Like animals in a jungle, like plants, they adapted, they mutated towards specific defenses and suspicions created to cope with specific threats. Cut a New Yorker open and you would discover convolutions in his brain, tracks in his nervous system, that were not present in any other urban citizenry anywhere.
At first glance, this is an extremely tense and sharp thriller, designed to keep you on the edge of your seat with the increased danger of a hostage situation. My personal experience, coloured probably by the fact that I have seen two of the movie adaptations in the past, was more focused on the characters, such as they are revealed in the very short personal POV chapters, and less on the outcome or on the technical details about the running of the underground trains in New York.
Ordinarily, Bedrick covered only the most dignified news events – Presidential inaugurations, assassinations on the ambassadorial level or better – but he had volunteered for this assignment, sensing its vast potential for human interest.
Like this Bedrick reporter fellow, what kept my interest in the story is the vertical slice through the heart of the city, a revealing dissection that John Godey makes with the precision of a surgeon, from the top of the highest skyscraper [the mayor’s office] to the lowest underground tunnel that moves the red cells/people around the body of the city. Equal space in the economy of the novel is given to the terrorists, to the seventeen hostages, to the people running the underground, to the cops and to the politicians who try to deal with the crisis.
Now that I mentioned names, John Godey is a pseudonym, and the only thing of relevance for me is that the author is a native of the urban jungle, a reason most probably why he speaks with such authoritative voice. The other thing that places the novel precisely in my mind is that dirty, corrosive anti-establishment vibe of the seventies – a time of increase in crime rates and urban decay, of racial tensions and unemployment, of a society struggling to come out of a dark age.
I am sick, Prescott thought, sick of cops and criminals and victims and bystanders. Sick of anger and of blood. Sick of what happened today and will happen tomorrow. Sick of white and black, of my job and my friends and my family, of love and of hatred. Above all, I am sick of myself, sick of being sick of the imperfections of the world that nobody would try to fix up even if they knew how.
By the end, this was a very satisfying train ride, both on the action-thriller front and on the human interest angle. I would make some comparisons with “The Day of the Jackal” for the technical details, and “Three Days of the Condor” for the conspiracy theories in high places, but I believe John Godey has managed to find his own personal style with his very large cast engaged in personal [stream-of-conscience] narration.