Lockdown

Eighty-nine

Lock had never known the members of the Fourth Estate so subdued. Even in the middle of a war zone the media could be relied on to leaven the darkest moments with a gallows humour to make the most cynical special ops soldier discover his inner sense of political correctness. This was different, though.

They’d convened in a broadcast unit, rigged to take up every separate camera feed. On air, the folks at home were viewing crowd shots from the previous year’s festivities with colour commentary to match. No one had called in to complain. Either America was too toasted or the networks needed to find a new angle.

Lock sat next to Carrie and scanned the screens, occasionally prompting her to ask if a camera operator could take a closer look at an area of the crowd. Other than that, Lock was silent, focused. Concentrating on seeing rather than just looking. Men who did his job, and did it well, knew that most people walked around eyes open, wide asleep. They also knew it wasn’t a luxury afforded to them.

Carrie reached over and touched his hand. He withdrew it with a word: ‘Later.’ Then, to soften the blow, ‘OK?’

She sighed. ‘OK.’

Down the gallery, Ty was taking a more robust approach with his supervising producer. ‘No, that one, asshole. That one!’

Even a short time with Ty had left the producer, a man clearly more accustomed to being barker than barkee, watery-eyed and with a distinct quiver in his lower lip.

‘Now, go in. Zoom, baby. Zoom.’

A moment later the subject of his interest turned to reveal a thick goatee perched above a prominent Adam’s apple.

‘Damn,’ he groaned.

Frisk paced the length of carpet behind them. ‘Any luck?’

Lock shook his head. ‘At least when you’re looking for a needle in a haystack, the haystack doesn’t keep moving.’

A voice from further down the gallery: ‘Those assholes.’

Heads rotated and eyes swivelled to a monitor at the far end, live feed of the revelry in Times Square. In the foreground the same frat boy correspondent whom Carrie had jousted with back at the Stokes/Van Straten press conference was on camera. At chest height a rolling banner of bad tidings: Major Security Breach at Bio-Terror Facility. . Ebola Virus Missing. . Times Square Believed Target.

The door opened, and a wall of perfume with more knock-down power than any bio-weapon preceded Gail Reindl into the trailer as cell phones chirped to life. ‘OK, Carrie, cat’s out of the bag, let’s get you in front of that camera.’

As the TV people headed out, Lock’s gaze fixed on the monitors as, slowly, the news began to filter through to the vast crowd. Cell phones jammed to their heads, some people were already on the move, heading out of the square, pushing their way if they had to. The collective result of so many individuals trying to break away from the crowd was to channel it in great funnels of humanity. They looked like plankton surging in every direction to escape an unseen predator.

Frisk stood behind him. ‘Ah, shit.’

Then Lock spotted something. A closer shot of a small section of the crowd. A few isolated figures. Maybe two dozen. He got to his feet, trigger finger pressed to the screen. ‘There. Top left edge of the frame. Get closer on her.’

One of the remaining techs whispered into his microphone, and the image reframed.

A few seconds later, the woman was caught in the centre of the frame. She was wearing a heavily padded ski jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

‘Closer. The face. The face.’

The woman half turned, and from the screen, Mareta Yuzik stared back at them.