Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

Battery Park, New York City

As the Russian president neared the end of his speech, the catcalls from the protestors increased.

Nikolai Vlasik’s jaw muscles throbbed as Sergei Serov took him aside. Hank Young, hand cupped over his ear as information was relayed to him, had again urged the Russian delegation to evacuate.

Again, Serov had refused, saying the delegation would depart only after the event was finished, only after the other dignitaries had spoken.

Irritated, Young left to seek authority to overrule Serov. When Young was out of earshot, Serov smirked to Vlasik.

“We have the situation under control,” Serov said. “Never forget, Nikolai, Mother Russia has the best intelligence-gathering apparatus the world has ever known. We do not frighten easily and have no intention to leave until the dedication ends.”

Vlasik ignored Serov and performed another radio check with his team, scanning the crowd. The protestors wailed as the president said, “I wish to express my respect for the courage of the people of-”

The president stopped.

His head snapped up as if he’d been shocked. Bright red droplets suddenly appeared on his face and red streaked across the Mykrekistani president’s face and neck as he’d risen to rush to the podium.

By reflex, Vlasik and the Secret Service detail’s training kicked in. Within a heartbeat agents covered the Russian president, shielding him amid screams as other agents yanked dignitaries from the stage.

Chairs were toppled and the crowd erupted as terrified people ran, crouched and crawled in every direction as security teams drew weapons.

A wave of uniformed NYPD officers charged at the protestors.

News crews swung into action covering all angles of the turmoil.

Frantic calls were made to news desks to go live with coverage as one seasoned network crew, already live, issued a report within seconds.

“…yes, it appears the Russian president has been wounded in some sort of attack! Other dignitaries have also been injured….”

Bryant Park, Manhattan, New York City

Jeff’s mind was racing when he got to Bryant Park.

The property sat in the heart of midtown on ten treed acres of beautiful green lawn behind the New York Public Library’s main branch.

The urban oasis was surrounded by glass-and-steel skyscrapers, including the Bank of America Tower, whose height rivaled the Empire State Building.

A crowd of nearly fifteen hundred people had gathered for an event to take place on a platform raised at the rear of the library overlooking the great lawn.

Russia’s first lady and the wife of Mykrekistan’s president were leading an outdoor cultural presentation of newly discovered archived manuscripts by Russian masters such as Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov and Mykrekistan’s literary greats.

The dignitaries who would accept the donation were the wives of New York’s mayor, New York’s governor, the head of the New York Public Library and several other officials. The public would be allowed an exclusive viewing of the documents immediately after the event.

However, the ceremony was late getting started. A man in a suit approached the podium. His face was grim.

At that point, Jeff had arrived on the Fortieth Street side of the park, which was ringed with barricades, uniformed officers and security agents wearing earpieces and dark glasses. Emergency vehicles were positioned everywhere at Fortieth and Forty-second Streets, Fifth and Sixth Avenues.

At the periphery there were pockets of protestors displaying placards that were anti-Russian and called for an independent Mykrekistan. Jeff walked by them just as the air split with an announcement over the public-address speakers from the lone man on the stage.

“Our apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We have to delay just a bit longer. We ask for your understanding, but we may be forced to postpone today’s event. We’ll get back to you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”

Groans rose from the crowd with ripples of questions.

“Postpone? Why? What for? What’s going on?”

Jeff noticed a cluster of news vehicles a distance away just inside the barricades not far from the platform. Crews were on cell phones or radios, some were anxious, yelling questions into their phones, while others were packing up.

Maybe they know something?

Jeff hurried toward them.

Behind the stage, out of public view, the Russian first lady, her face taut with concern, was talking on a cell phone to Nikolai Vlasik.

“He’s all right, ma’am,” Vlasik shouted over sirens and uproar. “We’ve got everyone out!”

“Put him on the phone, Nikolai!”

There was commotion.

“Hello, my love, I am fine. We are all fine! Carry on! I’m going to change out of my ruined suit. You carry on!”

The first lady was encircled by Russian and U.S. security agents. She smiled at the good news, nodded big nods to the Mykrekistan president’s wife and the two women hugged each other in tearful relief.

Word was immediately passed to the officials that the Bryant Park event was to continue as planned.

The metal police barricades separated Jeff from the news crews but from his side he’d gotten near enough to see a woman in an intense cell phone conversation.

“Do we go to Battery Park, or stay here, Gilroy? Wait! Len’s got something.”

A man stepped out of their news van, the words and logo for 99 NewsLine blared across the panels.

“NBC’s reporting that the Battery Park protestors tossed balloons filled with stage blood at the Russians to represent the bloodshed of the unrest in Mykrekistan. They’re shaken up but no injuries, nothing more.”

“Okay, Gilroy?” the woman said into the phone. “Did you get that? What’s Len got from NBC? We’re going to stay at Bryant and cover. Okay.”

The woman hung up.

“Excuse me!” Jeff said, removing his ball cap and glasses. “I need some help fast.”

After a moment, recognition dawned on the faces of the seasoned newspeople.

“Hey, you’re…”

On the opposite side of Bryant Park on Forty-second Street, two uniformed NYPD officers approached other officers posted at the barricade. They nodded to the woman with them with the press tag, notebook and worried look on her face under her sunglasses and ball cap.

“She’s late for this thing,” Bulat Tatayev told the young officers. “We’re taking her in.”

The two cops looked the woman over.

“She’s with you, then?” one of the cops said to Tatayev.

“Unfortunately.”

“Who’re you guys with? We got a lot of new faces down here.”

“The Forty-sixth.”

“The Forty-sixth in the Bronx? You have our sympathies. Be our guest.”

The officers stepped aside and Tatayev and the other “cop” escorted Sarah through the crowd, positioning her in center front of the platform just as the event resumed, with the dignitaries taking their designated seats near the podium.

At a Fortieth Street entrance to Bryant Park, two NYPD uniform officers were instructing police to open the barricade so the idling white EMS ambulance they were escorting could enter.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, what is this?” one of the officers guarding the entrance asked the newcomers.

“We got orders to get this vehicle inside and close to the platform?”

“Who authorized that?”

“Our Lieu. We’re beefing up after Battery Park. This event is getting started. Come on, buddy, open up!”

The ambulance was edging forward to emphasize the point.

After a few seconds the officer and his partners relented and opened the barricades, allowing the ambulance entry into the park not far from the platform.