Chapter 10
Al Ladeen cruised the streets of the capital of idolatry, New York, blending with the flow of traffic. Here, mixing with the other vehicles emblazoned with the fierce eagle of the United States Postal Service as they jockeyed to outperform their hated foes-the Federal Express, the UPS, Roadway, DHL, and others-he was all but invisible to searching police eyes.
The coils of black smoke that he had authored with his well-placed bombs were graying now. Soon they would be but sweet, acrid memories. The tumult that was to go down in the history of the world as the last works of the brave martyr, Allah Ladeen, was subsiding.
It was sad. But at least the dead were still dead. They would never stop being dead.
And now it was time to make more dead.
As he turned onto Fifth Avenue, and the tall gray teeth of the General Post Office came into view, Al Ladeen drew in his last breath of victory and wrapped about his lower face a green checkered kaffiyeh.
It was the appointed hour. Time for the last great blow Allah Ladeen was destined to strike in his life. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, he urged the white mail truck to hurry. It raced past the traffic-choked side streets, oblivious to the red lights, unheeding of the blaring cars and cursing pedestrians who scrambled from its careening path.
When he came abreast of the great granite temple from which he had left on his appointed rounds that morning, he flung the wheel to the left and with a glad cry of "Allah Akbari!" Allah Ladeen sent his blessed steed crashing into the immovable granite face.
And, Allah be blessed, the immovable granite moved!
But Allah Ladeen was ignorant of the miracle. He had already been catapulted into Paradise. Although, the truth be known, his body parts were scattered all over Fifth Avenue.
Chapter 11
The postal manager of Oklahoma City was in his office when the first sketchy word came in.
"There's trouble in the new federal building," the assistant manager gasped out.
"Jesus Christ!" Postal Manager Ivan Heydorn said, at first thinking the worst. "It's not a bomb. Tell me it isn't a bomb."
"It's a shooting," said the assistant manager. Manager Heydorn relaxed in his executive chair. "Of course. It can't be a bomb. We'd have heard a bomb, now, wouldn't we?"
"Someone walked into open court and opened fire with a machine gun."
"Terrible, just terrible," the manager said, visibly relieved. He had been sitting in this very seat when the old Murrah building had been blown to kingdom come. What a god-awful day that had been. His chair had tipped over on its casters, throwing him backward. He had come off the floor thinking an earthquake was shaking the building.
An earthquake would have been a blessing. An earthquake would have been an act of God. In the early hours after the terrible truth had come out-that the Murrah Federal Building had been demolished by a truck bomb-the talk had naturally turned to Muslim fundamentalists.
It took three days for the truth to begin trickling out. That Americans had done it. It was unbelievable. Staggering in its enormity. The real enemy dwelled within the heartland of America.
"How many are hurt?" the manager asked his assistant, shaking off the dark, claustrophobic memories.
"No one knows. But they're calling it a massacre." Hearing this, the manager buried his face in his hands. It was unreal.
"How much pain can this poor town absorb?" he said shakily.
For an hour, the bulletins crackled over the office radio.
An unknown assailant. No one had seen him. Or if they had, they hadn't noticed anything unusual about him. He had mingled with the returning lunch crowd and shot up the courtroom and everyone in it. It was senseless. Brutal, senseless carnage.
By three in the afternoon, they were reporting a survivor. Someone had seen something. The FBI was being tight-lipped about it and had imposed a media blackout. The FBI had come in because a federal building had been targeted. Everyone assumed it was a deranged claimant shooting up a court that had done him wrong.
No one in his right mind would attack the new federal building in Oklahoma City.
At exactly 3:15, the desk intercom buzzed, and his assistant manager's voice said, "FBI Agent Odom to see you, sir."
"Send him right in," the manager said, snapping off his office radio.
The man was as big as a refrigerator and to-the-point. "Special Agent Odom."
"Have a seat."
"I'll just need a moment. This is about one of your carriers."
"My God. He wasn't caught in the shooting over there?"
"No, he wasn't."
"Is he the witness they're talking about?"
"No. We think he might be the perpetrator."
"Perp- You can't mean the killer!"
"A security guard lived long enough to say the man who walked into the courtroom and massacred all those poor people was wearing a postal-service uniform."
"That can't be. It just can't."
The agent flipped open a pocket notebook. "Description as follows. Five feet seven, dark eyes, curly brown hair, prominent nose."
"How prominent?"
"Very."
"Sounds like Camel."
The agent began writing. "'Camel' as in 'dromedary'?"
"Yes, yes. But this makes no sense to me." The FBI agent was unmoved.
"First name?"
"Joe."
"Joe Camel?"
"Yes."
"You have a letter carrier named Joe Camel working for you?"
"Well, I didn't name him. Oh, good Lord, it sounds phony, doesn't it?"
"How long has he been with you?"
"Less than a year."
"No sign of psychotic behavior before today?"
"He was perfectly normal."
"Except that his name was Joe Camel," The FBI agent said, grimacing.
"Look, I know how it sounds, but that was his name."
"Do you have a photograph of the subject, Camel?"
"No. But he shouldn't be hard to locate. Not with that nose of his."
"I'll need to see his personnel file."
"You have it, Agent Odom," said the postmaster of Oklahoma City, buzzing his assistant manager. "Sherry, pull Joseph Camel's file. And get the PG on the line."
Special Agent Odom cocked an eyebrow. "The PG?"
"The postmaster general. I have to report this"
"You might want to wait," Agent Odom said, flipping his notebook closed. "I think he has his hands full today."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you hear about the bombings in New York City this afternoon?"
"Bombings?"
"A string of relay boxes exploded all at once. They're looking for a postal relay driver. Guy named Ladeen. I think his first name was Al."
"Al Ladeen ... That sounds familiar somehow."
"I thought the same thing myself. Can't place it, though."
The assistant manager walked in at that point with a manila file folder and said, "The line to the PG is busy. Shall I keep trying?"
"Leave a message that I called. I understand the PG is having a very bad day."
THE POSTMASTER GENERAL of the United States was having fits. He kicked over the office wastepaper basket. He rammed his chair against a wall so hard it bounced back and took a bite out of his heavy desk, knocking over a desktop sign that said "Protect the Revenue."
It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and the urgent calls and faxes had been coming in since 1:00 p.m. First it was the postmaster of New York.
"We have a serious problem up here, sir."
"I'm listening, New York."
"Er, it appears that one of our relay boxes-"
"Out with it."
"-has exploded."
In the steady hum of his ostentatious office in the City Post Office adjoining Union Station in Washington, D.C., the postmaster general of the United States blinked rapidly.
"Exploded?"
"That's correct. The FBI has been here, demanding our cooperation."