Crescent City Connection (41 page)

“We arrange for one at a time—first Daniel, then Shavonne. If I go as Lovelace, they won’t be expecting a cop, and they won’t be expecting a weapon. They’ll pat me down, but I’ll have the gun hidden well enough that they won’t find it. Then I’ll just have to make a move before the second exchange—which won’t occur in any case.”

“Uh-uh. You’re not trained for that kind of work. Anyway, how do we know there aren’t twenty of them over there, all armed with assault rifles? What are you going to do, pick them all off? Or maybe just one of them’s armed—and that one shoots Shavonne.”

That had been worrying Skip as well. But she said, “I just don’t see what else we can do—this is something we
can
do without being completely at their mercy.” She shrugged. “Okay. I’m happy to listen to alternate plans. Penny, you’re the negotiator—what do you suggest?”

For the first time, Ferguson looked rattled. Not falling-apart-rattled, like Goerner—but profoundly unhappy.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. This isn’t like some psycho who’s mad at his wife and threatening to kill his kids. That kind of person at least half wants to be talked out of it. Religious fanatics at least half want to become martyrs.”

The phone rang again. Goerner waved at Kohler, giving the okay to answer it. Jacomine didn’t even bother to ask for Ferguson. “What’s your fax number, FBI? We just took another picture of Shavonne and we want to send it right over to you.”

Kohler gave it. They gathered round the fax machine, the air clogged with tension.

As the picture slid out, the point of the first photo became clear. A collective gasp went up. Even the smug Kohler for once lost his cool. “My God!” he blurted.

The photo showed Shavonne standing up in the same jeans and T-shirt as before. She was also wearing a down jacket with two sticks of dynamite jammed and taped into it, an alarm clock attached somehow or other. It was a primitive time-bomb. As graphic a warning as a finger in the mail.

Another fax came through, a handwritten note: “It’s set for three
P.M.
sharp. We’re prepared to die with her.” There was a P.S.: “By the way, it can be detonated earlier. Use gas or fire one shot—and that’s it.”

Goerner’s face was grayish. “Fuckers. Goddamn mother-fuckin’ FUCKERS!”

It was two-fifteen.

The phone rang. “Did y’all get my fax?”

Ferguson said, “Reverend, you’ve got to remember she’s just a little girl. She didn’t volunteer for this. I know you’re a Christian. Listen, I’m Irish Catholic, myself, and I know God is a merciful god. Doesn’t he expect us to be merciful as well?”

“Penny, shut up, will you? Let me talk to Lovelace.”

“We had to send her away for a few minutes. I’m sure you didn’t want her to see that picture, did you?”

“I most assuredly did. I want my granddaughter to know her grandpa means business. That saving her father is completely within her power. We don’t get her, we don’t get Langdon, that bomb goes off, Shavonne dies, I die, Daniel dies, everybody in the house dies.”

Even as his words filled the room, agents and engineers in headsets were working, calling the bomb squad, making plans to move the command post—first the people, then the machines.

When the call was over, Goerner said, “Okay, we can’t stay here. Everybody out the window—there’s a van around the corner. Not you, Langdon. Let me talk to you. Turner, you too.”

Skip huddled with him, not sure what to expect.

“Look, there’s no point in calling the psychologists. They already gave us their opinion—but just the same, I’m gonna get people on the phone to ’em right away. If they say what I think they’re gonna, which is that this guy’s crazy enough to do it, I’ve either got to let him do it and kill that little girl, or gas the place and rush it, thereby getting maybe twenty people killed, or send you on what could very well be a suicide mission. Turner here says you think on your feet, and you can probably pull this thing off if anyone can. I want to know something—are you as crazy as that asshole?”

Skip’s feet and hands were blocks of ice.
No
, she thought.
I take it all back. No way in hell am I going in there.

She said, “Give me five minutes. Let me think about it while we move.” She was aware that her voice sounded sluggish and without enthusiasm.

Kohler said, “Something’s coming in.” He turned up the volume. “He’s talking to the mother.”

Jacomine was saying, “Ms. Bourgeois, you got a fax machine?”

“We have one over at the church.”

He was going to fax Dorise the picture. He was probably going to fax it to the New York Times after that. Tomorrow Shavonne would be dead, and Dorise and the whole world would know that the FBI and the New Orleans Police Department had done nothing to stop it.

The world was one thing—Dorise was another.

Skip knew Shellmire was thinking what she was and that, despite that, he’d actually be relieved if she said no.

Goerner probably wanted her to do it. The feds would look like jerks if they relinquished control at this point; he had to do something to save his ass.

Goddammit
, she thought.
I wish I were a Christian. Or something. Maybe I’d be braver.

She caught Shellmire’s eye. “I think I’ve got to take a shot at it.”

“No, you do not have to. You had to kill a man who was trying to kill you. You don’t owe that kid a damn thing just because he was her father.”

His words had the opposite effect they were meant to have. She thought of the people she knew that Jacomine had killed, and she thought of pregnant Bettina, and she thought of the man she had killed the day before, to save Lovelace from her own grandfather.

She said, “I want to do it, Turner.”

They took her to the tactical command post, where the leaders of the TAC units were busy sweating bullets. Goerner outlined the plan, and as he talked, Skip watched the men’s faces screw up in dismay and worry.

Their names were Vinterella and Piatt. Vinterella, the one from NOPD, was someone she knew slightly. She liked him and thought he liked her, but he was already shaking his head.

“Skip, we’ve never worked together. How we gonna do this if we’re not on the same page?”

“You and Agent Piatt have never worked together. Have you?”

He kept shaking his head. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Listen, I know the risk. I’ve just spent the last ten minutes psyching myself up for this. You and Piatt can plan your nice maneuvers all day and all night, but, realistically, these people are crazy as bats. You know and I know I’m the only chance that kid’s got.”

“We have to think about the risk to our guys, too.”

“This way there’s less risk to them. If you try to storm that place you’re probably going to lose somebody. If you don’t, the kid’ll probably die, so you’re probably going to. If I’m already in there—say with a hidden transmitter—you’ve got an edge.”

Piatt spoke for the first time. “The question is, will you have a chance?”

“Give me one, guys. Come on. Tell me what I’ve got to do and I’ll do it, okay?”

Vinterella let his face relax. He was talked into it. “All right. Let’s do it.”

Piatt gave the after-you sign. “You’re the explosives expert.”

They sat down at a small table, and Vinterella began to draw. “Here’s the alarm clock here. See this screw in it?” He showed her the faxed photo and put a loupe on top of it. She could barely see a speck where the screw must be. She turned back to the drawing.

Vinterella had added a wire and a blob representing a battery. “See there’s a wire on the screw, which is attached to a battery on the kid someplace. Maybe on the back of the jacket. There could even be more than one battery. Know what’s attached to the batteries?”

She shrugged. “Blasting caps, I guess.”

“Right. So here’s how it works—if the clock hand touches the screw, the bomb detonates.”

“So I have to cut the wire.”

“Yeah, if you’ve got the guts. Most cops won’t touch a device. You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna have time to wait for a bomb expert.”

When the meeting was over, they put Lovelace on the phone. “Grandpa, I’m really worried about my daddy.”

“He’s holding his own, Sugar-pie. But I’m not gonna lie to my granddaughter—he really does need a doctor.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“I’m sorry, honey, but the only phone we got’s downstairs, and he’s upstairs. He can’t really walk down, the condition he’s in.”

“What would I have to do if I traded myself for him?”

“Oh, you’d be part of us. You’d be part of the most important justice-seeking organization in the history of the world.”

“You know, I—” she spoke slowly “—think I’d kind of like that.” They all held their breath. Ferguson had felt it would be better for her to ask more questions about the movement, but they were aware of the time constraints—at this point, the goal was get in, get out—just get it happening.

Ferguson took the phone. “Hi, Rev, it’s Penny. Listen, we’ve tried real hard to talk your granddaughter out of this thing, but we haven’t succeeded. We have only one condition. You give us Shavonne first.”

“Penny, honey, call me back when you’re ready to talk.” He rang off as usual, and this time Ferguson smiled. “I think I’m getting a feel for him. You have to turn his hang-ups against him—like in aikido, or something.”

Skip barely listened. She was sitting on the floor, meditating. It wasn’t something she was good at, generally finding it hard to sit still, but somehow she had to get her nerves to quit dancing like electric currents in a science fiction movie.

Ferguson called Jacomine and told him he’d won: They’d transfer Lovelace and Daniel first. Again, the room held its collective breath—if Jacomine said the transfers had to be simultaneous, it was over. Skip half hoped he would.

“Very good,” he said. “We’re ready.”

“The only requirement,” Ferguson said, “is that Lovelace wants to see her dad first.” If he said yes to this, they’d wiggle out of it, saying she’d changed her mind for some reason. Since he was the only one who could identify Lovelace, they couldn’t take a chance on his seeing Skip, but they had to make it Jacomine’s idea to keep them apart.

“Impossible,” he said. “I’m sorry to tell you Daniel’s been unconscious for an hour.”

“Are you sure he’s still alive?”

“Of course, he’s still alive. Are you crazy? But he’s not going to be if you assholes don’t get a move on. We’re taking him down the steps now.”

“Okay, we’ll send two paramedics to get him. Then we’ll send Lovelace.”

“No deal.” Again, the hang-up; again, the redial.

“Here’s how it’ll work,” he said. “Two people will bring Daniel outside. Your two paramedics will carry the stretcher, so we can see their hands at all times. They will be covered from inside the house. Lovelace will walk with them. Our two people will hand Daniel over and receive Lovelace.”

Ferguson handed the phone to Lovelace. She said what she’d been coached to say. “Grandpa, I need to walk in by myself. There’s media out here. I want the world to see me walk in.”

“Well, of course, honey. You can have anything your little heart desires.”

Skip fought nausea. She was way past “Let the Good Times Roll.” She thought of the peaceful feeling the witches always gave her. What would they do? she thought. She tried deep breathing, chanting as she breathed.
I breathe in courage and strength and the spirit of all the warrior women who have gone before me. I breathe out cowardice and ineptness and failure.

She was making this up as she went along, and it wasn’t working.

She dropped the last part and tried to think in specifics. Were there any warrior women? There was Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction—that was close enough; there was Boudicca, the British queen whose army slaughtered seventy thousand Roman invaders; there was Athena, chief strategist for Zeus; there was Deborah, the Hebrew warrior.

And of course, there was Joan of Arc, but Skip wasn’t going to mess with that one.

She tried their names.
I am Kali, goddess of destruction, I am Boudicca, leader of the Celts, I am Deborah…

The one that worked was Kali. She imagined herself with a necklace of severed heads, a demeanor so savage her face alone could probably destroy mere mortals.

Or anyway, make them fuck up. That’s all I ask—just make them fuck up.

And stay with me in there. Don’t leave me alone with those assholes.

How odd this was did not occur to her, all she knew was that she’d never been more scared in her life, and she certainly wasn’t going to pray to the Christian god. For one thing, she never had; for another, Jacomine claimed to have Him sewed up.

* * *

Abasolo had seen to it that when the makeup expert fattened Lovelace up, he padded a pair of jeans for Skip, making them pillowy at the top, as if a blouse had been tucked in, and sewed in a holster. She had tried them on briefly at Headquarters, but, because this mission wasn’t yet authorized, a cursory fit was all there was time for.

The clock read two thirty-five as she changed into them. Expertly, Abasolo patted her down. “No good,” he said, “I can feel it.” There was no time to send for the tailor.

“I wonder,” said Ferguson. She turned her back and took off her bra. “Padded.”

They improvised, and when they were done, several experts could feel nothing when they patted Skip down. It was two forty-five. They gave her a second gun—a tiny North American .22— in a bra they had padded with tissues and handkerchiefs. Neither was going to be easy to get to, but it was the best they could do in the allotted time.

In the second bra cup, they fitted a small wireless transmitter and a tiny pair of wire cutters.

Goerner was pale, but strangely calm, as if he’d finally worked off all his nervous energy. All he said was, “Get a move on, y’all,” in a quiet, almost serene voice.

King sat in a corner biting the side of his index finger. They’d practically had to tie him up to get the operation going, and bitter words had been exchanged before he finally called the acting chief, who agreed instantly; in fact, so quickly Kohler joked that he must have already spent a few hours dodging reporters. Skip suspected that wasn’t the whole story.