Clive Cussler - Polar Shift

"What went wrong?"

"The crazies targeted the World Trade Organization. What they call the 'power elite.' I was a district supervisor in charge of crowd control. We got caught with our pants around our ankles. Ended up with a hundred thousand demonstrators pissed off at what they said was an oppressive world trade system. There was looting, curfews, cops and National Guard running around shooting rubber bullets or tear gas at the nonviolent as well as violent protesters. The city ended up with an international black eye and a pile of lawsuits. Some people said the police overreacted. Others said they didn't do enough. Go figure."

"As you said, a major mess."

Malloy nodded. "But the Battle of Seattle was the turning point."

"In what way?"

"The protesters learned that marching down the street wasn't enough to get attention. Only direct action worked. You had to break things up, inconvenience people, disrupt the focus of the people in your bull's-eye."

"From what I've seen around the city today, the power elite have come a long way since Seattle."

"Hundred percent," Malloy said. "I was in Philly for the GOP convention when the anarchists made us look silly again. They'd raise hell, then run down the streets with a bunch of overweight cops chasing them. Created chaos and confusion. They stirred up the pot at the WTO conference in Miami too. We finally began to get a handle on things at the World Economic Forum here in 2002, and pretty much had our strategy in place for the Republican Convention in 2004."

"You kept disruptions to a minimum, but there were complaints about civil rights being violated."

"That's part of the protest strategy. These guys are sophisticated. It's mostly a small group of hard-core instigators that moves from city to city. They provoke authority hoping we'll overreact. Whoops!"

Malloy pulled off to the side, double-parking near a group of people carrying musical instruments, and barked into his hand radio.

"Nomad to MACC. Guerrilla musicians gathering for an unpermitted march from Union Square to Madison Square Garden."

Barnes scanned the sidewalk on both sides of the street. "I don't see anyone marching."

"They're walking in two-by-twos now. Nothing illegal about that. They'll start coming together in a minute-no, wait, there they go now."

The musicians were coalescing into larger groups, stepping off the curb into the street to form a procession. But before the parade began, police officers on bicycles and scooters swooped in from both sides and began to make arrests.

Barnes furiously scribbled notes.

"I'm impressed," he said. "That went off like clockwork."

"It should. That little maneuver was the result of years of experience. We're only dealing with an in-between economic conference, but there are hundreds of guests and protesters, so there's the potential of big trouble. The crazies are always trying to stay one step ahead of us."

"How do you tell the real fanatics from people who simply want to protest?"

"Pretty hard. We just arrest anyone who's a troublemaker and sort things out later." He took a ringing cell phone from its dashboard cradle and handed it to Barnes. "Check this out."

The reporter read the text on the phone's message screen. "It says that the scooter goon squad is wrapped around the guerrilla musicians. Telling people to avoid this neighborhood. Calling for cameras. Medics and legal observers. Says to blockade cops from arresting demonstrators harassing people in the Theater District. Who's this from?"

"The crazies. The cops aren't the only ones who learned from Seattle. The anarchists have their own MACC-type media center. They tell the activists what routes to take to stay away from the cops. While we shut down one operation, they're starting another." He laughed. "We're spending multimillions each year on security measures, and they use technology that's practically free."

"Don't they know you can read the same messages?"

"Sure. But the demonstrations are more spontaneous, so we're always playing cat-and-mouse games with each other. Intel is the name of the game. They're fast, but it comes down to numbers. We've got thirty-seven thousand cops, a blimp, helicopters, video cameras and two hundred of our guys have helmet video cameras connected to the security nerve center."

"Can't they monitor the police scanners?"

"We know that they do. Rapid response is the key. You know what they say in a fight, a good big guy can beat a good little guy any day. On a level playing field, we're going to win."

Barnes handed the phone to Malloy. "This appears to be for you."

The text printed on the message screen had changed.

GOOD MORNING, NOMAD. OR SHOULD WE CALL YOU FRANK, MR. MALLOY?

"Huh?" Malloy said. He looked at the phone in his hand as if it had turned to a snake.

"How the hell are they doing this?" he said, turning to Barnes.

The reporter shrugged and made some notes. Malloy tried to clear the screen, but a new message came on.

PLAYTIME.

The screen went blank. Malloy snatched up the radio and tried to call MACC, but the call wouldn't go through. The cell phone rang again. Malloy listened a few moments, and said, "I'll get right on it." He turned to Barnes, his face pale. "That was MACC. They say that the air-conditioning broke down in the nerve center. The communications are going haywire. No one knows where the squads are. Traffic lights have gone red all over town."

They were approaching Times Square. Hundreds of demonstrators, apparently unimpeded by the police, were pouring into the square from the side streets. The square was as crowded as New Year's Eve.

Malloy's cruiser moved slowly through the mob that surged around it. As they approached the old New York Times Building, the huge video screen stopped showing a Disney character and went black.

"Hey, look at that," Barnes said, pointing at the screen.

Big letters had appeared in white, streaming across the ABC News Spectacular sign.

GREETINGS, NEO-ANARCHISTS, FELLOW TRAVELERS AND TOURISTS. WE HAVE SHUT DOWN THE OPPRESSIVE ARMIES OF THE POWER ELITE. THIS IS A SMALL TASTE OF THE FUTURE. TODAY IT'S NEW YORK. NEXT WE'LL SHUT DOWN THE WORLD. CONVENE A SUMMIT CONFERENCE TO DISMANTLE THE FRAMEWORK OF GLOBALIZATION OR WE'LL DISMANTLE IT FOR YOU.

HAVE A NICE DAY!

A smiley face with horns appeared, then a single word:

LUCIFER.

"Who the hell is Lucifer?" Malloy said, staring through the windshield.

"Beats me," Barnes said. He reached for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride. I've got to file a story."

Then the word disappeared, and FRANK MALLOY appeared simultaneously on every sign of every size on the square. Panasonic. LG. NASDAQ.

Malloy cursed and scrambled out of the car. He scanned the milling crowd. Barnes had been swallowed up among the thousands of protesters. He muttered the name "Lucifer" and a chill ran up his spine. It came to him where he had seen the reporter's face. The pointed beard, the red hair and the V-angled brows and mouth and the green eyes had subconsciously reminded him of renderings he had seen of Satan.

As Malloy stood there wondering if had gone crazy, he was unaware that he was under the gaze of those same jade eyes. Barnes had stepped into the doorway of an office building where he could watch Malloy. He held a cell phone to his ear, and he was laughing.

"I just wanted you to know that your plan went off like clockwork. The city is in total breakdown."

"That's great," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Look, we've got to talk. It's important."

"Not now. Come out to the lighthouse, so I can thank you in person."

He tucked the phone in his pocket and gazed out at Times Square. A young man had thrown a brick through the front window of the Disney store. Others followed his example, and within minutes the sidewalks were littered with broken glass. A car was set on fire, sending black billowing smoke toward the heavens. The acrid stench of burning plastic and fabric filled the air. A guerrilla band was marching down the street, playing the theme from Bridge on the River Kwai. The music could barely be heard over the cacophony of honking car horns.