The only individual who showed any sign of being aware of Winters' situation was Senior Deacon Dreisler, and even he had not come through with the orders that he had talked about in the hospital. All he had heard from Dreisler was a cryptic message that he should be present at the Astor Place complex that Sunday and ready for any orders. Now it was Sunday, and he sat at his workstation, staring at a blank screen and waiting for a silent phone to ring. It occurred to him that it was probably just as well that he was not publicly linked with Dreisler. The senior deacon might well be the kiss of death to any plans Winters may have had to reinstate himself with his comrades. The purges that Dreisler had been conducting had made him the most feared and hated man in the service. Anyone connected with him and his department was looked on as an informer and a traitor.
The junior deacons' squad room was all but deserted. Almost everybody was on the streets. A few deacons came and went, but they had the air of men passing through on more important business. There were no greetings or reports of what was going on outside. They treated him as if he were invisible. At one point, Thomas had come in, looking as if he were about to speak; but then his face had stiffened and he walked out without a word.
The hours dragged by. One o'clock, two o'clock. His monitors remained strangely blank. He ran a function check, which told him that everything was working normally. There was just no data being fed in. Was there some sort of security blanket that no one had bothered to tell him about? When, at about three-thirty, the primary screen suddenly flashed into life, he almost started in his seat. There were just two words on the screen.
Winters leaned forward eagerly. The words remained on the screen for thirty seconds, and then they were replaced by a specific instruction.
He keyed in the code. The screen disintegrated into colored moire patterns for about fifteen seconds and then it cleared.
REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE BASEMENT ARMORY.
Winters' heart leapt. They did have a job for him after all. Perhaps he was not a total outcast. He was on his feet, buttoning his jacket.
As he was waiting for the elevator, live men in windbreakers and blue jeans turned into the corridor. They had machine pistols slung over their shoulders and they looked like PD detectives. What the hell were armed cops doing up here?
One of them called out to him. "Hey, you! Where do you think you're going? "
Winters looked around angrily. Who did they think they were? "Who wants to know?"
At that moment, the elevator door slid open. The PD men, if that was indeed what they were, quickened their pace. He swiftly stepped into the elevator car and thumbed the 'door close' button. The doors hissed shut and began to descend.
When he arrived at the armory, there were some twenty junior deacons assembled there, surly and more than a little confused. Winters received a few hostile glances, but nobody said anything. Thomas appeared to have taken charge.
"I've called you all down here because there seem to be some strange things going on in this building."
There were murmurs of agreement.
"Something is disrupting internal communication, and a number of channels to the outside are not responding. In addition to that, some of the surveillance cameras are down, but the ones that are left are showing armed groups of PD detectives patrolling the building, and there's no record of any authorization for this. Being of a curious disposition, I ran a check on the office of our friend Lieutenant Carlisle."
The name was greeted with catcalls.
"There's a bugscrambler being used down there."
The catcalls turned to angry muttering.
Thomas ignored the noise. "Accordingly, I suggest that we draw heavy weapons, divide into small groups, and conduct a systematic reconnaissance of the building."
A deacon called Erhardt raised his hand. "What do we do if we come across one of these groups of PD? "
"We order them to return to their own areas pending a full investigation."
"And if they refuse?"
"That's why we're drawing heavy weapons."
Mansard
"Will you look at that? It's like something out of an old news-tape of Vietnam or Honduras. They ought to be playing 'Ride of the Valkyries.' "
The presidential aerocade was coming down the river, led by a pair of King David light attack helicopters, flicking from side to side across the width of the Hudson, close to the water, like giant mosquitoes. Behind them there were four old, solid Hueys, running straight ahead, line abreast. The president's big Nehemiah – Air Force Four – came next, flanked by a pair of Herod gunships. Four more Hueys brought up the rear. The official formation was also surrounded and followed by a dozen or more police helicopters and news choppers, which stood off at a respectful distance. The slap of their massed rotors was like the low rumble of distant thunder.
"Behold, the Lord cometh."
"Old Larry sure does like to make an entrance."
Charlie Mansard looked at his watch. It was four fifty-live. "Old Larry's ten minutes late."
Mansard was very conscious of time. The show was due to start at six. There was an hour of intro filler, the choir, the massed flagwavers and baton twirlers, the dancers, and the celebrity walk-ons. Faithful himself went on at seven. He would do an hour, and at exactly seven fifty, just as he was running up to the final climax, Mansard's people would light up the four-sky walkers, and the tugs would slowly move the barges upriver.
"Let's hope they haven't started screwing up the schedule."
Carlisle
Carlisle looked from the phone to the digital clock on his desk. It was two minutes before four. He had been doing the same thing for the last thirteen minutes. The signal should have come already. There was a icy liquid feeling in his stomach, and his shoulder muscles were threatening to cramp with tension. Was the whole thing going bad before it had even started? He was all too well aware that he did not stand a chance if Dreisler failed. He was doing his best to keep his imagination tamped down. The reverb helmet was all too vivid and recent in his memory.
"Come on, damn it."
The phone warbled, and he grabbed for it like a starving man grabbing fora crust. "Carlisle."
There was a synthivoice at the other end, only barely cutting through the hiss created by multiple scrambling. "The Vulture has landed."
That was it. The signal was clear. Larry Faithful was down on Liberty Island. The Dreisler plot was going ahead, and from that moment on there was absolutely no turning back. It was win – or lose everything. He broke the connection and keyed in a fresh code. The phone on the other end rang only once.
"Reeves." The detective sounded tense. He clearly had a good idea how far out on a limb they were, even if he did not know the real reasons.
"It's me, Carlisle. I just received the signal that I've been waiting for. It's time to go. Are you still in a position to seal all the entrances to the building?"
"Shield controls are right in front of me."
"So seal us in."
Still cradling the phone under his chin, Carlisle tapped a code into his computer. An image of the exterior of the main entrance came up on the primary screen while the smaller ones showed split screens of the other entrances. The two deacon guards outside the main doors spun around in amazement as the heavy steel shutters started to roll down. One of them drew his pistol. Carlisle wondered what the man intended to do. The shutters could stop a rocket attack. Neither of the men seemed to have the presence of mind to duck back inside before the shutters closed completely.