“...The text of what they call ‘Communique #1’ is as follows. We, the Mexican Revolution Solidarity Brigade, possess the two pounds of enriched riemanium taken from the Security Pacific Services armored car robbery in Oakland. For the riemanium’s return, we demand the immediate and unconditional withdrawal of all U.S. military forces from southern Mexico and northern Guatemala. We also demand that the U.S. government participate in peace negotiations with the Zapata Liberation Front.
‘The present U.S. air war over the Yucatan, with its use of hunter bombs, antipersonnel weapons, and chemical and biological agents, amounts to a fascistic strategy of ’total war.’ The Liberated Territories are a modern-day Guernica. The popular struggles and peoples war of the Mayan Indians and other indigenous peoples in southern Mexico are being met by the only strategy available to U.S. imperialism; aerial genocide to compliment the dirty ground war being conducted by the so-called ‘Combined Forces’ and Mexican military-sponsored right wing death squads. The war must be stopped immediately. All U.S. forces must be withdrawn. And immediate negotiations for peace with the ZLF must begin.
The Mexican Revolution Solidarity Brigade reminds the powers-that-be that information on how to build a nuclear device can be found in any good public library. The riemanium, converted into a fine dust and spread into the atmosphere, could exponentially increase the incidence of cancer around the Bay. Will it be necessary to give this country a taste of the ‘total war’ we regularly rain down upon the Yucatan? Or will the U.S. government militarily withdraw from southern Mexico and make peace with its people?”
“That’s it?” Marcus asked.
“Yes,” Brian said, “No deadlines, no ultimatums, no mention of follow through; its not an extremely ‘threatening” job. It’s desktop, and the communique part came on a colored xerox of photos of the riemanium. No doubt about it. It’s the stolen riemanium all right. I went to get KWNE’s copy for the lab. You know Mark, this thing looks almost like an art project. You know the look I mean. What’s the matter with me. I’m faxing a copy to you right now. Lots of other media are getting copies today. My phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
“Fits with the suspect’s political associations I told you about,” Mark said, “It might still be him, alone, trying to milk this for all its worth. But you’re right. The wording is nondescript. Certainly not militant, much less revolutionary. Too academic.”
“Sumner is likely to catapult this Peregrine onto the Most Wanted,” Sampson speculated, “Which is all the more reason to have you in Alabaster. I’ll keep my two cops available as long as possible, but I know Sumner’s going to pull rank with Holbin real soon. I may not be able to give you much up front help before too long. Edward, he thinks you’re a joke, which makes you our sleeper. Our ace-in-the-hole.”
“Virtually the only independent operator now I’ll wager,” Marcus agreed.
“And you still have Joe,” Brian reminded him, “Manny’s sharp. Use him.”
“Already am,” Mark made a note to set up another meeting with Joe, “I’m sorry you’ll probably lose your mobility with this.”
“No sorrier than I am,” Sampson chuckled ruefully, “No pleasure knowing that now the whole Patrol is going to have a hard time holding onto our autonomy. Perhaps if Darby gets a little too much of Edward’s boot hell be open to a little solo action.”
Brian did not elaborate and Mark did not probe.
“Damned Feds,” the Captain finally grumbled. They’ll be descending like flies on shit after this. Trouble is, the bullshit comes with the territory. I knew it when I accepted the job. Means I’m going to have to fight for anything I can get from here on out.”
“Good luck,” Marcus said.
He recapped the news to his wife and turned on the radio. Sure enough, news flashes of the communique were like lightning on the airwaves. He called Joe’s home phone, got his answering machine and left a message. This certainly was a new twist. He casually read the dot matrix printout as he hung up the telephone; Gwen’s work marked: Federal Bureau of Investigation Data Base Printout. Supplemented by Black Talon.
BLACK DADA NIHILISMUS: (From poem, entitled same, by LeRoi Jones [b. Everett LeRoi Jones, aka Amiri Baraka], 1964. Poem noted for ultra-violent imagery and race war themes.) The Black Formation (BF) (qv.) first caucused at the 2001 National Conference of Students for an Anarchist Society (SAS) (qv.) when covert U.S. government aid to the Mexican and Guatemalan governments’ counter-insurgency campaigns in the Yucatan was exposed by the New York Times. BF became an autonomous grouping with the breakup of SAS in early 2002, itself breaking up by the middle of 2003 over differences in strategy of opposition to the beginning of U.S. air war. Black Gang (BG) (qv.) supported “open affinity structure” and “alliances in the streets” with other radical elements and formations. Black dada Nihilismus (BdN) promoted “clandestine affinity structure” and “street autonomy.” BdN published “Kick It Over: A Maximum Strategy” (qv.) in 8/2003. Between 40 and 60 BdN affinities, each of between 5 and 15 militants, are believed to exist in San Francisco, Seattle, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, Chicago, New York and Atlanta. BdN is strongest in SF Bay Area, and combined BdN actions are estimated to have destroyed $750 million in corporate and government property to date. As a consequence, it has become a focus for the FBI Counter-Anarchist Program (ConAnPro, qv.). Presently, only three BdN members have been arrested, and none of these arrests have seriously hampered BdN activism nationwide.
“Keep plugging away at the work,” Mark cleared the table and rinsed the dishes. “I’ll know more about any change of direction, if there is to be any, by this afternoon.”
Marcus pulled the computer processed fax of the MRSB Communique #1 out of the OXO. He then employed his tried-and-true method for provoking thought; he changed into Nikes and jogging sweats and went for a long walk to sort out his own confusion.
First, he dissected the photos. Pine forest: Anywhere, Northern California. The camos and combat boots; that set a tone the detective would have expected to be carried through to the disappointing text. On one part of the right boot, he discerned letters: SP. His son had gone through a punk phase in growing up and by the style he guessed that the initials indicated a late-term punk band, Small Potatoes.
Then, he analyzed the communique’s text
All that he had noted with Brian still glared out at him. It did not state how the riemanium was obtained. It did not state that a nuclear weapon or a dusting would be the consequences of inaction, let alone that the MRSB would carry through on either. It was remarkably short and vague, giving a muddled fingerprint, what a criminologist might call a sociopolitical profile.
Supposedly, this was a communique from an extreme Left wing political group, if Peregrine’s BdN connections were assumed. It’s rhetoric was grade C, worthy of a naive college PC Leftist. It showed no ideological punch. There was no mention of “the workers” or “the oppressed” or “capitalism’s need to maximize profits,” and only one backhanded mention of “U.S. imperialism;” the telltale marks of ML leanings. Nor did it contain diatribes against “state power,” “politicians and bosses,” and “authoritarianism” to tag it as anarchist leaning. The communique was remarkably bland for all the divisions rife on the Left, so much so that Marcus suspected that it had been written by a committee working from consensus.
Marcus stood on the short levee for Driscoll Creek south of Main Street before it crossed the bridge to become East Main, past the PD and City Hall. Across the bridge began Alabaster East; the eastward walled suburban/telescanned mini-mall sprawl built up in the ‘80’s/90’s aspiring to connect with Marin County’s urban creep. He chose the well marked river bank trail south instead.
If Peregrine claimed BdN, then it would have shown in that communique. If it had come from Peregrine, it would have been more incendiary, more defiant. He was getting a sense of the man he stalked, and Marcus was certain enough to bet money that Peregrine had not written it. What he had instead in the
communiqué was some memo written by some executive committee.
Had the material been passed on? Had there been another gang? Or an after theft sale? Was searching out Peregrine even worth the effort? Or was Peregrine deliberately disguising his political bent, cleverly submerging his extremism with such general Leftist drek? His theories had become doubts.
“Looks almost like an art school project.” He repeated Sampson’s words out loud to focus himself, glancing at the fax in his hand. A large black raven drifted lazily overhead. How difficult would it be for some art students at any of the Bay Area’s colleges or universities, hell even high schools, to spec and craft an object from repeated newsprint and video images meant to alert the public? Fabricate it out of fiberglass and foam to look like the real thing, then stage a media event. Or, would it be performance art? But how would they have known how the box’s contents looked?
The levee graded down to the creek bottom, as had the trail he followed. Water pooled and pearled along the worn rocks and small boulders of the creek channel. Straw dry reeds, brittle sage, and tangled mesquite complicated the way. Marcus stopped for a rest on a small boulder, beneath an overhanging film of evergreen needles. As he wiped his brow, the drama unfolded. A ringed, spindly legged roadrunner darted across a wide, sandy expanse, two long strides behind the lizard scurrying, doing evasive maneuvers, until the reptile achieved brief safety under a thick scrubby bush.
At first, the roadrunner scampered about, trying from every direction to badger the poor cold blooded creature out of hiding. Then the avian seemed to tilt its head for a moment of thought. The roadrunner jumped to the side of the bush the lizard would have emerged from, had it continued clear through, and began to peck and claw furiously. It continued its frenzied assault, trying to uproot the bush, until the lizard leapt from hiding and tried for the way back. Back the way it had come, across the empty expanse of sand. The bird expected it. With one bound of wings and talons, it leaped entirely over the bush, to pounce on the reptile. Lunch.
“Gwen, everything’s on course,” Marcus returned, full of confidence, “What do you have for me?”
“The deep recesses of Black Talon.” She was not smiling.
Nor did he blame her. Satanism, much like Christianity or socialism, suffered from innumerable splits and rifts. Anton LeVey^ Church of Satan had considered itself “the thinking man’s Satanism,” an “eye for an eye” philosophy cloaked in Satanic imagery and symbolism. As such, and even after the “master’s” demise, it could be distinguished from coven Satanism, paganism which saw in Satanism a Christian-corrupted nature worship, Mansonesque cultic Satanism, and the pop Satanism which had emerged from heavy metal, glam, and gothic punk after the mid ‘70’s. But the LeVeyites were not a unified whole either. The Black Talon BBS was the neo-cyberpunk tendency in that Satanic sect, as distinguished from the professionals and entrepreneurs who took up LeVey’s philosophy as justification for their own ruthlessness. Not that the formal LeVeyites were any more pleasant to deal with, but one of the Black Talon’s quiz questions to enter their bulletin board, after logging in on a private account with the appropriate password, was:
You are in the castle en route to steal the King’s treasure when you come upon the unguarded chambers of the princess. The princess is also so you:
A) Proceed because the princess is merely a distraction;
B) Note her location so that you can return after stealing the King’s treasure to take her prisoner;
C) Take her hostage to negotiate for the King’s treasure;
D) Rape her and proceed; or
E) Rape her, kill her and proceed.
The correct response was E. Luckily for Gwen, and Marcus, their PC did not have a compatible graphics program.
“You’ve already read the Black dada Nihilismus file,” Gwen handed him another printout in a tagged manila folder, as well as a manila envelope. The folder was marked: Black Talon Data Base Print Out.
PEREGRINE; [(per-ə-grən, -ˌgrēn) adj. 1. Coming from foreign regions: a peregrine bird. 2. Traveling; wandering.—n. The peregrine falcon. Also peregrin.] Handle associated with as-yet-unidentified second story man.
Name circulated in New York City vaguely attached to a number of burglaries of differing MO’s in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. Never clearly identified.
Recently, name resurfaced in association with Piccoli Gem Heist (qv.) and Diamotti gang (qv.) in Oakland, California, 1/27/2007. Associated with fifth, as-yet-unapprehended suspect from above theft. Reputed to have been Diamotti gang’s procurer. White male, 22-28 years old, 510”, 150 lbs, average build, dark complexion, dark hair, hazel eyes, a.k.a. Michael Baumann and Robert Fitzooth. California APB still in effect. May be upgraded to FBI 10 Most Wanted due to release of Mexican Revolution Solidarity Brigade 2/1/2007 communique (qv.). There is no direct link between 20th century Peregrine and present-day Peregrine.
Again, Marcus had to marvel at the brief summary’s currency. Black Talon already had the MRSB on file.
“Nothing from Interpol?” Mark asked, dangling a pencil from his fingers.
“Nothing I’ve been able to track down yet,” Gwen said, not taking her eyes off the computer screen or her fingers off the keyboard.
At the same moment, Neal logged onto the company compunet in Security Pacific’s downtown SF corporate offices, then used a secondary password, known only to himself, to access an obscure data base. The Security Pacific president copied the information onto computer diskettes, five in all, before irretrievably erasing that well hidden memory. FBI subpoenas, attached to humorless FBI agents, had arrived that morning for everything pertaining to the Piccoli Gem and UC riemanium shipments, as well as the current personnel files, tax records for the previous five years, and working books for the last six months. Neal anticipated a more thorough follow-up search any day now.
Neal cleaned out his briefcase and barely managed to cram it full with four bulky manila files from a separately locked drawer in an already locked filing cabinet in his office. He had accepted a number of shady jobs not only when Security Pacific was a struggling new company but throughout his years in business; transporting several stolen masterpieces in the private collection of a well-known individual of wealth and social position, providing discreet security for a drug and sex bacchanalia of several prominent congressmen, middling an exchange of money for sex between a famous Hollywood star and the wife of an ex-president, etc. In turn, his files and records on these and other less-than-kosher transactions had given Neal an inordinate amount of leverage in Washington. No need to waste it by handing it over to the FBI, he thought. He took the executive elevator down to his car, parked in the basement, the files in his briefcase and the diskettes in his jacket pocket.
Marcus set down the folder, then picked up the envelope. This had only one item, a color glossy 8x10 photo of a peace demonstration. A red ink circle on the photo side enclosed a small face in the throng. The back gave the time and place that the picture was taken, the source, as well as the handwritten words: “75% gestalt.”
The face in the photo was young. Had the detective been a liquor store clerk, he would have carded that face. The hair in the photo was not dark, but bright red, and a raft of freckles made the ruddy face appear rounder, the cheeks fuller. An optical illusion; still and all, very young. Three-quarters gestalt with the police sketch was not sufficient to update the police description, not from one picture. But it did provide another clue.
“Thanks for sticking with the Black Talon and digging this up,” Mark lightly touched Gwen’s shoulder. She gave him a weary smile. He continued to ponder aloud on one of the many puzzling aspects to the information collected so far.
“BdN is a radical youth gang,” he sketched out the dilemma as Gwen poured herself a glass of wine, done for the day. “Peregrine’s been described as young, and not just by Rosanne. All of which just doesn’t jibe with the ‘feel’ to this guy. If there is a connection between New York’s Peregrine and
ours, then this guy can’t be in his early 20’s. Otherwise, he’d have to be the youngest hot-shot second story man on record anywhere. But, leaving that aside, what we know of him from the Diamotti gang also implies that he’s older. More experienced. Either that or he’s really been around, which doesn’t jibe with his lack of a police record. Then there’s his sketch and this photo. It’s over a year old, but it has a high gestalt.”
“Either he inherited his handle from someone else.” His wife enjoyed her well-deserved drink in small sips. “A father or a mentor-in-crime. Or, he’s a lot older than he appears. That suggests either a naturally youthful appearance, or maybe cosmetic alteration.”
Joe Manley called then, and Marcus set up a meeting for the next day.
***
Greg tried studying his biological chemistry with great difficulty sprawled on his sleeping bag in the P&MB lobby. The noise was bad enough, what with people talking, the low drone of several radios playing a weird amalgam of musical styles or covering the latest on the New York jigsaw serial killer who sliced up his victims to mail their body parts to prominent politicians, as well as an acoustic guitarist doing very bad folk covers. The smell of the occupation was even more distracting. First, there was the odor typical of summer camp; lots of sweaty bodies, rancid shoes and socks, and too strong perfumes and antiperspirant. This was mixed with food odors, two distinct burning incense sticks, and a pine sol smell whenever anybody opened the bathroom doors. He looked up from his book, pinching the bridge of his nose to clear his sight. He was not getting a lot of work done when Beth Roland walked through around 4 and zeroed in on him.
“The communique’s hit the media,” she said, her voice low even though no one was immediately about them.
“Yah, I heard,” Greg said, “Any response yet?”
“An hour ago. The President said he won’t bargain with terrorists. He’s ordered the FBI to hunt down ‘those responsible’ no matter what it takes.”
End Time Page 18
