Part 3 (2/2)
”I see it but I still can't believe it,” the Captain said. ”I don't see how one man, acting alone, can. . .”
”I don't either, but he does it,” Persicone insisted.
”The medics have already tabulated fifteen dead.
G.o.d knows how high the count will go when we start through the rubble.”
”That's typical too,” the agent said, sighing.
Another plain-clothes officer stepped into the group and whispered something in Thomkins' ear. The Captain nodded and said, ”I sure do. Send him over.”
The cop hurried away.
Persicone asked, ”What was that?”
”We had a stake-out here,” Thomkins replied, the red of his face seeming to deepen. ”We're getting the guy in here now to get his story.”
One of the men in the group snickered and commented, ”Some stake-out.”
”We're on EPA here,” the Captain growled. He was referring to the ”Extreme Precaution Apprehension” routine. ”Let's hear what the man has to say.”
It was a high-echelon group attending this aftermath of a ma.s.sive Executioner strike. Persicone was chief of a special federal strike force which had been turned onto the chase for Mack Bolan. Also present were too high-rankers from the state's criminal division, plus one of the top men of PhiladelphiaCounty. Others, many others, were busily setting up control-room operations downtown in an effort to contain Bolan's Philadelphia plans as much as possible. They had been racing the clock in an attempt to move ponderous machinery into place ahead of the approaching night. Obviously they had lost the race. Bolan was already loose and blitzing. In a city the size of Philadelphia, with all its normal problems, it was not easy to react quickly to a situation such as this one.
Thomkins' face seemed to be dwelling upon thoughts similar to this as the group of officials waited in restrained silence and watched the approach of a young plain-clothes officer.
The newcomer seemed nervous, somewhat apprehensive, as he introduced himself as ”Detective Strauss”. He extended a small leather notebook to Captain Thomkins and told him, ”That's the story, sir. Second by second, blow by blow.”
The Captain grunted and riffled the pages of the notebook without looking at it. He went right to the point, asking, ”Where were you, Strauss?”
The detective pointed toward the southeast corner of the property. ”Right around the corner, on Parklane. I even saw the guy go over the wall, Cap'n. I can't be sure of this, I mean I'm not dead positive but-well, I believe the guy was around here all afternoon. I think I even talked to him. He came over and got a light from me, small-talked for a minute or two.”
Thomkins shot a quick glance at the FBI agent. Persicone grimaced and nodded his head in an affirmative reply to the mute question.
”All right, tell us about that,” the Captain said to Strauss.
The young officer was losing his nervousness. He fixed the Captain with a steady gaze and told him, ”He was driving a phone company truck, or at least I took it for one. And he was outfitted like a lineman. Climbing poles and stringing wire all around here, all afternoon. About, uh, five o'clock he was working the pole just down from me. Came over and asked for a light. Said something about not carrying enough matches for overtime. Asked me how much longer I'd have to hang around the neighborhood. I asked him what he meant-I was just waiting for a friend. He laughed, said okay, I could stick with that story if I wanted to. Asked me if the big joint back there was still a wh.o.r.ehouse. I said how the h.e.l.l would I know. He laughed again and went back to work. I didn't start to connect the guy until-”
”Just a minute,” Thomkins interrupted. ”You're saying the guy tumbled that you were a police officer on stake-out? Is that-?”
”Yes sir, he knew. We get that all the time, you know. Everyone seems to delight in fingering the fuzz.”
One of the officials commented, ”You're on the Bolan detail, right? You were here specifically to spot any smell of the guy in this neighborhood, around this known mob hangout. I presume you've been briefed on Bolan's tricks, his M.O. You've seen the artists' sketches, I'm sure, And yet you. . ?”
Strauss colored, but stuck his chin a bit higher in the reply. ”I called in and asked for a phone company verification when I first noticed this lineman. I got a confirmation that work was scheduled for this area but that's all I could get. Somebody at headquarters was supposed to be checking it out but I never heard any more about it. Meanwhile, the guy was going about his business like he knew what he was doing. I had no reason to suspect that he-”
”All right, Strauss,” Thomkins put in. ”This isn't a civil service hearing. No one's accusing you of dereliction. What else do you have to tell us? You said you saw him going over the wall?”
”Yes sir. I'm pretty sure it was him, I mean the same guy, the lineman. The place where he went over was a bad angle for me, though. I mean, it was just a flash glimpse, but I'm sure he came out of that phone company truck-and then, flash, he's going over the wall and out of sight. He'd been wearing this jumpsuit, you know, coveralls-like some linemen wear-the tool kit, spikes, all that. But he's. .h.i.tting that wall now rigged up for war, I mean heavy combat. But it was a bad angle, and I guess I sat there for a couple of seconds wondering if I'd actually seen what I thought I'd seen. You know how those things go. You're sitting there for hours, looking for something-then when you see it, you wonder if your eyes are leaping at ghosts. Well . . . then I called in the contact report and dispatch ordered me to stay with the car. And I did, until the shooting started. I reported that also, then went out to see what I could see. All h.e.l.l was breaking loose by then. I mean explosions, fire, the whole bit.”
Thomkins was glaring at something in the detective's notebook. ”You sure these times are right?” he asked in a m.u.f.fled voice.
”Yes sir. I paid particular attention to that. You can check it out with dispatch. Those are the exact times-”
”You're saying two minutes or less,” Thompkins said in that same m.u.f.fled tone. ”You're saying the guy raised all this h.e.l.l in just two minutes?”
”Ninety seconds, sir,” Strauss reported, tightlipped. ”Exactly. He was ninety seconds inside those walls, that's all.”
”That's all,” the Captain echoed.
”Yes sir. I was running along the road just outside the wall, trying to get in close enough to read the license on that panel truck. The guy came back over the wall before I could get halfway there; then all those smaller buildings went to h.e.l.l. When the smoke cleared, the guy was gone. Some of those inside left at about that time also. I saw two big limousines streaking out the back way.”
Persicone muttered, ”And the Don got away.” ”Sir?”
Thomkins was working at another angle of thought. He snapped, ”Then how did we . . . ?” He stabbed a finger at an aide and barked, ”Time of response!”
”Five forty-two,” the man replied, without referring to notes. ”Fire department also responded at that same time. Citizen's report, gunshots and fire at the corner of-”
The Captain's eyes were all but rolling in their sockets as he cut into the report with a snarl at Persicone: ”Four minutes before Strauss called in his contact, before the show even started. So who the h.e.l.l called, Joe? Don't tell me . .. don't.”
The FBI man was studying his watch. With a half-smile playing at his mouth, he murmured, ”What'd it take us to get out here? . About five minutes?”
”About that!” Thomkins snapped.
”Probably called it in from a pole,” Persicone decided, openly grinning now. ”I'd say he timed it pretty close-closer than I'd care to try. He calls the cops and the firemen, romps in, knocks the joint over, slides out-and he's got half of official Philadelphia protecting his withdrawal. Pretty cute, eh?”
”h.e.l.l, I can't buy that,” the Captain growled.
”You will,” the FBI man a.s.sured him. ”Right now, I believe we'd better start worrying about his next punch. It will be coming, and soon. We'd better start figuring where.”
”No worry there,” Thomkins snarled. ”All we have to do is sit back and wait for his next call!”
The FBI agent s.h.i.+fted his gaze to the young detective, Strauss. He showed him a sympathetic smile and asked him, ”Could you give us an accurate reading of that lineman's face? Could you describe it in pretty fair detail to a police artist?”
The embarra.s.sed officer dropped his eyes from that knowing gaze and replied, ”I guess not, sir. To tell the truth, I never got a really clear look at that face, sir.”
Persicone nodded understandingly and told Captain Thomkins, ”You can see the size of our problem, Wayne. We're not simply going against another wanted man, or some kind of nut. We're up against a genius, a real pro, a guy who knows every trick in the combat book, an infiltration specialist, a method actor and-”
”And a blitz artist,” Thomkins interrupted, sighing. ”A brazen b.a.s.t.a.r.d, at that. He knew we had the place under surveillance. He drops in on our cop and lets him know he knows. Then he just waltzes over and. .. Okay. Okay, Joe. I'm buying the guy. Where do I make my down payment?”
”Let's go ask Don Stefano about that,” Persicone suggested. He smiled, a droll flick of lips and eyes, and added, ”If there's still time.”
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