"What measures have you taken to ensure that other relay boxes have not been rigged to explode?"
"Other-?"
"Get on it," said Smith.
"Look, we have to move the mail. We can't halt the mail stream for one-"
"Massacre?" prompted Smith.
"Yes, not even for a massacre. The mail must go through. You know our motto-Neither Gloom Of Night-"
"I am expressly ordering you to take all measures to ensure that the relay boxes in this city are secure."
"Do you have any idea the number of boxes we're talking here? Over three thousand. Three thousand boxes."
"Then you had better start immediately," Smith said sharply. "I will be in touch."
With that, Harold Smith left the postmaster's office.
Down in the ornate lobby, he passed a man who had postal inspector written on his stern face. Reilly hardly glanced in Smith's direction as he strode to the bank of elevators.
By the time he reached the postmaster's office, Smith would be unfindable in the canyons of New York.
JANE STREET WAS OFF the Twelfth Avenue Highway, and Smith found it easily. Number 75 was at the Hudson end of the street, tucked in a row of aging but well-maintained brownstones.
There were three apartments. The top button was labeled Al Ladeen. Smith pressed it, not expecting an answering buzzer. He was correct. Smith then tried the other button.
Apartment 1 answered. "Yes?"
"Smith. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you the landlord of this building?"
"I own it, yeah."
"I would like to speak to you about a tenant." Smith was buzzed in at once.
A black bearded man in an open-necked white shirt met Smith at the door. He looked as if he'd last shaved during the Carter era.
"What's this about?"
"When did you last see Al Ladeen?"
"Al? Is he in trouble?"
"Please answer my question," Smith said firmly.
"Two days ago. He comes and goes. I don't pay much attention."
"I would like access to his apartment."
"You got a warrant?"
"I will not require one if you will cooperate."
The landlord scratched his curly beard and squinted his right eye, then his left, as if weighing the pros and cons with both hemispheres of his brain.
"If I just knew what this was about..."
"It may be connected to the midtown explosions."
"Jesus, don't tell me Al's a terrorist!"
"I said nothing of the kind," Smith said sharply.
"Isn't that what this is about?"
"Mr. Ladeen is a postal worker," said Smith.
The man clutched the doorframe. "Whoa. I didn't know that. You sure?"
Smith nodded. "A relay driver."
"Damn. All this time, I never suspected. Damn, that is scary."
"The overwhelming majority of postal workers are nonviolent," Smith explained.
"Yeah. Well, I read the papers and watch TV. You ask me, they're all slowly going bug-fuck nuts. This keeps up, it won't be long before they'll be replacing Nazis as the bad guys in the movies."
Smith cleared his throat.
"Let me get the key," the landlord said hastily.
THE APARTMENT WAS sparsely furnished and ordinary, except the walls in every room were green. They were all the same green, too. Not a tasteful avocado or an eggshell green, but a uniform lime green.
This seemed to be news to the landlord.
"Jesus, look what he did to the walls. Isn't green the color of madness?"
"No. Purple."
"Thought purple was royalty."
"Royalty and madness," said Smith. "I must ask you to wait in the hall."
Smith closed the door in the landlord's curious face and moved about the six-room apartment, not touching anything or turning on any lights lest he leave fingerprints.
In an alcove of the den stood an ordinary IBM-clone PC on a folding card table, the keyboard covered by a dust protector. On the wall behind it was a bumper sticker that said Save Jerusalem.
Smith frowned. He had never heard that slogan before.
The computer was running. That was not unusual. Sometimes people left them running, although it struck Smith as a frightful waste of electricity. Easily twelve cents per 24 hour period. On the other hand, the stress of powering up and down often wore out a system faster than continual running.
As Smith bent to examine the monitor he saw a screen saver was in operation. Another waste of money, as Smith saw it. Modern monitor tubes no longer retained burned static images if left on too long.
The screen saver featured a long building on a low hill against the backdrop of a blue bay. Nothing seemed to be happening. Then up the lone access road came a truck, trailing dust. As it approached a guard box, the truck accelerated. A uniformed guard jumped out and opened fire, his tiny M-16 making ineffectual electronic pops.
The truck ran him over on its way to crashing into the long, low building, which blew up into red-and-yellow fragments to the accompaniment of more electronic explosion sounds.
After the dust settled, the sequence started up all over again.
There was something familiar about the scene. Smith decided it must be some kind of child's game he had once seen advertised on TV.
A quick turn around the green apartment brought nothing unusual to light.
Smith had all but decided to leave the apartment untouched and was walking to the door when the computer abruptly beeped.
A thin, high voice lifted, calling out. "Allah Akbar!"
Smith froze. The voice was familiar. He had never heard it before, not that particular voice. He had heard one just like it many times. In the Far East. In news reports from the Middle East and documentaries.
It was the sound of a Muslim muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.
"Allahu Akbar!"
"Allahu Akbar!"
The keening cry petered out, and a female voice spoke lightly in what Smith recognized as Arabic. It repeated in English.
"It is time for the afternoon prayer," the voice said. Smith rushed back to the monitor. He had noticed the rug that was stretched out to one side. Now he saw it for what it really was. A Muslim prayer rug. It faced a blank wall. Smith didn't have to reflect long to understand it also faced Mecca.
The screen saver was still cycling. Smith looked closer, his gray eyes squinting. He pulled up the chair and sat down.
Face stiff, Smith watched the cycle again. This time he saw the flag atop the long, low building before it was destroyed. It was an American flag.
"The Marine barracks in Lebanon," Smith said in a low, stunned voice. "This is a reenactment of the truck bombing of the U.S. Marine barracks in Lebanon."
The stunned expression on Harold Smith's ashen face lasted less than a minute. When he stood up, it was stone.
Powering down the system, Smith unplugged it. Setting the useless monitor and keyboard off to one side, he gathered up the beige plastic case containing the hard drive itself and tucked it under one arm.
Lugging it and his ever-present briefcase to the door, Smith had to call ahead.
"Please open the door. My hands are full."
The door obligingly opened. Then the landlord saw the system under Smith's arm.
He said, "Wait a minute! Can you just take that?"
"I am taking it."
"Legally, I mean."
"It is material evidence in the commission of an act of terror against sovereign United States soil," Smith said harshly.
That impressed the landlord, who staggered back and lost facial color. "What happens if Al comes back?" he asked.
"He will never come back."
"Didn't one of the nuts who blew up the World Trade Center come back for the damn deposit on his Ryder truck?" the landlord puffed, following Smith down the gloomy staircase.