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An incoming phone call, then an outgoing one.
Something serious is up, and Freddie feels an itch on his ankle—the one where the pistol holster is fastened.
Nadia, now at the park, takes a few strides toward the fountain.
She waits and glances around, trying not to look too conspicuous.
Where is her Mike?
There are men here, and women, and some kids, and some fool performing as a juggler. She ignores the women, looks at the men. Two businessmen in suits are on a bench, talking at each other. Another is staringat a handheld device. A man in blue jeans and a white T-shirt is talking on his phone. Another man, in khakis and a short blue jacket, leans against a fence, yawning. Yet another man, this one with a young boy, enters the park, then stops and watches the fool juggler.
Where is her Mike?
She paces, feeling like an idiot, carrying her metal case and dragging her luggage behind her. On the subway ride to this park, Nadia had fantasized how this important meeting would happen, what Mike would look like, how exciting those first few minutes of finally being with him would be.
But where is he?
She stops moving, takes her phone from her roller bag.
Makes the call.
It rings.
Rings.
A number of shouts break out.
“Freeze it right there!”
“Don’t move!”
“Arms up! Arms up!”
Black-clad policemen with helmets, body vests, and machine guns swarm through and around the park, all pointing their weapons at Nadia.
Oh, God,she thinks, holding the cell phone in one hand, her precious case in the other.
Where is her Mike?
Chapter79
WHEN THEpolice appear, Mike Patel steps back, following the orders of a sweaty Hispanic police officer in standard uniform, holding out her hands, her eyes stern and sharp.
“Move back, move back, folks,” she calls out. “We’ve got a situation developing here. Move back!”
Mike does just that, but still tries to look above the heads of everyone moving with him, just to see what in hell is going on.
More police vehicles roar up and down Broadway and nearby Park Row, lights flashing, horns honking, but no sirens. There are cruisers and squat, lorry-like vehicles that discharge heavily armed men in helmets and full battle uniform. Other police cruisers pull off and stop traffic.
He’s pushed back with the other civilians, wondering how the French woman is doing.
Freddie Farrady has always had a high opinion of his NYPD brethren, but even he is impressed at their full rollout. He briefly wonders if they’re going after Mike Patel—wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing to tell Portia?—but no, they seem focused on a scared-looking woman in a black dress, her raised hands holding a cell phone and a metal case, black roll-on luggage nearby.
Kids and parents and businessmen flow out of the park. Freddie overhears a snippet of conversation—
“…Christ, I heard that woman might have a bomb in her luggage…”
—Freddie manages to duck into some park shrubbery, then scrambles up a nearby tree to assess the scene.
