"Don't forget the anchovies," the guard called.
Two blocks away, Anselmo parked alongside a telephone booth and called the Muswassers' number. "Yes?" Gloria said.
"They're at the lab," Anselmo said.
"Good. We're all ready."
"Just give us time to get out of town," Anselmo said. Gloria Muswasser crawed through the manicured greenery of the IHAEO laboratory complex. She was wearing Earth shoes and a filthy green combat uniform which she had treasured ever since she rolled a Vietnam vet for it in 1972.
Her husband trailed along behind her, emitting little squeaks of pain as bits of rock and twigs scratched his flaccid abdomen.
"Why did I have to come along anyway?" Nathan whined. "You're carrying the whole thing by yourself. You didn't need me."
"No, I didn't," Gloria snapped in agreement. "But I figured if we got caught, I wouldn't have to go to jail alone."
He grabbed her ankle. "Is there a chance of getting caught?"
"None at all, if you keep quiet," she said.
"I don't want to go to jail," Nathan said.
"We won't. I promise you. Before I let the establishment pigs take you, Nathan, I'll gun you down myself."
Nathan gulped.
"It'll make all the papers. You'll be a martyr to the cause. "
"That's . . . that's groovy, Gloria."
"Don't say 'groovy.' It's out-of-date. Say 'awesome.' "
"Okay. It's awesome, Gloria."
"Totally," she agreed. "Also incredible."
"Yeah. That too," Nathan said.
"How about here?" she said. She pointed to a spot of turf near a mulberry bush.
"Totally incredible, Gloria."
"Good. We'll plant the damn thing right here."
"Like a flower," Nathan said. "We'll plant it like a flower. Remember flowers? You used to be real into flowers."
"Screw flowers. Flowers never got us anywhere. Violence is where were coming from now. Nobody ever gave up shit because of flowers."
"Yeah. Up flowers. Violence is where it's at."
"Don't say 'where it's at,' Nathan. It's out-of-date. Say 'bottom line.' "
"Bottom line?"
"Violence is the bottom line," Gloria said, as she turned the time for 120 minutes. "She's going to go, baby."
"Should we watch?"
"Of course not, asshole. We'd be blown up. We'll call the television stations. They'll watch."
"They'll be blown up too," Nathan said.
"Serves them right," she said. "And that's the bottom line."
"Groovy," Nathan said.
Gloria slapped him behind the ear as they crawled away through the dark.
Forty-five minutes later, a television crew showed up at the IHAEO ground and found a large hole cut in the wire safety fence, exactly where the anonymous telephone callers had said it would be.
"This better be good," the head cameraman for WIMP said.
His assistant looked toward the white lab buildings looming in the background behind the fence.
"What are we waiting for?" he asked.
"What else? For Rance Renfrew, hard-hitting television newsman, the man who tells it like it is, your man from WIMP."
Both cameramen chuckled at the imitation of the station's commercial.
"Does he know what it is?" the assistant cameraman said.
"Nope."
"I can't wait to see the look in his eyes."
"Me neither."
They waited a half-hour before a black limousine pulled up in front of them and a young man so brimful of good health that even his hair looked suntanned stepped out of the back. He was wearing a tuxedo and he growled at the two cameramen. "This better be important. I was at a big dinner."
"It is," the head cameraman said, winking toward his assistant. "Some group is planning a big protest here tonight."
"Protest? You got me away from a dinner for a protest? What kind of protest?"
"Something to save animals," the cameraman said. "And protest American genocide."
"Well, that sounds better," Ranee Renfrew said. "We could get something good here." He rehearsed his voice like a musician tuning an instrument. "This is Rance Renfrew on the scene where a group of enraged Americans tonight attacked their government's genocidal policies toward . . ." He looked at the cameramen: "You said animals?"
"Right, animals."
"Their government's genocidal policies toward animals. Could this be the beginning of a movement that will topple down corrupt American governments forever? Not bad. That might work. When's the demonstration supposed to be anyway?"
"About another forty-five minutes or so," the cameraman said.
"Well, we'll be ready. We'll get filmed and say we left a private party to come here to bring our viewers the truth. What are they going to do anyway?"
"Set off an atomic bomb, they said."
The suntan vanished and Rance Renfrew's skin turned pale. "Here?" he said.
"That's what they said."
"Listen, fellas. I think I've got to get some more equipment. You wait here and film anything that happens and I'll be back."
"What kind of equipment do you need?"
"I think I need a muffle on this mike. It's been making my voice too harsh."
"I've got one in the gadget bag," the cameraman said.
"And I need a blue shirt. This white glares too much."
"I've got one of those too."
"And new shoes. I need a different pair of shoes if I'm going to be traipsing around. These are too tight. I'll go get them. You wait for me and film whatever happens."
"Okay. How long will you be?"
"I don't know. My best shoes are at my weekend apartment."
"Where's that?"
"In Miami. But I'll try to get back as soon as I can." Renfrew jumped into the limousine and speeded away. Behind him, the two cameramen broke into guffaws and finally the assistant said, "Hey, shouldn't we be a little worried too? I mean, they said an atomic bomb."
"Come on. These assholes couldn't blow up a firecracker on the Fourth of July," the head cameraman said.
"I guess you're right. Should we warn anybody inside the complex? You know, bomb scare or whatever?"
"No, let them sleep. Nothing's going to happen except maybe some noisy pickets."
"Then what the hell are we here for?" the assistant asked.
"For time and a half after eight hours. What did you think?"
"Got it."
Inside Remo's room, the telephone rang, and without thinking, Dara Worthington reached out a satisfied limp hand toward the receiver.
"Oops," she caught herself. "Maybe I shouldn't."
"You'd better not," Remo said. "It's for me."
"How do you know?"
"There's somebody who always calls me when I'm having a good time. He's got an antenna for it. I think he's afraid I might OD on happiness so he's saving me from a terrible fate." He held the phone to his ear. "Your dime," he said.
"Remo," Smith's lemony tones echoed. "It's-"
"Yeah, yeah, Aunt Mildred," said Remo, using one of the code names with which Smith signed messages.
"This is serious. Are you alone?"
"Enough," Remo said vaguely.
"There's been a serious robbery," Smith said.
"I'm already on a case," Remo said.
"It may be the same case," Smith said. "This was a robbery from a nuclear installation. The missing object is a micronic component fission-pack and a detonator."
"Does anybody who speaks English know what was stolen?" Remo asked.
"That means a small portable nuclear weapon and the means to set it off."
"Well, what can I do about it?"
"The thieves weren't seen so we don't know anything about them," Smith said. "But I've just gotten word that some press organizations received threats tonight aimed against the IHAEO lab."
"Aha. The plot thickens," Remo said. "What does it all boil down to?"
"If it explodes, the bomb could destroy all animal and plant life for twenty square miles," Smith said. "Not to mention the catastrophic effect on the environment."