“Preciselywhen?” Nikmaddu asked.
“The Jew is the guest artist in the second half of the evening. We now know he will be playing Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E Minor. The bomb will be set to go off sometime during the first movement.”
“When, precisely, during the first movement?”
“It is difficult to time the music precisely,” Akbar said. “The first movement is about twelve and a half minutes long, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“The performer, the conductor—artistic license. But it will rarely run much longer than that. In any event, the bomb will be set to go off at nine-thirty.”
“Atpreciselynine-thirty?”
“Precisely, yes. It will explode toward the end of the first movement, trust me.”
Nikmaddu was beginning to realize that although this man looked as if he belonged in a tent on the desert, he was perhaps more intelligent than any of the others.
“What do you mean by movement?” Jassim asked. The stupidest of the lot. And the one with the most responsibility. The one who would go in with the bomb. “What does movement mean?”
“The Mendelssohn concerto has three movements,” Akbar explained.
“But what is a movement?”
“It’s not important that you know,” Akbar said. “You will place the bomb and leave the hall. The rest is up to Allah.”
“Will Jassim have enough time to get back to his seat, leave the bomb, and make his departure?” Nikmaddu asked.
“A good point,” Mahmoud said. “Have you timed all this?”
“I have been to six concerts this season,” Akbar said. “And hated them all. I know exactly how long it takes to get from the street to the lobby, and from there back to the seat in row F. Without rushing, Jassim should be out of there before the bomb explodes.”
“At nine-thirty precisely,” Nikmaddu said, seeking confirmation yet another time.
“Yes, at nine-thirty precisely,” Akbar said. “A fitting climax to the first movement.”
The men laughed. All but Jassim, who found nothing humorous in any of this.
“What kind of bomb are you using?” Nikmaddu asked.
“A simple pipe bomb. Two of them actually. Taped together and packed with black powder, nails, and screws. Similar to the one in Atlanta four years ago.”
“And the timer?”
“A battery-powered clock.”
“How will he carry it in?” Nikmaddu asked.
“In a handbag,” Akbar said.
“I’ll be carrying ahandbag?” Jassim said.
“Aman’shandbag. Europeans carry them all the time. Besides, I’ve taken one into the hall on six different occasions now. There is no security check. Women go in with handbags, even shopping bags, men carry briefcases. They are very sure of themselves, these Americans.”
“That will all change tomorrow night,” Nikmaddu said.
“Yes, it will,” Akbar said.
“Inshallah,”Mahmoud said.
“Inshallah,”the others said in unison.
MAN SEEMED TO HAVE disappeared from the face of the earth.
First place Tigo tried was the crib on Decatur. Thomas—who on the night of the murder had been chatting with Mr. Jerry Hoskins, alias Frank Holt, while Tigo and Wiggy tested the dope in the other room—was watching television when Tigo waltzed in.
“Hey, man,” he said.
“Whut’choo watchin?” Tigo asked.
This was ten to eleven in the morning, man was sittin here watching television.
“I don’t even know,” Thomas said. “Suppin with Sylvester Stallone.”
Tigo watched the screen for a moment.
Sylvester Stallone was dangling from a rope.
“Where’s Wiggy?” he asked.
“You got me, man.”
“You seed him today?”
