Hostage Taker (21 page)

“W
hy kill the priest?” Eve wondered aloud. “Or the NYPD negotiator? Or Cristina Silva?” Three seemingly unconnected individuals—each in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had they truly been killed only to make the point that the Hostage Taker was willing to take a life?

Or was there something more? A deeper, hidden message?

Only one hostage—a young boy—had been freed. Why? Was it a sign of empathy?

She’d been told she could tell things about people. That she could instinctively understand the motive behind the act. Read the details and find the pattern. An intuitive, almost magical process—like reading tea leaves in a cup or divining the meaning of a drawn tarot card.

Except no magic was happening. Not today. Not for her.

The Hostage Taker had now been in charge for too long. Twenty hours, fifty-two minutes—if Eve counted from the time the Cathedral closed last night. Ten hours, twenty-eight minutes—if she counted from the moment he murdered Cristina Silva, his first hostage, that morning.

The phone rang. She picked it up on the third trill.

“I’m disappointed. I didn’t think I’d have to call you again.”

Eve glanced at the computer to confirm they were being recorded. Then she listened intently to his voice. She heard exhaustion, confidence, and rage. A terrifying combination. “I’m glad you did call. We need to talk.”

“About how you betrayed me? Sending four agents up the backside of the building to take me out? I thought we had an understanding.”

“Harming you wasn’t their goal. They were only gathering information.”

“Are you denying they would’ve been happy to take a shot, given the chance?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Didn’t think so.”

“You’re the sharpshooter. Why didn’t you take them out?”

“Maybe I like pretty architecture. Maybe I didn’t want to shatter that stained-glass window they were climbing behind.”

“A generous impulse. What about the priest? Do you have something against men of the cloth?”

“Everyone has to pay for their sins.”

“That’s what this is about: paying for sins?”

“Somebody has to.”

“Or is it just that you have something against the Catholic Church?”

“Have you ever been afraid, Eve?”

“Of course. Everyone has.”

“What of?”

“The dark. The shadows. The monsters I once imagined lived under my bed.”

“You want to know what I was once afraid of? I was afraid of my teacher. I was eleven when I got caught drinking the altar wine before CCD class. That’s Catholic Christian Doctrine, which I had every Tuesday night. I thought he was going to give me detention. That was the usual punishment for boys who stepped out of line. So I didn’t think much of it when he took me to a different classroom. Not until he closed the door behind him—and locked it shut. I’ll never forget what happened next. He sat down, gave me this weird smile, and you know what he said to me? ‘This is what God wants.’ ” His voice dripped sarcasm. “
This
is what God wants.”

“I’m sorry.” Eve reminded herself that it could be nothing but a trick. A lie designed to win her sympathy and distract her from what needed to be done. Except her every instinct told her: What she’d just heard was the truth.

She’d initiated this dance with various Hostage Takers more times than she wanted to count. Time after time, she and her target spun their lies into a web designed to ensnare the other—and yield the upper hand. But something strange always happened: As often as they lied about the crisis at hand, they confessed the truth about their doubts and fears.

“Now that you’re grown up, Eve, what are you afraid of?”

“Myself.”

“Is that why you stayed overseas so long?”

“You did your research on me. Maybe you can tell me something more about you? Even it up a bit?”

“Stay focused, Eve. Why didn’t you come home? You weren’t sightseeing.”

It always surprised her how easily she could share her intimate thoughts with an enemy, thoughts she wouldn’t share with her closest friends. “I decided to search for a story,” she answered evenly. “One that would explain things I don’t understand about my stepfather’s life—or his death. There are gaps in his history, involving an old family friend. He was important to Zev. He might be important to me.”

“What’s the mystery?”

“Everything. Nothing,” she said evasively. “Right now, I can’t separate the truth from the myths and legends surrounding it.”

“I’ve always liked a good story. Tell me this one.”

“Maybe when this is all over. Which it could be—right now—if you want to come on out.”

He laughed softly. “I propose a trade. Tell me how your story starts—and in return, I’ll tell you something useful.”

Why do we share these things with each other?
Eve wondered. To connect and establish some bond of trust, of course. That’s what she’d been taught to do. But it was also something else. Maybe it was the appeal of an interested listener. Maybe this was just her own twisted therapy session. “I think my story begins with six numbers. 174531. Tattooed onto a man’s left forearm, next to a short scar. I can find nothing before it. But I think 174531 explains everything about his life afterward.”

“It would be great if all our stories had a clear beginning. A spot we could point to and say, ‘Yes, because of this, I understand—’ ” The Hostage Taker broke off. “The priest that’s dead? He was a bad priest. I heard his confession, not two hours ago. So he fuckin’ deserved what he got.”

“And the other victims? Did they deserve it?”

“Enough.” His voice was pure steel.

“Did you make all your hostages confess?”

“I need to know what they’re guilty of. How are my witnesses?”

“Bewildered. Wondering why they’re here.”

“As long as they’re present and accounted for.” His tone was clipped.

“Why do you need them?”

“That’s personal.”

“I won’t jeopardize their safety,” Eve warned.

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe just a show of good faith, then?” Eve wanted to test whether their moment of bonding could yield a concession—and yet she had to tread softly. “Release one hostage,” she suggested. “Just one. Maybe the boy’s mother.”

There. She’d once again broken one of the fundamental rules of hostage negotiation. The one that forbade the negotiator to draw attention to the hostages. The theory was that you should always keep the Hostage Taker’s attention directed somewhere else—and avoid suggesting that his hostages had value.

Except he’d already shown a soft spot for the boy.

“Why the mother?” His voice was rough.

“The boy needs his mother.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t know much about you. I still don’t know your name. Where you’re from. Or even why you’re doing this. But I know one thing: You’re a parent. And that kid you released before? He’s eleven. Just like you were, when your Catholic school teacher hurt you.”

In the silence that followed—the breath of his hesitation—Eve imagined she could hear his emotions jostling together. “You know nothing about me,” he finally growled. “Nothing at all.”

“Just the mother,” Eve pressed. “Just one hostage.”

Click.
The line went dead.

And Eve was left alone in the silence, wondering how close she had come.

I
didn’t think about Mrs. Brescia again for more than twenty years. Not until I was back in Afghanistan.

It should have been a lucky tour. I’d been deployed with Stacy, who was fluent in both Pashto and Dari, and would be working as an interpreter out of my FOB—forward operating base. I was a combat engineer who’d gone through the sapper course at Camp Pendleton—arguably the best training available, stateside. I’d learned to defuse the IEDs that plagued the military operation over there.

We had no illusions: We were going to hell in a sandstorm. A place with a name most Americans couldn’t spell. Located in a no-man’s-land most couldn’t find on a map.

Stacy had been on four past tours, and I’d done three, so I figured we knew just what to expect. I remembered how once we left base for the FOB, it would be months before I felt clean and full and rested. How I would die of boredom most of my days—and be constantly on edge the rest of them.

Because we’d be on patrol through bazaars swarming with locals wearing robes big enough to conceal suicide vests.

Because most places we went, we’d be greeted with the thumbs-down signal.

Because there were too many Afghan soldiers who played both sides of the game. One day, they’d pretend to be our ally. The next, they’d try to shoot us.

Mostly because the roads were full of buried IEDs.

What I also remembered from those tours was how we all carried pictures of our loved ones in our wallets. After an extended trip outside the wire, we’d come back to base, strip out of our gear, and take out those pictures. And just stare—wishing we were home.

I knew Afghanistan was going to be hard.

I thought having Stacy with me would make it easier.

I had never been more wrong.

T
he team agent in charge was having a word with Henry Ma. They had just walked the circumference of the Cathedral, encompassing an entire city block, checking out all four sides. The streets on that block—Fifth Avenue and Madison, Fifty-first, and Fiftieth—were jammed with emergency vehicles. Fire trucks filled the center span; police, ambulance, and unmarked government sedans filled the side lanes, spilling onto the sidewalks. A television crew was trying to sneak around the police barrier on Madison. Uniformed officers converged, blocking their path and confiscating their cameras. When one reporter ducked through, he was immediately tackled and pinned to the ground. His chest landed in a leftover puddle.

The agent allowed his gaze to follow the steep lines of the roof. “I’ve been wondering since first thing this morning how to do it. How to get inside, once the time comes to breach the Church.”

“My negotiator is convinced this building is as impenetrable as a medieval castle.” Henry angled his head. “What do you think?”

The lead man gave a slow nod before continuing. “I couldn’t figure it out for the longest time myself. The only visible vulnerabilities are the windows near the roofline and certain areas of crumbling stone that are in the process of repair. Both access points require an assault from above. Breach the roof and drop in from above. And while it would work, given enough armor and firepower, good people would die. The Hostage Taker would see us coming. He’d have the opportunity to detonate all the explosives anchored to the foundation.”

“So you do not recommend such an approach.”

“No, sir. Absolutely not.”

They had circled back to the front of Saint Patrick’s. Cops and Feds and firemen still swarmed. But now they were all working behind bulletproof glass barriers. Newly erected to offer protection from the sniper or snipers inside.

The agent focused his attention on the central bronze doors. “Those doors aren’t just wired with explosives. Each one is sixteen and a half feet high. Each weighs about nine thousand two hundred pounds. There’s a lever lock on the bottom. And both the Church and the Landmarks people will erupt in a shitstorm if the saints on the front of them are disfigured in any way.”

“If it’s our only option, I can handle it.”

“There may be a better approach. Three hostages have come out those doors. And what’s happened every time the doors open? He disarms the explosive charge so the hostage can walk outside and speak to your negotiator. Best I can tell, we have one small window of opportunity to act while he rearms the explosives and gets himself or his associates in position.”

“So assuming he sends another hostage out?”

“We have an eight-second window to breach.”

“Risk to the hostage?”

“High. But what is it your casebooks say? The hostage is already as good as gone. Better to deploy our resources toward those inside—the ones we still have a chance of saving—and end this once and for all.”

Henry considered this. “The faster this crisis is over, the better. I don’t just have the FBI director breathing down my neck. I have the mayor’s office. The Landmarks Commission. The Chamber of Commerce people. The police commissioner. I’ve fielded three calls from the White House. And don’t get me started on officials from the Church. Everyone is upset, wanting answers. Most of all, wanting this to be over, so Christmas season in Manhattan can get back to normal. But everybody’s worried about the hostages, and I can’t risk a bloodbath.”

“Either way, you might not be able to avoid it. My guess is the guy inside isn’t done yet.”