flame and smoke. The program was a rerun of a news special on Arab terrorism.
Cut to Munich. The horror at the Olympic Village. The helicopter at the airport. Muffled gunfire inside it as the Israeli athletes were shot. The embassy at Khartoum where the American and Belgian diplomats were slain. Al Fatah leader Yasir Arafat denying responsibility.
Yasir Arafat again at a news conference in Beirut, bitterly accusing England and the United States of aiding the Israelis in terrorist raids against the guerrillas. "When our revenge comes, it will be big," Arafat said, his eyes reflecting double moons from the television lights.
A statement of support from Col. Khadafy, student of Napoleon and Al Fatah's constant ally and banker: "The United States deserves a strong slap in the face." A further comment from Khadafy---"God damn America."
"Scumbag," said a man in a bowling jacket who stood next to Lander. "Bunch of scumbags."
Lander laughed loudly. Several of the drinkers turned to him.
"That funny to you, Jack?"
"No. I assure you, sir, that is not funny at all. You scumbag." Lander put money on the bar and walked out with the man shouting after him.
Lander knew no Arabs. He began to read accounts of the Arab-American groups sympathetic to the cause of the Palestinian Arabs, but the one meeting he attended in Brooklyn convinced him that Arab-American citizens' committees were far too straight for him. They discussed subjects such as "justice" and "individual rights" and encouraged writing to Congressmen. If he put out feelers there for militants, he rightly suspected, he would soon be approached by an undercover cop with a Kel transmitter strapped to his leg.
Demonstrations in Manhattan on the Palestinian question were no better. At United Nations Plaza and Union Square he found less than 20 Arab youngsters surrounded by a sea of Jews.
No, he needed a competent and greedy crook with good contacts in the Middle East. And he found one. Lander obtained the name of Benjamin Muzi from an airline pilot he knew who brought back interesting packages from the Middle East in his shaving kit and delivered them to the importer.
Muzi's office was gloomy enough, set in the back of a shabby warehouse on Sedgwick Street in Brooklyn. Lander was shown to the office by a very large and odorous Greek, whose bald head reflected the dim overhead light as they wound through a maze of crates.
Only the office door was expensive. It was of steel with two deadbolts and a Fox lock. The mail slot was belly-high, with a hinged metal plate in the inside that could be bolted shut.
Muzi was very fat, and he grunted as he lifted a pile of invoices off a chair and motioned for Lander to sit down.
"May I offer you something? A refreshment?"
"No."
Muzi drained his bottle of Perrier water and fished a fresh bottle out of his ice chest. He dropped in two aspirin tablets and took a long swallow. "You said on the telephone that you wished to speak to me on a matter of the utmost confidence. Since you haven't offered your name, do you have any objection to being called Hopkins?"
"None whatever."
"Excellent. Mr. Hopkins, when people say 'in confidence' they generally mean contravention of the law. If that is the case here, then I will have nothing whatever to do with you, do you understand me?"
Lander removed a packet of bills from his pocket and placed it on Muzi's desk. Muzi did not touch the money or look at it. Lander picked up the packet and started for the door.
"A moment, Mr. Hopkins." Muzi gestured to the Greek who stepped forward and searched Lander thoroughly. The Greek looked at Muzi and shook his head.
"Sit down, please. Thank you, Salop. Wait outside." The big man closed the door behind him.
"That's a filthy name," Lander said.
"Yes, but he doesn't know it," Muzi said, mopping his face with a handkerchief. He steepled his fingers under his chin and waited.
"I understand you are a man of wide influence," Lander began.
"I am certainly a wide
Cut to Munich. The horror at the Olympic Village. The helicopter at the airport. Muffled gunfire inside it as the Israeli athletes were shot. The embassy at Khartoum where the American and Belgian diplomats were slain. Al Fatah leader Yasir Arafat denying responsibility.
Yasir Arafat again at a news conference in Beirut, bitterly accusing England and the United States of aiding the Israelis in terrorist raids against the guerrillas. "When our revenge comes, it will be big," Arafat said, his eyes reflecting double moons from the television lights.
A statement of support from Col. Khadafy, student of Napoleon and Al Fatah's constant ally and banker: "The United States deserves a strong slap in the face." A further comment from Khadafy---"God damn America."
"Scumbag," said a man in a bowling jacket who stood next to Lander. "Bunch of scumbags."
Lander laughed loudly. Several of the drinkers turned to him.
"That funny to you, Jack?"
"No. I assure you, sir, that is not funny at all. You scumbag." Lander put money on the bar and walked out with the man shouting after him.
Lander knew no Arabs. He began to read accounts of the Arab-American groups sympathetic to the cause of the Palestinian Arabs, but the one meeting he attended in Brooklyn convinced him that Arab-American citizens' committees were far too straight for him. They discussed subjects such as "justice" and "individual rights" and encouraged writing to Congressmen. If he put out feelers there for militants, he rightly suspected, he would soon be approached by an undercover cop with a Kel transmitter strapped to his leg.
Demonstrations in Manhattan on the Palestinian question were no better. At United Nations Plaza and Union Square he found less than 20 Arab youngsters surrounded by a sea of Jews.
No, he needed a competent and greedy crook with good contacts in the Middle East. And he found one. Lander obtained the name of Benjamin Muzi from an airline pilot he knew who brought back interesting packages from the Middle East in his shaving kit and delivered them to the importer.
Muzi's office was gloomy enough, set in the back of a shabby warehouse on Sedgwick Street in Brooklyn. Lander was shown to the office by a very large and odorous Greek, whose bald head reflected the dim overhead light as they wound through a maze of crates.
Only the office door was expensive. It was of steel with two deadbolts and a Fox lock. The mail slot was belly-high, with a hinged metal plate in the inside that could be bolted shut.
Muzi was very fat, and he grunted as he lifted a pile of invoices off a chair and motioned for Lander to sit down.
"May I offer you something? A refreshment?"
"No."
Muzi drained his bottle of Perrier water and fished a fresh bottle out of his ice chest. He dropped in two aspirin tablets and took a long swallow. "You said on the telephone that you wished to speak to me on a matter of the utmost confidence. Since you haven't offered your name, do you have any objection to being called Hopkins?"
"None whatever."
"Excellent. Mr. Hopkins, when people say 'in confidence' they generally mean contravention of the law. If that is the case here, then I will have nothing whatever to do with you, do you understand me?"
Lander removed a packet of bills from his pocket and placed it on Muzi's desk. Muzi did not touch the money or look at it. Lander picked up the packet and started for the door.
"A moment, Mr. Hopkins." Muzi gestured to the Greek who stepped forward and searched Lander thoroughly. The Greek looked at Muzi and shook his head.
"Sit down, please. Thank you, Salop. Wait outside." The big man closed the door behind him.
"That's a filthy name," Lander said.
"Yes, but he doesn't know it," Muzi said, mopping his face with a handkerchief. He steepled his fingers under his chin and waited.
"I understand you are a man of wide influence," Lander began.
"I am certainly a wide
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