Hostage Taker (5 page)

O
nce Eve had the cellphone the boy had carried, she turned away from the chaos on the steps. Her gaze drifted up, along the scaffolding, above the magnificent stained-glass windows, to areas where stone and mortar repairs had recently been completed.

Where had the shot come from?

She pushed the button that would redial the last call received. Annie Martinez had been wired—outfitted with a super-sensitive device that could record both sides of any conversation. Had she succeeded in establishing direct contact with the Hostage Taker, voice-recognition software would have almost immediately begun to analyze his speech patterns and word choices.

Now Eve was jumping in blind—relying solely on her ears and powers of deduction. It was far from ideal, but she was convinced time was of the essence. The Hostage Taker had made his point: He was commanding the action, and law enforcement couldn’t even protect their own. Eve hoped to shake his sense of control by making an unpredictable move. In this case, by responding faster than he would anticipate.

The phone rang once. Twice.

Three, four, five, six, seven times.

Then a click. And a voice, rich and deep. “Good morning. Who is this?”

A male voice. Educated, with the
g
articulated at the end of
good morning.
And the phrase:
Who is this?
Not
Who the fuck is this?
or
Who’s this I’m talking to?

Eve took a breath. “This is Eve Rossi. I understand you want to talk with me.” Her voice sounded all right to her ears. Calm and firm. Respectful.

“Glad you decided to join the action, Agent Rossi, not just stand by.”

She listened to the voice, paying close attention to what she heard.
Self-confident. Cool. Slight New York accent—maybe from the Bronx or Brooklyn. He punches his initial consonants, like he wants to start a fight.

“Speaking of action, you’ve brought together quite a crowd this morning,” Eve remarked.

“That’s because everyone loves a good train wreck, don’t they? They don’t want to watch, but they can’t turn away.”

“Yes, but train wrecks are accidents. It doesn’t strike me that anything you’ve done is accidental, Mr….What should I call you?”

She held her breath, waiting. Expecting him to sidestep the question.

“Mister?” He laughed. “Nice manners, Eve. Your parents taught you well. Sorry for your loss, by the way.”

He’d done his homework on her, too.
Smart. Calculating. Prepared.

“Plenty of people here are qualified to talk with you,” she replied evenly. “Why do you want me?”

“I don’t think we know each other well enough for personal questions, Agent Rossi. We haven’t even begun to get acquainted. I don’t know your favorite food; you don’t know whether I root for the Giants or the Jets.”

He knows the playbook.

According to the manual, the negotiator’s first goal was to build a connection and establish a rapport with the Hostage Taker. To find out what was important to him: Family? Job? Hobbies? A special place, like the mountains or the lake? Eve’s task was pretty simple: win him over, convince him that she understood him, get inside his mind, and eventually wear him down. She would need to know him so well that she could predict his every word and anticipate his every move.

That was the hardest part—though not because she wasn’t good at it. She just never liked it. And she’d never done it when the Hostage Taker was in on the game.

“Why do you want to hurt people?”

“Who says I do?” He sounded surprised.

“Your two victims,” Eve answered tersely.

He clucked his tongue. “You’re not much for following protocol, are you, Agent Rossi?”

He was right. Standard operating procedure was to avoid all mention of the crisis. Keep the conversation light and off-topic. But she knew already: The usual methods would never work with this guy. “You didn’t strike me as one for small talk,” Eve said. “But sure, we can discuss the rotten weather. Or how the Knicks lost again last night.”

He laughed. It was a small sign of rapport. “Fine. You were honest with me. So I’ll be honest with you. The two people I’ve killed are dead because they didn’t do as I asked. The boy lived because he did.”

“But how did Sergeant Martinez—”

“I won’t discuss the house mouse,” he interrupted. “That’s all you get. This was a productive first conversation.”

“Not for me. I still don’t know what you want.”

“First, I want you.”

“That’s easy; I’m here. Now can we let those hostages go?”

“Ever watch YouTube, Eve? You should take a look at the recent entries for Saint Patrick’s. You won’t learn everything I want, but you’ll see what I’m capable of.”

“I’ve already seen something of what you’re capable of. If you keep killing your hostages,” Eve persisted, “then I’ve got to assume they’re already as good as dead. I’ll authorize an assault team to take you out and end this crisis.”

He laughed again. “I can kill as many hostages as I want—and I’ll still hold the biggest ace of all. Saint Patrick’s itself. Why, I’ll bet you’ve already got Landmarks and Church people shitting themselves because bullets are flying outside their precious building.” His voice turned deadly serious. “I’ll call you back in thirty minutes to discuss my demands. I’ve done my homework. Time for you to do yours.”

There was a click—and he was gone.

Eve brushed past
Henry Ma as she stepped into the tactical van.

“Of all the foolhardy things I’ve ever seen you do,” he sputtered. “No vest. No protective gear. No wire. Completely exposed.”

She pulled a notebook filled with blank paper out of her bag. Slapped it on the desk, grabbed a black marker, and started a list. In the first column, she wrote
Educated. Confident. A planner who did his homework.
In the second, she put
Important:
Watching a train wreck.

Henry jabbed the notebook with his index finger. “You aren’t explaining this to me.”

Eve shook her head. “I don’t have a handle on this guy. At least, not yet.” She turned to the Tactical Management Team, which consisted of four men and a woman, all wearing black jeans and matching weatherproof jackets. They were different ages, different ethnicities, different physical builds. What they had in common was their chosen profession and their ability to maintain a poker face around Henry Ma. “I need a chronology of everything that’s happened in that Cathedral, beginning with when security ran their final check last night. I need full ID and background on the two victims. Forensic analysis of the bullet trajectory in both incidents. And blueprints: I want to know every inch and corner of Saint Patrick’s, including all plumbing, electric, and sewer lines.”

No one moved; then Henry nodded his approval. The woman tapped a button and opened a new window on her computer; the man next to her picked up the phone and began dialing.

“I need to talk to the man you took into custody this morning,” Eve said.

“Angus MacDonald,” Henry interjected. “He’s with Medical right now; he was having heart palpitations.”

“Then I’ll begin with the boy. I need a private room—and space to work.”

“Fine by me. What else?”

She stood straighter. “We agree that I’m in charge of negotiations.”

“It’s your show, Eve. No one will question the Feds taking the lead. Not after the NYPD just failed so spectacularly.” A tight smile spread over Henry’s perfect white teeth.

It reminded her again of how much of a political animal Henry was. And how the agents surrounding her were men and women whose allegiance he had carefully cultivated—or perhaps outright bought. They had followed her orders—but only after Henry gave them permission.

She needed her own agents. Agents loyal to her, not the FBI. Or to the rigid protocol found in the playbook. “This is an unusual situation—and I’m going to need unconventional help.”

Henry’s smile faded. “Your guys have moved on.”

“Then I’ll track them down.”

“You can’t be sure they’ll come back.”

“That’s
my
problem, not yours. I just need you to do one thing: officially green-light the Vidocq Unit.”

10:36 a.m.

We continue to follow a developing situation in Midtown Manhattan, where we are talking with our correspondent on the ground, Dave Bledsoe.

He’s at Fifty-seventh and Fifth Avenue, where hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people are being held behind police blockades. Dave, what can you tell us?

E
ve divided her attention between the two computers now set up in her temporary offices in the Bureau’s Mobile Response Unit. The MRU had just arrived and it was a technological marvel on wheels—complete with encrypted satellite Internet access and an independent power grid—and large enough to house at least eight agents. They parked in front of Banana Republic, the clothing store on the northwest corner of Fiftieth and Fifth, opposite the Cathedral. She had a direct view of Saint Patrick’s from her small bulletproof window, but she didn’t watch as the forensic and medical technicians gathered their evidence behind protective shields.

She’d just seen a woman she barely knew die in front of her. She’d just had a conversation with a man who took a life as reflexively as he might swat a mosquito. She already felt a hollow pit in her stomach and a familiar pounding in her head.

She reached into her bag for the small white pill that would relieve her headache, swallowing it dry. She knew there were likely many more hostages in the Cathedral. She didn’t want to worry about them. She didn’t want to watch any of them die. In fact, the less she thought of them, the better—or she’d be distracted from what was now her sole priority.

The Hostage Taker.

First, she needed to do her homework: find his message, scour the Cathedral’s blueprints, and analyze the forensic report. Second, track down—and win back—the members of her former team. Third, learn what she could from the only two eyewitnesses to date: the boy and the old man.

Am I really up for this?

It didn’t matter. The Hostage Taker had given her no choice.

There was plenty she couldn’t change. She would never bring the dead back to life. There was no guarantee that she could save the still-living. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try.

She toggled screen after screen, searching among videos. Filtering her search by
time
didn’t help. In just the past forty-seven minutes, no less than eight people had gotten around to posting video of themselves at the Cathedral during the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade. Never mind that it was almost Christmas and their videos had been shot last March.

Maybe I should put a junior agent on this?

She rejected the thought almost as soon as she formed it. She was looking for something specific—and she trusted only her own instincts to lead her to it. Plus, she preferred keeping control of her own information.

Eve knew that within the FBI she was considered a lone wolf. A far cry from other, more stable agents who had developed the right relationships—with superiors who protected them, trading favors when necessary. She’d trained as a profiler after discovering that she had a gift for understanding people—and manipulating them, when necessary. But Eve had never been a political player; she lacked patience for empty talk and games. She had experienced a meteoric rise in the Bureau early in her career, propelled by the number of hostage situations she had successfully defused. It all came to a screeching halt when a high-profile case went bad.

With the right connections, her career might have gone in a different direction. Instead, after a brief leave, she had accepted an invitation to head a secret, unconventional, and highly controversial unit.

Vidocq.

Modeled after the example of Eugène Vidocq, one of France’s most notorious criminals of the late-eighteenth-century, who later in life was convinced to use his considerable talents on behalf of the police. Vidocq became a legendary crime fighter and head of the French Sûreté.

Established after the First World War, the FBI’s Vidocq Unit brought together a unique group of thieves, forgers, blackmailers, and murderers—with extraordinary talents—who could solve crimes using methods that ordinary agents never could. The deal offered them was simple: put their skills to work for the government—or do hard time in prison. They were spectacularly successful, credited with everything from arresting German saboteurs in the 1930s, within days of their submarines landing off the Atlantic Coast, to taking down several members of New York’s Five Families. Vidocq continued to adapt to the times, recruiting team members from diverse backgrounds with unique specialties, from weapons and munitions to all methods of high-tech security.

At first, Eve had felt completely unsuited to lead them.

She played by the book. They laughed at the rules.

Bureau training had drilled into her a sense of her own unimportance. They had oversized egos.

She had learned how to compromise for the good of the unit. The word
team
was not in their vocabulary.

In other words, she had absolutely nothing in common with them. Except they shared her impatience for bullshit, they were uniquely good at what they did, and, more than anything else, they relished winning.

Vidocq was a unit designed to serve the FBI during moments of crisis. Whenever they needed someone to save the day. Or, failing that, when they needed someone to blame.

Eve steeled herself, picked up the phone, and dialed.