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“Dan. It’s Wilbur. I’m here with the president.”
“Hello, sir.”
“Dan.”
Wilbur said, “We’re scrapping Exit A. We’re going to B.”
“U.N., helipad. Roger that. Any specific threat factors?”
“Not at this time. Get Marine One there stat. I’m running Sirdee now for the route. I’ll text it to the drivers and the rest of the team.”
A whole new world now, Boyd reflected. Sirdee—the Secure Route Determining algorithm—resided on a huge computer somewhere and at lightning speed considered hundreds of factors in finding what was the safest course for government officials to move from one point to another. In presenting the program to the government, the company that had developed it gave an example. Their software factored in all the known parameters for the presidential visit to Dallas on November 22, 1963, and concluded that the least secure route from Love Field to the Trade Mart—wherePresident John F. Kennedy was to speak—was through Dealey Plaza and past the Texas School Book Depository.
Murphy said, “I’ll call NYPD.” He paused. “One thing. We can get eyes along the surface route, but there’s no time to clear underground all the way to the U.N.”
Wilbur glanced at the president. “Or we can stay put, wait for them to clear the tunnel entrance. Seven, eight hours, I’d guess.”
Boyd said, “I’d guess there’re a hundred possible routes to the helipad. The odds that somebody’d know exactly where to place a device? That’s not going to happen.”
Wilbur said to the phone, “Get the motorcades downstairs, Dan.”
Murphy said, “Making the call now.” He disconnected.
Wilbur walked to the door and stepped outside, to tell the hallway agents the new plan.
“Daddy.”
The president returned to the doorway where his daughter was holding in both arms a large rabbit with a blue gingham kerchief on its head. “Elisabetta won’t fit.”
Too bad there was no algorithm that could figure out the best way to pack a ten-year-old’s gym bag.
Boyd walked over and took the toy from her. “It’s all right, honey. I’ll put her in one of mine.”
59.
“IT’S DONE,” SIMONEtold him.
For these final stages of the project, they were not using any electronic communications devices at all. Only in-person conversations.
Charles Hale, in the driver’s seat of his SUV, was looking out the windshield. This part of the city was deserted.Threecranes reigned over the neighborhood and everyone was staying inside. If they had to get to the grocery store, they jogged.
He heard the faint voice of the newscaster on the radio and turned the volume up.
“… The authorities are speculating it will take eight to ten hours to reopen the Holland Tunnel after an explosion brought down a crane at a construction site on Varick Street this afternoon. This is the third crane that’s been destroyed in the past two days … Police still have no leads in the investigation. Most jobsites in the area remained closed …”
Hale looked toward the woman beside him. She was in leather pants, black, a dark brown sweater and a jacket that matched the trousers. Today her hair—now dyed brunette—was in a double braid, the strands of which were joined at the end with a crimson ribbon.
“A question,” Hale asked slowly.
Simone lifted an eyebrow.
“Is there anyone?”
He found himself surprised that he asked.
But not surprised that she was hesitating.
While the question could have a hundred contexts, she knew his meaning.
