Overload

  But now, the fear from having committed crimes herself hovered over Yvette, a fear which expanded like cancer until, in the end, it filled her every waking hour.

  More recently, she realized that Georgos no longer trusted her.

  She caught him looking at her in strange ways. He didn’t talk as much as before. He became secretive about the new work he was doing. Yvette sensed that, whatever else happened, her days as Georgos’ woman were almost over.

  It was then, without really knowing why, Yvette started to eavesdrop by making tape recordings. It was not difficult. There was equipment available and Georgos had shown her how to use it. Using a concealed mike, and operating the recorder in another room, she taped conversations between Georgos and Birdsong. That was how, playing the tape back later, she learned about those fire extinguisher bombs at the Christopher Columbus Hotel.

  The Georgos-Birdsong conversations were on the cassettes she had given the black woman. So was a long, rambling account of it all, from the beginning, by Yvette herself.

  Why had she done it?

  Even now she was unsure. It wasn’t conscience; no point in kidding herself about that. Nor was it because of any of those people at the hotel; Yvette was too far removed, too far gone, to care. Perhaps it was to save Georgos, to save his soul (if he had one; if any of them did) from the terrible thing he intended to do.

  Yvette’s mind was getting tired. It always did when she thought too much.

  She still didn’t want to die!

  But she knew she had to.

  Yvette looked about her. She had kept on walking, not noticing where she was, and now realized she had come faster and further than she thought. Her destination, which she could already see, was only a short distance ahead.

  It was a small, grassy knoll, high above the city, and preserved as a public space. The unofficial name was Lonely Hill, which was appropriate since few people went there, a reason Yvette had chosen it. The final two hundred yards, beyond the last streets and houses, was up a steep, narrow path and she took it slowly. The top, which she dreaded reaching, came all too soon.

  Earlier, the day had been bright; now it was overcast with a strong, cool wind knifing across the exposed small peak. Yvette shivered. In the distance, beyond the city, she could see the ocean, gray and bleak.

  Yvette sat down on the grass and opened her purse for the second time. The first time had been when she produced the tape cassettes in the bar.

  From the purse, where it had weighed heavily, she lifted out a device she had removed several days ago from Georgos’ workshop and had hidden until this morning. It was a bangalore torpedo—simple but deadly, a stick of dynamite inside a section of pipe. The pipe was sealed at both ends, but at one end a small hole had been left to allow for entry of a blasting cap. Yvette had inserted the cap carefully herself—something else Georgos taught her—having attached to the cap a short fuse, which now protruded through the end of the pipe. It was a five-second fuse. Long enough.

  Reaching into the purse again, Yvette found a small cigarette lighter. As she fumbled with it, her hands were trembling.

  The lighter was hard to get going in the wind. She put the pipe bomb down and cupped the lighter with her hand. It sputtered, then flamed.

  Now she picked up the pipe bomb again, having difficulty because she was trembling even more, but managed to bring the end of the fuse to the lighter. The fuse ignited at once. In a single, swift movement Yvette dropped the lighter and held the bomb against her chest. Closing her eyes, she hoped it would not be …

  4

  The second day of the National Electric Institute convention was winding down.

  All of the day’s official business was concluded. The Christopher Columbus Hotel meeting halls were deserted. A majority of delegates and wives, a few with families, were in their rooms and suites. Among them, some hardy spirits were still partying. Many others were already asleep.

  Some of the younger delegates and a handful of older roisterers remained spread around the city—in bars, restaurants, discotheques, strip joints. But even they were beginning to drift back to the Christopher Columbus and, when late-night places closed at 2 A.M., the remainder would join them.

  “Good night, you characters.” Nim kissed Leah and Benjy, then turned out the lights in the hotel suite’s second bedroom, which the children were sharing.

  Leah, almost asleep, murmured something inaudible. Benjy, who was more chirpy, even though it was well past midnight, said, “Dad, living in a hotel is real neat.”

  “Gets kind of expensive after a while,” Nim said. “Especially when someone called Benjamin Goldman keeps signing room service checks.”

  Benjy giggled. “I like doing that.”

  Nim had let Benjy sign the breakfast bill this morning, and the same thing happened tonight when Benjy and Leah had steak dinners in the suite while Nim and Ruth attended an NEI reception and buffet. Later, the whole family left the hotel to take in a movie, from which they had just returned.

  “Go to sleep now,” Nim said, “or your signing arm won’t be any good tomorrow.”

  In the living room, Ruth, who had heard the conversation through the open bedroom door, smiled as Nim returned.

  “I may have mentioned it before,” she said, “but I suppose you know your children adore you?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Well …” Ruth considered. “Since you mention it, there could be one or two exceptions. Like Ray Paulsen.”

  Nim laughed aloud. “By golly! You should have seen Ray’s face when he came back to the convention with Eric Humphrey, thinking the chairman was going to chew my balls off because of what I said this morning, and instead Eric did the opposite.”

  “What did he actually say?”

  “Something about having received so many complimentary remarks about my speech, how could he be in a minority and take exception? So he congratulated me instead.”

  “If Eric has come around that much, do you think there could be a change in policy now—to more outspokenness, the way you’ve wanted?”

  Nim shook his head. “I’m not sure. The don’t-rock-the-boat faction, led by Ray, is still strong. Besides which, only a few people in our organization understand that a future electric power crisis is almost a certainty.” He stretched, yawning. “But no more worrying tonight!”

  “It’s early morning,” Ruth corrected him. “Nearly one o’clock. Anyway, yesterday was a good day for you, and I’m pleased you got a fair press.” She motioned to a late afternoon edition of the California Examiner beside her.

  “That was a fat surprise.” Nim had read the Examiner’s report of his speech several hours ago. “Can’t figure out that Molineaux dame. I was certain she’d stick in the knife again, and twist it.”

  “Don’t you know by now that we women are unpredictable?” Ruth said, then added mischievously, “I should have thought all your research would have shown you that.”

  “Maybe I’d forgotten. Perhaps you noticed I’ve restricted my research lately.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the neck, then sat down in a facing chair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Normal most of the time. I tire easily, though, compared with the energy I used to have.”

  “There’s something I want to ask you about.” Nim described his conversation with Leah, and his conviction that the children ought to be told about Ruth’s health in case a sudden change for the worse should find them unprepared. “I hope it won’t happen, just as much as you do, but it’s something we should consider.”

  “I’ve been thinking much the same thing,” she told him. “You can leave it to me. In the next few days I’ll pick a time and tell them.”

  He supposed he should have known. Ruth, with her good judgment, her ability to cope, would always do what was best for the family.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  They went on talking—quietly, easily, enjoying each other’s company—until Nim reached out and took Rut
h’s hands. “You’re tired and so am I. Let’s go to bed.”

  They went, hand in hand, into the bedroom where, just before turning out the lights, he noticed the time: 1:30 A.M.

  They fell asleep, almost at once, in each other’s arms.

  A quarter mile from the hotel, Georgos Winslow Archambault was seated alone in the red “Fire Protection Service, Inc.” truck. He could hardly wait for 3 A.M. and the explosions to begin. Georgos’ excitement simmered like a cauldron, arousing him sexually, so that a few minutes ago he had had to masturbate.

  It was almost unbelievable how well and smoothly everything had gone. From the moment when the police cleared a way for the Friends of Freedom truck to reach the hotel’s service entrance—and, oh, what a priceless joke that was!—only twice had the freedom fighters been stopped as they moved around the hotel. Ute was queried briefly by a plainclothes security man, Georgos by an assistant manager whom he encountered in a service elevator. Both incidents gave Ute and Georgos some nervous moments, but the work orders they promptly showed were glanced at and passed back without further questioning. In neither case was the letter on the hotel stationery needed or produced.

  The general—and predictable—thinking seemed to be: Who would want to stop a fire extinguisher being put in place? The few who might think about it at all would assume that someone else had ordered or approved the extra fire precautions.

  Now there was merely the waiting—the hardest part of all. He had deliberately parked some distance from the hotel, partly to avoid the possibility of being noticed, partly to get away quickly when he needed to. He would go closer, on foot, for a better view just before the fun began.

  As soon as the hotel was well ablaze, with people trapped inside, Georgos intended to phone a radio station with the communiqué he had already drafted. It contained his new demands—the old ones, plus some more. His orders would be obeyed instantly, of course, when the fascist power structure at last grasped the strength and resourcefulness of Friends of Freedom. In his mind, Georgos could see those in authority groveling before him …

  Only one small matter bothered him. That was the sudden disappearance of Yvette; he felt uneasy about it, conscious that where his woman was concerned he had been guilty of weakness. He ought to have eliminated her weeks ago. When she returned, as he was sure she would, he would do it immediately. He was glad, though, that he had kept from Yvette his plans for this latest valiant battle.

  Oh, what a day for history to remember!

  For what must be the twentieth time since coming here, Georgos checked his watch: 1:40 A.M. Another hour and twenty minutes to go.

  Just as a precaution, though he didn’t really believe it necessary, Davey Birdsong was giving himself an alibi.

  He was outside the city, twenty-odd miles from the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and he intended to keep that distance until the action was over.

  Several hours ago he had delivered (for a fee) an hour-long lecture to an adult study group on “The Socialist Ideal.” Discussion afterward consumed another ninety minutes. Now he was with a dozen or so tedious, boring people from the group who had adjourned to the house of one of their number to go on gabbing about international politics, of which their knowledge was marginal. As well as talking, there was much drinking of beer and coffee and clearly, Birdsong thought, the whole deal could go on until dawn. Fine, let it! He contributed something himself occasionally, making sure everyone noticed he had stayed.

  Davey Birdsong, too, had a typewritten statement he would issue to the press. A copy was in his pocket and it began:

  The popular consumers organization, power & light for people, reaffirms its stand against all violence.

  “We deplore violence at all times, and especially the bombing at the Christopher Columbus Hotel last night,” Davey Birdsong, the p & lfp leader, stated.

  “p & lfp will continue its peaceful efforts on behalf of …”

  Birdsong smiled as he thought about it and surreptitiously checked his watch: 1:45 A.M.

  Nancy Molineaux was still at her late night party, which had been a good one, but she was ready to leave. For one thing, she was tired; it had been one of those crammed-full days when she scarcely had a minute to herself. For another, her jaw was aching. The goddam dentist had probed a cavity like he was excavating for a new subway, and when she told him he only laughed.

  Despite the ache, Nancy was sure she would sleep well tonight and looked forward to climbing in between her silky Porthault sheets.

  After saying good night to her host and hostess, who lived in a penthouse not far from the city center, she took the elevator down to where the doorman already had her car waiting. After she tipped him, Nancy checked the time: 1:50 A.M. Her own apartment block was less than ten minutes’ drive. With luck, she could be in bed a few minutes after two.

  She remembered, out of nowhere, that she was going to listen tonight to those cassette tapes the girl, Yvette, had given her. Well, she had been working on that story a long time and one more day wouldn’t make any difference. Maybe she would get up early, before going to the Examiner, and listen to them then.

  5

  Nancy Molineaux enjoyed life’s luxuries and her apartment, in an exclusive, modern high-rise, reflected it.

  The beige durrie living room rug by Stark matched vertical linen window blinds. A Pace coffee table of smoked glass, chrome and bleached oak fronted a deep-cushioned sofa in Clarence House suede. The Calder acrylic was an original. So was a Roy Lichstenstein oil on canvas in Nancy’s bedroom.

  Sliding, full-length windows in the dining room opened onto an outdoor patio with its own small garden and a harbor view.

  If Nancy had had to, she could have lived elsewhere and managed adequately on her own earnings; but she came to terms long ago with acceptance of money her father made available. It was there, had been honestly earned, so what was wrong with using it? Nothing.

  She was careful, though, not to be ostentatious around her fellow workers, which was why she never brought any of them here.

  As she padded around the apartment, getting ready for bed, Nancy located those tape cassettes she had remembered, and put them near her stereo tape deck for playing in the morning.

  On coming into the apartment a few minutes ago, she had flipped on an FM radio which she kept tuned to a twenty-four-hour mostly-music station, and was only subconsciously aware, while in the bathroom cleaning her teeth, that the music had been interrupted for a newscast.

  “… in Washington, deepening gloom about an impending oil crisis … Secretary of State has arrived in Saudi Arabia to resume negotiations … Senate late yesterday approved raising the national debt ceiling … Kremlin again alleged spying by Western newsmen … Locally, new charges of city hall corruption … bus and rapid transit fares are certain to rise following wage settlements … police appealing for help in identifying the body of a young woman, apparently a suicide, discovered this afternoon on Lonely Hill … bomb fragments at the scene … although the body was badly dismembered, one of the woman’s hands had two fingers missing and was further disfigured, apparently from an earlier wound …”

  Nancy dropped the toothbrush.

  Had she heard what she thought she heard?

  She considered phoning the radio station to ask for a repeat of the last news item, then realized it wasn’t necessary. She had absorbed enough, even while half-listening, to know the young woman’s body they were talking about had to be Yvette’s. Oh Christ, Nancy thought, she had let the kid walk away and hadn’t followed! Could she have helped? And what was it Yvette had said? “I’m not afraid any more.” Now it became clear why.

  And she still hadn’t played the tapes.

  Suddenly, Nancy was alert, her earlier tiredness gone.

  She slipped on a kimono, turned up the lights in her living room, and inserted the first cassette into her tape deck. There was a pause before the recording began, during which Nancy settled herself in a chair, a notebook on her knees and pe
ncil poised. Then the voice of Yvette, speaking uncertainly, came through Nancy’s hi-fi system.

  At the first words Nancy sat upright, her attention riveted.

  “This is about the Friends of Freedom, all those bombings and the murders. Where the Friends of Freedom are is 117 Crocker Street. The leader is Georgos Archambault, he has a middle name, Winslow, he likes to use it. I’m Georgos’ woman. I’ve been in it, too. So is Davey Bird-song, he brings the money to buy explosives and the other stuff.”

  Nancy’s mouth was agape. She felt shivers passing through her. Her pencil raced.

  There was more of Yvette on the tape, then a conversation between two male voices—one presumably the Georgos whom Yvette had spoken of, the other unmistakably Davey Birdsong.

  The first side of the first tape ended. Nancy’s tape deck had an automatic-reverse feature. The second side began at once.

  Still more Yvette. She described the night on the hill above Millfield. The substation bombing. The killing of the two guards.

  Nancy’s excitement mounted. She could scarcely credit what she had—the biggest news scoop of her career and, at this moment, it was all her own. She continued listening, adding to her notes.

  Back to Georgos and Birdsong. They were discussing something … making arrangements … Christopher Columbus Hotel … bombs disguised as fire extinguishers … a red pickup truck: Fire Protection Service … second night of the National Electric Institute convention … 3 A.M. …

  Nancy’s skin prickled. She did a swift mental calculation, glanced at her watch, then hurled herself at the telephone.