Manhattan Lockdown (5 page)

“He owns a big electronics store in Queens. He has a fixation on communication equipment. Not just cell phones and pagers, but GPS systems and tracking devices. He loves innovative stuff, like tracking devices in candy bars. Things that send and get messages and let people know where you are. Jewelry, watches with tiny communicating devices. Even bracelets; my ex-wife would love to be a customer.”

“Which one is he?” she asked.

Davidson took out his iPad and delicately touched the illuminated screen. For a large man who had killed people with his own hands, he had unusually long fingers as graceful as a pianist's. His fingers floated over the bright graphics. A picture as vivid as life appeared. It was Silas Nasar. It was a far clearer, better-defined picture than the one on Gabriel Hauser's cell phone.

“Hell of a birthmark,” Gina said when she saw the seahorse-shaped blemish.

Davidson said, “He shouldn't be hard to find.”

“Then go fucking find him,” Gina said.

T
HE SILENCE WAS
strange. Six hours earlier, as he was carried to the blasted rear windows of the museum, there were sounds everywhere—piercing screams, otherworldly moans, out-of-control fire alarms, the crunching of glass and stone under foot. Flowing cataracts of water from the fire prevention system, useless in the chaos. He remembered that he had felt submerged in noise, as if he were drowning.

Now the museum was quiet. There was still beautiful sunlight on its scarred, ochre-colored surfaces at five in the afternoon. The early summer air was gentle. The trees in Central Park were lush. Above the upper edge of the museum a vivid half-moon shined in the blue daylight sky.

Roland Fortune had given thousands of press conferences, he was gifted with the ability to be fluid and informative, often funny, and he experienced some of that hit of anticipation as he walked toward the microphones at the podium at the base of the museum's front steps. He knew this was the most important press conference of his life. Ever since he had joined Gina Carbone and Harlan Lazarus, the Secretary of Homeland Security who had arrived by helicopter just fifteen minutes before Roland reached PS 6, he'd been in increasing levels of pain but hadn't taken any more Vicodin. He didn't want to talk to the world with any slurring or hesitation in his voice or sluggishness in his appearance. He would rather have an edge of pain to keep himself alert. He was in a fresh, beautifully tailored suit.

“This is a day of outrage,” he began. His voice had its usual clarity and he was alert enough not to read from notes. “The toll in human blood, suffering, and loss is immense. By the latest count, there are, we believe, 975 men, women, and children dead. One hundred and fifty-three wounded, many of them critically. It's certain that there are dead or wounded people inside the museum, an area we are sifting carefully because of fears that explosive devices may still be implanted there. Thus far, one first responder has been killed when debris in the Temple of Dendur collapsed on her.”

Across Fifth Avenue the green and red canopies over the entrances to the apartment buildings were shredded like confetti. Immense American flags were already suspended from many of the buildings, a symbol of grief, strength, and defiance that had spontaneously ornamented the city in the days and weeks after 9/11.

“This great city has again been the victim of a vicious, cowardly assault. This is an unspeakable act of violence that is an affront not just to this city and this nation but to the world. It has taken place on a glorious Sunday when men, women, and children were simply enjoying themselves and the gift of life on an early summer afternoon. I will never rank the viciousness of terrorist attacks. The recent coordinated assaults in Paris were a despicable horror, as were the attacks in London and Madrid after 9/11. At this point, as this monument to civilization still smolders behind us, we have no clear information as to the people or organizations responsible for this carnage. We do know, however, that ISIS, with its social media resources, is claiming responsibility, just as it did in the Paris assaults.”

Roland gazed directly into the main camera. There could have been over a hundred million people around the world watching him. “There are things that the toll of horror can't convey. The city and the world have been wounded. People from every continent were here, in this great meeting place of the globe. We believe that
men and women from at least twenty countries are among the dead. We grieve for every one of them, for their families, and their friends.”

He paused. “Now let's talk about security. More than thirty thousand law enforcement personnel, most of them members of the New York Police Department under the remarkable command of Commissioner Gina Carbone, are deployed throughout every borough of the City of New York. We are executing well-developed and frequently rehearsed containment, control, and retaliation strategies. Although there have been no arrests so far, I can tell the people who are responsible for this that there is no escape from this glorious island of Manhattan, and they will be found and punished.”

Nearby a siren began to wail. Roland Fortune tensed up, as if threatened. The reporters glanced in the direction from which the sound was coming, six blocks uptown. Even though there were no spectators on the sidewalk since the area had been cleared, there were some people looking out of the smashed windows of the Fifth Avenue apartment buildings. Roland noticed that they, too, glanced toward the source of the sound.

Roland knew he couldn't let the siren distract him and that he could not hesitate or stumble or appear frightened. He continued, “The lockdown of Manhattan will continue certainly until tomorrow morning, although how long depends on circumstances we can't now foresee. There are centers throughout Manhattan where those who are stranded can receive food and shelter. We have counselors at those sites who are trained in treating shock and fear and grief. Plans for this, as for many other aspects of our response, have been in place and constantly revised for several years. Some of that response you are seeing as the day and night unfold; others you can't see but they are important to our safety.”

Roland turned briefly to the magnificent, damaged building behind him. “What you see behind us is one of the monuments not just of New York but of the entire world's civilization. Despite all the scarring you see today, it remains intact, and it will endure. So, too, this most magnificent of all cities in the world. It has been assailed because of its greatness, because of the hope it has always represented for the world, and it will recover from the atrocities of this day.”

Irv Rothstein gave him the covert signal—a hand cupped over his left ear that a third base coach might give to a runner on second base—that Roland should wind up the conference.

Roland had long ago come to rely on Irv and focused again on the camera. “Thank you all for being here. We will keep you continuously updated as new information becomes available. Again, this has been a terrible day for this city, the nation, and the world. But it is certain that we will recover. God bless this great city and the United States of America.”

F
OR THIRTY VERY
quiet seconds they watched the footage on the video screen placed in front of one of the blackboards in the classroom. Taken by CCTV cameras just fifteen minutes earlier, the scene showed the new World Trade Center Memorial, with walls of water smoothly cascading into the pool. Every five seconds the scene on the screen shifted to a view of the memorial from a different angle. They were essentially static images, even though they revealed a live scene, and they were remarkably clear; a high-definition image of the simple and elegant memorial. The tall walls of constantly cascading water shimmered in the sunlight over the smooth surfaces of dark marble.

And then the scene changed, drastically and horribly. The center of one of the walls exploded, and water and stone burst out, a spectacular sight, like a view of an exploding meteorite. One of the sentries near the top of the suddenly damaged wall stepped backward, completely stunned. He was a New York City police officer assigned to the terrorism unit. He was dressed in black and wore combat boots and a black helmet. Like the six other guards stationed at the memorial, he carried an M-16. Within two seconds it was clear that he was hurt and not just startled by the explosion that had shattered the silence. Mesmerized, Roland Fortune, Gina Carbone, and Harlan Lazarus stared as the screen revealed the sentry begin to stagger aimlessly and fold forward. The rifle fell from
his hands. His body lurched toward the brink of the wall, and he fell into the pool.

“Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ,” Gina hissed.

Then there was a second blast, powerful enough to raise a geyser of water from the center of the pool. Three of the guards dropped to their knees, their rifles raised to firing position. They each pivoted, scanning the suddenly dangerous buildings around them, looking for the source of the missiles that had inflicted such damage on this national memorial. They saw nothing on which to focus and no clear source of danger. They had the discipline of combat veterans and were not going to shoot their powerful weapons without having targets.

Then the scene shifted to another location. Gina Carbone and Roland Fortune instantly recognized the intersection of Wall Street and Broadway, where for three hundred years Trinity Church had stood surrounded by its ancient graveyard. The intersection was four or five blocks east of the World Trade Center memorial site.

The CCTV footage showed two men in civilian clothes as they strode quickly, not quite running, into the desolate intersection. They were casually dressed. A lone cop in street uniform emerged from Rector Street, a narrow lane which formed the southern border of the church's ancient burial grounds. He was surprised to see two men walking rapidly just thirty feet from him. The intersection was otherwise empty. For a moment he seemed uncertain, simply watching the two men move on to the deserted path of Wall Street toward the East River.

Almost in pantomime, the cop finally made a decision. Although the CCTV footage was silent, it was clear that he shouted something. The man closest to him immediately reached into his waistband and took out a pistol. The cop, who was young, was mesmerized. He stopped moving. The bullet hit him in the face. He fell backward from the force of the shot.

The CCTV footage ended.

Roland Fortune was not nearly as experienced with the reality and sight of violence as Gina Carbone. He was standing with her and Harlan Lazarus as the footage unfolded. They were in the midst of diminutive desks and chairs in the second grade classroom of PS 6. The sight of the officer, young, inept, inexperienced, unbelieving in that instant before he died, sickened Roland. He sat down on the desk nearest to him. He asked, “Where are those two guys?”

“We don't know,” Gina said.

“Judge, what the fuck is happening?” Roland Fortune had a temper that rarely flared, but when it came, its intensity sharpened every feature of his face. It resembled the hateful glare of the street kids he grew up with in the Bronx. As a street fighter when he was a teenager, the ability to use his fists gave him credibility in the neighborhood and that credibility had protected him.

Harlan Lazarus, a former federal appeals judge who had left his life-tenure job to become the Secretary of Homeland Security, wasn't used to people challenging him. His history as a Harvard Law School professor, a United States Attorney, a judge, and now a cabinet secretary had insulated him from other people's anger and made him expect, and get, homage. He had spent a life surrounded by sycophants. He insisted on being addressed as “Judge.” He said, “Do you want to ask me that question again?”

“Sure. How is it that someone can take a shoulder-fired grenade and launch an attack on the World Trade Center Memorial?”

“Are you serious, Mr. Fortune?”

“Serious? What the hell are
you
doing? Where are
your
people? You know what I see?
Our
police helicopters,
our
cops,
our
boats,
our
guns.
Our
dead. What the hell are you up to? It's been seven hours since this all started. How much time do you need?” He caught his breath. His voice rose, “Where the fuck are
your
people?”

Harlan Lazarus glared at Roland. He was entirely bald; he had one of those skull-like faces with no spare flesh, all bone; he was skinny and intense. “We have long-standing plans, Mr. Fortune, that are now being implemented all over the world.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I have a thousand people dead before noon, and now an explosion in the most sacred place of my city, and at least two dead policemen. It's nice to have you fly in from wherever you were, but I haven't heard one useful word from you.”

“I don't report to you, Mr. Fortune. You report to me.”

“Since when? Forget that pecking-order shit, Mr. Lazarus. I need information. I have millions of people who elected me to run this city. You're lucky if you could get your wife to vote for you to clean the toilet. I'm the one guy people listen to. I'm the guy who has to talk to those people, make them comfortable, give them a sense of confidence. You scare the shit out of people.”

“You're completely out of order.”

“Save that shit for the courtroom. I want to know where your people are and what they're doing. I want to know if they have any information that this kind of thing is going to happen again.”

Lazarus' security detail stepped closer to him, almost imperceptibly, drawn by Roland's anger. Lazarus said, “We're not aware of anything.”

Increasingly in pain, sweating in the hot classroom, Roland said, “That's reassuring. You weren't aware of anything half an hour ago, were you? Or at nine o'clock this morning.”

Lazarus was visibly trembling, enraged. “I think this little dialogue is over. There are things that we are doing.”