Hostage Taker (3 page)

9:31 a.m.

This just in. We have a developing situation in Midtown.

Police and first-responder activity is causing multiple street closures in the vicinity of Fifth and Madison throughout the Forties and Fifties.

Our Sky Chopper is in the air to bring us this live shot of the area. There’s a crush of emergency vehicles—including multiple fire department vehicles—jamming both Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets on either side of Fifth Avenue.

Over to you, Jim. From your vantage point, can you tell whether the incident response seems directed to Rockefeller Center—or to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?

T
he man who’d summoned Eve was pacing back and forth under Atlas—the enormous bronze statue who held up the heavens—at Rockefeller Center, directly across the street from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Watching him, Eve realized: The timing of this crisis was bad, but it could have been far worse. They were fortunate that the area had been secured before tens of thousands of visitors swarmed the site for that evening’s world-famous Tree Lighting ceremony.

This was Midtown Manhattan’s prime tourist arena, transformed into a brilliant holiday spectacle. Normally the smell of roasting chestnuts would fill the air. The jingle of bells from Salvation Army Santas would compete with the Christmas carols played by every store.

Dazzling window displays demanded attention, each more ornate and magnificent than the last. And every building would be decorated with an extravagant array of Christmas lights, red ribbons, and ubiquitous green wreaths. Even the most jaded New Yorkers found it extraordinary—and they joined tourists who came to spend the day shopping at Saks, ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza, or wandering through Saint Patrick’s.

Eve returned her attention to it: an enormous neo-Gothic cathedral with stunning stained-glass windows and graceful twin spires soaring more than three hundred feet into the air, disappearing into low-hanging clouds that lingered after the rain. Though dwarfed in size by the skyscrapers encircling it, the Cathedral’s grandeur ensured that it easily dominated the block. Even obscured by scaffolding—part of a massive restoration project designed to rehabilitate the Cathedral inside and out—the building retained an almost mystical aura. It didn’t matter to Eve that she wasn’t Catholic, or even particularly religious. The building itself was so uniquely beautiful that she had always found peace there.

Not today.

Fifth Avenue between Forty-ninth and Fifty-second Streets was transformed into a circus of police cars, emergency vehicles, equipment vans, and dozens of unmarked government sedans. The seventy-one thousand twinkling white lights of Saks competed with the flashing of crimson-and-blue emergency vehicle lights as first responders from different organizations—NYPD, FBI, Homeland Security, EMS—swarmed the block. They created a secure perimeter around the front of Saint Patrick’s.

As expected, all approaches to Saint Patrick’s were blocked off. Beyond the perimeter, concrete barricades manned by police in full body armor held back the crowds and the members of the press with their video cameras and microphones. Detoured drivers were honking, and somewhere a car alarm was blaring. Meanwhile, an elderly woman, upset she was not allowed through, wielded an umbrella like a weapon in her futile argument with a cop.

“I need that barricade moved two blocks uptown, hear me?” Henry Ma shouted into his radio. “Get rid of those cameras!” The director shrugged off his raincoat and thrust it at the assistant who followed him, clipboard in hand. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow—overheated, despite the increasing chill in the air. He wore his usual bold red tie and spit-shined shoes, but he had put on at least fifteen pounds since Eve had last seen him three months ago. His suit barely fit, his shirt was unironed. And his wedding ring was missing.

Eve waited for his eyes to find her. Then he froze—and motioned toward a tactical response van. It was a signal. The assistant with the clipboard retreated, and a Hispanic woman in plain khaki pants and a black fitted coat stepped out of the van, nodding to the cluster of officers. She was in her early thirties; her long, dark hair was in a simple ponytail; and she carried no weapon. But her chest was thick, out of proportion to the rest of her slender body—a telltale sign of bulletproof armor underneath.

This woman was an NYPD negotiator.

Henry straightened his tie and stalked toward Eve. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Maybe he regretted the way he had abandoned her when the political winds shifted during their last case. Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, this was as close to an apology as Eve would get.

“I didn’t want to. I wasn’t given a choice,” Eve replied.

“Because there isn’t one. They told you about the message the dead woman carried? There was a note on the back of her sign. Asking for you.”

Eve nodded. “Yes. Why would the Hostage Taker ask for me?”

“We were hoping you could tell us. Maybe you’ve crossed paths with him before.”

“What do you think we’re dealing with?”

Henry made a noise of frustration. “Who the hell knows. The guy inside could be a criminal or a terrorist or a religious nutjob with some beef against the Catholic Church. Take your pick. I’ve got one team combing surveillance video and another trying to get eyes and ears inside. Tactical is standing by. We can’t get our infrared to penetrate the walls of the Cathedral.”

“What about the military?”

Henry bristled. “Our equipment is military-grade—the latest technology. It’s just no match for those walls. They’re made of about ten feet of granite and marble, concrete and brick.”

“Any word yet on how many are inside?”

“There’s no telling. This situation unfolded shortly before seven-o’clock Mass, so we suspect there are multiple hostages. At least the bad weather may have limited the damage. I would be surprised if too many people braved this morning’s monsoon.”

“Any IDs?”

“The media hasn’t broken the full story. When they do, we’ll drown under tips about people known or suspected to be at Saint Patrick’s.”

“What about the Hostage Taker? Anyone claim responsibility?” The Hostage Taker—or Takers, if there were more than one—would need to show his hand before long.

“We’ve got nothing. Just the message asking for you.”

“The Cathedral would be a difficult space for just one person to manage,” she said, thinking aloud.

“Try
impossible.
Security cameras and guards. Multiple entrances and exits. Hordes of tourists. And over two hundred skilled restoration workers on a typical day.”

“How many doors provide entry to this building?”

“Seven, not counting access from the Parish House and the Cardinal’s Residence.”

“You’ve evacuated those buildings?”

Henry nodded.

“And the Cardinal himself?”

“Fortunately he’s not in residence; he’s visiting the Vatican, together with the rector and all his pastoral staff. But because of the timing, shortly before first morning Mass, we believe the substituting Monsignor—Father DeAngelo—may be among the hostages.”

“The Hostage Taker gave no warning—made no demand of any sort—before he killed the woman?”

“Not in a traditional sense.” Henry hesitated. “You might learn something from the old man we took into custody. We cleared him of involvement in the hostage taking—but he claims he talked with the victim before she was shot.”

“You’ve communicated with the Hostage Taker?”

“Soon. Believe me, Tactical is considering all options.”

Tactical
was considering options? Henry’s reluctance to begin negotiations struck Eve as off base. The first order of business—always—was to establish a line of communication with the Hostage Taker. It wasn’t just the best way to learn about who he was and what he wanted. It was also the best way to minimize casualties among hostages. Because when the Hostage Taker was talking, he wasn’t shooting or worrying about defending his barricade from tear gas or a full-out assault.

“I’m confused, Henry. Why didn’t you immediately reach out to the Hostage Taker?”

Henry cleared his throat, realized he was standing in a puddle, and scowled at his custom-made shoes. “I’d like you to meet Sergeant Martinez. She will attempt first contact.”

“Henry,
you
asked
me
to come here. Because the Hostage Taker demanded it.” Eve felt herself slipping off the rails of her control.

“We can’t give in to his first demand. You know that, Eve. But I still need you close by—in case that message with your name on it means something.”

Of course it means something,
Eve thought. Otherwise she wouldn’t have come.

She wanted to point out two things: If the Hostage Taker, unprovoked, had already murdered one victim, then substituting another negotiator for one he requested would be a mistake. And Henry’s excuse for not putting her in was complete bullshit.

But she knew the deal: Henry was looking out for himself. He was poised to take over the crisis—and put Eve in play—the instant doing so benefited him. But so long as there was potential for this crisis to turn into an explosive mess, he was happy for the NYPD to shoulder the blame.

“With all due respect, Henry—”

“My decision is made,” he snapped, cutting her off. “Annie Martinez is a capable negotiator with the Hostage Negotiation Team. You know their reputation is impeccable.”

“How long has she been on the job?”

“Almost two years.”

“She ever negotiate a release?”

“She’s a bit wet behind the ears. But she’s had two completely by-the-book releases that impressed the top brass—kind of like the way you started, Eve. Plus, she managed it when it really counted. I read her file. Seems her father battled mental illness most of his life. Her senior year of college, she came home for spring break and found Mom shot to death. Dad was holed up in the garage with a shotgun and her little brother. She spent the next thirteen hours sitting and talking with him until he gave himself up.”

“She’s got the right temperament, then.” Eve was impressed. “The problem is: This Hostage Taker asked for me.”

“Which is why you’re here if we need you.” Henry said it reasonably. He missed—or more likely ignored—her lingering concern. Instead, he gestured for the slim ponytailed woman to come forward and made the introductions. Then he glanced at a group of officers who were working with an electronic device. They motioned him over. “Excuse me for a moment.”

“Looks like they almost have the throw phone ready,” Annie Martinez remarked. The device wasn’t an actual phone—not anymore—although the colloquial name for it had stuck. It was a combination microphone/speaker, rugged enough to withstand a significant drop, but highly sound-sensitive, capable of transmitting through doors and walls and windows. It didn’t matter if the Hostage Taker didn’t want to talk. As long as you positioned the throw phone in the general vicinity, the Hostage Taker would hear you. If you were lucky, nearby hostages would, too.

“How are you getting it inside?” Eve asked Annie Martinez. Between those ten-foot-thick marble-and-granite walls and bronze doors that weighed more than nine thousand pounds each, the Cathedral seemed like a fortress.

“One of the stained-glass windows has a small crack in a corner. The tactical team plans to enlarge the break, then drop the device.” Annie shot Eve a rueful look. “There’s already a guy here from Landmarks Preservation. He won’t be happy.”

“No,” Eve agreed. “And just wait until the Church gets involved. But that’s not your problem.”

“By the way, it’s great meeting you.” Annie blushed. “What you did with the Marsh case is in all the casebooks. Your words and phrasing—and the way you established a bond with him. It’s the model for how to start a negotiation.”

Eve shrugged. “I’ll be here if you need me. If my name comes up again—and I’m hoping it won’t.”

Annie started to say something—but their attention was drawn by a flurry of activity in front of the statue of Atlas. An officer securing the scene barked an order. Two approaching cops stopped in their tracks. A half-dozen Feds rushed out of the tactical van—and instantly halted. The attention of every single first responder was now directed at one point.

The center bronze door of Saint Patrick’s—where a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, had been thrust outside.

He wore jeans and a puffy blue jacket, and he’d gelled his hair so it spiked straight up. His eyes blinked in response to the flashing lights. He seemed terrified by the vast number of police and emergency personnel who had converged around him.

The boy took four cautious steps forward until he stood at the top of the stairs. He held a cellphone clutched in his right hand. His left clenched a sign reading
HELP
.
Eve wondered if it was identical to the one the previous victim held.

Two groups of officers began to come toward him. Many had raised their weapons.

Startled, the child tensed. “No!”

It sounded like
nor
—but without the emphasis on the
r.

“Don’t m-m-move! I’ve got to do what he says or he’ll shoot.”

The officers slowed. One issued an order; a few took a step back.

Snipers would be in position. Alert for the Hostage Taker, should he reveal himself behind the scaffolding.

The boy waved the phone. His voice cracked. “He wants to talk with Agent Rossi. Eve Rossi.”

To
was only a
t
—with a breathy
uh
at its end. And the
th
was dropped entirely. Definitely a British accent.
Yorkshire?
A tourist—which meant he probably had a mother or father still inside.

The boy put the phone back to his ear and listened. “He says you have exactly ten minutes to get her on the line. Starting now.”

He
again, not
they.

Eve glanced at Henry Ma. He was having an agitated conversation with an NYPD sergeant. They came to a decision fast. “Martinez! You’re on.”

Annie Martinez lifted her shoulders and walked toward the steps.

It was a mistake.
Eve could sense it, more than she could rationalize it.

“Hi, there,” Sergeant Martinez called, addressing the boy. “My name is Annie, and I’m a negotiator with the New York Police Department. I’m here to help you. I know you must be scared.”

The child’s eyes followed her, but he said nothing.

“What’s your name?”

No response.

“We’ve asked Agent Rossi to come. But she can’t get here in ten minutes. Not in the kind of crazy traffic we have this morning. Agent Rossi’s on her way, but it’s going to take her some time. Maybe you could tell him that. Assuming it’s a
him,
of course.”