The Threat: How the FBI Protects America in the Age of Terror and Trump

by Andrew G. McCabe

I floored it in the black Chevy Tahoe, tinted windows up, speeding into Manhattan. Bureau radio on, I listened to the chatter, tracking calls to rally—first at an intersection right next to the towers, then in Chinatown. The bridges were closed. When I got near the Triborough Bridge, the on-ramp was a parking lot. I drove on the shoulder, lights and sirens on, trying to maneuver around the cars, and there were orange construction barrels in the way. When the other drivers saw the lights and sirens, a bunch of them jumped out of their cars and started lifting the barrels out of the way so I could get through. When I made it up onto the bridge and drove across, my car was the only car on the bridge. It was like that scene in Vanilla Sky. Southbound on the FDR, again I was practically the only car on the road. By then the first tower had fallen. I took the right-hand exit at the Brooklyn Bridge, and I saw a crowd of people walking the other way on the FDR, away from downtown. They were all white, covered in dust. Not excited, not talking. Calm, dazed, a crowd of ghosts walking along.