“Mike, what the hell is going on? I thought your team grabbed these guys,” Fabretti said when I picked up.
“So did I. What’s up?”
“The bastards just made contact again five minutes ago.”
I closed my eyes. Shit. Not again.
So the Russians we had weren’t involved? What the hell was this?
“They’ve listed their demands, Bennett. I can’t talk about it over the phone. You need to get back to City Hall now.”
CHAPTER 75
WE WERE COMING over the Macombs Dam Bridge near Yankee Stadium when a lot of frenzied chatter started up on the NYPD-band radio.
I turned it up. They were shifting roadblocks, apparently, and rerouting traffic in midtown. Traffic crews were being mobilized in various precincts and, for some unknown reason, they seemed to be shifting all traffic flow to the north.
“I just got a text from my brother-in-law, who works at Midtown South,” said Doyle from the backseat. “You gotta be kidding me! They’re calling in everyone. And I mean everyone. Every Tom, Dick, and Sally in the NYPD is being told to get their ass in to work!”
I looked at Emily anxiously. The only time I’d ever heard of that happening before was on 9/11.
The first thing the Unabomber had said to us rang in my head.
They’re going to destroy New York City—you know that, right?
“Something must be up,” said Arturo, shaking his head in the seat next to Doyle.
“Ya think, Lopez?” Doyle said, rolling his eyes.
We were thrown another curve as we were coming up on City Hall on lower Broadway twenty minutes later. Fabretti called and told us that they’d moved the mayor six blocks northwest, to the Office of Emergency Management’s new crisis center, at the western end of Chambers Street.
It was a crisis, all right. By the time we got to the new twelve-story glass building on the shore of the Hudson, they’d cordoned off the entire block. Past the roadblock, there was pandemonium on the street outside the building, where cops and National Guardsmen and techs were moving boxes and equipment in and out of trucks.
When it was finally our turn at the checkpoint, the tall, middle-aged female sergeant told me in no uncertain terms to turn around, as no one was being allowed in. I actually had to call Fabretti three times before he radioed the gate and told the hard-ass lady cop it was okay.
There was a city park beside the facility filled with dozens of cop and fed cars and SUVs parked haphazardly up on the grass. We left the car in front of an idling Office of Emergency Management bus, and as we got out we looked up and watched as an NYPD Bell helicopter landed on a helipad beside the building.
The chopper dumped out a half dozen people who looked like feds and civilian professor types. Beside the helipad, at a dock, an NYPD Harbor Unit boat was unloading more smart-looking folks. One of them had on a blue Windbreaker with yellow letters on the back.
“NHC?” I said to Emily. “What the heck is the NHC?”
“National Hurricane Center?” she said, staring at me wide-eyed.
“What? We’re going to have a hurricane now? These guys can make it rain, too? That can’t be!” Doyle said.
“All hands on deck and batten down the friggin’ hatches,” Arturo said as the Harbor Unit boat sped past in the water with a roar.
CHAPTER 76
INSIDE THE SLEEK, low-ceilinged lobby of the building, it was even worse.
Every political staffer and cop we saw rushing to and fro was looking completely freaked. I stepped aside when a tall balding guy grunted, “Out of the way!” as he hustled past with a stack of printouts. I even tried to wave down Lieutenant Bryce Miller, who appeared at the end of the lobby, but he blew right past me with his phone glued to his ear and a bewildered look on his face.
“Well, at least everybody is keeping it together,” Doyle cracked.
As Bryce Miller left, Fabretti popped out of a stairwell door and rushed over to us.
“Bennett, tell me you got something—anything—on these Russians that you just picked up.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “They’re claiming that they were framed. I’m not sure if I believe them, but their alibis look pretty solid so far. But even if they were framed, we’re definitely getting closer now, Chief. Because the real bombers—whoever they are—had to know the Russians in order to frame them. We just have to find the link. What the heck is going on here? Why is all hell breaking loose?”
“Because it is. C’mon,” he said, leading us down the crowded hallway. “These bastards FedExed a video this time. They’re showing it in the press room.”
“A video?” said Arturo.
“Don’t get your hopes up, buddy. I doubt it’s from Netflix,” Doyle said.
The video was rolling on a screen set up on the stage as we came into the crowded press room.
It showed what looked like stock news footage—people running on a beach as waves crashed at their backs.