They ducked down, crouching on the far side of the cart, pulling the NY Dosas vendor down with them. “NYPD,” said Heat. The mustachioed old man nodded with the equanimity of a seasoned immigrant who takes the New York streets in stride. “Will this be long?” was all he asked in a thick accent.
Heat’s attention was on Backhouse. He was only, maybe, thirty-five, but didn’t strike her as a man who got much exercise. He was drawing audible breaths. Plus those sweat half-moons had grown from gibbous to full. “You OK, Wilton?” He didn’t answer, only shot her a glare halfway between annoyance and the verge of tears.
In a caricature of a rural twang Rook said, “‘Funny, that plane’s dusting crops where there ain’t no crops.’” But he got only blank stares from Nikki and Backhouse.
Then the food vendor grinned. “North by Northwest.”
“My man,” said Rook. He turned to Heat. “By the way, I get to be Cary Grant. Obviously.”
Backhouse had gathered himself enough to speak. “Is it gone?”
Nikki cocked an ear to listen for the buzz. “I can’t hear over the piano.” She raised her head to chance a peek over the steaming masala potatoes and lentils. “Looks clear.”
Cautiously, they all rose and scanned the sky above the square. “Is clear,” said Rook. They began to retrace their steps warily, relieved to see no trace of the drone and to hear only the adagio of Rach 2 and the disappearing chants of the protesters as they headed uptown toward the UN, lofting placards and Syrian flags.
A gentle voice asked, “Excuse me. Is that yours?”
They turned around. The NY Dosas vendor pointed to the growing dot bearing down on them from behind. Still half a block east, the drone was coming in fast and at a low level—head level.
“This way!” hollered Rook. He seemed to know what he was doing, and Heat and Backhouse followed him, weaving again as they ran, trying to make themselves harder to draw a bead on.
Heat protested when Rook brought them to the fountain and turned north. “What are you doing? You’re taking us into the open.”
“Trust me. Just keep up.”
But the whistle-blower’s sandal snagged on an uneven paver, and he fell. As he hit the ground the drone fired again. The slug hit one of the hexagonal bricks about a yard ahead of him with a small explosion of stone chips and dust. After its flyby, the quad banked to make another run. Nikki hauled Backhouse to his feet and charged off, following Rook toward 5th Avenue, hoping he had something more than one of his theoretical notions in mind.
The whir of the four rotors grew louder. “Don’t stop to look.” Heat nudged Backhouse. “Just keep going.” He did as he was told, and soon they had joined Rook at the west leg of the marble arch. “Rook, what are you doing?”
“Oh, if I had a nickel.” Then he beckoned her closer. “Bet you didn’t know there was a secret door to get inside the arch. I saw it on PBS.”
“Thanks for the trivia lesson, but it’s locked.”
Backhouse shouted, “Here it comes!”
Heat shepherded him and Rook around to the other side of the arch’s leg as the quadcopter whizzed by. As soon as it passed, Rook returned to the door. When Nikki joined him he said, “Shoot the lock.”
“I can’t just go firing a gun in a park.”
“Why not? That thing sure can.”
“Rook, there are people around here.” She indicated a nanny parking her stroller and sitting down on a bench with a pizza box.
“Coming around again,” said Backhouse. The drone, lethal though it was, made a graceful turn just above the jets of the fountain and aligned itself to attack again. Rook took three steps back and kicked at the lock, a strong deadbolt set in a steel box. It made a sensational noise but did not give one bit. Rook cursed.