The Zero Hour

“An enlargement of a video image taken from a moving car in Johannesburg-a group of BOSS officers exiting a restaurant.”

“This came over the high-res fax?” Sarah asked, plainly crestfallen. “This is it?”

“It’s all they had, and since it comes from a single video frame-”

“Is this supposed to be a face? It looks more like a smudged thumbprint!” It was totally useless.

Vigiani took a drag from her cigarette, narrowed her eyes in silence.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” Sarah said. “Nice try anyway, but this isn’t going to do us any good.”

When the group had assembled for the morning meeting, Sarah announced: “A few hundred copies of a South African computer Identi-Kit drawing of our good Prince are available up front, along with a spec sheet. Flash them around, or leave a copy if you think there’s a chance he might come into an establishment. We’ve got to check as many hotels as we can, which means we’ll have to call in some reinforcements from the PD and the Bureau. Remember, we’re looking for a fugitive implicated in a murder. That’s the public line.”

“That’s what he is,” mumbled one of the cops.

“Do you know how many hotels there are in the city?” asked another one of the cops, a tall, thin, sandy-haired fellow named Ranahan.

“No,” said Roth, holding a commuter’s mug of coffee. He turned around to stare directly at him. “Exactly how many hotels are there in the city? I’d be interested to learn the number.”

Ranahan coughed nervously. “How the hell do I know? A shitload.”

Roth nodded meaningfully. “‘A shitload.’ I see. Is that privileged information, or can I leak that to the press?”

“Baumann is known to travel first-class,” Sarah interrupted, “and to prefer first-class accommodations, so we should make sure to check all the top hotels, but also the bottom rung, the flophouses and boardinghouses. Those are the best places to ensure anonymity, better than the middle-level ones.”

“I’ll do the Plaza and the Carlyle,” Ranahan volunteered. “George, there’s a bunch of crack hotels in Harlem got your name on them.”

“Keep the search to Manhattan proper,” Sarah instructed. “White male, forties. Blue eyes, black hair, medium build, no known identifying marks. Bearded, but may be clean-shaven or have a mustache. Probably has a South African accent.”

“What the hell does that sound like?” asked Special Agent Walter Latimer from the New York office.

“No one knows what a South African accent sounds like,” said Ullman. “They might think it’s an English accent, or Australian or Dutch or even German.”

“Right,” Sarah said. “Now, let’s bear in mind that he can’t exist in a vacuum, in isolation. What does he have to do in order to live in the city and make his preparations?”

“Does he have any known accomplices?” asked Vigiani. “Any major act requires some assistants or contacts. He’s not going to just fly in, plant a bomb, and fly out. It doesn’t work that way.”

“He may want to open a bank account,” Vigiani’s police partner said. “Or rent a car or a truck or a van.”

“Like maybe from Ryder Truck Rental in Jersey City,” suggested Lieutenant Roth, a reference to the place where the Trade Center conspirators rented their van.

“He’s a stranger in a strange land,” Sarah said. “That’s why he may call upon old contacts, friends or accomplices or contacts from the South African service or from past jobs. Chris, I’d like you to stay here and work the phones and the fax, see what you can turn up from friendly intelligence services in the way of known contacts. You didn’t turn up anything on the domestic right-wing extremist groups, did you?”

Vigiani shook her head slowly.

“Didn’t think so. Ken, what about the video frame Christine got from Mossad-any luck there?”

“I’ve been trying a bunch of times to enhance the photo using some not-bad photo-enhancement software. Some our own, some commercial ‘paintbrush’ stuff, but it’s hopeless. There’s no face there. I don’t think the Mossad guys even had a lens on their camera.”

“Thanks for trying,” Sarah said. “Have you turned up any of our man’s known relatives, associates, contacts, whatever?”

“Zero,” Ken replied.

“Great,” said one of the cops mordantly. “The guy has no friends.”

“Yeah, well, if your name was the Prince of Darkness,” said Roth, “you wouldn’t exactly be popular either. ‘Hey, hon, I’ve invited the Prince of Darkness over for dinner tonight. There enough lasagna to go around?’”

Sarah smiled politely, and a few cops chuckled appreciatively.