Woman versus woman. For all her disdain of femininity, her determination not to let her sex influence her decisions, in the end it was Laura Bo’s womanly pride which proved persuasive.
Picking up her pen, she scribbled a signature on the p & lfp check and handed it to a smiling Roderick Pritchett.
The check was mailed to Birdsong later that same day.
10
“We need more violence! More, more, more!” Davey Birdsong thumped a clenched fist angrily, his voice raised to a shout. “A pisspotful more, to shake people up! And some bloody, messy deaths; a lot of them. It’s the only way, the absolute only way, to stir the goddam dumb public off their complacent asses and get action. You don’t seem to realize it.”
Across the rough wooden table which divided them, Georgos Winslow Archambault’s thin, ascetic face flushed at the final accusation. He leaned forward and insisted, “I do realize that. But what you are talking about requires organization and time. I’m doing my best, but we can’t take on a target every night.”
“Why in hell not?” The big, bearded man glared at Georgos. “For Chrissakes! All you do now is let off some pissant firecrackers, then laze around here for a goddam month’s vacation.”
Their discussion, which had quickly developed into an argument, was taking place in the basement workshop of the rented eastside house—the Friends of Freedom hideaway. As usual the workshop was cluttered with tools and hardware of destruction—wires, metal parts, chemicals, timing mechanisms, and explosives. Birdsong had arrived ten minutes ago after taking his usual precautions against being followed.
“I told you before, there’s enough bread for whatever you need,” the p & Ifp leader continued. The trace of a smile lighted his face. “And I just got more.”
“The money is important,” Georgos conceded. “But we take the risks here. You don’t.”
“Goddammit!—you’re supposed to take risks. You’re a soldier of the revolution, aren’t you? And I take risks too—of a different kind.”
Georgos shifted uncomfortably. He resented this entire dialogue, just as he did the increasing dominance of Birdsong, which had happened since Georgos’ own source of funds dried up and Birdsong’s replaced it. More than ever Georgos hated his movie-actress mother, who, without knowing it, had financed Friends of Freedom in the beginning, then had ceased to do so with the ending of Georgos’ allowance through the Athens law firm. He had read in a newspaper recently that she was seriously ill. He hoped it was something painful and terminal.
“The last attack on the enemy,” Georgos declared stiffly, “was our most successful. We caused a power failure over one hundred square miles.”
“Sure. And what effect did it have?” Contemptuously, Birdsong answered his own question. “Nil! Were any of our demands met? No! You killed two lousy pig security guards. Who cares? Nobody!”
“I’ll admit it was surprising and disappointing that none of our demands …”
Birdsong cut him off. “They won’t be met! Not until there are bodies in the streets. Blood-drenched, putrefying piles of bodies. Not until the dead cause panic among the living. That’s the lesson of every reyolution! It’s the only message the docile, moronic bourgeois understand.”
“I know all that.” Then, sarcastically, “Perhaps you have some better ideas for …”
“You’re damn right I do! Now listen to me.”
Birdsong lowered his voice; his anger and contempt appeared to dissipate. It was as if, like a schoolmaster, he had impressed the need to learn upon a pupil. Now the lesson itself, in lower key, would follow.
“First,” he said, “we state some articles of faith. We ask ourselves: Why are we doing what we are? And the answer is: Because the existing system in this country is stinking, rotten, corrupt, oppressive, spiritually bankrupt. What’s more, the system can’t be changed—that’s been tried; it doesn’t work. So everything existing, the whole geared-to-the-rich, grind-the-poor capitalist system, has to be destroyed to allow us—the true believers, we who love our fellow men—to build anew and decently. The revolutionary is the only one who sees that clearly. And the destruction, piece by piece, is what Friends of Freedom—along with others like us—are beginning to do.”
While he talked, Davey Birdsong showed—as he had elsewhere—his chameleon quality. In part he had become the university lecturer—persuasive, eloquent; in part he was a mystic, speaking to his own inner soul as much as to Georgos.
He continued, “So where does the destruction begin? Ideally, everywhere. But because, so far, we are few in numbers, we choose a common denominator—electricity. It affects all the populace. It lubricates the wheels of capitalism. It makes the bloated rich more bloated still. It allows minor comforts—palliatives—to the proletariat, deluding the masses into believing they are free. It is capitalism’s tool, an opiate. Cut off the electricity, disrupt the core of its system, and you thrust a dagger in capitalism’s heart!”
Brightening, Georgos injected, “Lenin said, ‘Communism is Soviet government plus the electrification of …’”
“Don’t interrupt! I know exactly what Lenin said, and it was in another context.”
Georgos subsided. This was a new and different Bird-song from the several variants he had seen before. Also there seemed little doubt, at this moment, about who was in command.
“But,” the big man resumed—he had risen and was striding back and forth—“we have seen that more is required than disruption of electricity alone. We must draw greater attention to Friends of Freedom, and our objectives, by disrupting—destroying—electricity’s people.”
“We already did some of that,” Georgos pointed out. “When we blew up their La Mission plant; then the letter bombs. We killed their chief engineer, their president …”
“Piddling numbers! Penny ante! I mean something big, where the killing will not be in ones and twos but hundreds. Where bystanders will be wiped out too, proving there’s no safety on the sidelines of a revolution. Then our aims get attention! That’s when fear will set in, followed by panic. When all in authority and below, everyone, will be scurrying to do exactly what we want!”
Davey Birdsong’s eyes were focused on the distance, clearly far beyond the dismal, disordered basement. It was as if he were seeing a dream, a vision, Georgos thought—and found the experience heady and infectious.
The prospect of more killing excited Georgos. The night of the bombing at Millfield, after he had slain the two security guards, he had been briefly sickened; it was, after all, the first time he had killed another human being face to face. But the feeling quickly passed, to be replaced by a sense of elation and—curiously, he thought—sexual arousement. He had taken Yvette that night and used her savagely, reliving, while he did, the powerful upward knife thrust with which he had killed the first guard. And now, remembering, listening to Birdsong’s talk about mass killings, Georgos felt his sexual organs stir again.
Birdsong said quietly, “The opportunity we need is coming soon.”
He produced a folded newspaper page. It was from the California Examiner of two days earlier and a single-paragraph item had been ringed in red crayon.
POWER GROUP TO MEET
Possible nationwide shortages of electric power will be discussed next month when the National Electric Institute holds a four-day convention in the city’s Christopher Columbus Hotel. A thousand delegates from public utilities and electrical manufacturers are expected to attend.
“I scratched around for more details,” Birdsong said. “Here are the exact dates of the convention and a preliminary program.” He tossed two typewritten sheets on the workshop table. “It will be easy to get the final program later. That way we’ll know where everybody is, and when.”
Georgos’ eyes were agleam with interest, his resentment of a few minutes earlier forgotten. He gloated, “All those big wheels from power outfits—social criminals! We can mail letter bombs to selected delegates. If I begin work now …”
“
No! At best you’d kill half a dozen—probably not that many because after the first explosion they’d get wise and take precautions.”
Georgos conceded, “Yes, that’s true. Then what do you …?”
“I have a better idea. Much, much better; also bigger.” Birdsong permitted himself a thin, grim smile. “During the second day of that convention, when everybody has arrived, you and your people will plant two series of bombs in the Christopher Columbus Hotel. The first set of bombs will be exactly timed to go off during the night—say at 3 A.M. That stage of bombing will concentrate on the main floor and mezzanine. The objective will be to block or destroy all exits from the building as well as every stairway, every elevator. So no one can escape from the floors above when the second stage begins.”
Georgos nodded his understanding, listening intently as Birdsong continued.
“A few minutes after the first bombs have exploded, other bombs—also exactly timed—will go off on the floors above. Those will be fire bombs—as many as you can plant and all containing gasoline, so as to set the hotel on fire and keep it burning.”
A wide, anticipatory smile spread over Georgos’ face. He said breathlessly, “It’s brilliant! Magnificent! And we can do it.”
“If you do it right,” Birdsong said, “not one person on those upper floors will leave that building alive. And at three in the morning, even those who stayed out late will be in bed. We will execute everybody: Those convention delegates—our main target for punishment—and their women, children, and all others in the hotel who have chosen to get in the way of a just revolution.”
“I’ll need more explosives; a whole lot.” Georgos’ mind was working fast. “I know how and where to get them, but it will cost.”
“I already told you we have plenty of money. For this time out, and more.”
“Getting the gasoline is no problem. But clockwork mechanisms—I agree with you the timing will have to be exact—those ought to come from out of town. Bought in small numbers from several places. That way we won’t attract attention.”
“I’ll do that,” Birdsong said. “I’ll go to Chicago; it’s far enough away. Get me a list of what you need.”
Still concentrating, Georgos nodded. “I must have a floor plan of the hotel—at least the main floor and mezzanine where we’ll set the first explosives.”
“Does it have to be exact?”
“No. Just a general layout.”
“Then we’ll draw our own. Anyone can walk in there, anytime.”
“Something else which will have to be bought,” Georgos said, “is several dozen fire extinguishers—portable ones, the red-painted kind that stand on their own base.”
“Fire extinguishers! For Chrissakes, we want to start a fire, not put one out.”
Georgos smiled slyly, knowing it was his turn to be superior. “The fire extinguishers will be emptied, their casings weakened, and our time bombs put inside them. It’s something I’ve been working on. You can set down a fire extinguisher anywhere—especially in a hotel—without it being suspect or, most times, even noticed. If it is noticed, it simply looks as if the management is taking extra safety precautions.”
Grinning broadly, Birdsong leaned forward and thumped Georgos on the shoulders. “That’s diabolical! Beautifully diabolical!”
“We can work out later how to get the extinguishers into the hotel.” Georgos was still thinking aloud. “It shouldn’t be difficult. We could rent a truck or buy one, and paint a fake company name on it, so it looks official. We’d print up some kind of authorization—maybe get a hotel purchase order and copy it—which our people would carry, in case they were stopped by anyone asking questions. Then well want uniforms—for me, the others …”
“No problem about a truck or uniforms,” Birdsong said, “and we’ll work on the purchase order thing.” He mused. “It’s all coming together. I have that feeling. And when it’s over, people will see our strength and fall over themselves to obey our orders.”
“About the explosives,” Georgos said. “I’ll need ten thousand dollars cash—small bills—in the next few days, and after that …”
With mounting enthusiasm, they continued planning.
11
“If there’s an obscure Jewish holiday which no one else ever heard of,” Nim told Ruth, speaking from the driver’s seat of his Fiat, “you can be sure your parents will dust it off and use it.”
His wife, in the seat beside him, laughed. He had noticed, earlier this evening, when he came home from work and while they were getting ready to go out, that Ruth was in an easy, cheerful humor. It contrasted with the moodiness, and sometimes outright depression, she had exhibited in recent weeks.
It was now mid-January, and even though three months had passed since their talk about a possible divorce, and Ruth’s concession that she would wait “a little while,” neither had raised the subject again directly. But, clearly, it would have to be discussed soon.
Basically, their relationship—an uncertain truce—remained unchanged. Nim, however, had consciously been more considerate, continuing to spend increased time at home and with the children, and perhaps Leah’s and Benjy’s obvious enjoyment of their father had caused Ruth to hold back from a final confrontation. Nim, for his part, was still unsure how he wanted their dilemma to be resolved. Meanwhile, the problems of GSP & L kept him intensely occupied, with little room for personal concerns.
“I can never remember all those Jewish holidays,” Ruth said. “What did Father say this one was?”
“Rosh Hashanah L’EIanoth—or Jewish Arbor Day. I did some research in the office library, and literally it means New Year of the Trees.”
“New year for Jewish trees? Or just any trees?”
He chuckled. “Better ask your old man.”
They were traveling across town, heading west, and Nim threaded the car through traffic which never seemed to lessen, whatever time of day it was.
A week ago, Aaron Neuberger had telephoned Nim at work to suggest he bring Ruth for a Tu B’Shvat party—the more common name of the same holiday. Nim had accepted immediately, partly because his father-in-law was unusually friendly on the phone, partly because Nim had mild guilt feelings about his own behavior to the Neubergers in the past and it seemed an opportunity to expiate them. His skepticism, though, about his parents-in-law’s almost fanatic Jewishness had not changed.
When they arrived at the Neubergers’ home—a spacious, comfortable duplex apartment in a well-to-do area of the city’s west side, several cars were already parked outside and, nearer the house, they could hear the sound of voices from the upper level. Nim was relieved to know there were other guests. The presence of strangers might prevent the usual barrage of personal questions, including the inevitable one about a bar mitzvah for Benjy.
Going in, Ruth touched the mezuzah at the doorway, then kissed her hand, as she usually did out of deference to her parents. Nim, who in the past had scoffed at the custom as being—among other things—superstitious, on impulse did the same.
Inside, there was no doubt about their welcome—especially Nim’s.
Aaron Neuberger, who was apple-cheeked, stocky and totally bald, had sometimes regarded Nim with thinly veiled suspicion. But tonight his eyes were friendly behind thick-lensed glasses as he pumped his son-in-law’s hand. Rachel, Ruth’s mother, a voluminous woman who disapproved of diets for herself and others, clasped Nim in her arms, then held him back appraisingly. “Is my daughter not feeding you at all? All I feel is bones. But we will put some meat on them tonight.”
Nim was amused and, at the same time, touched. Almost certainly, he thought, word had reached the Neubergers that his and Ruth’s marriage was in jeopardy; therefore the older couple had set aside other feelings in an attempt to hold the family together. Nim glanced sideways at Ruth, who was smiling at the demonstrative reception.
She was wearing a softly draped dress of blue-gray silk, with pearl earrings of the same shade. As always, her black hair w
as elegant, her skin soft and unblemished, though paler than normal, Nim thought.
As Nim and Ruth moved forward to meet those who had arrived earlier, he whispered, “You look beautiful tonight.”
She looked at him sharply and said, low-voiced, “Have you any idea how long it is since you told me that?”
There was no time for any more. They were surrounded by faces, going through introductions, and shaking hands. Among the two dozen or so guests there were only a few whom Nim knew. Most were already eating, plates piled high with delicacies from an elaborate buffet.
“Come with me, Nimrod!” Ruth’s mother seized his arm in an iron grip and propelled him from the living room to the dining room where the buffet was set up. “The rest of our friends, you can meet later,” she instructed. “For now, have something to fill that emptiness inside before you faint from hunger.” She took a plate and began piling food on it generously, as if it were the day before the fast of Yom Kippur. Nim recognized several varieties of knishes, kishke cooked in cholent, lokshen kugel, stuffed cabbage and pitcha. Set out ready as sweets were honey cake, strudel and apple pirushkes.
Nim helped himself to a glass of white Israeli Carmel wine.
As he returned to the living room, the purpose of the occasion became clear. Rosh Hashanah L’Elanoth, their host explained, is celebrated in Israel by the planting of trees and in North America by eating fruit of a kind not partaken of, thus far, in the Jewish year. To make the point, Aaron Neuberger and others were nibbling on figs from several dishes spread around.
Something else the Neubergers made plain was that they expected donations from their guests, and the money collected would be sent to Israel to pay for tree plantings. Already, several fifty- and twenty-dollar bills had been deposited on a silver tray, put out for the purpose. Nim added twenty dollars of his own, then helped himself to figs.