Black Sunday

25

THE PRESENCE OF FASIL AND Awad in New Orleans left no doubt in the minds of the FBI and the Secret Service that the Arabs had planned to blow up the Super Bowl. The authorities believed that with the capture of Fasil and Awad the prime threat to the Super Bowl was blunted, but they knew they still faced a dangerous situation.

Two persons known to be at least peripherally involved in the plot—the woman and the American—were still at large. Neither had been identified, although the officers had a likeness of the woman. Worse, more than a half ton of high explosive was cached somewhere, probably in the New Orleans area.

In the first few hours after the arrests, Corley half-expected a shattering blast somewhere in the city, or a threatening telephone call demanding Fasil’s release as the price of the guerrillas not detonating the bomb in a crowded area. Neither occurred.

New Orleans’ thirteen-hundred-man police force passed the duplicate padlock keys from shift to shift. The instructions to try them on warehouses and garages were repeated at every roll call. But New Orleans has a small police force for its size, and it is a city of many doors. Throughout the week the search went on, amid the Super Bowl ballyhoo and the crowds that swelled as the big weekend approached.

The crowd coming in for the Super Bowl was different from the Sugar Bowl group that preceded them. This crowd was more diversified in origin, the clothes were smarter. The restaurants found their customers less relaxed and more demanding. Money always flows freely in New Orleans, but now there was more of it to flow. The lines outside Galatoire’s and Antoine’s and the Court of Two Sisters stretched for half a block, and music spilled into the streets of the French Quarter all night long.

Standing-room tickets had been sold, bringing the total expected attendance at the Super Bowl to eighty-four thousand. With the fans came the gamblers, the thieves, and the whores. The police were busy.

Kabakov went to the airport on Thursday and watched the arrival of the Washington Redskins and the Miami Dolphins. Itchy in the crowd, remembering how the Israeli athletes had died at the Munich airport, he scanned the faces of the fans and paid little attention to the players as they came off their planes, waving to the cheering crowd.

Once Kabakov went to see Muhammad Fasil.

He stood at the foot of Fasil’s bed in the infirmary and stared at the Arab for five minutes. Corley and two very large FBI agents were with him.

Finally Kabakov spoke. “Fasil, if you leave American custody you are a dead man. The Americans can extradite you to Israel to stand trial for Munich, and you will hang within the week. I would be happy to see it.

“But if you tell where the plastic is hidden, they’ll convict you here on a smuggling charge and you will serve some time. Five years, maybe a little more. I’m sure you believe Israel will be gone by then and will be no threat to you. It won’t be gone, but I’m sure you believe it will. Consider that.”

Fasil’s eyes were narrowed into slits. His head jerked and a stream of spittle flew at Kabakov, speckling the front of his shirt. The effort was painful for Fasil, strapped in his shoulder braces, and he grimaced and lay back on his pillow. Corley moved forward, but Kabakov had not stirred. The Israeli stared at Fasil a moment longer, then turned and left the room.

The expected decision came from the White House at midnight Friday. Barring further developments, the Super Bowl would be played on schedule.

On Saturday morning, January 11, Earl Biggs and Jack Renfro of the Secret Service held a final briefing at New Orleans FBI headquarters. Attending were thirty Secret Service agents, who would supplement the squad traveling with the president, forty agents of the FBI, and Kabakov.

Renfro stood before a huge diagram of Tulane Stadium. “The stadium will be swept for explosives again beginning at sixteen hundred today,” he said. “The search will be completed by midnight, at which time the stadium will be sealed. Carson, your search team is ready.” It was not a question.

“Ready.”

“You will also have six men with the sniffer at the president’s box for a last-minute sweep at thirteen forty tomorrow.”

“Right. They’ve been briefed.”

Renfro turned to the diagram on the wall behind him. “Once the possibility of concealed explosives in the stadium is eliminated, an attack could take two forms. The guerrillas could try to bring in the explosive in a vehicle, or they could settle for coming in with as much as they can conceal on their bodies.

“Vehicles first.” He picked up his pointer. “Roadblocks will be prepared here at Willow Street on both sides of the stadium and at Johnson, Esther, Barret, Story, and Delord. Hickory will be blocked where it crosses Audubon. These are positive roadblocks that will stop a vehicle athigh speed. I don’t want to see anybody standing beside a sawhorse waving down traffic. The roadblocks will dose tight as soon as the stadium is filled.”

An agent raised his hand.

“Yeah.”

“TV is bitching about the midnight setup rule. They’ll have the color van set up this afternoon, but they want access throughout the night.”

“Tough tit,” Renfro said. “Tell them no. After midnight nobody comes in. At ten a.m. Sunday the camera crews can take their places. Nobody carries anything. Where’s the FAA?”

“Here,” said a balding young man. “Considering the persons already in custody, the use of an aircraft is considered highly unlikely.” He spoke as though he were reading a report. “Both airports have been checked thoroughly for hidden ordnance.” The young man hesitated, choosing between “however” and “nonetheless.” He decided on “however.” “However. No private aircraft will take off from New Orleans International or Lakefront during the time the stadium is filled, with the exception of charter and cargo flights which have already been cleared individually by us.

“Commercial flights remain on schedule. New Orleans police will man both airports in the event someone should try to commandeer an aircraft.”

“Okay,” Renfro said. “The Air Force advises no unidentified aircraft will get into the New Orleans area. They’re standing by as they did on December 31. Naturally, they would have to solve that kind of problem well outside the city. The perimeter they are establishing has a 150-mile radius. We’ll have a chopper up to watch the crowd.

“Now, about infiltration of the stadium. We have announcements on the media requesting ticketholders to show up one and one-half hours before game time,” Renfro said. “Some of them will, some won’t. They will have to pass through the metal detectors provided by the airlines before they enter the stadium. That’s you, Fullilove. Are your people checked out on the equipment?”

“We’re ready.”

“The ones who arrive late will be mad if standing in line at the metal detector makes them miss the kickoff, but that’s tough. Major Kabakov, do you have any suggestions?”

“I do.” Kabakov went to the front of the room. “Regarding metal detectors and personal searches: No terrorist is going to wait until he’s in a metal detector with the bell going off to go for his gun. Watch the line approaching the detector. A man with a gun will be looking around for an alternate way in. He’ll be looking from policeman to policeman. Maybe his head won’t move, but his eyes will. If you decide someone in the line is suspect, get him from both sides suddenly. Don’t give any warning. Once he knows his cover is about to be blown, he’ll kill as many as he can before he goes down.” Kabakov thought the officers might resent being told their business. He didn’t care.

“If possible, there should be a grenade sump at every gate. A circle of sandbags will do; a hole with sandbags around it is better. A grenade rolling on the ground in a crowd is hard to get to. What’s worse is to get to it and have no place to put it. The fragmentation grenades they use usually have a five-second fuse. They will be attached to the guerrilla’s clothing by the pin. Don’t pull a grenade off him. Kill him or control his hands first. Then take your time removing his grenades.

“If he is wounded and down, and you cannot get to him instantly and control his hands, shoot him again. In the head. He may be carrying a satchel charge, and he’ll set it off if you give him time.” Kabakov saw expressions of distaste on some of the faces. He did not care.

“Gunfire at one gate must not distract the men at another. That’s the time to watch your own area of responsibility. Once it starts in one position, it will start elsewhere.”

“There’s one other thing. One of them is a woman, as you know.” Kabakov looked down for a moment and cleared his throat. When he spoke again his voice was louder. “In Beirut once, I looked at her as a woman rather than as a guerrilla. That’s one reason we are in this position today. Don’t make the same mistake.”

The room was very still when Kabakov sat down.

“One backup team is on each side of the stadium,” Renfro said. “They will respond to any alarm. Do not leave your position. Pick up your ID tabs at this desk after the meeting. Any questions?” Renfro looked over the group. His eyes had the finish of black Teflon. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

Tulane Stadium late on the eve of the Super Bowl was lit and quiet. The stadium’s great spaces seemed to suck up the small noises of the search. Fog rolling off the Mississippi River a mile away swirled under the banks of floodlights.

Kabakov and Moshevsky stood at the top of the stands, their cigars glowing bright in the shadowed press box. They had been silent for half an hour.

“They could still pack it in, some of it,” Moshevsky said finally. “Under their clothes. If they weren’t carrying batteries or sidearms it wouldn’t show on the metal detectors.”

“No.”

“Even if there are only two of them, it would be enough to make a big mess.”

Kabakov said nothing.

“There’s nothing we could do about that,” Moshevsky said. Kabakov’s cigar brightened in a series of angry puffs. Moshevsky decided to shut up.

“Tomorrow I want you with the backup team on the west side,” Kabakov said. “I’ve spoken to Renfro. They’ll expect you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they come with a truck, get in the back fast and get the detonators out. Each team has a man assigned to do that, but see to it yourself as well.”

“If the back is canvas, it might be good to cut through the side going in. A grenade could be wired to the tailgate.”

Kabakov nodded. “Mention that to the team leader as soon as you form up. Rachel is letting out the seams in a flak jacket for you. I don’t like them either, but I want you to have it on. If shooting starts, you’d better look like the rest of them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Corley will pick you up at eight forty-five. If you are in the Hotsy-Totsy Club after one a.m. tonight, I’ll know it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Midnight in New Orleans, the neon lights on Bourbon Street smeared on the misty air. The Aldrich blimp hung over the Mississippi River Bridge, above the fog, Farley at the controls. Great letters rippled down the airship’s sides in lights. “DON’T FORGET. HIRE THE VET.”

In a room two floors above Farley’s at the Fairmont Hotel, Dahlia Iyad shook down a thermometer and put it in Michael Lander’s mouth. Lander had been exhausted by the trip from New Jersey. In order to avoid New Orleans International Airport, where Dahlia might be recognized, they had flown to Baton Rouge and come to New Orleans in a rented car with Lander stretched out on the backseat. Now he was pale, but his eyes were dear. She checked the thermometer. Normal.

“You’d better go see about the truck,” he said.

“It’s there or it’s not, Michael. If you want me to check it, of course I will, but the less I’m seen on the street—”

“You’re right. It’s there or it’s not. Is my uniform all right?”

“I hung it up. It looks fine.”

She ordered hot milk from room service and gave it to Lander with a mild sedative. In half an hour, he dropped off to sleep. Dahlia Iyad did not sleep. In Lander’s weakened condition, she must fly with him tomorrow on the bomb run, even if it meant leaving a section of the nacelle behind. She could help him with the elevator wheel, and she could handle the detonation. It was necessary.

Knowing that she would die tomorrow, she wept quietly for a half hour, wept for herself. And then, deliberately, she summoned the painful memories of the refugee camp. She went through her mother’s final agonies, the thin woman, old at thirty-five, writhing in the ragged tent. Dahlia was ten, and she could do nothing but keep the flies off her mother’s face. There were so many suffering. Her own life was nothing, nothing. Soon she was calm again, but she did not sleep.

At the Royal Orleans, Rachel Bauman sat at the dresser brushing her hair. Kabakov lay on the bed, smoking and watching her. He liked to watch the light shimmer on her hair as she brushed it. He liked the tiny hollows that appeared along her spine as she arched her back and shook her hair over her shoulders.

“How long will you stay after tomorrow, David?” She was watching him in the mirror.

“Until we get the plastic.”

“What about the other two, the woman and the American?”

“I don’t know. They’ll get the woman eventually. She can’t do a great deal without the plastic. When we get it, I’ll have to take Fasil back to stand trial for Munich.”

She wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“Rachel?”

“Yes.”

“Israel needs psychiatrists, you know? You’d be astounded at the number of crazy Jews. Christians, too, in the summertime. I know an Arab in Jerusalem who sells them fragments of the True Cross, which he obtains by breaking up—”

“We’ll have to talk about that when you are not so distracted, and you can be more explicit.”

“We’ll talk about it at Antoine’s tomorrow night. Now that’s enough talking and hairbrushing, or shall I be more explicit?”

The lights were out in the rooms at the Royal Orleans and the Fairmont. And around them both was the old city. New Orleans has seen it all before.