“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.