Overload

  By the time Art Romeo had bravely picked up the bomb, staggered with it from the hotel, and taken it to the area from where the disposal trucks had been shuttling, all the bomb squad members were on upper floors of the hotel, working frantically to clear the fire bombs.

  Consequently, after Art Romeo set the high explosive bomb down, no one else was close when, seconds later, it exploded. Romeo was blown to pieces instantly. Almost every window in adjoining blocks was shattered, as was the glass in nearby vehicles. But miraculously, incredibly, no one else was hurt.

  As the roar of the explosion died, several women screamed and men cursed.

  The explosion also marked a psychological turning point. No one, any more, questioned the need for the emergency exodus. Talking, among the displaced hotel guests, was noticeably more subdued. Some, abandoning any idea of returning to the Christopher Columbus, began to leave the scene quietly, making their own arrangements for the remainder of the night.

  But within the hotel, although no guests remained, the action was not yet over.

  Out of the nearly twenty fire bombs which Georgos Archambault and his fellow terrorists placed on upper floors, eight were not located and removed in time; they detonated shortly after 3 A.M. Fierce fires resulted. It was more than an hour before all were brought under control; by then the floors where they occurred were a sodden, burned-out shambles. It was clear to all concerned that, without the advance warning and evacuation, the death toll would have been enormous.

  As it was, two policemen and three firemen died. Two more firemen were badly injured. All were close to the fire bombs which exploded.

  As dawn succeeded darkness, mopping up continued.

  Most former guests of the Christopher Columbus were provided with makeshift accommodations elsewhere. Later in the day, those who could would return to collect their belongings and begin a dispirited trek home.

  By unanimous agreement, which no one even bothered discussing, the NEI convention was abandoned.

  Nim took Ruth, Leah and Benjy home in a taxi. He had wished to thank Nancy Molineaux for her phone call, but observing her still a center of attention for some reason, he decided to do it later.

  As Nim and his family left, morgue wagons were joining the other vehicles at the scene.

  Soon after the explosion which killed Art Romeo, Georgos Archambault was sobbing as he ran toward where his “Fire Protection Service” truck was parked.

  It had all gone wrong! Everything!

  Georgos couldn’t understand it.

  Some thirty-five minutes earlier, just after 2:25 A.M., he had been puzzled to hear many sirens approaching the area where he was waiting in the pickup. Moments later, fire engines and police cars sped past, obviously headed for the Christopher Columbus. As minutes went by, the activity increased and more vehicles followed. Georgos was now thoroughly alarmed.

  At twenty to three he could wait no longer. He got out of the truck, locked it, and walked toward the hotel, getting as close as he could before a barrier of police cars stopped him.

  He was near enough to see—to his great dismay—people streaming from the hotel, many in nightclothes, and being urged by police and firemen to move faster.

  Those people were supposed to stay inside until the bombs went off and the hotel was burning! Then it would be too late to leave.

  Georgos wanted to wave his arms and shout, “Go back! Go back!” But, despairingly, he knew it would have no effect and only draw attention to himself.

  Then, while he watched, some of his carefully planted fire extinguisher bombs were carried from the hotel by people who had no right to interfere with them, and then were rushed away in trucks, preventing what Georgos had so painstakingly planned. He thought: If he had only booby-trapped the bombs, as he could have done with extra work, they could never have been moved. But he had been so confident that nothing would go wrong. Now it had, robbing Friends of Freedom of their glorious victory.

  That was when Georgos began to cry.

  Even when he heard the high explosive bomb go off in the street, it did not console him and he turned away.

  How had it happened? Why had he failed? In what devious way had the enemy found out? He watched the firemen and police—blind, ignorant slaves of fascist capitalism—with bitterness and anger.

  At that point, Georgos realized that his own identity might now be known, that perhaps he was in personal peril, and he began to run.

  The pickup truck was just as he had left it. No one seemed to notice him as he unlocked the truck and drove away, though lights were going on in nearby buildings and sightseers were hurrying toward the hotel, attracted by the sound and activity.

  Instinctively Georgos headed for Crocker Street, then wondered: Was it safe?

  The question was quickly answered. As he turned into Crocker at the far end from number 117, he saw that the street further on was blocked by police cars. A moment later he heard the sound of gunfire—a fusillade of shots, a pause, then a second fusillade as if fire was being returned. Georgos knew that Wayde, Ute and Felix, who had elected to stay in the house tonight, were trapped; he wished desperately he was with them, if necessary to die nobly. But there was no way now that he could fight his way in—or out.

  As quickly as he could, hoping not to attract attention, he turned the truck around and returned the way he had come. There was only one place left to go: The apartment in North Castle, intended for a crisis such as this.

  While he drove, Georgos’ mind worked quickly. If his identity was known, the police would be searching for him. Even at this moment they might be spreading a dragnet, so he must hurry to get underground. Something else: In all probability, the pigs knew about the “Fire Protection Service” truck and would be on the lookout for it; therefore the truck must be abandoned. But not until he was nearer the North Castle hideaway. Taking a chance, Georgos increased his speed.

  One chance must not be taken, he reasoned. The truck could not be left too close to the apartment; otherwise it would betray his whereabouts. He was approaching North Castle. How near to his destination dare he drive? He decided: Within one mile.

  When Georgos estimated he was that distance away, he pulled to the curb, switched off the engine and got out, not bothering to lock the truck or take the ignition key. He reasoned further: The police might well assume he had had a parked car waiting and changed vehicles, or he had boarded a late night bus or taxi, any of which assumptions would leave his general whereabouts in doubt.

  What Georgos did not know was that a drunk, recovering from a quart of cheap wine consumed earlier, was propped up in a doorway opposite where the “Fire Protection Service” truck had stopped. The drunk was sufficiently lucid to observe the truck’s arrival and Georgos’ departure on foot.

  For his part, Georgos began walking briskly. The streets were silent, almost deserted, and he was aware of being conspicuous. But no one accosted or appeared to notice him and, in a quarter of an hour, he was unlocking the apartment door. With relief he went inside.

  At about the same time, a cruising police patrol spotted the red pickup for which an alert had gone out a short time earlier. The patrolman who transmitted a radio report noted that the radiator was still warm.

  Moments later, the same officer noticed the drunk in the doorway opposite and elicited the information that the driver of the truck had left on foot, and in which direction. The police car sped away, but failed to locate Georgos.

  The police patrol did return, however, and—with base ingratitude—took their informant into custody, charging him with being drunk in public.

  Davey Birdsong was arrested, shortly after 5:30 A.M., outside the apartment building where he lived.

  He had just returned there by car after the lecture and study group session which kept him outside the city through the night.

  Birdsong was shocked. He protested heatedly to the two plainclothes detectives who made the arrest, one of whom promptly informed him of his legal right to remain sile
nt. Despite the warning, Birdsong declared, “Listen, you guys, whatever this is about, I want to tell you I’ve been away since yesterday. I left my apartment at six o’clock last night and haven’t been back since. I have plenty of witnesses to that.”

  The detective who had cautioned Birdsong wrote the statement down, and—ironically—the “alibi” proved Bird-song’s undoing.

  When Birdsong was searched at police headquarters, the p & lfp press statement deploring “the bombing at the Christopher Columbus Hotel last night” was found in a jacket pocket. The statement was later proved to have been typed on a machine kept in Birdsong’s apartment—the apartment he claimed he had not entered since six o’clock the previous evening, nearly nine hours before the bombing became public knowledge. As if this were not enough, two torn-up, earlier drafts of the statement, in Birdsong’s handwriting, were also discovered in the apartment.

  Other evidence proved equally damning. The cassette tape recordings of conversations between Georgos Archambault and Davey Birdsong matched a voiceprint of Birdsong, made after his arrest. The young black taxi driver, Vickery, whom Nancy Molineaux employed, made a statement confirming Birdsong’s devious journey to the house at 117 Crocker Street. Birdsong’s purchase of fire extinguishers, which had been converted to bombs, was also attested to.

  He was charged with six counts of first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit a felony, and a “shopping list” of other charges. Bail was set at one million dollars, a sum which Birdsong could not raise and no one else seemed inclined to. Hence, he remained in custody, pending his trial.

  Of the remaining Friends of Freedom, Wayde, the young Marxist intellectual, and Felix, from Detroit’s inner city, were killed in the gun battle with police at 117 Crocker Street. Ute, the embittered Indian, turned a gun on himself and died as police stormed the house.

  The evidence of revolutionary activity at number 117 was captured intact, including the journal of Georgos Winslow Archambault.

  7

  Around the California Examiner newsroom and the Press Club bar, they were already saying that Nancy Molineaux was a shoo-in for a Pulitzer.

  She had it all.

  As the managing editor was heard to tell the publisher: “That classy broad has come through with the whole goddam, zipped-up, total Erector set of the hottest story this side of the second coming.”

  After leaving the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and going to the paper, Nancy wrote continuously right up to the Examiner’s 6:30 A.M. first deadline. Through the remainder of the morning and early afternoon, she updated and amplified the earlier material for the later three editions. And, as reports of new developments came in, they were funneled through her.

  In case of any query about Friends of Freedom, Georgos Archambault, Davey Birdsong, p & lfp, the Sequoia Club’s money, the hotel bombing, the life and death of Yvette, the password was, “Ask Nancy.”

  Just as in a reporter’s dream, almost the entire front page under a banner headline was Nancy Molineaux’s.

  The newspaper put a copyright slug over her story, which meant that any TV or radio station or other newspaper using her exclusive coverage was obliged to quote the Examiner as its source.

  Because Nancy was an integral part of the story herself—her discovery of 117 Crocker Street, the meetings with Yvette, and her possession of the only copy of the tapes established that—she achieved personal celebrity status.

  The day the story broke she was interviewed, at her newsroom desk, for TV. That night the film appeared on the national network news of NBC, ABC and CBS.

  Even so, the Examiner management made the TV crews wait, fuming, until Nancy had finished her own reporting and was good and ready.

  Newsweek and Time, following the TV crowd, got the same treatment.

  Over at the Chronicle-West, the city’s morning, competitive paper, there was unconcealed envy and much scurrying to catch up. The Chronicle’s editor, however, was big enough to send Nancy a half-dozen roses next day (a dozen, he thought, would be overdoing it) with a congratulatory note, delivered to her Examiner desk.

  The effects of the news story spread outward, not in ripples, but in waves.

  To many who read Nancy Molineaux’s report, the most shocking revelation was that the Sequoia Club, even if indirectly, had financed the Christopher Columbus bombing.

  Indignant Sequoia Club members across the nation telegraphed, phoned or mailed their resignations.

  “Never again,” thundered California’s senior senator in an interview with the Washington Post, “will I trust that despicable organization or listen to anything it advocates.” The statement found a thousand echoes elsewhere.

  It was generally conceded that the Sequoia Club, its name disgraced and influence diminished, could never be the same again.

  Laura Bo Carmichael resigned immediately as the club’s chairman. After doing so, she went into seclusion, refusing to take telephone calls from the press or anyone else. Instead, a private secretary read to callers a short statement which concluded, “Mrs. Carmichael considers her public life to be at an end.”

  The only Sequoia Club figure to emerge with honor was Mrs. Priscilla Quinn, who, Nancy accurately reported, had been the sole opponent of paying fifty thousand dollars to Birdsong’s p & lfp.

  Nancy took satisfaction in recording that the big-league lawyer, Irwin Saunders, was one of those who voted “yes.”

  If the Sequoia Club attempted to rehabilitate itself, it was predicted that Priscilla Quinn would be the new chairman, with the club’s emphasis directed toward social work rather than environmental matters.

  Following Nancy’s exposé of Georgos Archambault, and later reports of his disappearance, a small army of police detectives and FBI special agents fanned out through the North Castle district in search of the Friends of Freedom leader. They had no success.

  A thorough police search of 117 Crocker Street produced large amounts of evidence, further incriminating Georgos and Davey Birdsong. Among the clothes left by Georgos was a denim jumpsuit; lab tests showed that, where the garment was torn, a missing portion matched a small piece of material found at the Millfield substation, snagged on a cut wire, the night the two security guards were killed. Also in the house were voluminous written records, including Georgos’ journal; all were turned over to the District Attorney. The existence of the journal was revealed to the press, though its contents were not disclosed.

  After Davey Birdsong’s part in the whole affair was described in print, Birdsong, in jail, was segregated from other prisoners for his own safety.

  Before some of that happened, however, Nancy Molineaux went through a personal crisis of her own. It occurred shortly before noon the day during which her major story broke.

  She had been working under deadline pressure since before dawn and, having had no sleep the night before and being sustained only by coffee and orange juice since, was tiring. It showed.

  Several times since 7:30 A.M., when the city editor came on duty in time for the second edition, old “I’m-the-coach” had stopped by Nancy’s desk with quiet words of encouragement. Apart from that, there was little need for editorial discussion. Nancy was assembling the facts capably—her own, and others fed to her. She also had a reputation for writing “clean” copy which required little, if any, rewrite.

  Occasionally, when she stopped typing and glanced up, Nancy caught the city editor looking over at her. Though his expression was inscrutable, she had a notion they were both thinking the same thing—something which, through most of the past few hours, she had pushed determinedly from her mind.

  The last thing Nancy had observed before leaving the Christopher Columbus was the shrouded bodies of the dead policemen and firemen being wheeled from the hotel on gurneys to waiting morgue wagons. There were also two men, outside the hotel, putting pieces of something into a plastic bag; it took her a minute to realize they were collecting the remains of the sixth dead man, the one blown to pieces by a bomb.

 
It was then Nancy faced the stark, grim truth which, until now, she had evaded: That for an entire week she had been in possession of information which, if shared, could have prevented all six deaths and much else.

  The same thought bored into her consciousness each time she caught the city editor looking at her. That, and his words of a week ago: “You’re supposed to be part of a team, Nancy, and I’m the coach. I know you prefer being a loner, and you’ve gotten away with it because you get results. But you can push that game too far.”

  At the time she had dismissed the advice with a mental, Screw you, Mr. Charlie! Now, she wished vainly, desperately, she hadn’t.

  At 11:55 A.M., with two hours and twenty minutes still to go before the final edition deadline, the thought of the six dead bodies could no longer be thrust away, and Nancy was ready to crack.

  “Take a break and come with me,” a voice said quietly. When she looked up; old I’m-the-coach was again beside her.

  She hesitated and he added, “That’s an order.”

  With unusual docility, Nancy stood up and followed him as he left the newsroom.

  A short way down the corridor was a small room, normally kept locked, and sometimes used for management meetings. The city editor used a key to open it and held the door for Nancy to precede him.

  Inside, the furnishings were comfortable but simple: A boardroom-type table and upholstered chairs, a pair of matching walnut cabinets, soft brown draperies.

  With another key the city editor opened one of the cabinets. He motioned Nancy to sit down.

  “There’s a choice of brandy or scotch. Not the best brands; we don’t compete with the Ritz here. I suggest the brandy.”

  Nancy nodded, suddenly unable to find words.

  Her superior poured California brandy into two glasses and sat down facing her. When they had sipped he said, “I’ve been watching you.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And we’ve both been thinking the same thing. Right?”

  Again she nodded without speaking.