The newspaper reports about Friends of Freedom and the hotel bombing were important to him, not only because he liked to read about himself, but because they provided clues as to what the police and FBI were doing. The abandoned “Fire Prevention Service” truck, found in North Castle, was mentioned several times, but there was also speculation that Georgos had somehow managed to slip out of the city and was now in the East. One report claimed he had been seen in Cincinnati. Good! Anything which drew attention away from where he actually was was welcome and helpful.
On reading the Examiner that first day, he had been surprised to discover how much was known about his own activities by the reporter Nancy Molineaux. Then, as Georgos read on, he realized it was Yvette who had somehow learned of his plans and had betrayed him. Without that betrayal, the Battle of the Christopher Columbus Hotel (as he now thought of it) would have been a magnificent victory for Friends of Freedom instead of the inglorious rout it had become.
Georgos ought to have hated Yvette for that. Somehow, though, either then or later, he couldn’t manage it. Instead, with a weakness of which he was ashamed, he pitied her and the manner of her death (as described by the newspaper) on Lonely Hill.
Incredibly, he missed Yvette more than he would have believed possible.
Perhaps, Georgos thought, because his own time was running out, he was becoming maudlin and foolish. If so, he was relieved that none of his fellow revolutionaries would ever know about it.
Something else the newspapers had done was dig deeply into Georgos’ personal history. An enterprising reporter, who tracked down the record of Georgos’ birth in New York City, learned he was the illegitimate son of a onetime Greek movie goddess and a wealthy American playboy named Winslow, the grandson of an auto industry pioneer.
Piece by piece, it all came out.
The movie goddess hadn’t wanted to admit having a child, fearing it would destroy her youthful image. The playboy hadn’t cared about anything except avoiding entanglements and responsibility.
Georgos was therefore kept well out of sight and, during various stages of his childhood, assigned to successive sets of foster-parents, none of whom he liked. The name Archambault came from a branch of his mother’s family.
By the age of nine, Georgos had met his father once, his mother a total of three times. After that he saw neither. As a child he wanted, with a fierce determination, to know his parents, but they were equally determined—for differing, selfish reasons—not to know him.
In retrospect, Georgos’ mother appeared to have possessed more conscience than his father. She, at least, sent substantial sums of money to Georgos through an Athens law firm, money which permitted him to attend Yale and obtain a Ph.D., and later finance Friends of Freedom.
The former movie actress, now far removed from a goddess in appearance, professed to be shocked when informed by news reporters of the use to which some of her money had been put. Paradoxically, though, she seemed to enjoy the attention Georgos now brought her, perhaps because she was living in obscurity, in a grubby apartment outside Athens and drinking heavily. She had also been ill, though she would not discuss the nature of her ailment.
When Georgos’ activities were described to her in detail, she responded, “That is not a son, it is an evil animal.”
However when asked by a woman reporter if she did not believe her own neglect of Georgos had been largely responsible for what he had become, the ex-actress spat in the questioner’s face.
In Manhattan, the aging-playboy father of Georgos dodged the press for several days. Then, when discovered by a reporter in a Fifty-ninth Street bar, he at first denied any involvement with the Greek movie star, including having sired her child. Finally, when documentary proof of his fatherhood was shown to him, he shrugged and delivered the statement: “My advice to the cops is to shoot the bastard on sight—to kill.”
Georgos, in due course, read both comments by his parents. Neither surprised him, but they intensified his hatred of almost everything.
So now, in the final week of April, Georgos concluded that the time was near for action. On the one hand, he reasoned, he could not hope to remain in hiding, undetected, much longer—only two nights ago, when shopping for food at a small supermarket, he caught sight of another customer, a man, looking at him with what seemed more than casual curiosity; Georgos left the place hastily. On the other hand, the initial impact of all the publicity, and circulation of his photograph, should have moderated by now, at least a little.
The plan which Georgos had worked out was to blow up the huge cooling water pumps at the La Mission generating plant, the same plant where—nearly a year ago, and disguised as a Salvation Army officer—he placed a bomb which damaged the generator the newspapers called Big Lil. He had learned about those pumps while studying textbooks on power generation to determine where GSP & L would be most vulnerable; he also visited the Engineering School of the University of California at Berkeley, where technical drawings of La Mission, and other plants, were available for anyone to inspect.
Georgos knew—again being realistic—that there wasn’t a chance of getting inside the main building at La Mission, as he had succeeded in doing before. It was now too well guarded.
But with resourcefulness, and some luck, he could get to the pump house. The eleven massive, powerful pumps there were essential to the operation of five generating units, including Big Lil. In destroying them he would knock out the entire generating station for months.
It would be like severing a lifeline.
The best approach was from the Coyote River. La Mission was built directly on the riverbank, enabling the plant to draw water for cooling and return it to the river afterward. Getting to the river side of the plant was where the rubber dinghy would come in. After that, Georgos would make use of the scuba diving gear, at which he was expert, having learned underwater demolition during his revolutionary training in Cuba.
Georgos had studied maps and knew he could drive to within a half mile of La Mission and launch the dinghy at a deserted spot. From there the current would help him get downstream. Getting back to the van, and escaping, would be more of a problem, but that aspect he deliberately ignored.
He would enter the pump house underwater, through a metal grating and two wire mesh screens in which he would cut holes; the tools to do it were stored with his underwater equipment. The cylindrical Tovex bombs would be strapped to his waist. Once inside, he would place the bombs, which were in magnetic casings, simply and quickly on the pumps. It was a beautiful scheme!—as it had seemed right from the beginning.
The only remaining question was—when? Today was Friday. Weighing everything, Georgos decided on the following Tuesday. He would leave North Castle as soon as it was dark, drive the Volkswagen van the fifty-odd miles to La Mission, then, on arrival, launch the dinghy immediately.
Now, the decision taken, he was restless. The apartment—small, dreary, sparsely furnished—was confining, especially during the daytime, though Georgos knew it would be foolish to take chances and go out. In fact, he intended to remain in the apartment until Sunday night, when the purchase of more food would become essential.
He missed the mental exercise of writing in his journal. A few days ago he considered starting a new one, now that the original was lost—captured by the enemy. But somehow he could summon up neither the energy nor the enthusiasm to begin writing again.
Once more, as he had done so many times already, he roamed the apartment’s three cramped rooms—a living room, bedroom, and kitchen-dining area.
On the kitchen counter top an envelope caught his eye. It contained a so-called Consumer Survey which had come in the mail to the apartment several weeks ago from—of all sources—Golden State Piss & Lickspittle. It had been addressed to one Owen Grainger, which was not surprising because that was the name under which Georgos rented the apartment and paid three months rent in advance to avoid questions about credit.
(Georgos always paid rent and oth
er bills immediately, by mailing cash. Paying bills promptly was a standard part of terrorist technique when seeking to be inconspicuous. Unpaid bills brought unwelcome inquiries and attention.)
One of the items on that stinking Consumer Survey had made Georgos so angry on first reading it that he threw a cup he happened to be holding against the nearest wall and shattered it. The item read:
Golden State Power & Light apologizes to its customers for inconveniences as a result of cowardly attacks on company installations by small-time, would-be terrorists who act in ignorance. If there are ways in which you think such attacks could be ended, please give us your views.
Then and there Georgos had sat down and written a forceful, scathing reply which began: “The terrorists you presumptuously describe as small-time, cowardly and ignorant are none of those things. They are important, wise and dedicated heroes. You are the ignoramuses, as well as criminal exploiters of the people. Justice shall overtake you! Be warned there will be blood and death, not mere ‘inconvenience’ when the glorious revolution …”
He had quickly run out of space and used an extra sheet of paper to complete a truly splendid response.
A pity not to have mailed it! He had been on the point of doing so on one of his night excursions when caution warned: Don’t! It might be a trap. So he had let the completed questionnaire remain where it was, on the kitchen counter top.
The postage-paid envelope which had come with the questionnaire was still unsealed and Georgos took the enclosure out. What he had written, he realized again, was masterful. Why not send it? After all, it was anonymous; he had already torn off, and discarded, the portion of the questionnaire which had the name “Owen Grainger” and the apartment address. Even that had been printed by a computer, something Georgos recognized instantly, so it was impersonal, as mailings from computers always were.
Someone ought to read what he had written. Whoever it was would be jolted, which was good. At the same time they could not fail—even if reluctantly—to admire the writer’s mind.
Making another decision, Georgos sealed the envelope. He would put it in a mailbox when he went out Sunday night.
He resumed his pacing and—though he didn’t really want to—started thinking again about that long-ago day and the cornered rat.
14
At approximately the same moment that Georgos Archambault made his decision to bomb La Mission for the second time, Harry London faced Nim Goldman.
“No!” London said. “Goddammit no! Not for you, Nim, or anybody else.”
Nim said patiently, “All I’ve asked you to do is consider some special circumstances. I happen to know the Sloan family …”
The two men were in Nim’s office. Harry London, standing, leaned across the desk between them. “You may know the family, but I know the case. It’s all in here. Read it!” The Property Protection chief, his face flushed, slammed down a bulky file.
“Calm down, Harry,” Nim said. “And I don’t need to read the file. I’ll take your word about the kind of case it is, and how messy.”
A short time ago, remembering his promise to Karen the previous evening, Nim had telephoned Harry London to see if he knew of a theft of service case involving a Luther Sloan.
“You bet I do,” had been the answer.
When Nim disclosed his personal interest, London had stated, “I’ll come up.”
Now Harry London insisted, “You’re damn right it’s a messy case. Your friend Sloan has been bypassing meters—lots of them—for better than a year.”
Nim said irritably, “He isn’t my friend. His daughter is.”
“One of your many women friends, no doubt.”
“Knock it off, Harry!” Nim, too, was becoming angry. “Karen Sloan is a quadriplegic.”
He went on to describe the Sloan family, how both parents helped Karen financially, and how Luther Sloan had gone into debt to buy a special van for Karen’s use. “One thing I’m certain of. Whatever Karen’s father did with any money he made, he didn’t spend it on himself.”
London said contemptuously, “So does that make thievery any better? Of course it doesn’t, and you know it.”
“Yes, I know it. But surely, if we also know of extenuating circumstances, we could be less tough.”
“Just what did you have in mind?”
Nim ignored the caustic tone. “Well, maybe we could insist on restitution, let Luther Sloan pay back whatever was stolen, giving him some time to do it, but not launch criminal proceedings.”
Harry London said coldly, “So that’s your suggestion?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Nim,” London said, “I never thought the day would come when I’d stand here and hear you say what you just did.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes, Harry! Who knows what they’ll say and do in certain situations?”
“I do. And I know what I’m saying now: The Sloan case will take its course, which means a criminal charge is going to be laid within the next few days. Unless, of course, you decide to fire me and do it your way.”
Nim said wearily, “Harry, stop talking bilge.”
There was a silence, then London said, “Nim, you’re thinking of Yale, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re thinking that old man Yale got away with power theft, or at least involvement in it, so why shouldn’t Luther Sloan? You’re figuring there was one law for the big cheese, now another law for the little guy—your friend’s father. Right?”
Nim nodded. “Yes, I was thinking pretty much along those lines.”
“Well, you’re right. That’s the way it is, and I’ve seen it happen at other times, in other places. The privileged, the powerful, those with money, can bend the law or get themselves a better deal. Oh, not always, but often enough to make justice unequal. But that’s the way the system works, and while I may not like it, I didn’t make it. However, I’ll also tell you this: If I’d had the solid evidence against Mr. Justice Yale that I have against Luther Sloan, I’d never have backed down the way I did.”
“Then there is strong evidence?”
London gave a twisted grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“Nim, in the Quayle setup, Luther Sloan was the gas man. They gave him most of the illegal gas work which came their way, probably because he was damn good at it. I’ve seen some of the jobs he did, and there were plenty; we have details from the Quayle records and the goods on him. Something else: You talked just now about Sloan making restitution. Well, as far as we can estimate, the illicit work he did has cost GSP & L, in gas revenue losses, about two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. And from what you tell me, Sloan might not have that kind of dough.”
Nim threw up his hands. “Okay, Harry. You win.”
London shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t. Nobody wins. Not me, not you, not GSP & L, and certainly not Luther Sloan. I’m simply doing my job, the way I’m supposed to.”
“And doing it honestly,” Nim said. “Maybe more so than the rest of us.”
Nim found himself regretting what had just passed between himself and Harry London. He wondered if their friendship would ever be quite the same again. He rather doubted it.
“Be seeing you, I guess,” London said. He picked up the file he had brought with him, and left.
Nim supposed he would have to call Karen and deliver the bad news. He dreaded doing it. However, before he could pick up the telephone, his office door flew open and Ray Paulsen strode in.
The executive vice president of power supply asked brusquely, “Where’s the chairman?”
“He had a dental appointment,” Nim said. “Anything I can do for you?”
Paulsen ignored Nim’s question. “When will he be back?”
Nim checked his watch. “I’d say in an hour.”
Paulsen looked weary and haggard, Nim thought, his shoulders more stooped than usual, his hair and beetling eyebrows grayer than a month ago. It was not surpris
ing. They had all been under strain—Ray Paulsen, because of his large responsibilities, as much as anyone.
“Ray,” Nim said, “if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you look like hell. Why not take it easy for a few minutes? Sit down, switch off, and I’ll send for coffee.”
Paulsen glared and appeared on the point of answering angrily. Then, abruptly, his expression changed. Dropping heavily into a soft leather chair, he said, “Do that.”
Nim buzzed Vicki on the intercom and ordered coffee for them both. Afterward he went around the desk and took a chair near Paulsen.
“You might as well know what I came to tell the chairman,” Paulsen growled. “We’ve lost Big Lil.”
Nim’s calm deserted him. “We’ve what?”
Paulsen snapped, “You heard me the first time.”
“We’ve lost Big Lil!” Nim repeated. “For how long?”
“At least four months. More likely six.”
There was a knock and Vicki came in with two mugs of coffee. While she set them on a table, Nim stood up and began pacing restlessly. Now he could understand Paulsen’s distress, and share it. Big Lil, La Mission No. 5, the largest single generator in the system, supplied a massive million and a quarter kilowatts, equal to six percent of GSP & L’s maximum load. At any time the sudden loss of Big Lil would create major problems, as was demonstrated after the bombing last July. In the present circumstances it was calamitous.
“People!” Paulsen exploded. “Son-of-a-bitching, stupid people! You think you have it all figured, spell out every procedure clearly, then some incompetent clown lets you down.” He reached for a coffee mug and drank.
Nim asked, “What happened?”
“We’ve had Big Lil off the line for a week for routine maintenance,” Paulsen said. “You knew that.”
“Yes. It was due back on line today.”