The Last Hostage

by Nance, John J. ;

  Ken turned slightly. “Thanks to your caution, Kat, you had nothing to do with opening those files. Only I did.”

  She nodded.

  Ken fired off another series of keystrokes, saving the one picture to a nonprotected file, then triggering a new one.

  Another full color picture of a naked female child feloniously intertwined with a leering adult male swam into view.

  “Oh, Lord. I’ll bet they’re all like this.” He triggered a third, and yet another similar color picture emerged.

  “Kat, there are at least fifty pictures listed of this type. It would take a while to open them, and I … I don’t have the stomach for it.”

  She shook her head. “Nor do I.”

  Ken looked up from the computer and checked outside before turning to look at Kat, who had moved back to the copilot’s seat. He studied her in silence for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and pulled the P.A. microphone from the center pedestal.

  “Folks, a while ago I forced FBI Agent Katherine Bronsky aboard this aircraft against her will. She’s sitting in the copilot’s seat right now, and she’s been trying her best to end this thing by helping me work out the arrest of Bradley Lumin with her superiors. Now, there’s something else you need to know, but first I want Rudolph Bostich to stand in the aisle again by the seat he fled to a while ago. I realize many of you think that since Bostich is a United States Attorney and a big man politically, and I’m just an aggrieved father, I have to be wrong about his lying to a judge, because a man of Bostich’s position couldn’t possibly have told a lie under oath.”

  Ken unsnapped his seatbelt, handed Bostich’s computer to Kat, and swung out of his seat just as something moving in the distance caught Kat’s attention. As Ken opened the cockpit door, she peered through the left window, making out the outline of a C-130 transport obviously inbound to Telluride.

  For a split second she had an impulse to turn and tell Ken, but she stifled it instantly, reminding herself where she was, who she was, and what was happening. The fact that she could have even formed such a thought was sobering.

  What’s happening to my head? I’m trying to end a hijacking, not help the hijacker!

  But the thought of the pictures she had seen sparked a miniature firestorm of anger at a senior law enforcement officer who could even think about possessing such filth.

  The C-130 reimposed itself on her consciousness. If the pilots could get in and land before Ken discovered their presence, perhaps they could make a difference.

  But Ken’s threats rang in her ears, especially the threat to take off if anyone showed up.

  She glanced back at him, standing in the door with his back to the windscreen, the cord of the P.A. mike stretched to its limit as he continued to speak.

  She looked back to the west again. The C-130 was disappearing to the south behind them. She could see the gray military color, and decided it was probably Air Force, and probably carrying the Hostage Rescue Team at the urgent request of FBI Headquarters.

  She reached down to the VHF radio frequency control head and quietly dialed in the universal emergency frequency, 121.5. As Ken pressed the P.A. button behind her, she fingered the transmit switch on the control yoke, trying to decide what to say as Ken’s voice rang again in her ears.

  “Come on, Bostich. On your feet. I want to be able to see you back there. Annette? Can you hear me?”

  Annette appeared just behind Bostich, her hand in the air, her face too distant to read.

  “Annette, would you please get the P.A. microphone from the back galley there and stretch it forward so Mr. Bostich can talk to us?”

  Ken could see Annette hesitate, then raise her palms to the ceiling and disappear for a second, returning moments later to hand the microphone to a very confused Rudolph Bostich. She talked to Bostich for a few seconds, obviously coaching him on how to press the button on the mike.

  “Do you have the mike in your hand, Bostich?”

  There were a series of bumps and scrapes with the microphone as Bostich experimented with the button, then held it down.

  “What do you want, Wolfe?”

  Ken pressed his mike button.

  “I want some answers, Bostich, to some simple questions, and folks, please pay close attention. Okay, Rudolph Bostich, do you approve of hardcore pornography?”

  Bostich answered instantly.

  “No, of course not! What kind of stupid question is that?”

  Ken nodded and pushed his P.A. button again.

  “The counselor doesn’t like the questions, folks. Okay, Rudolph, would-be Attorney General-designate of the United States of America, the second question is: Have you ever purchased, or otherwise obtained, had, or carried around with you anything that could be described as hardcore pornography that clearly involves children under the age of consent?”

  Again Bostich’s voice bellowed a quick, sneering answer.

  “He’s insane, people, but for the record, the answer is not only no, but hell, no!”

  Ken pressed his button.

  “Okay, again you answered no. Now, Rudolph, a little while ago I confiscated your briefcase from the first class overhead compartment over your seat. Inside that briefcase was your computer. So happens, working out the intricacies of computers has long been a hobby of mine, so I went looking in your computer files to see if I could find any evidence you’d lied to that Connecticut judge. By the way, folks, those of you in the rear of the coach cabin, please turn around now and watch his face on this one. Rudolph, do you recognize the personal computer file password 97883PSY?”

  Standing in the rear aisle of the 737, with one hand holding the mike, the other on his hip, and a furious scowl on his face, Rudy Bostich at first looked confused. The few dozen passengers who had turned to watch him saw the blood drain from his face and his eyes grow large, his mouth gaping open for a second before he caught himself and tried to return to the fierce expression. He raised the P.A. mike back to his lips.

  ‘“NO!”

  In the cockpit door, Ken nodded again as he raised the mike.

  “Rudolph? One more. Are your answers as truthful as the answer you gave that Connecticut judge when he asked if you had phoned Detective Matson?”

  The answer was slow in coming from Bostich.

  “Yes, damn you!”

  Ken imagined he could see the beads of sweat on Bostich’s brow. He glanced back over his shoulder, aware that Kat had leaned around and was watching him with wide eyes.

  “Okay, folks. Rudolph Bostich says, in effect under oath here, that the three answers he just gave are all true, just as true as those he gave that Connecticut judge. Well then, Rudolph, can you explain why on your computer I found more than fifty-one picture files downloaded from the Internet, and apparently purchased by you, each one protected by a password, the very same password you just denied you had ever heard about, 97883PSY? Can you tell me why I also found that very same password guarding some very routine legal files with your name on them? The only logical conclusion—in fact, the only feasible conclusion—is that the password you just told us you never heard of is actually your personal memorized password that you know very well, indeed. Folks, for those of you who don’t use computers, a password is just a string of numbers and letters that the user memorizes. When you try to look into a computer record later, if it’s password-protected, you have to remember the password to open it. People use passwords when they don’t want anyone else to find or read their files.”

  As Ken spoke, he saw Bostich stagger back and lean against the aft bulkhead.

  “You see, I found his password code and opened up three of the picture files which had been protected by Rudolph Bostich’s personal password. I wasn’t prepared for what I found. All were color photographs. All three showed separate naked adult males in the act of committing unspeakable sexual acts on the same naked little nine- or ten-year-old girl.”

  There was an audible gasp throughout the aircraft, heads turning to the back, pas
sengers lifting themselves up in their seats to look around at Bostich, who was shaking his head in shock.

  “Folks, the mere possession of hardcore kiddie porn is a federal felony.”

  Ken paused and let his words sink in as he bit his lip and tried to keep the emotion out of his voice.

  “So, the bottom line is this. You heard Rudolph Bostich tell you he was AS truthful with my questions as he was in Connecticut, and you now know for a fact he has just lied to you on all three of my questions. He not only has possessed pornography containing children, he currently carries a computer full of felonious child pornography. He not only knew that password and lied about it, it’s his personal password. And, he obviously not only approves of smut, he supports it. Now, folks, ask yourself, who—Bostich or the detective—is more likely to be lying about that Connecticut phone call, a lie that let my daughter’s killer go free?”

  Ken let go of the microphone button, not expecting Bostich to press the other microphone against his mouth in sputtering rage.

  “You fucking felon! How dare you fabricate an outrageous story like that? There’s no truth to that at all, people. He’s lying! If there’s anything on my computer that shouldn’t be there, he put it there, or somebody else did! I would never—”

  Ken pressed his mike button again and cut him off.

  “Tell you what, folks, let’s go one step further. Annette? Take that mike away from the child pornographer back there and get him back in his seat. I’m going back in the cockpit here and I’m going to hand the microphone to FBI Agent Bronsky, who witnessed my excursion through Bostich’s computer, although she had nothing to do with the search, since she didn’t have a warrant. Agent Bronsky? Please tell the people whether I’m giving them the correct information.”

  Kat looked up at him with an expression of complete confusion, but she pressed the button and brought the mike to her mouth as Ken nodded, urging her to answer.

  “Ah … I’m Katherine Bronsky … as, ah, Captain Wolfe told you. I am an FBI agent. Look, it isn’t my role to be acting as an advocate, but to the extent it might help to know this, yes, what he says … what Captain Wolfe has told you about his search, not mine, through Rudolph Bostich’s computer, is absolutely accurate. Mr. Bostich’s name is on the outside of the computer, so I believe it to be his, and the password that I saw Captain Wolfe find and use unlocked not just the picture files, but normal files as well, which indicates that the pornographic files weren’t just accidentally placed there. I also saw something that Captain Wolfe may not have noticed—the date and time one of the password-protected document files was last opened, and that was this morning, apparently at a time just before you would have been boarding the flight in Colorado Springs. So it’s pretty damning evidence, and based on what I’ve seen, the FBI will begin an immediate criminal investigation into Bostich and why he is apparently in possession of such material.”

  Kat paused, the button still pressed, then put the mike back to her lips.

  “One … one other thing. You would not believe how stomach-turning this … this … filth is. These are just little girls, and there are many, many more pictures on that disk that I didn’t see.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ft. Collins, Colorado. 3:40 P.M.

  “This is command one. No one, I repeat, no one moves until I give the word.”

  Greg Villias, police chief of Ft. Collins, put down the microphone and raised the fieldglasses to his eyes again, bringing the entrance to the familiar Kmart store swimming into view. Somewhere in there was a fat slob of a child molester known as Bradley Lumin, a two-time East Coast loser suddenly propelled to the FBI’s ten most wanted list—and spotted by one of Villias’s off-duty officers shopping for socks in the next aisle.

  Villias looked down at the unoccupied right seat of his unmarked car, reassuring himself that the warrant was there—a ridiculously routine arrest warrant for jumping bail on several traffic tickets back in Connecticut.

  He lifted the fieldglasses again, resting an elbow on the edge of the steering wheel to steady the view.

  His officers were excited, and that meant a potential mistake. Lumin was probably not armed, and probably only dangerous to little children, but they couldn’t take a chance. Arresting him in a store full of people wasn’t the safest method.

  Two more customers emerged from the store, a young woman, little more than a child herself, wheeling two infants, followed by her husband pushing a loaded shopping cart.

  “Command one, this is four. Subject is finishing at the checkout stand now.”

  Villias lowered the glasses and found the microphone.

  “Shift into position, plain clothes only. Four, you and six stay back.”

  “Roger.”

  He started the car and slipped it in gear, rolling slowly toward the entry, the microphone balanced in his right hand as the automatic door began opening, the shape of the unkempt subject visible right behind it.

  “Okay, NOW!” he ordered, mentally chiding himself for sounding excited.

  A young man in blue jeans began ambling in from the left, a man in a business suit from the right. A female officer carrying a shopping bag moved into the doorway behind. Effortlessly they closed around the corpulent man, the officer in jeans smiling and saying something innocuous as the other leveled a cocked service revolver at his head and the officer behind pulled out the handcuffs.

  “Mr. Lumin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sir, I’m Officer Wallace of the Ft. Collins Police, and I’m placing you under arrest pursuant to a warrant from the State of Connecticut. You have the right to remain silent …”

  Villias could see the man blinking from surprise as the Miranda warning rang in cadence to the snap of the handcuffs.

  The police chief changed frequencies and keyed his microphone.

  “Dispatch, let the feds know we’ve got him. No resistance.”

  Aboard Sage 44, Air National Guard C-130. 3:40 P.M.

  The aircraft commander of Sage 44 banked his large, four-engine air-lifter back toward the west as he kept his eyes focused on the civilian Boeing 737 jetliner below, which was still sitting on the east end of Telluride’s single runway.

  A male voice filtering through his headset caused him to look to his right toward the small jumpseat just behind the center console. The lead FBI agent had returned and was fastening his seatbelt.

  The aircraft commander, a major, pulled his headset away from his right ear and leaned toward the agent.

  “I missed what you said.”

  The FBI agent nodded. “I was asking if we’d heard anything more from her?”

  The major shook his head no. “Only that first transmission on the emergency frequency asking us to stay out of the way, and not to land.”

  The agent bit his lip momentarily as he craned his neck to see out the left windows, then sat back and leaned close to the major’s ear to get through the mighty background rumble of the hulking turboprop’s engines.

  “I’ve been on the phone to Washington. My orders are to get us on the ground as fast as possible and try to keep that 737 from taking off. The lady down there is one of ours, but she’s a hostage, and Headquarters has already decided to override her recommendations. When you’ve got a gun to your head, what are you gonna say, right?”

  The major cocked his head, a worried expression on his face. “Look, with the wind under ten knots and the pressure altitude so high, the air is very thin, and it takes us more runway to land and stop than it would at sea level. That’s why I’d rather wait for him to taxi off that runway before I try to land on it. I mean, he’s sitting on the east end, and I could come in from the west end and land toward him, and we’d probably stop just fine. But, if anything went wrong with my bird here on landing rollout, we could end up plowing right into that airplane.”

  “How about landing over him from the east? You know, come in from behind, right over him, and set down on the runway in front of him?”

 
The pilot looked out at Telluride’s airport again, now passing under the left wing.

  “Only as a last resort, sir. It’d be safer to plunk this bird down on the west end, because otherwise I’d have to be a hundred feet over the end of the runway to make sure I didn’t hit him, and that means I’m going to land pretty far down the runway.”

  “You’re staying to the south right now, aren’t you?”

  The major nodded. The instructions from the FBI agent on the hijacked aircraft had been specific. “This seven-thirty-seven is facing north,” she’d said. “Stay south of the field and stay high, and the captain won’t spot you.”

  So far she was right. The 737 hadn’t moved.

  The major turned back to the agent. “What are you guys going to do down there anyway? Shoot his tires out?”

  The agent shook his head. “I’m not sure. It’s pretty delicate. I just need you to get us there as fast as possible. Can you make an approach now?”

  The major sighed and looked around.

  “I’ll get ready to come in from the west. We’ll make an assault landing on the first hundred feet of the west end of the runway and honk this baby to the quickest stop possible. We’ll need all you guys strapped in. This is an impressive maneuver.”

  Aboard AirBridge Flight 90, Telluride Regional Airport. 3:40 P.M.

  When Kat finished with the P.A., Ken replaced the microphone. They sat in silence for a while, Ken trying to make sense of what they’d found on Bostich’s computer, while Kat wondered when and where the C-130 would make its inevitable appearance. Like it or not, Washington was probably ignoring her pleas to stay away. The C-130 would try to land, regardless of the risk, and Ken Wolfe’s reaction would be dangerously unpredictable.