The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  The communications man raised his eyebrows. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Are you sure you don’t—”

  “I said no,” Spencer said flatly.

  The man blinked, then obediently did a U-turn and returned to his colleague.

  As soon as they were out of earshot of the others, Franjo spoke. “I’ll cut the crap,” he said in a low voice, “because time is short and we both know the score. At least now we do.”

  “Yes, now we do,” Spencer said, his voice also low. “What a joke. Watson’s well and truly screwed this up. But, too late to do anything now. We’ll have to go through with it. I hope you’ve carefully thought through your questions?”

  Franjo nodded. “We can discuss that asshole and his games afterwards. But let me tell you what I’m going to do in this interview.”

  He started to outline his plan.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Friday, July 27, 2012

  New York City

  “There’s something not right. I don't know, I’ve a gut feeling, Vic, just a gut feeling.” Johnson tugged hard at the small hole at the top of his right ear and scrutinized the monitor in the production gallery.

  Vic stood next to him, hands on hips.

  The interview was about to begin. Johnson glanced to his right at the program’s editor, David Rowlands, who wore headphones and spoke into a stalk microphone that was linked to Franjo’s wireless earpiece.

  The production gallery, at the rear of the studio, had a long floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window that allowed the producer, the editor, and other staff a clear view of what was happening in front of them.

  Franjo sat in one of the black leather armchairs with his back to a large, modernistic Wolff Live logo. At a right angle to him, in the other armchair, sat the familiar figure of Spencer, his hair swept neatly across his forehead, his gray sideburns clipped, his suit perfectly pressed.

  The whole set was raised slightly on a plinth a foot above the level of the studio floor.

  In front of them, the four hundred seats in Studio One were completely filled with selected guests, journalists, and VIPs who had been invited by either SRTV or CBA TV.

  Standing at the right of the studio, backs to the wall, were two United States Capitol Police officers who Johnson knew were responsible for the speaker of the House’s security. Another two Capitol Police officers stood at the left-hand side wall. He had noticed a few others, together with New York Police Department officers, in the foyer.

  Johnson’s sense of foreboding was something that he couldn’t shake off, even though the security team, at his request, had taken the precaution of a further sweep of the studio by the sniffer dogs. There had also been additional personal searches of all guests and their bags and checks. He was increasingly wishing he had asked Vic to have police hold Franjo and Spencer before the show, despite the possibility of it backfiring in terms of media reaction. But it was too late now.

  The atmosphere on the studio floor was noticeably tense. The audience was unusually chatty, and the floor manager could be heard telling them to quiet down.

  “Four, three, two, one, zero, we’re live . . . Boris we’re coming to you in thirty,” the production assistant said.

  As the title music faded, Franjo faced the camera and started his scripted introduction.

  Johnson glanced over at the teleprompter monitor in the gallery, on which the text of Franjo’s words rolled up.

  “Hello and welcome to Wolff Live, today coming from New York City, where I’m interviewing speaker of the House of Representatives Patrick Spencer, considered by many to be a presidential candidate of the future,” Franjo began.

  “Thank you, Boris, it’s a pleasure to be here,” Spencer said. Johnson noted that Spencer did not deny his presidential ambitions.

  “Now, before we touch on the more personal aspects of your career, Mr. Speaker, I thought we should look at one of the key issues that’s been at the center of focus both in the United States and internationally, and that’s immigration and racial tension. Unrest in the States has been on the rise. Why do you think that is?”

  David swore and tapped his fingers on his desk. “What the hell. He’s already gone off script. He was meant to start with foreign affairs,” he said.

  On the set, Spencer moved quickly into a long answer to the question.

  “Unrest has been on the rise, for sure, and there’s one good reason for that,” Spencer said. “The increase in immigration, the increase in unemployment this brings for our existing citizens—African-Americans, Latinos, and others—and the attacks we’ve seen on police, innocent citizens, and even children, are all clear evidence that our American way of life is under threat. Immigrants, many of them illegal, including a significant number of Muslims, have come to our shores and are a key factor behind a huge increase in homicides . . .” Spencer said.

  The tirade had begun. All very predictable. Johnson had heard it all before, and Franjo was handing Spencer the questions on a silver platter, served up with a bow wrapped around them. A gift for a skilled politician.

  So they probably know who each other is.

  Johnson stood and watched for twenty minutes or so as the interview continued, the questions virtually exclusively focused on domestic US issues. He then walked into the lighting gallery where three of the CBA TV team, including Aisha’s last-minute replacement, sat intently watching the monitors, while Vic stood in a corner.

  He turned to the lighting crew, trying hard to quell his concern and appear calm. Tim, the lighting director, was concentrating hard on the monitor in front of him.

  “Excuse me, Tim,” Johnson said. “I know you’re busy, but I’m getting increasingly concerned.”

  Tim scowled. “What now?”

  “It’s Aisha. Over the past couple of days, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary with her? Anything unusual about what she did?”

  “No, not really,” Tim said. “She’s been programming a new special effects lighting fixture I’ve brought in for this show. She’s done a good job.”

  “Okay, so what does it do? Just briefly.”

  “It’s for the closing sequence at the end, just to give it a bit of pizzazz,” Tim said. “It’ll throw an animated multibeam pattern all over the floor, just when Wolff and Spencer are bathed in a soft blue light as the credits start to roll.”

  “Is that normal for a straightforward political interview? That kind of fancy lighting effect?” Johnson asked.

  “No, but I just wanted to do something different.”

  “Fair enough. So she did her job properly, from your perspective?”

  “Yeah.”

  One of the other lighting team members turned around and looked at Tim. “Actually, Tim, I didn’t mention it earlier but she screwed up that goddamned bar at the front. I had to reset it this morning.”

  “What was that?” Johnson asked.

  “Nothing major,” Olly said. “I came in early this morning to check everything and found she’d put the bar holding the special effects light quite a lot lower than I knew Tim wanted it, so I had to move it back up.”

  Tim grunted. “Thanks for telling me that, Olly. That would have screwed things up. I’ll speak to Aisha about it when she’s back tomorrow.”

  Tim turned back to Johnson. “So apparently she only did an okay job then. But my opinion stands. Sorry, I have to concentrate on this now.” He focused on his monitor.

  Johnson nodded. “Okay, thanks.” He walked back through to the production gallery, followed by Vic. Both men stood, arms folded, gazing out of the big glass window at the audience immediately in front of them and the stage beyond.

  “What do you think?” Johnson asked his friend. “These guys have got too much going on to even think about Aisha. But it doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “No,” Vic said. “I agree. I think we’re just going to have to be a bit insistent. Let’s ask a few more questions. That guy Olly mentioned the lighting bar. Seems odd, some
how. Maybe ask him why she might have lowered it.”

  Spencer was still in full flow on the set.

  “ . . . So far all we’ve seen from the Democrats is immigration out of control, lawlessness and a situation where American citizens are feeling completely overwhelmed and helpless. I want to change all that,” Spencer said, his voice rising steadily. “That’s why I’m suggesting we put up the barriers and make much closer checks on who’s coming into our beloved country. Anyone with links to countries that harbor or foster terrorism can forget it . . .”

  There was loud applause from the studio audience.

  Franjo appeared to be struggling to get his questions in. In the production gallery, Johnson could hear David speaking to Franjo through his earpiece, instructing him to ask questions about the Iranian arms news coverage, the potential damage to Clinton’s reputation, and his wife Hillary’s prospects. But Franjo ignored him.

  David threw his pen across the room and started swearing. The director turned around and looked at David, equally confused. “What the hell’s going on out there? Didn’t you discuss the question list? Is his earpiece working?” he asked.

  Johnson went back to the lighting gallery once more.

  “Sorry, Tim. One more question. Which is the special effects lighting unit you just mentioned that’s going to be used at the end of the show?” Johnson asked.

  “For God’s sake,” Tim said. He snatched a large paper plan from the desk and stabbed at its location with his finger. “It’s bar forty-five, right there. You might just be able to see it if you look out the window, up in the rig. Not easy to spot, though. It’s dark as an elephant’s asshole up there.”

  The lighting team member who had spoken earlier, Olly, interrupted again. “You’d better leave Tim be. He’s really busy. I’ll talk to you. If you’re asking about out-of-norm behavior, I did find Aisha in here on her own one morning really early.”

  “What was odd about that?” Johnson asked.

  “You’re not supposed to be alone in the studio for safety reasons.”

  Tim chimed in again. “Olly reported that to me and I was going to talk to Aisha about it but didn’t in the end. I figured it was a one-off since we were prepping for this.”

  Olly leaned forward. “Right, except, ten minutes later, I walked back past the studio, thinking I would check to see if she was okay, but the blind was down over the door window, and the door was locked, which was very unusual.”

  “You never told me that,” Tim said, facing Olly.

  Olly shrugged. “I was too busy. When I walked past and saw it, I’d already told you about her being in there alone, and I forgot about it.”

  “Why would she pull the blind down and lock the door?” Johnson asked.

  Olly scratched his head. “Don't know. And there was that bar I mentioned earlier. I told her twice about putting it too low. But she still put it in the wrong place, which was very unlike her. She’s a pro.”

  Johnson exchanged glances with Vic, who raised his eyebrows. “Vic, I’ve had a gut feeling ever since we came in here that something’s not right. And you know what my gut’s telling me?”

  “I can take a guess.”

  “We need to clear the building, get everyone out.” Johnson addressed Tim. “How long is it until the end of the program? How long do we have?”

  Tim checked the clock. “I’d say about three and a half minutes till we come off air.”

  Johnson felt his body go tense.

  He spoke decisively to Vic. “I know this is a big call, but I’m saying it: let’s clear the studio. Go tell the director we’ve had a bomb alert, and get security to sound the fire alarm. That’ll do it.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Vic said. “I’ll tell my security guys to get out there and clear the audience through the fire doors.”

  “Get Spencer and Franjo out,” Johnson said, “but keep them secure, and hold them tight. Don’t let those bastards run. Let’s go.”

  Friday, July 27, 2012

  Astoria

  Aisha yawned. Her eyes ached and she felt as though her head were slowly being squeezed in a vise.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m struggling,” she said. “I kept trying to focus on what this is about. It’s for my father and Zeinab, that’s what I tried to think of,” Aisha said.

  “So why didn’t you sleep?” Adela asked. She glanced sideways at her friend, who sat next to her on the faded old blue sofa.

  “Because every time I tried to relax and focus on justice for my father and sister, all I could see in my mind was a sea of other faces in that studio.”

  Aisha shuffled toward the edge of the sofa, the cell phone clutched tightly in both hands.

  On her phone screen the number she had already tapped out was showing.

  Adela ran her fingers through her hair and stared at the television screen in front of them.

  “Listen to him,” Adela said. “Listen to this monster Spencer. I tell you, between him and Franjo, there’s not much to choose from; the hatred they’ve stirred up, the damage they’ve done. You’ll never have the chance to do this to both of them again.”

  Adela picked up the TV remote control and increased the volume a little further to listen to Spencer speaking.

  “We’ve seen murders in our communities by Islamic terrorists,” Spencer said. “We’ve seen attacks in many corners of our country. Our security forces have repeatedly uncovered evidence of plots, bomb-making equipment, clear intentions to kill innocent people. I say, enough of blood, enough of tears, it’s time to keep them out—”

  Then Spencer suddenly stopped speaking.

  A loud repetitive squawking sound, like a siren, pierced the air, and a bright red strobe light began to flicker continuously across the Wolff Live studio set.

  The TV camera showed Spencer as he looked at his interviewer, and the microphone picked up his question. “What’s going on here? We’re not finished.”

  The camera focused on Franjo, and then the shot widened to include Spencer. Both men were sitting up rigidly in their chairs, visibly alarmed. Then the picture faded and a commercial break began.

  Aisha’s eyes widened. “Something’s wrong there, I don’t know—”

  “Sounds like a fire alarm’s gone off in the studio or something,” Adela said, a note of urgency in her voice. “That’s why the red light was flashing. You’d better trigger it now, quick, before they all go. They’ll evacuate the place. Come on. Press that button.”

  Aisha looked at the television screen, then down at the floor. She thought of Franjo and what he’d done to her family, to her father and to her sister, and all that he had stolen from her, on the Stari Most, with his tank shells and his war-fueled hatred. She raised her phone in front of her and her forefinger hovered over the green dial button.

  But somehow the vision of her family was overridden, pushed to one side, by the image of Studio One, full of mothers and fathers and children and grandparents. And she put the phone down on the sofa next to her, leaned back in her seat, and gazed blankly at Adela.

  She couldn’t do it.

  “What the hell are you doing, Aisha?”

  “I can’t. All those people.” Her face crumpled and a tear wound its way down the side of her nose and over her upper lip.

  Adela’s hand snaked out and snatched the phone from the sofa.

  “Adela, no—”

  But Adela jabbed her finger down hard on the dial button, then shoved the phone behind her, where Aisha couldn’t reach it.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Friday, July 27, 2012

  Manhattan

  A wave of alarmed chatter broke out among the audience in Studio One as soon as the fire alarm started wailing. The TV studio security guards shoved open the audience exit doors at the right- and left-hand sides of the set and ushered people out as quickly as they could.

  As Johnson ran out of the lighting gallery, the initial wave of surprise among the audience rapidly escalated to panic, a
nd people began first walking, then running, toward the exits. He saw an old lady fall over, only to be immediately trodden on by two teenagers who were jostling hard behind her. A young girl screamed, which set others off. Two men exchanged punches after they collided in an attempt to get through the increasingly packed doorway. The crowd pressed up hard behind each other at both exits as they headed for the open air.

  The security guards were yelling at people to remain calm and move smoothly, but to little effect. There was too much noise now for their voices to be heard.

  An irritated-looking Spencer and Franjo were now standing, bathed in a flickering red strobe light from the fire alarm system. Two of the Capitol Police officers were standing next to Spencer, conferring with him and gesticulating urgently. Three NYPD officers were striding toward them.

  Johnson went up to Vic, who was in an animated discussion with two of his CIA colleagues. He raised his voice in order to be heard above the noise.

  “Vic, can you talk to Spencer’s security detail and work with them? Don’t let either of those guys get away—it’s crucial. And do it now. I’ll follow.”

  Vic nodded at the two CIA men, who set off in pursuit of Spencer and Franjo. The two men were now being herded by the Capitol Police officers toward the right-hand door at the back of the studio, which led into the cavernous loading bay next to the parking lot.

  Johnson and Vic followed right behind, while the security guards by the doors tried to speed up the evacuation process with urgent go-go-go motions to the exiting studio guests.

  Just as Johnson got through the doors and out into the loading bay, a massive explosion erupted in the studio behind him.

  The force of it knocked Johnson to the ground. He banged his chin hard on the floor, which forced his jaw sharply upward and sent a wave of intense pain through the side of his head. Flashes of bright light exploded in his eyes, and he felt a numbness run up the back of his skull.

  The large door Johnson had just exited through was blown off its hinges. Part of the studio wall collapsed outward into the bay, sending pieces of plaster, cinder block, and cement to the floor. The air was filled with dust and smoke.