Born to Run

by John M. Green

  ISABEL Diaz was at a town hall meeting in Harlem when one of the TV reporters cleared by security barged onto the stage, stuck his microphone at her and demanded her reaction. The image that viewers would hang onto was her serene poise.

  It was almost as if Isabel had prepared for this moment… that she knew it was coming.

  At first it was unnerving—“how could anyone be so composed?”—but as the seconds dragged on, her unruffled tranquillity was soothing to those watching: how evenly she listened, how she asked the reporter a couple of sensible clarifying questions (which he had no answer to), and how she finished with, “My heart goes out to anyone who has been injured and their loved ones. My prayers…” She bowed her head for a moment and looked up again into the camera. “Please… those of you watching, please join me… and all of us here in Harlem… in a moment of silent prayer.” The camera panned the town hall as everyone stood and bowed their heads with her and then, for fifteen long seconds, all that could be heard was an occasional shuffle of feet or a suppressed cough.

  Finally, Isabel looked up and her eyes were grim, “Our world has hardened, but we must not. However, we must and we will defend our country, our way of life … and our families. I have confidence that our President, and our next president, will lead us in doing just that.”

  She paused for a moment, looked to the side and nodded, then faced the camera and said, “All of us who aren’t in the front line dealing with the emergency, please stay calm. Do what police or other emergency officials advise you.” She coughed into her fist and continued, “Perhaps the best thing for all of us here on Manhattan would be just to walk quietly on home and give our families and neighbours a hug. If you’re sitting in a car in a traffic jam, check with the police, park your car and walk home… come back for it tomorrow. Tonight is a remarkable night. A catastrophe has been averted because we were prepared… Let us all sing songs of peace and thanks in our streets. If you can’t get home, buy a candle and go to Central Park, to any park, and sing for peace and thanks there. I have every confidence this will be under control quickly. May God bless America.”

  THE call for calm that the networks mostly kept replaying that night was Isabel’s, not the official candidates’ nor even President Joe Biden’s, his own beamed from Air Force One, since he was mid-flight on his way back from a G20 meeting in Bonn when it happened.

  Foster, who was until then poised as the clear winner would spend the next three weeks clambering back from his slapstick debacle.

  Hank’s performance would largely absolve his involvement in the safety code violations causing the Railcar nightclub fire and more, turn him into a mildly heroic figure.

  And Isabel? Once again, she demonstrated her calibre; that she stood high above the others, with the mettle and the stature—though not the legal status—to lead the nation.

  DESPITE Isabel’s soothing message, by 10:30 PM Manhattan’s 1.7 million residents, and the million commuters still stuck there were sagging. Not even the news that President Biden was diverting his flight to New York did much to lift spirits.

  Around countless kitchen tables, hands were gratefully clasped. Bars and cafés were full, but hushed. Houses of worship across the nation, of all faiths, were open and overflowed. And parks and streets and neighbourhoods were alive with voices and restrained singing.

  Midnight drew closer. A glittering sea of candles being waved aloft flickered across the city. Hundreds of thousands of citizens spilled out of their apartment buildings and out of Central Park and filled the grid, washing slowly down Broadway, Sixth Avenue, Park Avenue, as though sucked, toward the Twin Towers memorial. Police helicopters shone their spotlight beams over the crowds, not in search but respect. Arms locked in arms.

  Manhattan’s heart was beating back at the dark, refusing to die.

  Behind all this, emergency services were tallying the damage and the casualties. Remarkably, despite the mass panic, and the hundreds of commuters who had been admitted to hospitals suffering bruises, cuts, shock and, in numerous cases, fractured ribs or limbs, there had still been only four fatalities directly attributable to the panic, apart from the five Muslim men in Strawberry Mansion and six seniors who suffered heart attacks after hearing the news.

  One of the direct fatalities had been crushed to death at the 42nd Street subway station. The brave Maxine Powers.

  HANK phoned Isabel, before the press got hold of it, to let her know that Karim Ahmed was one of the dead terrorists. He was surprised that she already knew, but he had bigger things to worry about, so he rang off.

  “Ahmed got his just desserts,” Ed continued, “for what he did to you alone.” But what caught Ed a little short was that for the first time, Isabel agreed with him about Karim. No more defending him, nor dredging up spurious excuses for his behaviour.

  Ed rubbed the stubble on his cheek, wondering what made her change her mind.

  39

  NAKED, DIANA TWISTED around and preened in front of her mirror. Her get-up as a dishevelled Philly drunk in the gutter had been good, but this was better. Squinting for one last careful inspection, she was satisfied every scrape of body paint was gone; it had been harder to remove than she’d expected. Her new sidekick, Daniel, had done too good a job applying it in the hard-to-get-to places, but then he seemed to be enjoying it.

  “Perfectly executed,” Isis had said. Like Jax had been, finally, though Diana didn’t want to remind herself about that. She crooked her freshly shaved and moisturised leg over the lip of the bathtub and as she started to repaint her toenails, she mentally walked back through the operation:

  Tuesday night, 2100 hours: Check equipment. Complete attire and make-up.

  Wednesday, 0100 hours: Diana and Daniel drop in Philadelphia, two blocks north of suspect row house.

  0115: Fix small (but loud) explosive canister under burnt-out abandoned car one block north, to be activated remotely later.

  0130: Arrive at suspect house. (Even for the vagrant she had role-played, this was a filthy hovel; she shuddered just thinking about it and smudged a toenail.)

  0131: Enter and check all rooms—Daniel upstairs, Diana downstairs. Find four men asleep in bedrooms and on sofas. Surprise one man hunched over on toilet, and pop him with a jab from a Clip’n’Drip pack. Pop the remaining men. Pocket all the used Clip’n’Drip packs. Forced sleep for all five men for eight hours straight. Dress all five of them. Another spasm of disgust… they were living like filthy pigs… and the guy squatting on the john… ugh! Carry them to the living room. (Daniel was useful.)

  0150: Seat men according to plan: Karim Ahmed plus one at coffee table, three others under window. Plug laptop into wall socket and power up. Check wireless broadband link in full operation. Check and open links to subway video cameras. Check link to detonators. Remove weapons from carryalls and check ammunition magazines half-loaded. Place self-destructing bullet-launchers on inside of window casement facing street. Check loaded. Check remote sensor is operative.

  0230: Sit tight. No lights. No TV. Sleep in turns.

  0930: Bodies stir on schedule within five minutes of each other. Timing test: perfect. Top up tranquiliser doses. Use same dosage again, enough to dope up for eight more hours and be undetectable by the time the bodies are checked. Sleep in turns.

  1650: Dwayne confirms all 230 packages dispatched.

  1705: Prepare for exit. Set all weapons at allocated positions next to bodies. Plant “Shockwave” two-pager half under floor rug. Extract gin bottle and collapsed white stick out of microfibre bags. Roll up and shove empty bags down front of coveralls. Daniel to slip on mirrored wraparounds and extend white stick. Diana to carry gin bottle. Synchronise computer and watches. Set computer’s timer for 17:25. Check countdown sequence commences correctly. Check New York banner (with background music) to open up on laptop screen. (Nice touch.) Daniel to check street for passersby from upstairs window and get down fast.

  1707: On signal, trigger remote to detonate explosive under aban
doned car one block north. Check street again for witnesses—everyone is either running toward explosion or rushing into homes and slamming doors. Cover surgical gloves with woollen mittens.

  1708: Exit building. Daniel taps stick as he walks away. Diana, the drunk, remains on street nearby. Work still to do. Slumps in gutter.

  Perfect. She brushed a dab of blue on her toenail. Diana had a good life… And now, Isis was trusting her to set up the “what if the unthinkable really does happen?” scenario.

  This secretive band was not the quitting kind and Diana savoured their next moves, in awe at Isis’s fastidious precautions. The terrorist attack on the subway, specifically designed to fail in the last few seconds, was already working magnificently in stampeding the public to go back to voting “1” for security, and thus for Hank. But as Isis warned, stampedes can peter out as quickly as they start, and they can shift direction. She dwelt for a moment on the girl who died, as she brushed the final coat of lacquer over her toenails. Every war has collateral damage, she justified, and she slipped the nailbrush back into the bottle and screwed it tight.

  Isis called. Diana had more crucial work to do and it was thousands of miles away.

  40

  THE NEXT DAY, President Biden’s helicopter Marine One hovered over the Twin Towers memorial where people had stayed in vigil all night. It was a subdued crowd. After police cleared a space in the midst of the throng, the Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King dropped the President down to address them, and the nation.

  Head bowed over heavy shoulders, President Biden waited till the clock struck noon before he stepped up to the microphone. He raised his head and cast his eyes in a wide curve across the crowd. “Despite what they do, we’re still here,” he said to heartfelt but restrained applause. “We will always be here, no matter how hard they try.” The applause grew. “Once again, a President comes to this city at a tough time. But this is a tough city… and we are a tough nation. We will never cower before terror, nor be defeated by it.” The applause was tumultuous. “And last night we were not…”

  He praised the city’s courage and preparedness, and thanked the emergency and security agencies in New York and Pennsylvania, and continued. “What we unearthed,” he said, swallowing audibly, “was the unspeakable attempting the unthinkable,” and, his hand unsteady, he sent a shiver through the crowd even though they were already aware of the horror that might have been.

  What he didn’t say was that despite all the last few years’ efforts to upgrade security, including stationing federal and city employees at entrances to New York’s bridges, tunnels, subways, airports, ports and major monuments, and equipping them with body scanners and radiation and explosive detection devices, these five dead terrorists were armed with none of the nuclear, biological or chemical weapons the pricey high-tech equipment was designed to detect. The C-4 they used was a new sniffer-proof variety that had only been available to the military.

  “The evil plan of these men,” continued the President, “was to wreak true mass destruction on this, the world’s greatest city, by using conventional weapons but in a most unconventional way… And yet, what stopped them was conventional law enforcement.”

  Hardly.

  TOPPING off Hank’s brief but impressive performance that night, a susceptible public and media had finally started hailing him as a leader, and more amazingly, a hero. At last, Hank could crow about something important, and over the next few days it staggered even Isabel to hear him so coherent and passionate—her moments of toe-curling embarrassment were no more.

  Hank’s time had come.

  The good guys were back on track.

  Within a week, with only two more to Election Day, Hank’s support was ratcheting up. Gregory had withdrawn his resignation on the night of the attack on the subway—“In the national interest,” he claimed modestly—and was back in full flair directing the reinvigorated Hank & Perry Show. The tracking polls showed them bumping up to a more pleasing 48 percent. Bobby Foster had been dragged down, first as far as the 30s but he had started bouncing back and was now at 41. The “dish-drop drag” as Don Thomas had called it, was wearing off.

  The election outcome was going to be close—very close—so Gregory’s new campaign ads took on a vivid blush. He had his most aggressive fifteen-second spots playing six times a night in peak time, five nights running, on every network. One started with a quiet female voice over a blank screen with just a nudge of children squabbling in the background:

  Trial lawyers sure know how to side with a rapist or a murderer… but they never make the tough calls that could’ve protected the victims… us. America needs Hank Clemens, a man we can trust… with the experience to make those decisions…

  The clip ended abruptly with the crashing sound—but no image—of a breaking plate. The focus groups loved it. The lawyers hated it. The American Bar Association, no bunch of wimps, came out blubbering it was vilification, but apart from them few others cared.

  The ad was working beautifully for Hank. And it was only one of four.

  Don Thomas retaliated for Foster but made a titanic miscalculation. In truth, his ads were hardly more negative than Gregory’s but the voting tide was rushing so fast ahead of him he couldn’t seem to catch up. His most poisonous stole its venom from Hillary Clinton’s “It’s 3 AM and your children are asleep and the phone is ringing” anti-Obama ad during their 2007 primaries. Don’s opened with a shaky nail-bitten index finger hovering over the nuclear button. A voice, genteel and plummy like Hank’s, said “Fire” but what flashed up on screen was a newscast video of the Boston nightclub blaze. This time, the public rage was savage and Don had to pull the ad within hours.

  “SO now I’m the desperate one,” Foster fumed as he slammed down the newspaper. “Clemens attacks me and that’s fine, yet I can’t even whisper he’s a fucking arsonist without it creating a stink. Go figure!”

  SNAP!

  “And Don, get that fucking Niki Abbott out of here. She gets no more, ah, access. None.”

  Niki had already enjoyed plenty of access to Foster. More than Don knew.

  IT was getting down to the wire. Just as the polls had swung violently in Hank’s favour a week ago, Gregory knew they could easily swing back, especially if the “old Hank” revealed himself. There was no way he, or Hank, or Bill were going to let up the pressure on their most valuable asset, Isabel. No way could they countenance anything short of stapling her to Hank’s right hand during the final stretch.

  “If I’m stuck here, courtesy of you,” said Gregory in mock complaint, “you’re going to stay here too. This could be…”

  Isabel placed her finger over his mouth. She wouldn’t be quitting, not after what she’d gone through to get to this point. This wasn’t about her; it never had been. It was about doing what was right; about winning the best government for the nation.

  And with the right backup, even Hank Clemens would do fine.

  She smiled at Gregory like a cat that had just finished off a careless sparrow.

  41

  IT WAS FRIDAY before Election Tuesday. The weekend pundits were firming up their predictions for Saturday’s editions. The near-miss subway attack had blown Don Thomas’ strategy way off course and Hank had strong odds in his favour. Don had to manufacture an alternative scare campaign. It was a hackneyed classic, sure, but what else did he have? In it, Hank was portrayed as a lightweight, a stooge at the beck and call of sinister faceless men, all Republicans and thus evil, white, rich and old.

  He didn’t know how close he was.

  Again, the public reaction was not what Don had expected. Was he losing his touch? What came back to campaign HQ from the focus groups was… Hank seems so, you know, nice, chirpy, and he does know about national security… and so what if he is a stooge, so long as he’s Isabel’s stooge, and she’s rich, sure, but she’s not evil, white or old. We like her, so…

  With Isabel’s in-your-face, day-in-day-out backing, Hank’s mediocrity had strangely become
an attribute and perversely Don’s ad would only give it air.

  Don’s heaviest campaign burden had again become “that woman,” a term he had winced at in an earlier frustrating era. But this woman had clout with the electorate, not just sway in the corridors and closets of power.

  Even though she wasn’t officially running, Isabel Diaz was Foster’s real opposition.

  “This is a fucking phantom election,” Don swore to Foster over the phone. “We’re fighting Clemens, but everyone’s convinced that a vote for him’s a vote for Diaz. She’s not even on the voting paper. How do we fight that?”

  “You’re asking me?” said Foster.

  DON knew they couldn’t attack Isabel—she was America’s sweetheart, even more so after an absurd legal technicality had shouldered her to the sidelines. What the Foster campaign did now had to be directed squarely at Hank and yet, the cynical wine-soaked Washington media were already sloshing around and toasting the guy.

  But Don had faith. He’d only lost one campaign in his long career and this wasn’t going to be another. In his game, you could lose one presidential campaign and survive, but not two. He’d honed his instincts with experience and doggedness. His famous stoop developed over decades poring 24/7 over newspapers, newsletters, magazines, TV and web pages, never sleeping till every angle was covered, analysed and dealt with. A veteran of more campaigns at both federal and state level than almost anyone in the party, Don Thomas knew how to recognise a flake, and Hank was a flake.

  He had to expose him… he just didn’t know how, yet. And time was no friend.

  Don cloistered himself in Democrat campaign headquarters’ media room with a six-pack of Bud, two 25s of Marlboro Red and a small package from FedEx he’d just flown in—a DVD, according to the label his assistant saw before he snatched it from her hand and double-locked the door behind him. The tittle-tattle within the team was that Don had lost it; he’d given up on winning and had imported some porn, some beers and some smokes and was going to blow the campaign.