THE AMERICAN RED ARMY ANNOUNCES its greatest victory in the war against OPPRESSION. The AMERICAN RED ARMY demands the removal of the ZIONIST DOG from PALESTINE. We demand FULL CITIZENSHIP for the oppressed BLACK PEOPLE of the United States. SOUTH AFRICA must be made FREE. The AMERICAN RED ARMY demands the government of the United States end its WAR OF GENOCIDE against the people of NICARAGUA. The AMERICAN RED ARMY will never end its HOLY WAR until its DEMANDS are fully met. We urge the OPPRESSED PEOPLE of the United States to RISE UP and CRUSH the oppressor. The AMERICAN RED ARMY demands the IMMEDIATE RELEASE of the HEROES imprisoned around the WORLD. ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE.
For the first time in one hundred years, the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade was canceled. Instead of the usual celebration, the balmy skies of Easter Sunday found a city in mourning. All over New York, families gathered beside the remains of charred, unrecognizable victims. And the mood was not of anger, though that would inevitably come, but of shock, of numbness, as if a deed so awful could not be confronted. The citizens of New York, famous for their impatient rushing about, moved slowly, as if disoriented. They moved with the air of people who’d forgotten something very important, something right on the verge of consciousness.
The Honorable Dave Jacoby, mayor of New York City for eight years, sensed this mood precisely. He understood his obligation to pull his people out of their lethargy, yet he could not bring himself to conduct the press conference called for Sunday evening. He chose to sit it out, turning it over to the police commissioner after a brief introduction. A lifelong Democrat, Jacoby knew it would be political suicide to speak the thoughts crowding his brain, but he was so angry, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to control himself long enough to make a speech.
In my city! In my city! The phrase refused to leave his mind, commanding his attention despite the obvious necessity of organizing his political machine to deal with the fears of the people. If he had his way, he would cordon off the whole town and search the buildings, one by one, until he ran down the animals responsible. Then…
He’d made the obligatory visits to Herald Square and to the hospitals where the injured had been taken as soon as the cops declared the areas safe. At every stop, as soon as they recognized his limousine, the reporters, like vultures, tore after him, screaming for a quote. Apparently, no act, no matter how awful, could destroy their armor. Yet it was in avoiding them that his own defenses were thoroughly penetrated. He arrived at Bellevue Hospital to find his way blocked by an army of microphones. His initial reaction was to order the half-dozen uniformed police officers stationed at the main entrance to clear the area, but his town was too jittery to accept any high-handed behavior from its leader, and he finally got through by promising an impromptu press conference when he came out. Only then, like the waters of the Red Sea, did they pull back, still screaming questions and waving microphones in case he should utter some passing words of wisdom. Inside the building, with the cops and the doctors flying about, he took a deep breath and then turned, unprepared, to confront the thing in the stretcher by the radiology-room door. At first, he thought it was a heap of melted candlewax, but candlewax never cries out in pain and it was the sight of a nurse running over, syringe in hand, that made him realize he was dealing with a human being, that the white cubes near the top were teeth and the black spot, an eye.
It didn’t get any better. On the morning before today’s press conference, as he flew by helicopter to LaGuardia Airport for a quick meeting with officials from Washington, he realized, for the first time, just how big his city was. An enormous expanse of glass and stone that spread beyond the political borders of New York City, to embrace ten million people. The American Red Army could be anywhere, planning anything. Who would protect the city if Dave Jacoby backed off?
In the end, he and his aides gave approval to the speech Police Commissioner George Morgan was about to give. Initially, after a series of hurried conferences with Morgan, they’d created something very similar for the mayor, but then backed off and passed the outline to the commissioner’s speechwriters. These ideas, it was decided, couldn’t come from the mayor (not until he saw how the voters handled it), but he had made his wishes clear to the top brass in the department. They were not to worry about warrants. They might place bugs wherever they wished. They might tap any telephone. Above all, they were to recreate the old ‘Red Squad’ of the 50s and thoroughly penetrate the radical community at New York’s various colleges, especially City University, which claimed to house a dozen black and Puerto Rican ‘liberation’ societies.
Thus a short speech of introduction and George Morgan stepped in front of the camera, flashbulbs popping from all angles. His face was stern, mouth locked into a determined grimace. A black man, heavy-set and serious on the most festive occasions, he’d come up the hard way, starting in a violent, crime-ridden precinct in Brooklyn and progressing through the civil service system to the rank of captain before being appointed, first to inspector, then to commissioner. He’d been told by the mayor to keep it brief, businesslike, and thorough. The people of New York, His Honor had declared, must be made to feel the government (his government) was doing something and not merely reacting to situations.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the commissioner began. “I’m going to start with a brief statement, then answer all questions. As of now, we have an investigative force of fifty men working full time on the apprehension of these perpetrators. We expect that number to increase dramatically as we expand the scope of our investigation. Rewards from various sources totaling 500,000 dollars have been offered for information leading to their apprehension. A hotline has been set up and the number will be given out after the conference. All files relating to illicit political activity are being combed. We are going back ten years. Anyone, no matter how remotely tied to radical politics, will be brought in and thoroughly questioned. Anyone arousing serious suspicion will be held as a material witness. Every inch of the area around Herald Square is being searched. We are in the process of questioning people who were in the immediate vicinity before or directly after the explosion. We beg them to come forward and tell us what they saw. Let us decide whether or not it was important. Questions.”
Reporters began screaming, as was their habit, and the commissioner, as was his habit, picked the questions he wanted to answer, repeating them first so all could hear.
“You want to know if any arrests have been made or are close. At this point we are just beginning to evaluate physical evidence. Leads through informants seem more promising, but we are not close to making an arrest.
“Yes, the bomb was set off inside an oxygen supply truck. The driver was killed instantly. We are questioning everyone at A&B Oxygen Supply as well as anyone who came near their warehouse on the day of the explosion.
“You ask about the efforts of the federal government. As you know, First Agent George Bradley is in charge of those efforts and the question is better put to him. However, let me assure you that we are cooperating completely with federal authorities and will continue to do so.”
“The CIA? As far as we know, the CIA is not involved in domestic politics. On the other hand, it’s our understanding that the federal effort involves several agencies so, once again, I suggest you put the question to Agent Bradley.
“What are the constitutional grounds for detaining suspects as material witnesses? We are in a crisis situation and emergency measures must be taken. It is my fervent hope that radical lawyers do not begin springing out of their holes to tie up our courts and release these suspects.”
The American Red Army, at the height of their victory celebration, broke into spontaneous applause at the conclusion of Commissioner Morgan’s impassioned speech. In recognition of their success, Muzzafer had suspended the rule about drinking and Effie’s living room was littered with cartons of half-eaten Chinese food, boxes of pizza, crushed beer cans and two magnums of French champagne, one empty and one three-quarters full.
“It’s exactly as I predicted,” Muzzafer declared triumphantly. “Democracy is only a bone for their poor, oppressed doggies. I… Yowwwww.” He jumped straight in the air, then dashed across the room, trying to avoid Theresa and the ice-cold beer she was pouring down the front of his shirt.
“It’s exactly as I predicted,” Theresa mimicked, sending Effie into gales of laughter. “Exactly. Exactly.”
Already high, as were all the soldiers of the American Red Army except for Johnny Katanos, Effie, ordinarily fastidious, ignored the beer puddling on the carpet. She sat on the couch with Jane next to her, in her free hand a huge coffee mug filled with champagne, from which both were drinking, and gestured toward the television set. “It’s almost like the stupid bastard was working for us. What’ll they do when they find the deed wasn’t brought off by some leftover hippy?”
“Then they will arrest people randomly,” Muzzafer said, twisting the beer can from Theresa’s hand. “And when that…”
“No more speeches,” Jane declared loudly. “Put on a tape.” Everyone turned to stare at her. A few hours ago she’d been demanding to be allowed to cook. “Well, I’m a little drunk,” she explained, turning to Effie. “Sorry.”
“A tape. Yes, by all means.” Muzzafer removed a TDK video-cassette from its cardboard holder. It was marked, “Day 1. 6:00 PM/9:30 PM, ABC,” and as he placed it into the recorder, he could feel their attention turn to the screen.
After the explosion, all three networks had suspended local programming for the remainder of the evening. They did this, they said, in order to show their respect for the dead, though no reduction was made in the number of “messages.” The ratings, shared more or less evenly, added up to an astonishing 97 percent of all the sets in the greater New York area, due in large part to some especially graphic footage which the networks reran at every opportunity. It seems that two video teams, one from ABC and the other from NBC, were already on hand covering the opening day festivities at A&S and, for the half hour it took the police to seal off the scene, they roamed through the carnage, literally shooting even as the cops dragged them away.
And the footage they got was, indeed, spectacular. With virtually every eye in New York glued to a television screen, network censors had looked the other way as closeup after closeup revealed the damage done by temperatures hot enough to melt steel. Even Muzzafer had been initially rooted to the scene after the explosion. He’d watched the cops arrive, followed by fire trucks and ambulances, until the square, filled with the glare of revolving lights, seemed like a parody of the original blast. Finally, Johnny had pulled him away, leading him to the subway and escape. They’d made one stop on the way to Queens, in an electronics store where Muzzafer bought a dozen blank videocassettes. Then, at home, he had tuned the three television sets, one in each apartment, to the three networks and began to record their triumph. Eventually he hoped to mail these tapes, along with his own description of the project and its methods, to friends in Lebanon who would edit them and pass them on to terrorists everywhere. Even if the American Red Army never completed another operation, Muzzafer knew they could lay claim to the most successful act of terrorism ever executed in the United States. But, of course, he was only just beginning. Just getting up a head of steam.
On the screen, New York’s medical examiner, Dr. David Chang, a small, balding man, removed his glasses and began to explain the difficulties involved in identifying the bodies. “Ordinarily,” he declared, his voice surprisingly strong, “in cases of murder, each body would have to be autopsied separately, but because of the scope of this tragedy, we are going to release the bodies as soon as they are properly identified. The identifications will be made by relatives, where possible, or through written identification found on the person. Where bodies have been…” He stopped for a moment, as if realizing for the first time exactly what he was saying. When he resumed, his voice was much softer. “There are people in there who have been burned beyond recognition. No ID or if there was ID, it’s been burned up too. We’ll use jewelry, dental records, tattoos—whatever we can find, but it will take some time.”
“We seen this tape before,” Johnny Katanos broke in loudly. “Let’s try another one. What do you say?” He held a tape aloft. “I took this one off this morning’s news. Just a quick piece buried in the Macy’s coverage.”
Theresa shook her head, then staggered slightly. “You know what you are, Johnny? You’re a party pooper.”
Johnny, calm, glanced at her, then walked across to the television. “Shut up, Theresa.”
Though he could not interfere in their domestic affairs, at least not until they threatened his project, Muzzafer nevertheless found himself wishing that he’d stopped pouring champagne several glasses ago. He was not being attacked personally, but the party had been his idea, a brief interlude during which they might savor their triumph, and he felt the need to maintain control.
“Muzzafer, check this out. Tell me if this isn’t perfect for us.” Johnny walked across the room, put his arm around Muzzafer’s shoulders and pulled him down on the couch next to Jane. He could feel the Arab’s resistance, that Muzzafer did not want to be handled in this way, but once they were seated, squeezed in next to the two women, the alcohol took over and he relaxed.
Johnny, flicking the remote to start the VCR, said, “If this isn’t the best thing you’ve ever heard, you could cut off my balls.” He let his arm slide along the backrest until Muzzafer’s neck lay against the inside of his elbow, then smiled his sweetest, most innocent smile. “I swear to God, Muzzafer, when I saw this, I was so happy, I nearly shit.”
The report, six minutes long, was by no means unique. It concerned an abandoned warehouse, Parillo Bros. Carting, on North 5th Street, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, just south of Kent Avenue. Two blocks from the East River, it sat less than half a mile from densely populated Stuyvesant Town in Manhattan. The owners, Guido and Giovanni Parillo, formerly in the private sanitation business, had disappeared, leaving city and state authorities with the job of cleaning up thousands of fifty-gallon drums of toxic waste. There was the usual alphabet soup of PCBs, PVCs, dioxin, hydrochloric acid, cyanide and all the rest, but what made this dump special was an additional five thousand drums of waste oil mixed with as yet unidentified chemicals. If the oil should ever catch fire (though waste oil is very difficult to ignite, the reporter prudently counseled) the resulting cloud of smoke might cause a disaster on the scale of that in Bhopal, India. To make matters worse, the cleanup could not begin until the owners were tracked down or the property and the building condemned, a process that would, in either event, take many months. “In the meantime,” the reporter intoned while the camera swept over a damp, gray warehouse, “New Yorkers will just have to live with the prospect of catastrophe hanging over their heads. This is John Brolin, Greenpoint, Brooklyn.”
Later, alone with Johnny Katanos in the kitchen, Muzzafer complained about the way in which Johnny had broken up the party. “Your idea was fine,” he said, “but it could have waited another day. Before I began this project, before we left Algeria, I met with a friend. To ask for his assistance. He told me that any plan involving criminals would fail. He said you would let your personal feelings get in the way and sooner or later…”
Without warning, Johnny turned to Muzzafer, stepping forward until their faces were almost touching. Far from his usual calm self, his dark eyes burned with conviction and for the first time, his smile was unforced and anything but innocent. “Did I let my personal feelings get in the way on Sixth Avenue? Have I ever let you down even one time?”
“Your games with Jane and your tongue with Theresa will break us apart. I’ve seen it happen before.”
“So what? We don’t need the women, man. All they do is go to the fucking library and cook dinner.” He paused to let his message sink in. “One last job, Muzzafer. We’ll do the warehouse, dump the cunts and then take the show on the road. Think about a major project every six weeks for a year. Each one in a different city. You have all the contacts. You can get us the supplies we need.” He put his hands on Muzzafer’s shoulders, his fingers kneading the back of the Arab’s neck. “Just think about it, man. Let all the bullshit lessons go. If you got the balls, we can get very high together.”