Noon came and went and there was no sign of Proverb. The bastard was going to milk the situation for all it was worth by showing up late. At twelve-thirteen, Winters' tracy started flashing.
"Winters."
"This is to all officers. The Proverb motorcade will be entering the square in three minutes."
"Winters, ten four."
At the briefing, he had been told that Proverb was going to be coming up along Eighth Street. Winters started moving in that direction, intending to get pictures of the crazies who actually mobbed the car. The other cameramen had also received the word and were going the same way. That, in turn, tipped off the crowd. A bottleneck was created at the entrance to Eighth Street, and the PD uniforms started pushing back the crowd. Despite all the hands-off warnings, the police were none too gentle in their treatment. Arms linked and batons held in front of them, they cleared a path by cutting the mass of people in half with a flying wedge that then opened out to push everyone back onto the sidewalk. There was scrabbling and shoving, and a sudden surge pushed a half-dozen bystanders through the plate-glass window of the diner on the corner. Even that incident, however, did not seem to spoil the general euphoria.
Winters' tracy was flashing again.
"This is to all officers. The Proverb motorcade is entering the area. You are now on full alert."
Four NYPD motorcyclists came first on big Harley Davidson Powerglides, gunning their engines and looking around warily for any sign of trouble. They were followed by a Jeep Seminole with four armed rentacops riding in it and a rack gun quad-mounted on the roll bar. Behind the Jeep was Proverb's white limousine, a custom armored stretch Cadillac, with more security walking beside it and riding on the running boards. A second Jeep with a full complement of rentacops brought up the rear.
The motorcade eased its way around the square at slightly less than walking pace. Winters found himself in the middle of the scrimmage in front of the car. The police gave no special treatment to the camera crews, and Winters found himself jostled and shoved around just like the ordinary spectators. A couple of cops seemed to take a particular delight in manhandling him, and he suspected that they knew he was a deacon by the KGOD logo on his camera. He looked for their badge numbers and cursed when he found that they had been covered up by electrical tape, common practice on crowd control details that were expected to turn hairy.
The parade finally came to a stop in front of the CCC building. The limo pulled up directly in front of the podium. The sidewalk had been cleared for ten yards in either direction; only cameramen, reporters, and a lot of men in dark suits who were either deacons or NYPD remained. The car door opened. The big cowboy bodyguard got out first and scanned the crowd. There was a roar of almost hysterical applause, and the uniforms had trouble holding back the struggling front rows of the mob. Seemingly satisfied that the situation was under control, the cowboy leaned into the car and beckoned. The big Muslim also got out, and uniformed cops moved in to surround them, struggling with the media who also wanted to get as close to their man as possible. A small figure in a white suit emerged from the car. Flanked by his bodyguards and the surrounding press of police and media, he moved quickly to the steps of the podium and the safety of its Plexiglas deflector screens. Then, at the foot of the steps, there was some sort of disturbance, followed by the sound of shots.
Kline
The TV in the C86 computer section was tuned to the pre-censor satellite feed for the arrival of Proverb in the square out front. Cynthia had quickly discovered that a posting to C86 was supposed to be something of a privilege. All the women there were exceedingly pretty and very free in their interpretations of the standard uniform. They also did very little except work on their nails and talk on the phone. C86 was a data access pool for a group of senior deacons, particularly senior deacons who liked to stop by, chat with pretty gills, and invite them to dinner. It was considered diplomatic to accept at least some of the invitations. Cynthia had decided to play that part by ear.
There was a ripple of interest as the motorcade made its way slowly through the crowd in front of the building. One of her colleagues, a petite blonde called Toni, with soap-opera hair and perfect makeup, looked up from her bootleg copy of Elle.
"They're really making a production out of all this."
Her friend Laura was well informed but tended to chew gun. She was reputed to be the mistress of Senior Deacon Spencer. She snapped her gum and looked up at the TV screen. "Proverb's got to work it for all he's worth. He's got his ass in a vise. It's only the president that's keeping him out of Joshua."
Cynthia was aware that Harry Carlisle was down in the crowd somewhere. He had called her a number of times and twice stopped by her apartment late at night. She knew that she was running an unreasonable risk by involving herself with someone, particularly someone with such a dubious political reputation, but she just could not bring herself to turn him away.
Proverb was getting out of the car. The camera was jostled by a uniformed cop, and the feed cut to a long shot from a helicopter. It came back to show a close-up of Proverb preparing to mount the steps to the podium that had been set up. Suddenly there was some sort of commotion and the sound of shots on the audio. The women's attention was riveted to the screen.
"My God, have they shot him?"
Carlisle
As the man lunged, there was a slow-motion moment of chaos. Confused hands reached out for him. The two bodyguards were the fastest to react. Rashid Murjeen dived to the floor, taking Proverb down with him. There were three shots. The crowd was screaming. The attacker was instantly buried under a pack of bodies. Everyone's gun was out, and an explosion of panicked firing threatened.
Carlisle was yelling as loud as he could, trying to cut through the confusion of voices. "Stay cool! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"
Cops were already clearing the area. Carlisle pulled out his lieutenant's shield and pushed his way through. Someone was shouting for paramedics.
"There's a man down here!"
At first he thought the victim was Proverb. But, though blood covered the preacher's white suit, Proverb was being helped to his feet by Joe Don Cutler. Rashid Murjeen was stretched out on the sidewalk. A uniform was bending over him, gloves off, feeling for his pulse.
"He's dead," the man announced.
Carlisle looked quickly around. Two uniforms and two plain-clothes men had the gunman pinned to the ground; a cameraman was down on his knees shooting into the killer's face. A half-dozen more officers stood around him with their guns out. Carlisle hurried over to the group.
"Don't hurt him! We want him alive!" he ordered.
"Do we move him?"
"Take him to one of our holding cells. Do everything you can to keep the deacons away from him."
The assassin was picked up and taken into the building at a run.
Carlisle shouted to Reeves. "Go in with them and do your best to head off the deacons."
He turned his attention to Proverb. With Cutler standing protectively over him, the preacher was kneeling on the sidewalk in an attitude of prayer. The cameras were working overtime. Carlisle could not believe that the man could be that cool. He held out his badge.
"Lieutenant Harry Carlisle, Reverend Proverb. I think we should get you inside."
"I think it's more important that I talk to the people and calm their fears. There must not be another riot."
Carlisle had to admit that Proverb was right. He just could not believe that the man could be so composed so soon after an assassination attempt and with one of his bodyguards dead on the ground. He glanced at Cutler.