Read Online Manhattan Lockdown by Paul Batista - Free Book Online Page A

expanse of the Triboro Bridge glittered in the darkness. There was no ordinary traffic. Red-and-blue emergency lights rotated everywhere: on the FDR Drive, the bridge, and the Queens waterfront. On the surface of the river, which normally was alive even at night with heavy tug boats and barges gliding noiselessly upriver and downriver, there were only police and Coast Guard patrol boats. Their glaring, probing beams swept through the darkness. An hour earlier, two men had drowned trying to swim from Manhattan to Queens. The currents in the East River, which was not really a river but an immense estuary of the Atlantic, were powerful, overwhelming, controlled by oceanic tides.
    There were no lights on the terrace. For the fifth time, Roland touched his cell phone, its light illuminating his face, and scrolled to John Hewitt-Gordan’s number in England. Sarah’s father had left three messages for Roland since early afternoon. By the time of the last message, John’s clipped aristocratic voice had weakened slightly. “Roland, please, if you can call that would be much appreciated. I know you must be hellishly busy.”
    Roland genuinely liked the man, although they could not have come from more distinct worlds. John had a wry sense of humor. He called Roland “Mr. Mayor,” and Roland called him “Mr. Major.” It was their way, simply by changing a letter, to get comfortable with each other.
    Roland knew that John Hewitt-Gordan loved his daughter profoundly. She was his only child. His wife had died ten years earlier in a horrific car crash. Roland knew he had to speak to him, but he was mentally and emotionally disorganized by the craziness of the day, the lingering clamor of event after event, fear after fear, pain, anger, and the images of dead bodies and the voices of the dying and the wounded.
    Tom Greenwood, a police lieutenant Gina Carbone had assigned to lead a squad of armed guards to follow Roland through the night, said, “Mr. Mayor, it’s not a good idea to sit out here with that cell phone screen shining. Anybody can see it from a mile away.”
    In fact, Greenwood and Gina hadn’t wanted Roland to spend the night at the mansion. There were hotel rooms, preselected as part of the emergency plans, where he and other high-ranking officials could stay as anonymously as tourists. Gracie Mansion, a cream-colored colonial house completely different from any other building in Manhattan, was a target of opportunity. When he had told her he was headed to the mansion for the night because, he said, it was “home,” Gina Carbone answered, “Not a good idea, Roland. The mansion’s vulnerable. Impossible to guarantee your safety.”
    Fixing his stare on the Triboro Bridge, Roland tapped the screen where John Hewitt-Gordan’s name appeared. It was the middle of the night in England. He hoped that John was sleeping, oblivious to the vibration of his cell phone or its ring.
    John picked up on the first ring. “Roland?”
    â€œJohn?”
    John was a consummate realist. His training at Sandhurst, the British equivalent of West Point, and his thirty-year career in the British Army’s intelligence service had infused him with the rigors of truth, candid assessments, and the ability to differentiate between rumor and fact. He asked, “Is it true? Is Sarah dead?”
    â€œYes.” Suddenly Roland felt his throat constrict. “She is. I’m so, so sorry, John.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œShe put together a birthday party for me. It was on the roof garden of the museum overlooking Central Park. She was very happy. And then the bombs went off.”
    Roland heard this austere, elegant man inhale sharply and sob. Roland quietly asked, “Do you want to hear more?”
    â€œIndeed, I need to hear this, Roland.”
    â€œThere were three explosions. She died instantly in the first one, John. She couldn’t have