"No, he described an assailant dressed in a USPS uniform. There's a big difference. Anyone can steal a uniform."
"What about the Manhattan explosions, then? The American people want to know if their mailboxes are safe."
"We are investigating the possible theft of master keys by non-postal-employees."
"In other words, you're saying your people aren't responsible."
"I have no hard evidence to support that theory at this hour, Mr. President."
"I'm going to be getting back to you on this," the President growled.
"Feel free," the postmaster general said. "We appreciate your business."
The line went dead.
"'We appreciate your business'?" said the President, staring at the receiver. "Who the hell does that guy think he is?"
As Air Force One screamed toward Andrews Air Base, the President slowly replaced the receiver. He was thinking of another telephone receiver. A red one.
With the FBI and ATF struggling over turf and the postmaster general stonewalling, the President planned to cut the bureaucratic red tape the same way his predecessors had for the past three decades.
If this wasn't a CURE matter, he didn't know what was.
He just hoped that damn Smith agreed. The President who had created the organization had included a fail-safe in its unwritten charter. The President could suggest missions, not order them. It would be up to Smith to make the decisions, a situation for which this President was grateful. He hated making decisions. There were always consequences.
"Coffee or tea?" asked a voice through the door.
"Surprise me," said the President.
Chapter 15
Harold Smith knew the President was upset from the instant he heard his raspy voice.
"Smith, this is your President speaking."
It wasn't the hoarseness of the President's voice. This President was naturally hoarse. It wasn't the breathlessness indicative of his sudden return to the executive mansion, and the dash he'd made up to the Lincoln Bedroom and his end of the dedicated CURE line.
It was the utter silence in the background. Almost every time Smith had spoken to the President in the past, Elvis music had played in the background. Smith couldn't actually tell-he assumed it was Elvis. All popular music recorded since World War II sounded pretty much alike to Harold Smith, who'd stopped listening to popular music around the time swing gave way to post-war bebop.
This time there was none of that. This more than anything told Smith that the President understood the gravity of the situation.
"I am listening, Mr. President."
"You've heard about the mailbox bombings in New York?"
"Yes, and the court shooting in Oklahoma."
"I think this may be only the beginning."
"You are correct. It is only the beginning."
"That's not exactly what I wanted to hear," said the President, suddenly realizing that being right in this case was not as useful as being wrong.
"That is not a guess on my part," Smith continued. "Someone just demolished the General Post Office in midtown Manhattan."
"How serious is that? We're just talking about a mail-processing center, right?"
"One that occupies an entire city block in the heart of Manhattan and greatly resembles the U.S. Treasury in size and design."
The President could be heard swallowing hard. At least, a distinct gulp came over the dedicated line. "My God, it's as if postmen everywhere have gone crazy."
"The correct term is 'decompensated.'"
"So you agree with me?"
"No, I do not. This is not a case of a handful of postal employees experiencing a psychotic break or suffering from episodic explosive disorder."
"Why not? It happens all the time. I remember reading about a New Jersey postal worker who up and killed his co-workers just so he could steal enough money to pay his back rent."
"This is true. But psychotics do not operate in concert. They are loners. Antisocials. You would have a better chance of organizing squirrels to program network television."
"I think it's been tried," the President said distractedly. "Look, I just spoke with the postmaster general, and he's stonewalling me. You don't think this is orchestrated, do you?"
"I am afraid that it is."
"By whom?"
"Mr. President, if you are not sitting down, I must ask you to do so."
"Go ahead, Smith."
"A Muslim fundamentalist terror group has infiltrated the postal service with the intention of waging a war of urban terror against the nation."
"Infiltrated? What do you mean, infiltrated?"
"I mean," returned Harold Smith in a bitter, lemony tone, "that virtually any letter carrier, postal worker or USPS truck driver might be a secret terrorist intent upon wholesale destruction."
"My God. How many of them are there?"
"I have developed information that suggests over thirty terrorists are in this cell. But there may be other jihad cells. We do not know."
"Thirty? Even thirty can do a lot of damage."
"I assume the carnage of today is the work of one or two, or at most three terror agents. Thirty terrorists could do incalculable damage."
"Do you-do you think this is meant to embarrass me just before the election?"
"I doubt that, Mr. President. This is clearly a first strike. The cell has demonstrated its power. Assuming there are no more incidents today, we must await a communique of their demands or intentions."
"How can we counteract them?"
"Short of shutting down the mail system, I do not know."
"Can I do that as President?"
"That is between you and the postmaster general."
"Is that what you're recommending here? Shut down the mail until we get a handle on how deep the postal service has been compromised?"
"Events may or may not force you to that decision, Mr. President, but for now I have my people on it."
"What are they going to do?"
"They are on the trail of the Oklahoma City terrorist."
The President's voice was startled. "You know who he is? Already?"
"Yes. He goes by the name of Yusef Gamal, alias Joe Camel."
"Did you say Joe Camel?"
"I did," said Harold Smith.
The President's voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial tone. "You don't suppose the big tobacco companies are behind this, do you?"
"Muslim fanatics, Mr. President."
"Because if there's any chance-any chance at all-that the tobacco companies have funded these people, it would be a useful campaign issue."
"I would not advance in public any theories that might backfire," Harold Smith said thinly.
"I don't know which is worse," the President lamented, "Muslim fanatics, tobacco companies or disgruntled postal workers."
"Muslim terrorists in the guise of disgruntled postal workers."
"Why are they disgruntled? Were they ever gruntled? Is that even a word?"
"I will be back to you, Mr. President," said Smith, thinking it had been a long four years of service at the pleasure of this particular President. Another four was not something to look forward to.
HAROLD SMITH HAD RETURNED to his terminal and its silent, keyless keyboard.
The global search for Yusef Gamal, a.k.a. Joseph Camel, turned up the fact that he was a naturalized citizen of the United States and had been with the postal service less than two years. There were no indications of credit-card purchases of airline reservations or transportation in the recent past that would indicate a premeditated escape route. Smith had hoped for such an audit trail.
Working quickly, he input some of the other cover names-Ibrahim Lincoln, Yassir Nossair and others. It was too much to hope something would turn up, but Joe Camel had panned out despite all logic to the contrary.
While he waited for results, Smith logged on to the FBI central data base in New York City, hopping from desk terminal to desk terminal, seeking activity related to the day's events.