Lock peered over, a sudden heart jolt almost taking him, head swimming, over the lip. Ty grabbed at Lock’s jacket, pulling him back. Still Lock stared. Frisk wasn’t lying. Times Square was crammed with a mass of humanity that stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘What the hell are all these people doing here?’
Times Square was busy late at night, always had been, even after its sleazier residents had been pushed out, but this was insane. It wasn’t just the sidewalks, every single inch was occupied.
Frisk gave him a puzzled look. ‘You don’t know?’
‘That’s why I’m asking.’
‘You don’t know what date it is?’
Lock didn’t. And then, as he stared across at the gigantic crystal ball standing ready to descend from atop the One Times Square building, and the television gantries with their brown dots of celebrity presenters, alien from the masses even at this height, he did. He knew exactly what day it was. Or rather, what night.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve.’
Eighty-seven
‘How many people did you say again?’
The three men were standing on the concrete plinth, Ty with his hand poised behind Lock’s back lest his friend suffer a blackout.
‘In this immediate vicinity, we estimate eight hundred thousand,’ said Frisk.
‘Evacuation?’ asked Ty.
‘Not an option.’
‘Why not?’
‘You want to tell just short of a million folks we have one of the world’s most notorious terrorists on the loose with a bunch of explosives strapped to her chest, go right ahead. We’d probably lose a few thousand in the crush alone.’
Lock knew that Frisk was right. This was every jihadist’s wet dream made flesh. Perfect for a suicide attack. Lots and lots of people crammed into a small space. Beyond that there was infinite scope for the creation of panic. And, as Frisk had already pointed out, panic might just take out more people than the bomb. Although if Mareta was here somewhere and she did detonate the device, panic would prove an ideal secondary device.
‘People are used to seeing this kind of law enforcement presence on New Year’s Eve,’ Frisk pointed out.
‘What about closing the bridges and tunnels?’
‘We’ve been as non-specific as possible and so far the news people are helping us out with the embargo.’
Lock thought suddenly of Carrie. He flashed back to what Brand had said, how she’d been hit by an SUV, and how relieved he’d been when Ty told him that she was alive and well.
‘You think Mareta’s here?’ Frisk asked.
Lock climbed back down off the plinth, then leaned over for one final look at the huddled masses below. ‘Yeah, she’s here,’ he said, turning for the stairwell.
Eighty-eight
Soaked in sweat, Stafford clambered from the police cruiser, moved to the rear of the vehicle and flipped the trunk. He stepped back, Caffrey’s revolver in hand, and waved for Mareta to get out.
She climbed out stiffly, her jacket riding up to reveal a cell phone clipped like a radio microphone to the back of her belt. Wires trailed from the phone up her back and out of sight.
‘Date with destiny time, sweet cheeks.’
‘I’m ready,’ she told him.
‘Say it with a bit more conviction, then. You sound like you don’t want to cement your place in the history books. I thought that’s what you people were all about.’
When he came across Mareta in the smoking ruins of the compound, having shaken off his armed escort, Stafford had quickly realized the secret of Mareta’s success. She possessed the ability to embrace martyrdom in others, without welcoming the opportunity itself. The Ghost. Yeah, right. The Mother of all Cowards would have been more apt. Shock with none of the awe. This time, though, he was going to make sure that the Ghost went out with a bang.
Having somehow missed out on ‘The Construction of Body-Borne IEDs 101’ when he was at Dartmouth, Stafford was happy when he realized that Mareta had already done most of the hard work on his behalf. All that had remained for him to do was ice the cake and light the candles.
‘You think your kids’ll be waiting for you when you make it up there, Mareta?’
‘Don’t talk about my children,’ she said, taking a step towards him.
He allowed the gun to drop to his side, moved back and pulled his Blackberry from his pocket. A number was pre-dialled on the screen. His thumb hovered over the call button. ‘Now, now, let’s not be premature, shall we?’
He prodded her forward. Behind them, Caffrey lay slumped in the back seat of the cruiser, his mouth open, blood seeping from his eyes.
Eighty-nine
Lock had never known the members of the Fourth Estate so subdued. Even in the middle of a war zone the media could be relied on to leaven the darkest moments with a gallows humour to make the most cynical special ops soldier discover his inner sense of political correctness. This was different, though.
They’d convened in a broadcast unit, rigged to take up every separate camera feed. On air, the folks at home were viewing crowd shots from the previous year’s festivities with colour commentary to match. No one had called in to complain. Either America was too toasted or the networks needed to find a new angle.
Lock sat next to Carrie and scanned the screens, occasionally prompting her to ask if a camera operator could take a closer look at an area of the crowd. Other than that, Lock was silent, focused. Concentrating on seeing rather than just looking. Men who did his job, and did it well, knew that most people walked around eyes open, wide asleep. They also knew it wasn’t a luxury afforded to them.
Carrie reached over and touched his hand. He withdrew it with a word: ‘Later.’ Then, to soften the blow, ‘OK?’
She sighed. ‘OK.’
Down the gallery, Ty was taking a more robust approach with his supervising producer. ‘No, that one, asshole. That one!’
Even a short time with Ty had left the producer, a man clearly more accustomed to being barker than barkee, watery-eyed and with a distinct quiver in his lower lip.
‘Now, go in. Zoom, baby. Zoom.’
A moment later the subject of his interest turned to reveal a thick goatee perched above a prominent Adam’s apple.
‘Damn,’ he groaned.
Frisk paced the length of carpet behind them. ‘Any luck?’
Lock shook his head. ‘At least when you’re looking for a needle in a haystack, the haystack doesn’t keep moving.’
A voice from further down the gallery: ‘Those assholes.’
