Cooke was believed to be the victim of an animal, or anim als, that went on a rampage through lower Manhattan last night. At least four people are dead and many more injured. Animal Care and Control are asking for tips, and police said they’re checking with local zoos to see if there have been any breakouts. According to witnesses, the animals appear to be dogs or hyenas. The NYPD has released a statement saying that they’re adding to the substantial security at—“
Bunim paused the video and turned to the President. “Sir, they want to hear from you.”
Teddy spoke first. “Tell them we’re involved with the investigation. They’ll have answers when we have answers. Just remain calm, and be responsible with their reporting. We’ll have people shooting their pets.”
Weston’s intercom lit up.
“And our hearts go out to the victims,” Weston added as he checked the message from his secretary. Rebekkah Luft, his National Security Advisor, was here to see him.
“Rebekkah. Were we expecting her?” asked a surprised Weston.
Teddy shook his head no, and Bunim shrugged. This wasn’t at all regular; most updates from the National Security Agency were delivered via duty officer.
“Send her in,” Weston said.
As the door opened, all three men stood to greet Luft. Teddy proffered his chair and took another for himself from along the curved wall.
Luft looked distracted and pallid, far from her usual self. She sat without looking at the chair. Her mind was somewhere else.
“Good morning, Rebekkah,” Weston said.
“Mister President, I have a situation I need to bring to your attention.”
Three
United Nations Plaza
44th Street near First Avenue
December 31
1:22 p.m.
Brianna Tildascow’s second meatball special of the day was on the house.
She tried to pay for it—these guys sure as hell couldn’t afford to give their stuff away—but the vendor wouldn’t take a cent. Law enforcement officers often ate free because owners liked seeing blue in their shops, and he’d seen her draw her weapon and cover Holly Cooke until the police arrived. And maybe he remembered her flirty face—a dividend paid far sooner than she could have expected.
It was the first free meal she’d ever gotten as gratitude from a civilian. And it tasted even better than this morning’s breakfast, since the meatballs had marinated a few hours.
She ate while people-watching on the busy promenade of United Nations Plaza, waiting for her Department of State contact. He was predictably late. The message was both clear and trite: She’d missed her earlier appointment, and now she was paying for her disrespect.
As UN officials are always so eager to point out, the plaza isn’t technically a part of New York, or even the United States of America. It’s considered international soil. And the FBI is regarded as a hostile intelligence agency by the United Nations. Agents are forbidden from entering the international territory unless they’re escorted by a liaison.
Technically , she was already in violation of that bullshit. Privately, the FBI considers the UN just as hostile. So eager to handcuff America into playing “fair” with an enemy that isn’t beholden to conventions and tribunals, so pompous in their scolding when we act in our own defense—or, God forbid, out of anger. Whether the UN liked it or not, in September of 2001 the United States of America became angry.
As planned, she waited on the plaza’s promenade by the Non Violence monument, a bronze sculpture of a .45 revolver with its barrel twisted into a knot. Reminded Tildascow of Valentine’s Day: sweet sentiment, obviously impractical, easy to ignore. And, like the UN’s effectiveness, it was absurdly puny. The base barely came to her shoulders.
The sculpture marked the northwestern corner of the complex, between the curved row of flags representing each of the UN’s member countries and the flower-lined garden that served as the plaza’s front lawn.
Bunim paused the video and turned to the President. “Sir, they want to hear from you.”
Teddy spoke first. “Tell them we’re involved with the investigation. They’ll have answers when we have answers. Just remain calm, and be responsible with their reporting. We’ll have people shooting their pets.”
Weston’s intercom lit up.
“And our hearts go out to the victims,” Weston added as he checked the message from his secretary. Rebekkah Luft, his National Security Advisor, was here to see him.
“Rebekkah. Were we expecting her?” asked a surprised Weston.
Teddy shook his head no, and Bunim shrugged. This wasn’t at all regular; most updates from the National Security Agency were delivered via duty officer.
“Send her in,” Weston said.
As the door opened, all three men stood to greet Luft. Teddy proffered his chair and took another for himself from along the curved wall.
Luft looked distracted and pallid, far from her usual self. She sat without looking at the chair. Her mind was somewhere else.
“Good morning, Rebekkah,” Weston said.
“Mister President, I have a situation I need to bring to your attention.”
Three
United Nations Plaza
44th Street near First Avenue
December 31
1:22 p.m.
Brianna Tildascow’s second meatball special of the day was on the house.
She tried to pay for it—these guys sure as hell couldn’t afford to give their stuff away—but the vendor wouldn’t take a cent. Law enforcement officers often ate free because owners liked seeing blue in their shops, and he’d seen her draw her weapon and cover Holly Cooke until the police arrived. And maybe he remembered her flirty face—a dividend paid far sooner than she could have expected.
It was the first free meal she’d ever gotten as gratitude from a civilian. And it tasted even better than this morning’s breakfast, since the meatballs had marinated a few hours.
She ate while people-watching on the busy promenade of United Nations Plaza, waiting for her Department of State contact. He was predictably late. The message was both clear and trite: She’d missed her earlier appointment, and now she was paying for her disrespect.
As UN officials are always so eager to point out, the plaza isn’t technically a part of New York, or even the United States of America. It’s considered international soil. And the FBI is regarded as a hostile intelligence agency by the United Nations. Agents are forbidden from entering the international territory unless they’re escorted by a liaison.
Technically , she was already in violation of that bullshit. Privately, the FBI considers the UN just as hostile. So eager to handcuff America into playing “fair” with an enemy that isn’t beholden to conventions and tribunals, so pompous in their scolding when we act in our own defense—or, God forbid, out of anger. Whether the UN liked it or not, in September of 2001 the United States of America became angry.
As planned, she waited on the plaza’s promenade by the Non Violence monument, a bronze sculpture of a .45 revolver with its barrel twisted into a knot. Reminded Tildascow of Valentine’s Day: sweet sentiment, obviously impractical, easy to ignore. And, like the UN’s effectiveness, it was absurdly puny. The base barely came to her shoulders.
The sculpture marked the northwestern corner of the complex, between the curved row of flags representing each of the UN’s member countries and the flower-lined garden that served as the plaza’s front lawn.
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