Black Sunday

23

LANDER MOANED ONCE AND MOVED in the hospital bed. Dahlia Iyad put aside the New Orleans street map she was studying and rose stiffly. Her foot was asleep. She hobbled to the bedside and put her hand on Lander’s forehead. The skin was hot. She sponged his temples and cheeks with a cool cloth, and when his breathing settled into a steady wheeze and rattle she returned to her chair under the reading lamp.

A curious change came over Dahlia each time she went to the bedside. Sitting in her chair with the map, thinking about New Orleans, she could look at Lander with the steady, cool gaze of a cat, a look in which there were many possibilities, all determined solely by her need. At his bedside, her face was warm and full of concern. Both expressions were genuine. No man ever had a kinder, deadlier nurse than Dahlia Iyad.

She had slept on a cot in the New Jersey hospital room for four nights. She could not leave him for fear he would rave about the mission. And he had raved, but it was about Vietnam and persons she did not know. And about Margaret. For one entire evening he had repeated, “Jergens, you were right.”

She did not know if his mind was gone. She knew she had twelve days until the strike. If she could salvage him, she would do it. If not—well, either way he would die. One way was no worse than the other.

She knew Fasil was in a hurry. But hurrying is dangerous. If Lander was unable to fly and Fasil’s alternate arrangements did not suit her, she would eliminate Fasil, she decided. The bomb was too valuable to waste in a hastily contrived operation. It was far more valuable than Fasil. She would never forgive him for trying to get out of the actual operation in New Orleans. His weaseling had not been the result of a failure of nerve, as was the case with the Japanese she shot before the Lod airport strike. It was a result of personal ambition, and that was much worse.

“Try, Michael,” she whispered. “Try very hard.”

Early on the morning of January 1, federal agents and local police fanned out to the airports that ringed New Orleans-Houma, Thibodaux, Slidell, Hammond, Greater St. Tammany, Gulfport, Stennis International, and Bogalusa. All morning long their reports filtered in. No one had seen Fasil or the woman.

Corley, Kabakov, and Moshevsky worked New Orleans International and New Orleans Lakefront airports with no success. It was a glum drive back toward town. Corley, checking by radio, was told that all reports from Customs at entry points around the country and all reports from Interpol were negative. There had been no sign of the Libyan pilot.

“The bastard could be going anywhere,” Corley said as he accelerated onto the expressway.

Kabakov stared out the window in sour silence. Only Moshevsky was unconcerned. Having attended the late-late show at the Hotsy-Totsy Club on Bourbon Street the previous evening instead of retiring, he was asleep on the backseat.

They had turned on Poydras toward the federal building when, like a great bird flushed from hiding, the helicopter rose above the surrounding buildings to hover over the Superdome, a heavy square object slung close under its belly.

“Hey. Hey. Hey, David,” Corley said. He leaned over the wheel to look up through the windshield and slammed on his brakes. The car behind them honked angrily and pulled around them on the right, the driver’s mouth working behind his window.

Kabakov’s heart leaped when he saw the machine, and it was still pounding. He knew it was too early for the strike, he could see now that the object hanging under the big helicopter was a piece of machinery, but the image fit the imprint in his mind too well.

The landing pad was on the east side of the Superdome. Corley parked the car a hundred yards away, beside a stack of girders.

“If Fasil is watching this place, he’d better not recognize you,” Corley said. “I’ll get us a couple of hardhats.” He disappeared into the construction site and returned in minutes with three yellow plastic helmets with goggles.

“Take the field glasses and move up into the dome, where that opening overlooks the pad,” Kabakov told Moshevsky. “Keep out of the sunlight and sweep the windows across the street, anywhere high, and the perimeter of the loading area here.”

Moshevsky was moving as he spoke the last word.

The ground crew trundled another load onto the pad, and the helicopter, rocking gently, began its descent to pick it up. Kabakov went into the construction shack at the edge of the pad and watched through the window. The loadmaster was shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand and talking into a small radio as Corley approached him.

“Ask the chopper to come down, please,” Corley said. He cupped his badge so only the loadmaster could see it. The loadmaster glanced at the badge and then at Corley’s face.

“What is it?”

“Would you ask him to come down?”

The loadmaster spoke into the radio and yelled at the ground crew. They rolled the big refrigeration pump off the pad and turned their faces away from the blowing dust as the machine gingerly touched down. The loadmaster made a cutting motion with his hand across his wrist and beckoned. The big rotor slowed and began to droop.

The pilot swung himself out and dropped to the ground in one motion. He wore a Marine flight suit, weathered until it was almost white at the knees and elbows. “What is it, Maginty?”

“This guy wants to talk to you,” the loadmaster said.

The pilot looked at Corley’s ID. Kabakov could detect no expression on his dark brown face.

“Can we go in the shack? You too, Mr. Maginty,” Corley said.

“Yeah,” the loadmaster said. “But look, this eggbeater costs the company five hundred dollars an hour. Can we sort of hurry this up?”

In the littered construction shack, Corley took out the picture of Fasil. “Have you—”

“Why don’t you introduce yourselves first,” the pilot said. “That’s polite, and it’ll only cost Maginty here twelve dollars’ worth of time.”

“Sam Corley.”

“David Kabakov.”

“I’m Lamar Jackson.” He shook their hands solemnly.

“It’s a matter of national security,” Corley said. Kabakov thought he detected a glint of amusement in the pilot’s eyes at Corley’s tone. “Have you seen this man?”

Jackson’s eyebrows raised as he looked at the picture. “Yeah, three or four days ago, while you were rigging the sling on that elevator hoist, Maginty. Who is he anyway?”

“He’s a fugitive. We want him.”

“Well, stick around. He said he was coming back.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. How did you guys know to look here?”

“You’ve got what he wants,” Corley said. “A helicopter.”

“What for?”

“To hurt a lot of people with. When is he coming back?”

“He didn’t say. I didn’t pay too much attention to him to tell you the truth. He was kind of a creepy guy, you know, coming on friendly. What did he do? I mean you say he’s bad news—”

“He is a psychopath and a killer, a political fanatic,” Kabakov said. “He has committed a number of murders. He was going to kill you and take your helicopter when the time came. Tell us what happened.”

“Oh, Christ,” Maginty said. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. “I don’t like this.” He looked quickly out the door of the shack, as though he expected the maniac momentarily.

Jackson shook his head like a man making sure he is really awake, but when he spoke his voice was calm. “He was standing by the pad when I came over here for a cup of coffee. I didn’t particularly notice him, because a lot of people like to watch the thing, you know. Then he started asking me about it, how you make a lift and all, what the model designation was. He asked if he could look inside. I said he could look in through the side door of the fuselage, but he shouldn’t touch anything.”

“And he looked?”

“Yeah, and let me see, he asked how you go back and forth from the cargo bay to the cockpit. I told him it’s awkward, you have to lift one of the seats in the cockpit. I remember I thought it was a funny question. People usually ask, like, how much will it pick up and don’t I get scared it will fall. Then he told me he had a brother who flies choppers and how his brother would love to see it.”

“Did he ask you if you work on Sundays?”

“I was getting to that. This dude asked me three times if we were going to work through the rest of the holidays and I kept telling him yeah, yeah. I had to go back to work, and he made a point of shaking hands and all.”

“He asked you your name?” Kabakov asked.

“Yes.”

“And where you are from?”

“Right.”

Instinctively, Kabakov liked Jackson. He looked like a man with good nerves. It would take good nerves to do Jackson’s job. He also looked as though he could be very tough when he needed to be.

“You were a Marine pilot?” Kabakov asked.

“Right.”

“Vietnam?”

“Thirty-eight missions. Then I got shot up a little and I was ‘ree-tired’ until the end of the hitch.”

“Mr. Jackson, we need your help.”

“To catch this guy?”

“Yes,” Kabakov said. “We want to follow him when he leaves here after his next visit. He’ll just come and bring his fake brother and look around. He mustn’t be alarmed while he’s here. We have to follow him for a little while before we take him. So we need your cooperation.”

“Um-hum. Well, it so happens I need your help too. Let me see your credentials, Mr. FBI.” He was looking at Kabakov, but Corley handed over his identification. The pilot picked up the telephone.

“The number is—”

“I’ll get the number, Mr. Corley.”

“You can ask for—”

“I can ask for the head dick in charge,” Jackson said.

The New Orleans office of the FBI confirmed Corley’s identity.

“Now,” Jackson said, hanging up the telephone, “you wanted to know if Crazy Person asked me where I’m from. That means him locating my family if I’m not mistaken. Like to coerce me.”

“It would occur to him, yes. If it was necessary,” Kabakov said.

“Well, I’ll tell you. You want me to help you by playing it straight when the man shows up again?”

“You’ll be covered all the time. We just want to follow him when he leaves,” Corley said.

“How do you know his next call won’t be time for the shit to go down?”

“Because he’ll bring his pilot to look at the chopper in advance. We know the day he plans to strike.”

“Um-hum. I’ll do that. But in five minutes I’m going to call my wife in Orlando. I want her to tell me there is a government car parked out front containing the baddest four dudes she has ever seen. Do you follow me?”

“Let me use your telephone,” Corley said.

The round-the-clock stakeout at the helipad stretched on for days. Corley, Kabakov, and Moshevsky were there during working hours. A three-man team of FBI agents took over when the helicopter was secured for the night. Fasil did not come.

Each day Jackson arrived cheerful and ready to go, though he complained about the pair of federal agents that stayed with him during off-duty hours. He said they cramped his style.

Once in the evening he had a drink with Kabakov and Rachel at the Royal Orleans, his two bodyguards sitting at the next table dry and glum. Jackson had been a lot of places and had seen a lot of things, and Kabakov liked him better than most of the Americans he had met.

Maginty was another matter. Kabakov wished they had avoided bringing Maginty into it. The strain was telling on the loadmaster. He was jumpy and irritable.

On the morning of January 4 rain delayed the lifting, and Jackson came into the construction shack for coffee.

“What is that piece you’ve got back there?” he asked Moshevsky.

“A Galil.” Moshevsky had ordered the new type of automatic assault rifle from Israel at Kabakov’s indulgence. He removed the clip and the round from the chamber and passed it to Jackson. Moshevsky pointed out the bottle opener built into the bipod, a feature he found of particular interest.

“We used to carry an AK-47 in the chopper in Nam,” Jackson said. “Somebody took it off a Cong. I liked it better than an M-16.”

Maginty came into the shack, saw the weapon, and backed out again. Kabakov decided to tell Moshevsky to keep the rifle out of sight. There was no point in spooking Maginty any further.

“But to tell you the truth, I don’t like any of these things,” Jackson was saying. “You know a lot of guys jerk off with guns—I don’t mean you, that’s your business—but you show me a man that just loves a piece and I‘ll—”

Corley’s radio interrupted Jackson. “Jay Seven, Jay Seven.”

“Jay Seven, go ahead.”

“New York advises subject Mayfly cleared JFK customs at 0940 Eastern Standard. Has reservation on Delta 704 to New Orleans, arriving twelve thirty Central Standard.” Mayfly was the code name assigned Abdel Awad.

“Roger, Jay Seven out. Son of a bitch, Kabakov, he’s coming! He’ll lead us to Fasil and the plastic and the woman.”

Kabakov gave a sigh of relief. It was the first hard evidence that he was on the right track, that the Super Bowl was the target. “I hope we can separate them from the plastic before we take them. Otherwise there will be a very loud noise.”

“So today’s the day,” Jackson said. There was no alarm in his voice. He was steady.

“I don’t know,” Kabakov said. “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. He’ll want to see you working on Sunday. We’ll see.”

Three hours and forty-five minutes later Abdel Awad got off a Delta jet at New Orleans International Airport. He was carrying a small suitcase. In the line of passengers behind him was a large, middle-aged man in a gray business suit. For an instant the eyes of the man in gray met those of Corley, who was waiting across the corridor. The big man looked briefly at Awad’s back, then looked away.

Corley, carrying a suitcase, trailed the debarking passengers toward the lobby. He was not watching Awad, he was looking at the crowd waiting to greet the new arrivals. He was looking for Fasil, looking for the woman.

But Awad clearly was not looking for anyone. He went down the escalator and walked outside, where he hesitated near the line of passengers waiting for limousines.

Corley slid into the car with Kabakov and Moshevsky. Kabakov appeared to be reading a newspaper. It had been agreed that he would lie low in the event that Awad had seen his picture in a briefing.

“That’s Howard, the big guy,” Corley said. “Howard will stay with him if he takes the limo. If he takes a cab, Howard will finger it for the guys in the radio cars.”

Awad took a taxi. Howard walked behind it and stopped to blow his nose.

It was a pleasure to watch the trailing operation. Three cars and a pickup truck were used, none staying immediately behind the taxi for more than a few minutes on the long drive into the city. When it was clear that the taxi was stopping at the Marriott Hotel, one of the chase cars shot around to the side entrance and an agent was near the registration desk before Awad came to claim his reservation.

The agent by the desk walked quickly to the elevator bank. “Six-eleven,” he said as he passed the man standing under the potted palm. The agent under the tree entered the elevator. He was on the sixth floor when Awad followed the bellhop to his room.

In half an hour the FBI had the room next door and an agent at the switchboard. Awad received no calls, and he did not come down. At eight p.m. he ordered a steak sent to his room. An agent delivered it and received a quarter tip, which he held by the edges all the way back downstairs where the coin was fingerprinted. The vigil went on all night.

Sunday morning, January 5, was chill and overcast. Moshevsky poured strong Cajun coffee and passed a cup to Kabakov, a cup to Corley. Through the thin walls of the construction shack they could hear the rotor blades of the big helicopter blatting the air as it made another lift.

It had been against Kabakov’s instincts to leave the hotel where Awad was staying, but common sense told him this was the place to wait. He could not perform close surveillance without running the risk of being seen by Awad, or by Fasil when he showed up. The surveillance at the hotel, under the direct control of the New Orleans Agent in Charge, was as good as Kabakov had ever seen. There was no question in Kabakov’s mind that they would come here to the helicopter before they went to the bomb. Awad could change the load to fit the chopper, but he could not change the chopper to fit the load—he had to see the helicopter first.

This was the place of greatest peril. The Arabs would be on foot in this vast tangle of building supplies and they would be dealing with civilians, two of whom knew they were dangerous. At least Maginty wasn’t here and that was a boon, Kabakov thought. In the six days of the stakeout, Maginty had called in sick twice and had been late on two other days.

Corley’s radio growled. He fiddled with the squelch knob.

“Unit One, Unit Four.” That was the team on the sixth floor of the Marriott, calling the Agent in Charge.

“Go ahead, Four.”

“Mayfly left his room, heading for the elevators.”

“Roger Four. Five, you got that?”

“Five standing by.” A minute passed.

“Unit One, Unit Five. He’s passing through the lobby now.” The voice on the radio was muffled, and Kabakov guessed the agent in the lobby was speaking into a buttonhole microphone.

Kabakov stared at the radio, a muscle in his jaw twitching. If Awad headed for another part of the city, he could join the hunt in minutes. Faintly on the radio he heard the swoosh of the revolving door, then street noises as the agent followed Awad outside the Marriott.

“One, this is Five. He’s walking west on Decatur.” A long pause. “One, he’s going into the Bienville House.”

“Three, cover the back.”

“Roger.”

An hour passed and Awad did not emerge. Kabakov thought about all the rooms in which he had waited. He had forgotten how sick and tired a man gets of a stakeout room. There was no conversation. Kabakov stared out the window. Corley looked at the radio. Moshevsky examined something he had removed from his ear.

“Unit One, Unit Five. He’s coming out. Roach is with him.” Kabakov took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Roach” was Muhammad Fasil.

Five was still talking. “They’re taking a taxi. Cab number four seven five eight. Louisiana commercial license four seven eight Juliett Lima. Mobile Twelve has—” A second message broke in.

“Unit Twelve, we’ve got him. He’s turning west on Magazine.”

“Roger Twelve.”

Kabakov went to the window. He could see the ground crew adjusting a harness on the next load, one of them acting as loadmaster.

“One, Unit Twelve, he’s turning north on Poydras. Looks like he’s coming to you, Jay Seven.”

“This is Jay Seven, Roger Twelve.”

Corley remained in the construction shack while Kabakov and Moshevsky took up positions outside, Kabakov in the back of a truck, concealed by a canvas curtain, Moshevsky in a Port-O-San portable toilet with a peephole in the door. The three of them formed a triangle around the helicopter pad.

“Jay Seven, Jay Seven, Unit Twelve. Subjects are at Poydras and Rampart, proceeding north.”

Corley waited until Jackson in the helicopter was clear of the roof, settling toward the ground, then spoke to him on the aircraft frequency. “You’re going to have company. Take a break in about five minutes.”

“Roger.” Jackson’s voice was calm.

“Jay Seven, this is Mobile Twelve. They’re across the street from you, getting out of the taxi.”

“Roger.”

Kabakov had never seen Fasil before, and now he watched him through a crack in the curtain as though he were some exotic form of wildlife. The monster of Munich. Six thousand miles was a long chase.

The camera case, he thought. That’s where you have the gun. I should have gotten you in Beirut.

Fasil and Awad stood beside a stack of crates at the side of the pad, watching the helicopter. They were closest to Moshevsky, but out of his line of vision. They were talking. Awad said something and Fasil nodded his head. Awad turned and tried the door of Moshevsky’s hideout. It was hooked. He went into the next Port-O-San in the line and after a moment returned to Fasil.

The helicopter settled to the ground, and they turned their faces away from the dust. Jackson swung down from the cockpit and walked toward the ground crew’s water cooler.

Kabakov was glad to see that he moved slowly and naturally. He drew a cup of water and then appeared to notice Fasil for the first time, acknowledging his presence with a casual wave.

That’s good, Kabakov thought, that’s good.

Fasil and Awad walked over to Jackson. Fasil was introducing Awad. They shook hands. Jackson was nodding his head. They walked toward the helicopter, talking animatedly, Awad making the hand gestures that mark all pilots’ shop talk. Awad leaned into the fuselage door and looked around. He asked a question. Jackson appeared to hesitate. He looked around as though checking on the whereabouts of the boss, then nodded. Awad scrambled into the cockpit.

Kabakov was not worried about Awad trying to take the helicopter—he knew Jackson had a fuse from the ignition in his pocket. Jackson joined Awad in the cockpit. Fasil looked around the pad, alert but calm. Two minutes passed. Jackson and Awad climbed down again. Jackson was shaking his head and pointing to his watch.

It was going well, Kabakov thought. As expected, Awad had asked to go up on a lift. Jackson had told him he couldn’t take him up during working hours for insurance reasons, but that later in the week, before the boss showed up for work in the morning, perhaps he could arrange it.

They were all shaking hands again. Now they would go to the plastic.

Maginty came around the corner of the construction shack, rummaging in his lunch pail. He was in the center of the pad when he saw Fasil and froze in his tracks.

Kabakov’s lips moved soundlessly as he swore. Oh, no. Get out of there, you son of a bitch.

Maginty’s face was pale, and his mouth hung open. Fasil was looking at him now. Jackson smiled broadly. Jackson will save it. He’ll save it, Kabakov thought.

Jackson’s voice was louder. Moshevsky could hear him. “Excuse me a minute, fellas. Hey, Maginty, you decided to show up, baby. It’s about time.”

Maginty seemed paralyzed.

“Drinking that bug juice and laying out all night, you look awful, man.” Jackson was turning him around to walk him to the construction shack when Maginty said quite clearly, “Where are the police?”

Fasil barked at Awad and sprinted for the edge of the pad, his hand in the camera case.

Corley was screaming into his radio. “Bust ‘em. Bust ’em, Goddamn it, bust ‘em.”

Kabakov snatched back the curtain. “Freeze, Fasil.”

Fasil fired at him, the magnum knocking a fist-sized hole in the truck bed. Fasil was running hard, dodging between piles of building materials, Kabakov twenty yards behind him.

Awad started after Fasil, but Moshevsky, bursting out of his hiding place, caught him and without breaking stride slammed him to the ground with a blow at the base of his skull, then ran hard after Kabakov and Fasil. Awad tried to rise, but Jackson and Corley were on him.

Fasil ran toward the Superdome. Twice he stopped to fire at Kabakov. Kabakov felt the wind of the second one on his face as he dived for cover.

Fasil sprinted across the clear space between the stacks of materials and the yawning door of the Superdome, Kabakov laying a burst from his submachine gun in the dirt ahead of him. “Halt! Andek!”

Fasil did not hesitate as the grit kicked up by the bullets stung his legs. He disappeared into the Superdome.

Kabakov heard a challenge and a shot as he ran to the entrance. FBI agents were coming from the other way, through the dome. He hoped they had not killed Fasil.

Kabakov dived through the entrance and dropped behind a pallet stacked with window frames. The upper levels of the vast, shadowy chamber glowed with the lights of the construction crews. Kabakov could see the yellow helmets as the men peered down at the floor. Three pistol shots echoed through the dome. Then he heard the heavier blast of Fasil’s magnum. He crawled around the end of the pallet.

There were the FBI agents, two of them, crouched behind a portable generating unit on the open floor. Thirty yards beyond them at an angle in the wall was a breast-high stack of sacked cement. One of the agents fired, and dust flew off the top tier of bags.

Running low and hard, Kabakov crossed the floor toward the agents. A flash of movement behind the breastwork, Kabakov was diving, rolling, hearing the magnum roar, and then he was behind the generator. Blood trickled down his forearm where a flying chip of concrete had stung him.

“Is he hit?” Kabakov asked.

“I don’t think so,” an agent replied.

Fasil was hemmed in. His breastwork of cement protected him from the front, and the angle of the bare concrete wall protected his flanks. Thirty yards of open floor separated his position from Kabakov and the agents behind the generator.

Fasil could not escape. The trick would be in taking him alive and forcing him to tell where the plastic was hidden. Taking Fasil alive would be like trying to grab a rattlesnake by the head.

The Arab fired once. The bullet slammed into the generator engine, releasing a steady trickle of water. Kabakov fired four shots to cover Moshevsky, charging across the floor to join him.

“Corley’s getting gas and smoke,” Moshevsky said.

The voice from behind the cement bag barricade had a weird lilt. “Why don’t you come and get me, Major Kabakov? How many of you will die trying to take me alive, do you suppose? You’ll never do it. Come, come, Major. I have something for you.”

Peering through a space in the machine that shielded him, Kabakov studied Fasil’s position. He had to work fast. He was afraid Fasil would kill himself rather than wait for the gas. There was only one feature that might be useful. A large metal fire extinguisher was clipped to the wall beside the place where Fasil was hidden. Fasil must be very near it. All right. Do it. Don’t think about it anymore. He gave Moshevsky brief instructions and cut off his objection with a single shake of his head. Kabakov poised like a sprinter at the end of the generator.

Moshevsky raised his automatic rifle and laid down a terrific volume of fire across the top of Fasil’s breastwork. Kabakov was running now, bent under the hail of bullets, hard for the cement bags. He crouched outside the breastwork beneath the sheet of covering fire; he tensed and, without looking back at Moshevsky, made a cutting motion with his hand. Instantly a new burst from the Galil and the fire extinguisher exploded over Fasil in a great burst of foam, Kabakov diving over the bulwark, into the spray, on top of Fasil, slick with the chemical. Fasil’s face full of it, the gun going off deafeningly beside Kabakov’s neck. Kabakov had the wrist of the gun hand, snapping his head from side to side to avoid a finger strike at his eyes, and with his free hand broke Fasil’s collarbone on both sides. Fasil writhed out from under him, and as he tried to rise Kabakov caught him with an elbow in the diaphragm that laid him back on the ground.

Moshevsky was here now, raising Fasil’s head and pulling his jaw and tongue forward to be sure his air passage was clear. The snake was taken.

Corley heard the screaming as he ran into the Superdome with a teargas gun. It was coming from behind the stack of cement, where two FBI agents stood uncertainly, Moshevsky facing them, full of menace.

Corley found Kabakov sitting on Fasil, his face an inch from the Arab’s. “Where is it, Fasil? Where is it, Fasil?” He was flexing the fractures in Fasil’s collarbones. Corley could hear the grating noise. “Where’s the plastic?”

Corley’s revolver was in his hand. He pressed the muzzle to the bridge of Kabakov’s nose. “Stop it, Kabakov. Goddamn you, stop it.”

Kabakov spoke, but not to Corley. “Don’t shoot him, Moshevsky.” He looked up at Corley. “This is the only chance we’ll have to find it. You don’t have to make a case against Fasil.”

“We’ll interrogate him. Take your hands off him.”

Three heartbeats later: “All right. You’d better read to him from the card in your wallet.”

Kabakov stood. Unsteady, splattered with fire extinguisher foam, he leaned against the rough concrete wall, and his stomach heaved. Watching him, Corley felt sick as well, but he was not angry anymore. Corley did not like the way Moshevsky was looking at him. He had his duty to do. He took a radio from one of the FBI agents. “This is Jay Seven. Get an ambulance in the east entrance of the Superdome.” He looked down at Fasil, moaning on the ground. Fasil’s eyes were open. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent,” Corley began heavily.

Fasil was held on charges of illegal entry and conspiracy to violate Customs regulations. Awad was held for illegal entry. The embassy of the United Arab Republic arranged for them to be represented by a New Orleans law firm. Neither Arab said anything. Corley hammered at Fasil for hours Sunday night in the prison infirmary and received nothing but a mocking stare. Fasil’s lawyer withdrew from the case when he heard the nature of the questions. He was replaced by a Legal Aid attorney. Fasil paid no attention to either lawyer. He seemed content to wait.

Corley dumped the contents of a manila envelope on a desk in the FBI office. “This is all Fasil had on him.”

Kabakov poked through the pile. There was a wallet, an envelope containing twenty-five hundred dollars in cash, an open airline ticket to Mexico City, Fasil’s fake credentials and passport, assorted change, room keys from the YMCA and the Bienville House, and two other keys.

“His room is clean,” Corley said. “A few clothes. Awad’s luggage is clean as a whistle. We’re working on tracing Fasil’s gun, but I think he brought it in with him. One of the holes in the Leticia was a magnum.”

“He hasn’t said anything?”

“No.” By tacit agreement, Corley and Kabakov had not referred to their angry clash in the Superdome again, but for a moment they both thought about it.

“Have you threatened Fasil with immediate extradition to Israel to stand trial for Munich?”

“I’ve threatened him with everything.”

“What about sodium pentathol or hallucinogens?”

“Can’t do it, David. Look, I have a pretty good idea of what Dr. Bauman probably has in her purse. That’s why I haven’t let you in to see Fasil.”

“No, you’re wrong. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t drug him.”

“But I expect you asked her.”

Kabakov did not reply.

“These keys are for two Master padlocks,” Corley said. “There are no padlocks in Fasil’s luggage or in Awad’s. Fasil has locked up something. If the bomb is big, and it would have to be big if it’s in a single charge or even two charges, then it’s probably in a truck, or close to a truck. That means a garage, a locked garage.

“We’re having five hundred of these keys made. They’ll be issued to patrolmen with instructions to try every padlock on their beats. When one clicks open, the patrolman is to lay back and call for us.

“I know what’s bothering you. Two keys come with each new padlock, right?”

“Yes,” Kabakov said. “Somebody has got the other set of keys.”