Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [29]
“Promise, Delgaldo,” his mother said. “You will never take it off.”
“I promise,” Geronimo said. “Till the day I die.”
• • •
THE SECOND BOMB was packed in solid, wedged between a foot pedal and the base of the organ. Thick strips of retainer tape were wrapped around its center, insulated rows of coiled wiring folded over the sides. At its base were thirty-six pieces of heavy dynamite, the flex timer at the center surrounded by a six-pack of nitro vials. Six different-colored wires were all meshed together, each inserted into the silver lid toppings of the nitro.
Geronimo was on his back, under the organ, staring at the device. He followed the paths of the wires, each embedded in a batch of dynamite sticks, each alone holding enough power to destroy several city blocks. He admired the sheer simplicity of its design and wondered about the caliber of man he was dealing with, someone whose only pleasure came from turning loose such a force on the innocent.
He closed his eyes, both hands feeling for the medallion hidden under his bomb-resistant vest. He heard Commander Dumane squeeze in alongside him, stripped down to a T-shirt and bomb gear.
“Whatta ya need, G?” Dumane said. “I’m here.”
Geronimo opened his eyes and looked at the timer.
He had eleven minutes to defuse the bomb.
“I need a miracle,” Geronimo said. “Got any handy?”
“What’s the main contact—the nitro or the dynamite?” Dumane asked.
“Both,” Geronimo said. “One feeds into the other.”
“You could clip the wires at the center. Defuse both at once.”
Geronimo shook his head. “Timer’s connected only to one. And there’s too many wires to tell which.”
“Shit. I ain’t seen a job like this in all the years I been snappin’ bombs.”
“It’s a copycat,” Geronimo said. “Been used before.”
“Where?”
“German terrorist outfit, Baader-Meinhoff gang, used to plant them,” Geronimo said. “Back in the early seventies.”
“How’d they take them down?” Dumane asked.
“Best I know, no one ever capped their bombs,” Geronimo said. “German police just killed all the gang members.”
“Why don’t we ever think of shit like that?” Dumane said.
Geronimo looked at the timer, now down to six minutes, and pulled a small pair of pliers from his kit. He wiped thick beads of sweat from his upper lip and forehead and took in a long, deep breath.
“How much of the neighborhood is clear?” Geronimo wanted to know, holding the pliers in his right hand.
“Three blocks up and down, both sides,” Dumane said. “Every building and store’s emptied out.”
“This’d be a good time for you to split too,” Geronimo said, giving him a meaningful look. “In case I fuck up.”
“You selfish bastard,” Dumane said, smiling. “All you care about is glory. Well, Chief, I got bad news. This bomb you’re gonna have to share.”
“I’m gonna click the blue wires first,” Geronimo said.
“Why blue?”
“Just a hunch,” Geronimo said. “After that, if you and me are still here, I’ll move the nitro off the timer and hand them over.”
“I need a place to put ’em,” Dumane said, looking around. “Where they won’t move.”
“Up on the altar,” Geronimo said. “Might be a chalice. Should be wide enough to hold the bottles.”
“I ever tell you I hate bombs?” Commander Dumane said, crawling out from under the organ. “Only took the damn job ’cause they told me it was a temporary transfer. Ten fuckin’ years later, I’m still here, waitin’ for some out-of-work psycho’s erector set to blow me to pieces.”
“I ever tell you I love bombs?” Geronimo said, more to himself than to Dumane. “Nothin’ but me and the device. You can never beat a bomb. You just stop it. Till the next time.”
Geronimo put the pliers on the first part of the blue wires, waited a second, and then clipped them apart. Dumane was next to him, hands wrapped around a chalice, eyes on the bomb.
“Two sets of reds, two blues, and two whites,” Dumane said. “The guy’s a regular George M. fuckin’ Cohan.”
“Blues are dead,” Geronimo said. “Gonna clip the white next.”
“Another hunch?”
“It’s all I got to go on, Commander,” Geronimo said. “Unless you got a thing for red.”
“Your call, G,