More than ever, the melee had convinced Swope that violence was not the answer: that the one percenters and the anti-one-percenters were all part of the same conspiracy of hatred, evil, and violence. Swope now understood that he could wait no longer — he must act to stop the madness rising on all sides.
It was a few minutes past one in the morning when Swope crossed Grand Army Plaza and headed into the winter fastness of Central Park. As he’d walked up Fifth Avenue, he had been forced to thread his way through knots of laughing, drunken New Year’s revelers, but now as he moved deeper into the park, past the zoo and Wollman Rink, their numbers thinned until he was left blessedly alone.
He had a lot on his mind. With this latest murder, the city seemed to boil over. It was not just the protest at 432 Park. There were more stories of the super-rich fleeing. Some guy had started a blog that cataloged the private jets taking off from Teterboro Airport, with photos taken with a massive telephoto lens showing individual billionaires and their families climbing into their Gulfstreams and Learjets and modified B727s — hedge fund managers, captains of finance, Russian oligarchs, and Saudi princes. The demonstrations favoring the Decapitator, the “down with the one percenters” rabble, had also intensified, with one demonstration blocking Wall Street for four hours until the police finally broke it up.
The responses to his call for a bonfire of the vanities had also swelled enormously — so many, in fact, that he had decided the time was ripe to put his plans into action. It was a true miracle — well over a hundred thousand people had responded and claimed to be on their way to New York City, or already there, awaiting his announcement of where and when. The papers were calling New York the City of Endless Night. Well, and so it was, but with God’s help he would turn it into the City of Endless Righteousness. He would show everyone, rich and poor alike, that all wealth and luxury were anathema to eternal life.
When he reached the Sheep Meadow, he paused. Crossing it, he continued to the Mall, walked north, passed Bethesda Fountain, then skirted the mazy byways of the Ramble, deep in thought. Savonarola had held his original bonfire in the central square of Florence. That had been the heart of the city, an ideal place to broadcast his message. But today’s New York was different. You couldn’t stage a bonfire in Times Square — not only was it overrun with tourists, but the police presence was so heavy it would be over before it started. No — his ideal spot would be large, open, and easy to get to from any number of directions. His followers, carrying their luxuries to be burned in the fire, would need to have time to gather, start the bonfire, and throw in their “vanities.” It was imperative that they not be stopped too quickly.
Stopped. Swope noticed that his own feet had stopped, as if of their own accord. He glanced around. There were only a few distant revelers visible now, hurrying out of the park and heading for home. To his left rose the dark bulk of Belvedere Castle, its battlements illuminated by the glow of Manhattan. Beyond lay the monolithic wall of Central Park West apartment buildings, marching northward in an endless procession, broken by the façade of the Museum of Natural History. And directly before him, spread out in all its glory, stretching on almost as far as the eye could see until it terminated at the dark wall of trees surrounding the reservoir, lay the Great Lawn.
The Great Lawn. Even the name resonated deeply within Swope. This, indeed, was a spot capable of holding the multitudes that would respond to his call. This, indeed, was a central location, easily accessible by all. This, indeed, was an ideal place for a bonfire — and a place that the police would not be able to lock down and clear out.
A great conviction rose up in his mind: as if of their own accord, guided by heaven, his feet had led him to the perfect spot.
He took a step forward, then another; and then, charged with a sudden onrushing of emotion, he planted his feet in the grass and spoke the first words he had said aloud in more than two days:
“Here shall be the bonfire of the vanities!”
43
It had taken Longstreet some time to make the phone calls and apply the necessary pressure, especially over a holiday, but by 1 PM on New Year’s Day, Pendergast’s Rolls was once more creeping into the underground parking garage of the DigiFlood complex in Lower Manhattan. The guards meeting their car led them to what seemed the farthest spot from the elevators, necessitating a five-minute walk back to the entrance, where they were denied access to the private elevators, and instead were required to take the concrete stairs up to street level and enter the building through the main lobby. And here they were selected for extra vetting by security. Howard Longstreet felt his annoyance rising, but he kept his mouth shut. This was Pendergast’s deal, and the special agent seemed to take it in stride, unperturbed, not remarking on the treatment that could only, Longstreet felt, be aimed at humiliating them.
At last they cleared security and rode an elevator to the top floor. Now they were ushered into a small, windowless room, where they were seated and made to wait, watched over by an impassive young drone in an expensive suit.
After an hour in the room, with no visible sign of annoyance from Pendergast, Longstreet finally lost his temper. “This is outrageous!” he said to the drone. “Two senior FBI agents on an active investigation, being obstructed! We’re doing Ozmian a favor by trying to solve the case of his murdered daughter — and we’re forced to sit here like this?”
The drone only nodded. “I’m sorry — orders.”
Longstreet turned to Pendergast. “I’d just as soon go back to Federal Plaza, get a court order ourselves — and a SWAT team for good measure — and beat down the man’s door with a battering ram.”
“Du calme, H; du calme. All this is obviously calculated to create a particular effect — as was the case with my visit here two days ago. Mr. Ozmian wishes to demonstrate total control of the situation. Let us allow him to believe he has that. Remember what you told me earlier: this is my show; you’re just along to observe. Even in the waiting, we’ve been shown valuable information.”
Longstreet swallowed and sat back, determined to let Pendergast handle it his way. The two sat in the room for another half an hour before the door opened once again and they were at last ushered into Ozmian’s private eyrie. As they approached the huge double doors through soaring spaces, Longstreet was surprised at the number of people busily working all around them on what was a major holiday. Things such as holidays probably meant very little to Anton Ozmian.
The man himself was sitting behind his massive desk, arms folded and fingers interlaced on the surface of black granite. He regarded them impassively. A woman sat in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs arrayed before the desk. She seemed more interested in the view of New York Harbor through the floor-to-ceiling windows than she was in the new arrivals.
After an insolently lengthy interval of silence, Ozmian gestured for Pendergast and Longstreet to take seats. “Special Agent Pendergast,” he said laconically. “How nice to see you again.” He turned to Longstreet. “And you are—?”
“Howard Longstreet, executive associate director for intelligence.”
“Ah, of course. You’re the person responsible for expediting this meeting.”
Longstreet began to speak, but Pendergast restrained him with a gentle hand on his arm.
Ozmian smirked at Longstreet. “Well, I’m pleased you’re here. Because this investigation could certainly use some intelligence.” The CEO turned his attention back to Pendergast. “No doubt you’ve come to fill me in on the blitzkrieg swiftness and rapier-like brilliance with which you’ve been advancing the case.”