few people came out of houses along the street to stand by their doors and watch in silence. The traffic moving by slowed. Masuto opened the luggage compartment, and they put the two guns in there and took back their jackets and their own guns.
At the station in Beverly Hills, Beckman marched the two men inside, Masuto following with the pile of the Russian’s clothes and possessions and the two guns. Sergeant Connoley was at the desk. He said, “By God, Masao, we been looking for you and Beckman all day. Where the hell have you been? And what have you got there?”
“Where’s Wainwright?”
“He went back to the Beverly Glen Hotel with the G-man. He’s screaming bloody murder about the way you and Beckman took off and never called in or one word about where you are. What do you want me to do with these two beauties?”
“Book them and then lock them up.”
“For what?”
“Start with this. Murder, accessory to murder, conspiracy to murder, kidnapping, armed robbery, and resisting arrest.”
“That’s all?”
“Armed robbery?” Beckman whispered.
“We’ll get to that.”
“Better give it to me again,” Connoley said. “It’s a long list.”
Masuto repeated the charges, and then told Connoley, “We’ll be with Sweeney if the captain calls in.”
“That one,” Connoley said, “ought to go to a hospital. He don’t have much face left.”
“He can walk,” Masuto said coldly. “Get Sam Baxter over to patch him up. I want him here.”
“Baxter will love that.”
“I don’t give a damn what Baxter would love.”
Climbing the stairs to Sweeney’s office, Beckman said to Masuto, “I never seen you like this before, Masao. It’s no good. It’s not your way.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’re involved, which is no good for a cop. Ana’s with her mother. It’s over.”
“Not yet. It’s not over yet.”
Sweeney looked up from his light table as they entered his office and grinned. “Ah, the two missing hawkeyes. It’s only three-fifteen. Do you still work here or are you on pension?”
“We have ten minutes, and this is damned real and close, Sweeney. So tell me what you’ve got.”
“Goodies. So many goodies I don’t know where to begin. Start with the glass. You consort with belly dancers, Masao, a side of you I never suspected.”
“Will you get on with it!”
“This belly dancer, she was in Stillman’s room and she was also in the yellow Cadillac. They all match.”
“How do you know it was the belly dancer? I never told you that.”
&nbs
p; “But I have my ways. I got her photograph and I spent the taxpayers’ hard-earned money. Washington, nothing. Chicago, New York, nothing. But Bonn in Germany—I hit pay dirt. They sent a Telex back that she was wanted by the cops there under the name of Bertha Hellschmidt, that she was suspected of being an agent of the East German intelligence, and they sent me a set of her prints for confirmation. And, sonny, they matched.”
“That’s good,” Masuto said. “That’s wonderful, Sweeney. I’m grateful. Did they say what she was wanted for in Bonn?”
“Something to do with the murder of the Israeli athletes at the seventy-two Olympics. They didn’t go into details, except to mention that her father was an SS officer back in the Nazi days.”
“Good. One more favor, Sweeney—only because we have no time. We booked two men downstairs. One of them, the skinny one, is called Issa. Get his photograph and send it to the San Fernando cops, care of Lieutenant Gonzales. Get him on the phone and tell him I want him to show the picture for identification to a man called Garcia, who is the gardener at the Felcher Company. Remind him about our conversation yesterday.”
“That’s all? Don’t I get to know what this is all about?”
“I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow and tell you the whole story. Oh, yes, one more thing.”
“I thought so.”
“Call Bob Phillips. He’s the chief of security at the airport. Tell him to meet me at the departure gate of National in twenty minutes and to have two of his men with him.”
“You can’t get to the airport in twenty minutes,” Beckman said.
“We’re going to give it a damn good try. Come on, Sy.”
“What shall I tell Wainwright?” Sweeney called after them.
“Tell him the whole story.”
“Whatever that may be,” Beckman muttered.
In the car, Masuto driving, siren going, and identification lights flashing, Beckman said plaintively, “It makes no sense, no damn sense at all. An East German spy who is Binnie Vance murders a Russian agent. The daughter of an SS officer who is also Binnie Vance marries a Jew and then kills him. And if I read you, this Issa steals the lead azide and lays it on the Jewish Defense League.”
“It wasn’t programmed that way. They didn’t mean to kill Stillman. He was set up for the Russian’s death, and when he didn’t follow the script, she killed him. He had the J.D.L. connection. It made sense. It was just a question of time. A few hours more, and every piece would have fallen into place.”
“All right. I go along with you. Just tell me why they killed the fat man.”
“For one thing, it led to Stillman and the Jewish Defense League. Or maybe he read her too well and told her all bets were off. Or maybe he was a double agent. Or maybe she was. Or maybe he balked at the notion that it was worth blowing up an airplane with over two hundred people on board just to kill five agronomists and lay the blame on the Jewish Defense League and the Zionists. Or maybe he got on to the notion and decided that it was senseless. Or maybe he didn’t know one damn thing, and for reasons of their own the Russians decided to get rid of him and sent her to do the job. You can take your choice, Sy.”
“Do you think we’ll ever know?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
They were on the San Diego Freeway now, screaming south at eighty miles an hour.
“Better all around if we stay alive,” Beckman said casually.
“We’ll stay alive.”
“I should have called the L.A. bomb squad.”
“I don’t want them there with that damn truck of theirs. I don’t want anything to alarm Miss Binnie Vance.”
“It still don’t make sense, a woman cold enough to marry a man just to set him up like that.”
“She’s pretty cold, but maybe when she married him she didn’t have that in mind. She could have found out about his big contribution to the J.D.L. and decided that he was a proper candidate. Who knows? I would guess that she planned the whole thing, but why not give her the benefit of the doubt? It’s the last benefit she’ll have.”
“I read a book about that Munich massacre of the Israeli athletes by the Palestinians at the seventy-two Olympics. The East Germans could have saved a couple of them,” Beckman said. “Their quarters were right across the street. They didn’t. They just watched the whole thing, cold as ice.”
They were close to the airport now. Masuto turned off the freeway onto Century Boulevard, and a few minutes later they came to a stop in front of the National Airlines gate. Phillips was already there, waiting with two uniformed airport police. He was a slow-moving, ruddy-faced man, whom Masuto had encountered half a dozen times through the years, and he unhurriedly shook hands with both of them.
“Sy Beckman, my partner.”
“What have you got, Masuto?” Phillips asked him.
“You know about the Russian agronomists?”
“Right. We got extra security from here right into the plane.” He looked at his watch. “They should be here in about half an hour. Six seats first class on the regular flight to Miami.”
“Six seats?”
“They got an interpreter who travels with them. We’re trying to keep it very low key. We don’t expect any trouble.” He looked at Masuto keenly. “Are you bringing me trouble?”
“Some. Any minute now, a belly dancer called Binnie Vance will get out of a taxi or some other car. She’ll be carrying a suitcase which will contain four ounces of lead azide and maybe another ten pounds of dynamite or some other explosive. It’s probably rigged with an altitude detonator or a time device. She has almost certainly bought a ticket on the plane to Miami, but she has no intention of going there. She’ll check the bag through on her ticket, and then go back to the Ventura Hotel where she’s the opening act tonight.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“No. I’m giving it to you straight. It’s a long, twisted story that we have no time to go into. Just take my word for it.”
“You’re not talking about a hijack. You’re spelling out a plan to blow up the plane and kill everyone on board.”
“Right.”
“But why?”
“How the devil do I know? A new terror tactic, an excuse to start a war, a tactic for a new wave of anti-Semitism.”
“Who’s behind it?”
“There too. She’s East German. The others are Arabs. Maybe the Palestinians, maybe the Germans, maybe the Russians. They got it set up to lay it on the Jewish Defense League.”
“What does she look like?”
“Medium, good-looking, green eyes, dark hair, good figure. I suggest you put your two men over at the baggage entrance, just in case. We’ll cover the main entrance.”
“She’ll be carrying the bag?”
“I think so. That lead azide is volatile. Tell your men to handle with care.”
He walked off with the two uniformed police. When he returned, he looked at his watch and said, “Four-ten. The Russians will be arriving in the next ten minutes or so. The plane boards at four thirty-five. Suppose she doesn’t show?”
“Then we’ll put them on another plane and go through every piece of baggage.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“It’s easier than dying, isn’t it?”
“All I got is your say-so, Masuto.”
“You got mine,” Beckman whispered. “Over there.”
A taxi had pulled up to the curb, about thirty feet short of where they were standing. A smartly dressed woman in a black pants suit got out and reached into the cab. The cab driver came around the cab to help.
She gave him a bill. “I’ll do it. Keep the change.”
She reached into the cab again and drew out a medium-sized Gucci suitcase.
“Is that her, Masao?” Beckman asked softly.
“That’s our girl. Let her check the suitcase through. Then we’ll take it.” Masuto turned his back to her. “She knows me,” he explained.
“She’s giving it to the luggage porter,” Beckman sa
id.
Masuto heard her say, “The five o’clock flight to Miami. Will it be leaving on time?”
“Usually does, ma’am. Could I see your ticket?”
She gave him the ticket, and he wrote her baggage check and handed it to her. Then he took the suitcase and put it on his cart.
“Get the suitcase,” Masuto said to Phillips. “We’ll take care of her.”
“Okay.”
“And then have one of your men call the bomb squad.”
As Masuto turned around, she was entering the airline terminal. Masuto and Beckman followed her. “Now?” Beckman wanted to know.
Masuto shook his head. “Let’s see what she does.”
Keeping their distance, they followed and saw her enter the ladies’ room. They stood at the ticket counter, waiting; a few minutes later she emerged and walked to the exit and out to the sidewalk. She went to the curb and waved to a cab. Then they closed in.
“You don’t need a cab, Miss Vance,” Masuto said. “We’ll give you transportation.”
Two airport policemen, about forty feet away, stood on either side of the Gucci bag. Phillips strolled toward them.
“Detective Masuto,” she said. “How odd—” She noticed the bag and broke off. Beckman cuffed her wrists.
“Damn you, what are you doing?”
“I’m sorry. You’re dangerous, lady.”
Masuto said, “Mrs. Stillman, I am arresting you for the murder of your husband, Jack Stillman, for the murder of Peter Litovsky, for conspiracy to destroy an interstate airliner, and for the transportation of dangerous explosives. Sy, read her her rights.”
“You’re crazy!” she cried shrilly. “You’re all insane. I’m opening at the Ventura tonight.”
“Not tonight. Not any night.”
“This is an admonition of rights,” Beckman was droning. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“Oh, shut up!” she screamed at him.
Beckman droned on.
“She’s a tough cookie,” Phillips said. “I bet she’s something on the stage. I never saw her dance. Now I guess I never will.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Where you taking her, Masuto?”
“Back to our place. When the bomb squad finds out what’s in the bag, give me a call and tell me.”
