"They'll be here," Kinsman said.
Colt nodded. "They're already starting to push out of the square. And the cops are letting them go."
The police were doing nothing as the crowd began streaming out of Times Square. The TV picture changed to show similar scenes elsewhere in Manhattan.
Kinsman tried to sit up. "Frank, we've got to get to our shuttle. Now." The pain bloomed inside him. It was like railroad tracks of red-molten steel clamping down across his 563 chest, his arms, and then everywhere. No! he screamed to himself. Not now! But he could see nothing. It all went black. Distantly he heard Landau's shocked voice. "It's too much . . . too much . . ."
Friday 31 December 1999:
2358 hrs UT
SOMETHING WAS SHAKING him. A loud whining roar rattled Kinsman's very bones. He could not move. His body felt glued down.
A voice. Marrett's? Shouting over the engine roar. "I told him we'd give 'em the goddamnedest drought this continent's ever seen. And we can do it, too. De Paolo's on the phone with the President right now."
Kinsman forced his eyes open. It took a massive effort of will. His head was turned to a small window. It all came together slowly in his foggy brain. Helicopter. They took us off the roof in a copter.
"So they tracked me down," Marrett was saying. "Hugh burst in on the party with a whole squad of UN security police. Half the people at the party thought it was a drug bust!"
Kinsman tried to focus on the scene outside. It was still night. There were city lights sliding past below them. In the distance was the river, the skyline of Manhattan . . . Oh, God!
Fire. Flames licking upward, doubly reflected in the river and the glass wall of the Secretariat Building. They're burning it. They're burning the UN buildings.
"Fire's getting worse," somebody said.
Marrett's voice answered. "Sure. Goddamn fire trucks can't get to it because of the mob."
"'What fools these mortals be.'" Harriman's voice, sounding very tired, very down.
"Hey, it's midnight."
"Terrific."
"Happy fucking New Year." 564
The voices buzzed on but Kinsman paid no attention. He watched the UN buildings being swallowed in names.
The pain came and went and returned again. He could feel it snaking through his body. Tendrils of hot iron worming down through his arteries and veins, branching, exploring, searching. Down through the fine nets of the capillaries the pain spread. He felt it, he knew it was there, even though his brain kept insisting that the drugs were keeping the pain suppressed. Yes, but I can feel it moving through me like a conquering army, taking possession of the territory it's won.
