Lockdown

Eighty-seven

‘How many people did you say again?’

The three men were standing on the concrete plinth, Ty with his hand poised behind Lock’s back lest his friend suffer a blackout.

‘In this immediate vicinity, we estimate eight hundred thousand,’ said Frisk.

‘Evacuation?’ asked Ty.

‘Not an option.’

‘Why not?’

‘You want to tell just short of a million folks we have one of the world’s most notorious terrorists on the loose with a bunch of explosives strapped to her chest, go right ahead. We’d probably lose a few thousand in the crush alone.’

Lock knew that Frisk was right. This was every jihadist’s wet dream made flesh. Perfect for a suicide attack. Lots and lots of people crammed into a small space. Beyond that there was infinite scope for the creation of panic. And, as Frisk had already pointed out, panic might just take out more people than the bomb. Although if Mareta was here somewhere and she did detonate the device, panic would prove an ideal secondary device.

‘People are used to seeing this kind of law enforcement presence on New Year’s Eve,’ Frisk pointed out.

‘What about closing the bridges and tunnels?’

‘We’ve been as non-specific as possible and so far the news people are helping us out with the embargo.’

Lock thought suddenly of Carrie. He flashed back to what Brand had said, how she’d been hit by an SUV, and how relieved he’d been when Ty told him that she was alive and well.

‘You think Mareta’s here?’ Frisk asked.

Lock climbed back down off the plinth, then leaned over for one final look at the huddled masses below. ‘Yeah, she’s here,’ he said, turning for the stairwell.