“This lockdown can’t last,” Roland said.
Hans Richter continued. “Even though this is not my area of expertise, I have to also say the financial markets in New York are closed. I’m no economist, God knows, but that’s spreading financial confusion around the world.”
Roger Fitton, a career politician who himself wanted to be president, spoke soothingly, “Roland, the president is aware of that. He’s the decision maker.”
“As in George W. Bush, I’m the decider?”
“I hope I’m going to recommend to him that the lockdown be gradually lifted today and tomorrow if the situation begins to stabilize.”
“I can’t have a city under siege. Even after the Paris attacks there were no sieges. Sieges cause fear, and fear will rapidly unravel the whole fabric of the city.”
From the back seat of the SUV racing from 14th Street to City Hall, Roland saw empty streets that looked like cities in those Japanese-made horror movies from the 1950s in the grip of an invasion from space aliens. Although this was Manhattan on a bright Monday morning in June, there were very few people outside. There was virtually no traffic. The usual congestion of double-parked delivery trucks replenishing the city after a weekend was gone. Stores and diners were closed since they were places staffed mainly by people from the outer boroughs who hadn’t been able to cross the river into Manhattan. As the caravan of heavily guarded SUVs rushed down the old sections of lower Broadway, a squadron of fifteen bicyclists on sleek Italian machines and in skintight, gaudy clothing sped on the freshly painted bike lanes.
“I hope,” Roland said, “that the TV stations capture that. It might brighten things up more than I will.”
Irv Rothstein, on the rear-facing seat directly across from Roland, said, “Weave the bike riders into your speech. Something like these people are vital and undaunted.”
“Or maybe, Irv, they’re just crazy.”
Roland leaned forward to see the lead rider, a woman. Although all the riders had helmets and were thin and hard to differentiate, she had a special, powerful litheness. “By the way, Irv, is the doctor there yet? I want to talk to him before we go on the air.”
“Dr. Hauser?”
“The one who did all that work with the wounded people. As the kids would say, that was some brave shit.”
“He didn’t want to show up with you.”
“Did you scare him, Irv? Haven’t I told you to learn to make nice-nice?”
“No, I was smooth. He told me he was more interested in being a doctor than a celebrity.”
“Did you tell him he can raise the spirits of this city? We need at least one man in bright shining armor.”
“He was adamant. I asked if he’d speak to you.”
“Get him on the line for me. I’ll talk to him right now.”
Gina had sat quietly beside Roland since the convoy pulled out of the warehouse building where the command center was hidden. She held up her right hand. “Mayor, don’t do that.”
He turned to look at her. “We might have time to get him down here.”
“We don’t want him down here.”
“Come again?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
The convoy made the turn through the iron gates surrounding City Hall. Knowing that cameras were trained on him, Roland jumped athletically out of the back seat of the SUV as if on a campaign stop. He was smiling. But his movement triggered acute pain. He shook the hands of the police officers who were guarding the plaza in front of City Hall. He walked up to the microphones on the top step, looked out at the television cameras, and spoke.
After the press conference, the mayor, Irv Rothstein, and three other staff members, his political and campaign cadre, watched the replay of the press conference. Just as it was ending, Irv said, “You sure did good.”
Roland nodded. He had been well-prepared, not through the angry and discordant voices he had heard at the command center, but by his own half hour, in private, thinking about what he wanted to convey. And he could see in the video that, in fact, he’d succeeded in delivering that balance of reality and optimism he sought. The broadcasters who summarized the conference spoke about his reassurance, his message of sternness in hunting down the terrorists and preventing further attacks, the need for vigilance and calm, and the steady scaling back of the lockdown to begin to restore essential services.
“You did good,” Irv repeated.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE INTERSECTION OF Wall Street and Broad Street in front of the now-closed New York Stock Exchange was one of the oldest in the city. The intersection was created in the 1600s when virtually all of Manhattan north of the Battery was forest and Broad and Wall were only winding trails. The intersection was wide, more of a plaza than just the crossing of two streets. Looming over the northern side was the immense statue of George Washington in front of the Federal Building as he took the first presidential oath.
Over the last five decades, Wall Street had gradually and radically changed. As recently as the 1960s it was still the street of America’s financial power. It was lined with the imposing buildings that housed the headquarters of the world’s largest banks. Their big corporate flags hung over both sides of the street, a daily ceremonial display of America celebrating its capitalism. The buildings also housed the offices of what were always called the “Wall Street law firms,” the legal institutions that carefully served the interests of the banks in whose buildings they were housed.
But over the years those banks and law firms had steadily abandoned Wall Street and migrated to midtown, first to Park Avenue between 50th and 57th Streets and then west to Times Square when it was renovated and made into a corporate theme park, a kind of urban Disneyland. In the wake of the migration uptown, Wall Street now had health clubs, European clothing stores, and fancy cafés. Instead of the institutional bank flags and American flags overhanging the narrow street, there were now banners advertising the health clubs, stores, and Starbucks.
On the morning after the bombings at the Met and the rocket assault at the World Trade Center Memorial, there was no one in the normally packed intersection. The area from Trinity Church at one end of Wall Street to the East River at the other end was cordoned off as a crime scene after the killing of Officer Cruz.
It was in 1920 at the intersection of Wall and Broad that a horse-drawn fruit wagon exploded on a morning when the same intersection was crowded with office workers. Although the statue of George Washington was untouched, heavy fragments from the powerful explosion not only killed dozens of people but tore holes in the monumental stone facades of the bank buildings. Left as a memorial, those deep gashes in the stone facades were never repaired. You could still touch the gashes almost a century later.
Forty-five minutes after the press conference and only moments after Roland Fortune had reviewed the video of that conference, his cell phone, the one to which only Gina Carbone and six other people including Sarah Hewitt-Gordan had access, rang. Roland picked up the vibrating phone.
It was Gina. “There’s been an explosion at the corner of Wall and Broad.”
“Jesus, Jesus. How many people did they get this time?’
“Not sure. Maybe none. The place was empty.”
“What happened?”
“There’s a sports club right next to the George Washington statue. Our information is that explosives were put near the windows of the club, hidden in gym bags that were probably placed there before yesterday or even last night. They were detonated from a remote source today.”