Deadline Y2K (28 page)

“Nooo. No no no.” The door opened a crack. “Don't leave me here alone.”

“I'm just going to walk across the street. I'll be right back.”

“It'll be all right, Shirley,” Copeland said, and she slammed the door again, yelping, “You can't see me like this.”

“Christ,” Spillman said. “Let's go.”

Three floors below they surveyed the street like commandos. As little boys they'd played this game a thousand times.

“Whaddya see?” Spillman asked.

“Sidewalks clear.”

“Let's go. You first. I'll cover you.”

“Wait. There's a guy coming down the block.”

A New Year's Eve drunk wobbled along the sidewalk, singing off-key in Spanish,
“No me puedo amar sin tí.”
He stopped to light a string of firecrackers and let the string dangle, fuse hissing like an angry snake before he tossed it into the street.

Spillman shuddered. “I hate that,” he snarled. “I just fucking hate that.”

“Shut up,” Copeland snapped.

The drunk paused in front of the building and saw them. “Happy New Year,” he saluted them, then saw the shotgun and laughed. “Happy New Year. Shoot 'em up, cowboy!” and walked on, laughing.

“See,” Copeland said. “Don't be paranoid.”

“All right.”

“I'm gonna go now.”

“Okay. Go!”

Copeland sprinted across the street, ran up the stairs to his front door and waved at Spillman to follow. In a crouch, holding the shotgun with both hands, Spillman scuttled between parked cars. At the far end of the block the drunk heard their footsteps and turned to see Spillman fly up Copeland's stairs. He shook his head and continued his journey toward Riverside Park and the placid, black Hudson River, singing,
“Busqué la verdad en la tequila.”

“Want to come in?” Copeland asked. “We could both use a drink.”

“Why not. I'm sure in no hurry to go home.”

“That bad?”

“She's fuckin' crazy, man. She's in bed with her Official Millennium Barbie.”

Copeland used one key to open an electronic pad, punched in a code, closed the pad, keyed a second lock and opened the door. Micro came running, spinning in circles with excitement. With the dog at his heels, Copeland opened a closet and reset the alarm. Before he could emerge from the closet, every light in the house started to blink.

“What the fuck?” he growled. He reached for a light switch and snapped it up and down with no effect.

“What's going on?” Spillman asked.

“I don't know.”

Spillman turned around to go back outside, but the door wouldn't open.

“What the hell?”

He kicked the door and jiggled the latch to no avail. Copeland tried the key and it wouldn't turn. Then the sound system came on, and from speakers in every room they heard Doc's voice.

“Hello, Donald. You're locked in. Get used to the idea. I called up Old Blue and he thought it would be easy to seal you in. Old Blue and I became pretty good friends while he was here on Nassau Street. We stay in touch. You know how it is with old friends. You have grates on all your windows, but you're a resourceful guy and without a doubt you can escape. But if I were you, I'd relax and have a drink. You can't call out on your phones, so you might as well try and get it over with.”

Copeland ran into the kitchen and saw Doc's face on TV.

“This is a videotape,” Doc said. “Thirty seconds after you keyed the door it started the VCR in the kitchen, where you're probably watching me now. I hope you're alone, but if you're not, your guests will have to stay with you. I'll be calling in a few minutes. Enjoy the show.”

“What is this?” Spillman said. “What's going on? Isn't that Doc Downs?”

“Give me that shotgun.”

“Why? What're you gonna do?”

“I'm gonna kill my TV. C'mon!”

Copeland took the gun, pointed the muzzle at the TV and pulled the trigger.
Pow!
The cathode ray tube imploded with a loud bang. Sparks flew. Bedlam. Yelping dog. The kitchen was a cloud of acrid smoke, the TV a singed wreck. Copeland's eyes blazed with righteous ferocity as Spillman recovered from his surprise and started to laugh.

“God damn, Donnie! I always wanted to do that. Wow.”

Copeland rubbed his shoulder where the recoil had pressed his flesh. “I'm fucked,” he muttered.

Doc's voice emanated once more from the speakers. “You can shoot all the TVs in the house if you have enough ammunition, Donnie, but then you'll miss the show.”

“Can you hear me, you son of a bitch?”

“Of course. The place is bugged. Cameras, too. Want to know where they are? None in the bathrooms.”

“Donnie, what the fuck is going on here?” Spillman cried. “What is this?”

“Do you want to explain, or shall I?” Doc asked. “Perhaps Mr. Spillman would be entertained by the saga of Butch and Sundance and the Chase Manhattan Bank.”

“Donnie, what the hell is he talking about?”

“Jonathon,” Copeland said. “You're a good guy, a decent man. We've been friends for a long time. Can I use your shotgun to kill myself?”

“Hell, no. Give it back.”

Copeland took a step backward, but Spillman didn't hesitate. He grabbed the weapon and snatched it away.

“Wha'd you get yourself into, Donnie? What's this guy talkin' about?”

Copeland shot back, “Aren't you worried about Shirley? She'll go nuts if you don't call and don't come back.”

“So what? She's already nuts. I want to know why we're locked in your house.”

“Do you think we should try all the doors and windows?”

“Donald, later. Tell me what's going on here.”

“Tell him!” Doc demanded, his voice registering somewhere between Big Brother and God.

Copeland squirmed. Looking back and forth between the shattered TV and his friend, he spit out the words. “We robbed the fucking bank.”

“You what?”

“You heard me.”

Spillman blinked a few times. “Wait a minute. Of course. You had access to all the codes, the most sensitive accounts, everything. You didn't. C'mon, man. You didn't. You fox. You son of a bitch.” He punched Copeland in the shoulder. “Yeah! Rob the fucking bank. Why the fuck not.”

“Donald!” Doc said curtly.

“Yes?”

“No one robbed the bank.”

“Say what?”

“Donnie, you might as well know right now, the whole thing was a hoax. There was no robbery and never was. I put you on for all these years. That's all there is to it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Spillman thought his friend was going to have a seizure. His eyes bulged, his face turned red, he breathed deeply several times and then a calm spread over his features and he sagged against the kitchen counter.

Spillman searched the ceiling for a camera and guessed it was inside an air conditioning vent high in the corner. He pointed.

Copeland looked up and said to Doc, “A hoax? A put on?”

“Yep.”

“A practical joke?”

“Yep.”

“What about Chase? Did you put a virus into their systems?”

“Of course not.”

“You did all this just to fuck with my head?”

“Yep.”

“You bastard.”

“You can see it that way if you like, but we never could have pulled it off. We would have been caught. Simple as that. Plus we didn't need the money. I'm sorry to disappoint you. You can't be the biggest bank robber of all time, but those are the breaks. You can't gloat, and you can't feel guilty, either. You're clean, Donnie boy. You may be a greedy prick, but you're legal. You should thank me. Don't worry. Business is fine. Earlier this evening Maria Maranello sold a package to Hamburg Private GmBH for I don't know how many millions. Since most satellites are down and power is off in Hamburg, I don't know exactly how you'll wrap up that contract, but I'm sure you'll find a way.”

Copeland sat down on a counter stool, resigned and defeated. Spillman poured a pair of scotches and without a toast they drained their glasses.

“Atta boy,” Doc said. “Drink up. Things aren't as bad as you think.”

“Hamburg Private?”

“At five dollars per line of code, your new rate. Believe me, Donald, you don't need Chase's money. There's a videotape in the machine in the living room. I think you'll find it interesting and worth your time. You're going to have your minds blown, gentlemen, and after you've seen it, we'll talk again. Enjoy the show. It's called the Midnight Club.”

14

The great city began to convulse. Riptides of fear and anxiety crisscrossed the island as the phone system broke down, the Internet collapsed and network television vanished. The loss of the GPS and communications satellites was only a harbinger of things to come. Few understood how deeply these delicate space mechanisms affected their lives, but everyone knew their phones didn't work properly. Local TV was broadcasting over the air, but millions of televisions no longer had aerials. Sticking to their New Year's Eve schedules, New York 1 had Barbra Streisand with an upbeat show live from Madison Square Garden, and WABC had Nebraska and Alabama in the M&M's Official Millennium Bowl from Giants' Stadium. Concerts and football seemed to have lost their cachet. People wanted news, but just as the graphic TV images of devastation in Europe had built to a peak, they'd abruptly ceased, leaving millions on the edges of their seats wondering what happened next. The bug was racing across the Atlantic in silence, making its approach that much more terrifying.

Time was all that mattered. The 20th Century had only a few hours to live, and in New York everyone was staring at the clock. The seconds ticked away; minutes spun off and disappeared into the past; hours lasted forever. Time was thick, like oil. You could rub it between your fingers and taste it.

The magnificent skyscrapers glistened as always. Surrounded by the towering walls of steel and glass, Doc stood with Jody on the roof of the building on Nassau Street, and with great passion told her the tale of Christopher Marlowe's
Dr. Faustus.
The good doctor sold his soul to the devil for knowledge, women and a song. Near midnight, as Mephistopheles was coming to collect his due, Faustus cried,

Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven,

That time may cease and midnight never come.

“I like Mephistopheles,” Doc declared. “He's a lot more clever than Cinderella.”

“I like Cinderella,” Jody said. “Shut up and kiss me.”

Startled, Doc felt awkward and clumsy. Kiss? Here? Now? What is this, a reality check? And then he abandoned himself to the moment, gently took her in his arms and kissed her.

Fireworks exploded over a barge on the East River. The bands played on. The city shuddered and had another drink.

“C'mon, Doc,” she breathed, and led him downstairs into the building, past the equally surprised members of the Midnight Club, and straight into the bedroom.

*   *   *

A few minutes after eight o'clock, a small group of demonstrators appeared with signs and slogans at Gracie Mansion, the mayor's residence at East 88th and East End Avenue. With no media present, the chants were half-hearted and had no chance of reaching the mayor's ear. “What do you want us to do?” the mayor's spokesperson asked the people. Confused and afraid, the demonstrators had no coherent plan of action. Barely distinguishable from the New Year's Eve crowds surging through the streets, their chants and shouts inaudible above the din of horns and noisemakers, the futility of protesting was readily apparent. His Honor's harried spokesperson had more enthusiasm for the demonstration than the demonstrators. She didn't mind being out in the cold engaging in a little give and take with a bunch of cranks because anything was better than being locked in with the mayor. Rudy Giuliani had been out of his mind ever since returning from Washington late in the afternoon.

Inside the mansion, Mayor Giuliani screamed in frustration at his advisors and aides. Stuck in the mansion by impossible traffic, he was reduced to communicating with the outside world by motorcycle messenger and radio. The streets were impassable, even to him, and he was forbidden the use of his helicopter—nothing could fly, although he wondered who the hell would stop him if he could get to the heliport.

Staring out his office window he could see the huge Con Edison Ravenswood power plant across the river in Queens. Big Allis, queen of the grid. Rudy knew the truth. He'd promised no problems with the lights. He's sworn to his public that everything would be okay. He'd guaranteed no interruption of the biggest party the world had ever seen, but things were already fucked up beyond belief. He wanted a meeting with the CEO of Con Edison, Mr. Peter Wilcox, but that gentleman was nowhere to be found. The mayor was livid. Shit. He didn't feel good, either. Outside, the city growled at him. Fuck, this thing was bigger than New York, bigger than him even, and he couldn't stand that. It really pissed him off. His people really pissed him off. They were supposed to take care of this. The city had paid half a billion dollars and they'd better be fuckin' well ready.

“And if the fuckin' phones don't work
now,
what the fuck is going to happen at midnight? I want answers!” he shouted at an aide who hunched his shoulders and looked at his feet.

“Take it easy, Mr. Mayor. Your blood pressure.”

“Did you get a list of chemical plants and all that crap like I told you to?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Did they all get the message to shut down?”

“I don't know, Mr. Mayor. I had one hundred and sixty-seven locations and twenty messengers.”

“My God,” said the mayor. “I can't believe this. I just can't fucking believe this.
No fucking telephones!
Ow!”