‘You do?’ There was hope in the whisper, the vocal cords clutching for purchase, the psyche hunting for optimism.
‘Uh-huh. That’s right. Anything for a chuckle. I’m gonna play you on the Reverend, I’m gonna implicate him in your homicide. Victim of black supremacy. Kinda neat.’
Kinda hysteria. The academic was vibrating, shaking to pieces. ‘Please, Ted … Mr Bell … I could do a lot for you, anything.’
‘You have already.’ Bell felt in the blackness and lowered Pitt’s eyelids. Closure. ‘Know thine enemy.’
Know that a new dawn was come. The stephanotis smelled sweet.
* * *
They came as a rolling fury, a swarm that blew into Washington and swept along the avenues and sidewalks. Black wrath, black discipline, in action. From the Washington Monument, they spread out east and west along the Mall, their voices loud, their hands punching the air. A Million Clenched Fists. For two miles, green grass and grey asphalt gave way to a seething multitude, to an unstable tapestry shimmering in a hydroscopic summer haze. It had its own sound, of pride and passion, a threatening hiss swelling into a pulsing chant and undulating moan, carrying, strengthening. Like a twin cortege, buses from the Freedom Ride moved in slow parallel procession along the avenues encompassing the throng, each festooned with photo-placards depicting victims of the recent Selma –Montgomery atrocity. They had left the Peace Walk – peace itself – far behind, departing a dusty South mired in blood; they arrived at a battle camp. A tide washed about them, slowing progress, mourners hammering on the sides, screaming, venting grief. The beat was hostile, percussion growing. It was the mood Azania wished for, the theatre backdrop he himself had designed.
He stood on the platform set up below the giant obelisk. Another speech, another stage, each marking his choreographed steps to victory. There was no greater symbolism than this, no finer display of his ascendancy. Behind him, the Lincoln Memorial; before him in the distance, the gleaming white confection of the Capitol. He could bring such monuments crashing down, could reduce such institutions to dust. Reverend Al Azania, Rain Maker, Commander of the Tigers, Bringer of Bloodshed. In front was his army. At his side on the podium were the cream of America’s Afro-American community – those who had escaped being skimmed off in the massacre on Alabama’s Highway 80 – gathered to the cause, politburo pinpricks set against the 550-feet height of the memorial. They had to be there, had to be seen. Visibility was credibility, visibility was critical. They owed it to the martyrs, to their friends, owed it to the mobile roll of honour. Some of their closest compatriots were featured on the sides of those buses. There but for the grace of God, there but for fate and a cruel act of attrition. It was a reduced, thinned out hierarchy appearing with Reverend Azania. Slimmer odds, narrower target field.
‘What d’you think, Al – impressive, huh?’
What d’you think? Azania’s eyes slid to the side, framed a thrusting, high-profile wannabe from the affirmative action lobby. Dwight Appleby, a popular act, publicity chaser, potential rival. It was a shared cause rather than shared friendship. The man assumed they were brothers, presumed his backing. ‘I think nothing should be taken for granted,’ he replied.
‘Except people’s hurt, anger. Look at them. Inspires me, empowers us all.’
‘Tragedy can do that.’
‘Makes us stronger.’
‘Certainly does.’
‘Man, I feel so proud. Standing here …’ Appleby lifted his chin, mind tripping on a power surge. Azania felt happy for him. Nice to go out on a high. Few ever had the opportunity or stuck around long enough to appreciate it. His gaze travelled. Beside him, Appleby was shaking his head in awe. ‘It’s history unfolding, bro.’
‘And you’re right in the middle of it.’ The cross-hairs of revolution.
‘This’ll be on every television in America, the world.’ It plainly mattered to him.
‘I hope so.’
‘Gotta hand it to them. Those white bastards in Alabama have triggered something.’ It would not be their last attempt, Azania mused. ‘I survived Highway 80 for this.’
‘More than you could ever know.’
Appleby clapped him on the back. Solidarity. ‘Sure glad we’ve got our own security this time.’
‘Briefed them myself.’
A short laugh. ‘Best I stay close to you, then, Reverend.’
‘Real close. United front, staying together, is what it’s about.’ He placed a fraternal arm across his colleague’s shoulders, gestured to the rest to join him in applauding their audience. Internecine squabbles could be banished for a day, differences and egos put aside, a new sense of purpose and direction achieved. Big issues required big gestures. He turned and whispered into Appleby’s ear. ‘No one can duck destiny …’
He stepped up and took the stand, an imposing authority square to the microphone. There was no need to test the mood. It was ugly, malleable, could shift in whichever direction he chose. He was here to preach, preside, here to raise the game to unexplored levels. Seize the moment, seize the day. He grasped the mike, his frame and voice trembling with empathy. Black and white footage spooled across his thoughts, superimposing the campaigns of the past, the rallies at this spot, the speeches of Dr Martin Luther King Jnr urging restraint, reconciliation, peaceful protest and coexistence. Grainy pictures, obsolete words. Things moved on. There was unfinished business.
‘To my left,’ he began. ‘We are bounded by Constitution Avenue. To my right, by Independence Avenue.’ He paused as the echo-relay of his voice caught up. ‘We, as African-Americans, are held within them. Yet we, as African-Americans, have no Independence. We, as African-Americans, have no protection within that Constitution.’
A roar that surged inwards towards a focal point converged on the speaker. He acknowledged their emotion, the mandate, his face streak-stained with tears. It was a class act, shuddering with intensity and fervour, crocodile in its shallowness. They picked the morsels from his mouth, saw only eyes and teeth above the surface. The new King was come; his was not a pacifist agenda. ‘We have given so much and gained so little,’ he continued. ‘The faces of our dead, our murdered young from yesterday and today, look on accusingly, remind us of their sacrifice, of our duty. That duty – my brothers and sisters, my fellow black Americans – is to do more than remember, is to do more than stare at their names on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, is to do more than shed tears for our slain from white men’s wars.’ He shut his eyes. ‘We have our own war.’
Unconventional aspects of it were in train a few hundred yards from where he spoke. The base of the sound and camera tower was guarded by a small security detail – his men – armed with radios, bodyweight and empty faces. They clustered, their hands crossed or clutching field-glasses, standing and seated on the bonnet of a backed-up support vehicle, breaking away intermittently to circuit the scaffold structure. Nothing to report, few reasons to throw a transmit switch, to add to traffic. The command net was reserved for emergency. Eventualities, exits and entrances covered. Attention was on the human carpet reaching across the parkland sward, on suspicious movements, unidentified packages. Youths were searched and questioned, a few expelled, roving marshals and stewards providing visible presence and visible proof that black America could police its own. It was a large-scale operation.
Within the tower, hidden by its draped, plastic-sheeted sides, surrounded by cabling and ad hoc levels of plank flooring, the Forrester loaded a second magazine. He had been smuggled in by service truck, the sniping equipment passed through by a member of Azania’s posse, the thumbs-up given. At this extreme, in the rarefied atmosphere of committed intolerance and professionalized prejudice, coordination and mutual assistance were justified. There was common intent, a denominator of discontent. He reached for the rifle, a precision Magnum, and raised it to his lips. It was the only butt he would ever kiss. A beautiful weapon, an extension of his brain and arm, his voice in modern politics. Another voice reverberated from beyond his cocoon, the hypnotic oratory of a black preacher man exhorting followers to action, drawing their attention, conducted in the scaffold poles. The sniper felt the steel quiver, the words converting to a different form of energy. A bullet could do the same. Few would bother to study the tower, none would imagine the actions inside. He was just a boiler-suited maintenance engineer, former paratrooper from 82nd Airborne, an All American, a Forrester performing his allotted duty for the Motherland. Armed, ready, safety off, small window panel removed.
Pity about Stig. The helicopter should never have gotten in the way like that; press people always messed things up. Still, the results were impressive, the body count in. Highway 80’s claim to history and infamy would forever be upheld. A creditable performance. Stig would have had no complaints, no second thoughts. He was a volunteer, a professional. Any military action carried risks. ‘… that this black nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom …’ Azania’s oratory, adoption and adaptation of the Gettysburg Address, invaded the interior, louder with the fabric strip peeled aside, the scene a miniature tableau framed in a brilliant rectangle of light. Couldn’t miss, couldn’t afford to. The marksman peered into the telescopic sight, adjusted the soaked sweatband on his forehead. He was centred, had them centred. No nerves, only the sauna heat of enclosure, the remoteness of unleashing soft-head rounds with a light trigger-pull, a clear view and clearer conscience. Public drama caused by measured private procedure. It was a question of balancing tension and relaxation, tools and training, firepower and instinct. Breathing steady, focus complete. He ignored the discomfort, made his selection. Once done, exfil would be a simple reversal of the infiltration, a drive in the covered boot of the support vehicle to a collection point at the perimeter of the Mall, an assumption of a paramedic guise, and escape in the confused aftershock of homicidal crime. Clockwork. ‘… and that black government for the people of black skin shall not perish from the earth.’ You had to hand it to the Reverend, the sniper reflected; you had to dish it out to his colleagues. He gently squeezed his forefinger.
Wonderful word, perish. Azania swung his head. The shots were silent, their effect instant and all around. It was as he had imagined, dreamed, his supporting cast slammed from vertical to horizontal in the space of a few syllables, the shared platform jumping frame-by-ragged-frame to blood-red spectacle. Scene change. He remained where he was, wood splintering close to his head as chipboard blew apart. One for the cameras. He would demonstrate the meaning of courage, leadership, imperturbability under fire, would illustrate the art of good timing. A fellow churchman scrambled over a prone casualty to escape, exploded across the set design, body contents spray-painting the developing mural. Quite a misjudgement. Truly fucking abstract. Azania stifled a laugh, wanted to whoop in exultation. Hallelujah. He had God, planning and righteousness on his side; these people had nothing. He was speaking into the microphone again, calling for calm, asking for doctors. Then he was on his knees, giving mouth-to-mouth and CRT, moving on to Dwight Appleby unrecognizable and leaking life into his own arterially fed quagmire. An arm was missing. Weird he should still be conscious. Must be the shock. His eyes were large, his lips drooling plasma trails.
‘Call me ungracious, a pessimist,’ Azania began. ‘But you sure don’t look too good.’ No reply. He leant forward, spoke softly, mopping at gaping wounds with a handkerchief. ‘What was that you said – something ’bout history unfolding? You could be right. Bless you, Dwight Appleby. You’re an inspiration to all of us who’ll attend the funeral. A lot of life-force there, a lot of fight. And man, a lot of blood.’ He wiped a smear across his face. Make-up applied. ‘I’d say a prayer if I wasn’t so busy.’ He patted the man’s cheek. ‘You still so proud? I’ll find your arm before the burial. Promise.’
Slithering on the butcher-slab surface, the Reverend strode to the microphone. Little time had passed, but an age had elapsed with it. The shooting was over. In its place came the collective breath and emotion of thousands held frozen and about to break. They were onlookers to massacre, uncomprehending, inert, he their master of ceremonies. He brushed aside a group of dazed bodyguards who tried to intervene and usher him away. It was his moment, his apotheosis. ‘I want you to pray with me, stay with me …’ he was saying. Christ, this was how legends were formed. If you can keep your head, when all around have misplaced their body parts. Power-sharing never worked. It was not the African way, not Azania’s way. He was alpha male, Silverback, clan chief, he was heir and beneficiary. And the moderate cause lay dead and dying at his feet, vanished in bubble groans, animal whimpers, in wretched, retching screams. His vision, his stratagem, would prevail. Out in the crowd, a stampede began.
Alarm, the best smokescreen of all. The sniper eased himself gingerly to the ground, adjusted his cap and prepared to step through to the outside. His rifle would be found later, while he was clear, holed up and hiding out in readiness for a debrief. No doubt about it, it was a mission well done, worthy of a bonus. Ten thousand bucks a pop, say fifty or sixty thousand in total, exclusive of goodwill, undeclared to IRS, unannounced to anyone. Not bad for a day’s work. Beat bowling at pins. He applied shades, pulled aside a tarpaulin and ducked through the small opening, a richer man, a service technician in overalls unobserved in the shuddering frenzy and mass hysterical stasis. A hand seized his arm, must have been guiding him to the getaway. But the grip was too tight. He tried to shrug it off, shake it off, was held. A shout, a blow to his head, and his knees were kicked from beneath. Fury and apprehension crowded. He twisted, struggled, attempted to rise, was stamped down. Basic misunderstanding. The guards should be somewhere close by, rushing to dispel hostility, disperse these assholes. He did not understand. Hey … hey! A boot landed, concussed him into reality. He could hear his own grunts, the blows land, shouting. This was fact, this was pain. The mob was on him. He took it in, climbed to his knees, found himself floundering, reeling back as a toecap struck. Goddamn it. He spat a tooth. If they only knew what they were handling, taking on. A gap appeared, a new perspective, a sight-line to his escape team shouting encouragement, carrying clubs. One held aloft a rifle found in the tower, and pointed. Accusation made, sentence passed. The fuckers had betrayed him. He was a patsy, he was evidence erased. Any deal was off. The opening shut, darkness closed. Cameras went on rolling.
Azania remained at prayer, in position. His presence, refusal to quit, exerted a magnetic pull, averted further disaster, lured those in fright and flight to stall, reconsider, slow to equilibrium. Random molecules, easily swayed. His courage shamed them, transformed them. He would not be driven off, persuaded to safety. They had to be strong, had to face down evil. He was their example, one man drenched in horror and standing firm, who rose above bloodshed, transcended the worst barbarity. Charisma turned to authority, transformed into influence. He was their ruler, they his subjects. There was no one else for them to turn to.
He watched, his status secured, campaign unfolding. By now the gunman would be dead, joining his erstwhile platform colleagues in body-bags and refrigerated lockers. A successful conclusion. The networks had enough raw footage to last for weeks, would process and analyse, broadcast and rebroadcast, the images and sound bites infiltrating the national archive and public consciousness. Azania in full flow, Azania defiant, Azania ministering to the fatally injured, Azania bloodied and unbowed. Leader of the black peoples, Colossus of his age. With opinion behind him, battalions before him, he was unstoppable; conflict was inevitable. There was little that the American or British governments could do to prevent it, less that minor irritants such as Professor Duncan Pitt could do to hinder it. Black set to dominate the board. Checkmate. He held up his arms, hands poster-paint reddened in the sunlight. Great shot for picture editors and stills collectors. A hush fell, fear forgotten. They would rise.
‘This is the blood of our forefathers, the blood of our children’s future. Avenge.’
* * *
Doing what comes naturally. The holdall felt heavy in his hand. Well it might. It contained enough nuts, bolts and six-inch nails, enough explosive, to propel him again to the front pages, to regain the initiative and create an untidy little crater somewhere in London SW9. He was back in Brixton, delivering his message, stowing a package. Conditions were fair, the moment right. It was good to be alive, to take life, thrilling to saunter with detached professionalism down a busy street, to enter a store, pub or betting-shop with a bag, to leave without it. He would remove himself from the scene, masturbate in the countdown, climax with the thud of detonation or the first aftershock newsflash. It would be a triumph of improvised explosive manufacture, of tactical brilliance over multi-ethnicity and the mediocrity of law enforcement. A woman glanced at him, uninterested, and turned away. But he was aiming for a different sort of recognition – for status, stardom, that came at a price, which could be measured in the wail of sirens and in appeals for blood. A group of teenagers pushed by, tight-knit and street-wise, a fight-and fuck-posse searching for things to stick a knife or a dick into. Slum vultures, scum cultures. Nothing that a directional mine couldn’t cure. They eyed his bag, a tribe asserting grazing rights with a scowl and a hiss. Their mouths were made for screaming. It was no use parleying, rationalizing. They talked a different talk, mumbling, prehistoric, walked a threatening, loping walk. He would open their minds, their eyes, to the delights of homemade Picric acid, to the alchemy-magic of nitric, sulphuric and phenol, the incendiary twist of sodium chlorate. What a blast. It would change them, alter perceptions, teach. The best lessons were always the most painful. He averted his gaze, let them mosey on. Attention-seeking at this stage was inadvisable, premature. Plenty of time for that, for camouflaging the device, for getting away and covering tracks. Deception, subterfuge, were his forte. He loved the thunder report of an urban explosion, the ricochet sound of politicians and social commentators running for cover, the excuses, the scapegoating, the hand-wringing. It was so simple, and they would fail to see, could not bear to accept. He would continue, filling a hole by producing a hole. Each to his own.
* * *
