Police helicopters throbbed through the haze of cordite hanging over midtown. It stung the nostrils. Sirens came and went, not rushed, just nervous. When the wind was right, it brought the unmistakable tang of fresh blood.
Smith mounted the granite steps of the General Post Office two at a time, despite his arthritic knee. Time was of the essence.
His gaze skated across the carved postal-service motto, and an unaccustomed chill took hold of his spine.
The secretary to the postmaster of New York began, "Mr. Finkelpearl is unavailable," but Smith flashed his postal-inspector ID card.
"One moment."
Smith waited standing. In a moment, he was ushered in.
The postmaster of New York wore a sheen of sweat under his receding hairline. He had an open but worried face. It was about as worried as only the face of a man under the gun could be.
"Reilly?" he asked Smith.
"Smith," Smith returned.
"What happened to Reilly?"
"Delayed."
Postmaster Finkelpearl looked at his wristwatch. "He's due any minute."
"Then let's get started. I require the names and home addresses of all USPS personnel who had keys to the relay boxes in question."
"We've already narrowed it down to one man. The relay driver. Al Ladeen."
"Address?"
"Seventy-five Jane Street, in the Village."
"Has Ladeen shown any signs of psychotic behavior?"
"No. His supervisor tells me he's a perfectly rational man. Passed all the mandatory Dale Carnegie and stress-management courses. He was very excited to get a relay route last month. For some reason, he didn't like working indoors. We can't understand it."
"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!"