Mao II - Don Delillo [50]
Charlie said, “I wish I understood the point.”
He and Bill went across the street and waited for the bomb unit to arrive and search the building.
“The point is control,” Bill said. “They want to believe they have the power to move us out of a building and into the street. In their minds they see a hundred people trooping down the fire stairs. I told you, Charlie. Some people make bombs, some people make phone calls.”
Soon they were talking about something else. The rain stopped. Charlie crossed the street, said something to the detective and came back shrugging. They talked about a book Charlie was doing. They talked about the day Charlie’s divorce became final, six years earlier. He recalled the weather, the high clear sky, distanceless, flags whipping on Fifth Avenue and a movie actress getting out of a taxi. Bill reached for his handkerchief. The blast made him jerk half around but he didn’t leave his feet or go back against the wall. He felt the sound in his chest and arms. He jerked and ducked, shielding his head with his forearm, windows blowing out. Charlie said goddamn or go down. He turned his back to the blast wave, bracing himself against the wall with his elbows, hands clasped behind his head, and Bill knew he would have no remember to be impressed. He also knew it was over, nothing worse coming, and he straightened up slowly, looking toward the building but reaching out to touch Charlie’s arm, make sure he was still there, standing and able to move. The detective across the street was in a deep crouch, fumbling with the radio on his belt. The street was filled with glass, snowblinking. The second detective remained in the car a moment, calling in, and then walked toward his partner. They looked over at Charlie and Bill. Dust hung at the second-storey level of the warehouse. The four men met in the middle of the street, glass crunching under their shoes. Charlie brushed off his lapels.
The bomb experts arrived and then the press bus and some publishing people, more detectives, and Bill sat in the back of the unmarked police car while Charlie huddled with different groups making new plans.
About an hour later the two men sat under the vaulted skylight in a dining room at the Chesterfield, eating the sole.
“It means a day’s delay. Two at the most,” Charlie said. “You definitely ought to change hotels so we can move quickly once we’re set.”
“You showed presence of mind, taking that protective stance,”
“Actually that’s the recommended air-crash position. Except you don’t do it standing up. I knew I was supposed to lower my head and lock my hands behind my neck but I couldn’t place the maneuver in context. I thought I was on a plane going down.”
“Your people will find another site.”
“We have to. We can’t stop now. Even if we go to the bare minimum. Fifteen people in five rowboats on a secluded lake somewhere.”
“Anybody have a theory?”
“I talk to an antiterrorist expert tomorrow. Want to come along?”
“Nape.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’ll be in touch, Charlie.”
“Rowboats are not the answer, come to think of it. Isn’t that where they got Mountbatten?”
“Fishing boat.”
“Close enough.”
Bill knew someone was looking at him, a man sitting alone at a table across the room. It was interesting how the man’s curiosity carried so much information, that he knew who Bill was, that they’d never met, that he was making up his mind whether or not to approach. Bill even knew who the man was, although he could not have said how he knew. It was as if the man had fitted himself to a predetermined space, to an idea of something that was waiting to happen. Bill never looked at the man directly. Everything was a shape, a fate, information flowing.
“I want to talk about your book,” Charlie said.
“It’s not done yet. When it’s done.”
“You don’t have to talk about it. I’ll talk about it. And when it’s done, we can both talk about it.”
“We were nearly killed a little while ago. Let’s talk about that.”
“I know how to publish