Soft Targets

hands on Arif.

This latter sorrow was genuine enough; after tailing Hakim from the bank in hopes of follow­ing him home, JDL men were contrite at their failure. They were even sorrier for young Sammy Greenspan, the original driver of the Camaro. Sammy had died instantly in Arif's ambush. The one bright spot was in the speed with which they managed, in one gruesome practical joke, to get Sammy's body away and to replace it with the cold remains of Moh'med Ahboudi. Now, if the NYPD was willing to take its simplest course, Algerian terrorists and the Iraqi terrorist would find a reason to loathe each other. It was richly Cohanesque. Sammy Greenspan would have loved it.

* * *

Chaim and Talith failed to hide their relief at the sight of the money, stacks of twenties and fifties, which Hakim revealed in due time. Dur­ing supper their eyes kept wandering to the cash until Hakim wordlessly arose and dumped it all back into the briefcase. 'Now we will have sweet coffee,' he sighed, Talith rising to obey, 'and contemplate sweeter revenges. Even today I struck a small blow; the late news may bear fruit.' He was gratified to see curiosity in their silent responses.

Hakim did not expect to occupy the ABC lead story, but grew restive as national, then local news passed. Had his escape gone unnoticed, then? It had not, for, 'There was an evident postscript, today, to the blundering attempt on the Statue of Liberty,' said the anchorlady. 'If anyone can make sense of it, perhaps Richard can. Richard?'

Her co-anchor gazed out at millions, his backdrop logo a leering idiot that was becoming familiar on several channels. The newsman dropped a piece of typescript as if it were defiled and related little more, factually, than the locale and the killing of Hakim's pursuer. He went on: 'What places this below the usual level of crime in the Big Apple, according to one source, is that the gunman's description matches that of a Fat'ah charlie; and his victim was an Algerian Daoudist, from another terrorist group.'

Mugging a faint blend of confusion and in­souciance into the camera, he continued: 'The best current guess is that the victim was trying to make friendly contact, and the gunman mistook him for someone who knew too much.' A frosty smile. 'Or perhaps that's a charlie's way of hail­ing a taxi.'

Injected by his co-anchor lady: 'About the little girl he grazed at point-blank range?'

'Maybe he thought she knew too much, too. And compared to these charlies, maybe she does. She's almost five years old.'

Hakim employed vast restraint and continued his televiewing. At his side, Talith said, 'But you told us—' until Hakim's hand sliced the air for silence.

The weather news endorsed the frigid gusts that scrabbled at the windows, and Hakim's mood was like the wind. He could not have missed the urchin—and his daring coup was against domestic security forces, he was certain.

Well, almost certain. Was it even remotely possible that the coxcomb Daoudists had intended—? On the other hand, government sources could have deliberately lied to the newsmen, with a release designed to confuse Fat'ah.

Talith ghosted to the kitchenette to prepare fresh sweet coffee which Hakim craved, and subsequently ignored, as he lounged before blank television screens. The art of disinformation was but recently borrowed by the Ameri­cans from the Middle East, but the west was learning. But if they know I know that Daoudists could not know where I am, his thought began, and balked with, where am I ?

He released a high-pitched giggle and the girl dropped her cup. Hakim angrily erased the ric­tus from his face and pursued another notion. Daoudists could be behind this, seeking to share the media coverage in its bungling fashion. He, Fat'ah, would need to arrange more talks with his television friends.

Not exactly friends, he amended, so much as co-opportunists who could always be relied upon to give accurate and detailed coverage if it were available. Except in wartime, whispered a wisp from a forgotten text. It was unthinkable that American television networks could perceive themselves to be at war with Fat'ah.

Unthinkable, therefore Hakim thought about it.

The same grinning salacious fool was becom­ing the prominent image behind every news item on terrorism. On competing networks! He thought about it some more. While Fat'ah planned the attack that was to cost Rashid his life, Ukranian dissenters had made news by murdering three enemies in the Soviet Secre­tariat. A scrap of dialogoue haunted Hakim from a subsequent skit on the Charlie George Show.

INT. SQUALID BASEMENT NIGHT

CHARLIE wears a Rasputin cloak and villainous mustache, leaning over a rickety table lit by a bent candle.

He scowls at CRETINOV, who cleans a blunderbuss with a sagging barrel.

TWO-SHOT CHARLIE AND CRETINOV

CHARLIE Comrade leader, I say we must kidnap everyone who calls us fools!

CRETINOV (bored) Nyet; where would we keep five billion people?

This established the general tenor of a five-minute lampoon, redolent of fools and of impo­tence, on terrorism against the Kremlin. The Ukrainians had enjoyed the sympathy of the United States Government. Perhaps they still did, but obviously American television moguls thought along different lines.

When had Hakim last heard a sympathetic rendering of the justice, the demands, the motivations, of a terrorist group? For that matter, he persisted, any factual rendering at all? A harrowing suspicion fostered a pattern that coalesced in Hakim's mind as he absently reached for his coffee. Every datum he applied seemed to fit the undeclared war that he should have expected from this medium, sooner or later. A medium upon which Fat'ah was all too dependent: newspapers brought details, but TV brought showers of cash from Fat'ah well-wishers. Had the Americans at last conspired to rob him of his forum, his voice, his cash?

Hakim retrieved his mental images of smoke and media, this time imagining a greasy black roil erupting from a picture tube. It should be simple enough to test this suspicion. If the sus­picion proved to be accurate, Hakim vowed, he would bring war to this monster medium.

He sipped the tepid coffee, then realized that he had forbidden it to himself. Rage flung the cup for him, shattering it against a television set that squatted unharmed. The girl's gasp paced Guerrero's reaction, a sidelong roll from his chair from which the latino emerged crouching, his Browning sidearm drawn. Guerrero was not particularly quick, but his hand was steady. In the soundless staring match with the latino, Hakim told himself, he dropped his own eyes first to atone for his rashness.

Hakim stood erect and exhaled deeply from his nose. 'We need rest,' he said.

'Yes, you do,' Guerrero agreed, tucking the automatic away.

Hakim did not pause in his march to the far bedroom. Talith knew that he would not ask her to follow, knew with equal certainty that he ex­pected her to do so within minutes. She col­lected the debris that lay before the television set, unaware of its symbolic content, then stood before Guerrero, who was slicing excerpts from newspapers.

He glanced up. 'I will take sentry duty until four A.M.,' he said.

'That is not my topic,' she replied quietly, too quietly to be heard down the hallway. 'You came very near disrespect, a moment ago.^'

'I meant no disrespect.' Guerrero seemed to think the matter was closed.

She chose her words carefully: 'You left room for an inference that Hakim's stamina is less than your own.'

Guerrero frowned; it was something she rarely saw. 'He had a brush with disaster; anyone would be exhausted,' he explained, watching carefully to assess her response. 'Under the circumstances—'

'Under any circumstances, Hakim is your superior. In every way. Believe what you like, Bernal, but pay service to that idea in his pres­ence. Always.'

From a camp chair near the window, Chaim: 'More than with your training instructors in El-Hamma, Guerrero. I know him: before he would accept your insolence, he would accept your resignation.' Chaim Mardor flicked the safety back and forth on the weapon across his knees. Guerrero heard, not taking his gaze from Talith. He nodded. It was unnecessary to state that no one resigned from Fat'ah while he was still breathing.

'I must go. I want to go,' she corrected herself quickly, and disappeared into the gloom. Guer­rero stared after her, then began to detach another clipping for Hakim. He was smiling.

Hakim lay in his bed awaiting the girl. He had read the latino's implied criticism, but would absorb it for now. He could not afford to waste Guerrero. Yet.