What the hell is going on in there?”
“I need to get back to Manhattan as fast as possible.”
“Let’s go.”
The driver and traffic were good. Within twenty minutes they were on the other side of the river rolling smoothly southbound on FDR Drive.
“So what’s going on back there? One of the press guys said something about terrorists?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Jeff shrugged.
Only half listening, Jeff was still processing what he’d heard with what he knew as the driver fiddled with his radio, searching for an all-news station.
“Manhattan is jumpy. Something’s up,” the driver said. “I heard they’re evacuating the UN building and my dispatcher said something’s going on down at Battery Park. They’re closing streets for a big show with the Russian president. But I think there’s more to it.” The driver checked his dash-mounted GPS. “We may need to find a different way in. That’s where we’re going, right? Back to Battery Park where I picked you up?”
The driver checked his rearview mirror for an answer.
Jeff was thinking.
Again Jeff concentrated on his moments in the van and the killer’s words:
“Hello?” the driver said. “Battery Park?”
“No, no, I need to get to Bryant Park as fast as possible!”
“Bryant Park? All right, Bryant Park, it is.”
At that point, the driver turned up the cab’s radio.
68
As the Russian president neared the end of his speech, the catcalls from the protestors increased.
Nikolai Vlasik’s jaw muscles throbbed as Sergei Serov took him aside. Hank Young, hand cupped over his ear as information was relayed to him, had again urged the Russian delegation to evacuate.
Again, Serov had refused, saying the delegation would depart only after the event was finished, only after the other dignitaries had spoken.
Irritated, Young left to seek authority to overrule Serov. When Young was out of earshot, Serov smirked to Vlasik.
“We have the situation under control,” Serov said. “Never forget, Nikolai, Mother Russia has the best intelligence-gathering apparatus the world has ever known. We do not frighten easily and have no intention to leave until the dedication ends.”
Vlasik ignored Serov and performed another radio check with his team, scanning the crowd. The protestors wailed as the president said, “I wish to express my respect for the courage of the people of-”
The president stopped.
His head snapped up as if he’d been shocked. Bright red droplets suddenly appeared on his face and red streaked across the Mykrekistani president’s face and neck as he’d risen to rush to the podium.
By reflex, Vlasik and the Secret Service detail’s training kicked in. Within a heartbeat agents covered the Russian president, shielding him amid screams as other agents yanked dignitaries from the stage.
Chairs were toppled and the crowd erupted as terrified people ran, crouched and crawled in every direction as security teams drew weapons.
A wave of uniformed NYPD officers charged at the protestors.
News crews swung into action covering all angles of the turmoil.
Frantic calls were made to news desks to go live with coverage as one seasoned network crew, already live, issued a report within seconds.
69
Jeff’s mind was racing when he got to Bryant Park.
The property sat in the heart of midtown on ten treed acres of beautiful green lawn behind the New York Public Library’s main branch.
The urban oasis was surrounded by glass-and-steel skyscrapers, including the Bank of America Tower, whose height rivaled the Empire State Building.
A crowd of nearly fifteen hundred people had gathered for an event to take place on a platform raised at the rear of the library overlooking the great lawn.
Russia’s first lady and the wife of Mykrekistan’s president were leading an outdoor cultural presentation of newly discovered archived manuscripts by Russian masters such as Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov and Mykrekistan’s literary greats.
The dignitaries who would accept the donation were the wives of New York’s mayor, New York’s governor, the head of the New York Public Library and several other officials. The public would be allowed an exclusive viewing of the documents immediately after the event.
However, the ceremony was late getting started. A man in a suit approached the podium. His face was grim.
At that point, Jeff had arrived on the Fortieth Street side of the park, which was ringed with barricades, uniformed officers and security agents wearing earpieces and dark glasses. Emergency vehicles were positioned everywhere at Fortieth and Forty-second Streets, Fifth and Sixth Avenues.
At the periphery there were pockets of protestors displaying placards that were anti-Russian and called for an independent Mykrekistan. Jeff walked by them just as the air split with an announcement over the public-address speakers from the lone man on the stage.
“Our apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We have to delay just a bit longer. We ask for your understanding, but we may be forced to postpone today’s event. We’ll get back to you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
Groans rose from the crowd with ripples of questions.
“Postpone? Why? What for? What’s going on?”
Jeff noticed a cluster of news vehicles a distance away just inside the barricades not far from the platform. Crews were on cell phones or radios, some were anxious, yelling questions into their phones, while others were packing up.
Jeff hurried toward them.
Behind the stage, out of public view, the Russian first lady, her face taut with concern, was talking on a cell phone to Nikolai Vlasik.
“He’s all right, ma’am,” Vlasik shouted over sirens and uproar. “We’ve got everyone out!”
“Put him on the phone, Nikolai!”
There was commotion.
