The Siege

by Stephen White

  He ignores all her entreaties.

  She asks him twice what he has in the box. He doesn’t even look at her.

  When he finally spins the box to reveal the printed message—

  YouTube

  Breach

  Book & Snake

  —she turns her head from him long enough to say, “Look that up, somebody. Joey?”

  Behind her she hears an order for everyone to take cover.

  Christine doesn’t leave her post.

  Joey Blanks takes his familiar position just behind her shoulder. He says, “Got somebody checking those words. You recognize this hostage, Sarge?”

  Christine says, “No,” without turning her head. “Should I?”

  “This is one of the VIP kids. That new Supreme Court nominee’s kid. His name is Reginald Oshiro. Mother and father have different last names. Let me know if you want more details. And, Sarge? His parents have been in touch with us from early on.”

  “Voluntarily? Oh God.” Christine winces. She says, “I do not want to know that.”

  Christine recognizes that the fact the kid is a VIP and the fact that his parents have already reached out to the authorities increases this young man’s vulnerability.

  The kid lowers himself to a squat.

  When the oranges begin to spill down the steps, Christine has to keep herself from gasping.

  The SAC doesn’t see the oranges tumbling down the stairs. He is at an intel meeting inside Woolsey Hall called to review a just-received technical assessment that the morning cell tower failure had been caused by a portable signal jamming device, likely operated from inside the tomb.

  The purpose of the meeting is to assess why the unsub had intentionally precipitated his own communication crisis.

  Haden Moody wasn’t invited to the Woolsey confab. He remains inside the Tactical Operations Center cursing at the initial playing of the You Tube video, HRT: What Happens if You Breach.

  He is so angry that his face looks sunburned.

  The HRT hostage negotiator is accustomed to being outside the intel loop. He is more even-tempered as he watches the video over Moody’s shoulder. He says, “I guess we go to plan B.”

  Moody says, “What the hell is plan B?”

  The negotiator says, “The Army Research Laboratory is sending a team up from Maryland with some . . . technology that can detect activity right through the walls of that tomb. If it’s practical, we’ll deploy it as soon as it’s here.”

  Hade Moody says, “Fuck my uncle. The army has shit that can see through stone walls?”

  “It’s a new radar that ARL’s been developing. It’s called STTW. Sense-Through-The-Wall radar. They started using it experimentally in Iraq. Against al Qaeda. Before they had it, the Predator drones could visually track al Qaeda operatives into a specific building. Then they’d lose them. With the penetrating radar, they can pinpoint the specific location where an individual has moved inside. They can identify potential civilian casualties. Minimize collateral damage. It’s been a major advantage.”

  Moody raises his chin. “Good for us,” he says. “Good for the good guys.”

  The FBI negotiator regrets revealing the technological option to Moody. He chooses his next words with care, hoping to undo any damage. “Deploying the hardware here may not work. After the commander sees what’s in this video, he may decide it’s too risky.”

  “Of course. Sure,” Moody replies. When he’s out of his comfort zone, he goes vague and conciliatory until he can spot clues that will allow him to disguise his ignorance.

  “And these marble walls may be too thick,” the negotiator says.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” says Moody.

  Neither man notices what is happening with the hostage. They don’t see the young man tilt the box, or the oranges begin to bounce down the steps in front of Book & Snake.

  The negotiator says, “The army guys think they might have better luck through the roof, in the attic space. At least we’d be able to tell exactly where people are up there. Who’s moving, who’s not. That’s something. That way, we’d know—”

  The harsh, crisp clap of an explosion stops him in mid-sentence.

  The concussion rocks the big vehicle. Shrapnel peppers the aluminum skin and shatters the two small windows facing the tomb.

  A bomb has exploded outside Book & Snake.

  Two young officers working in the TOC instinctively drop for cover. Both did multiple tours in Iraq.

  One looks at the other. They are both waiting for a second blast.

  After ten seconds, the younger one, a woman, says, “I-fucking-E-D.”

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY EVENING

  Sam

  After Ann convinced me that her husband, Ronnie, was at her side, I half-walked, half-jogged to the Omni. A few dozen people were clustered in front of the hotel, staring in the direction of the slowly diffusing cloud of smoke and dust that had risen above Beinecke Plaza. I threaded through the throng into the lobby. Once inside I tracked down the hotel business center and plopped down in front of a computer. It took me five tries to get the new You Tube video playing.

  A whole mess of people were apparently trying to see it.

  I didn’t recognize the voice doing the narration on the YouTube clip. I was ninety percent certain it was not the same voice I’d heard on the recorded threat that Ann had received the day before. I thought the person doing the video voice-over had an almost imperceptible British tint to his tone. Like a fine English actor doing an almost spot-on generic American accent.

  The first section of the video involved a series of close-up shots of the interior of the front doors of Book & Snake. The camera’s focus was narrow, highlighting an array of alarm sensors that had been attached to the doors and adjacent walls. As the camera angle changed, the narrator described each security feature. There were four different magnetic sensors set to trip if the doors opened or closed, or if there was any other change—something more forceful—that affected the doors’ plane. Basically, if a door opened, the sensors would fire. If the door blew off, the sensors would fire.

  A few feet inside the doors, a half-dozen motion detectors were mounted on the walls. The beams of the detectors crisscrossed the area directly behind the doors. Should the magnetic sensors fail, the motion detectors would sense the body heat of anyone who ventured beyond the doorway.

  The narrator spent some extra time describing the purpose of the multiple glass-break sensors that were attached to two-foot-by-four-foot panels of clear, thin glass. The glass panels were clipped to the backs of the doors, exterior and interior, with plastic brackets. If any of the glass panels suffered damage, the sensors would record it.

  The narrator described the fail-safe setup in a matter-of-fact tone. “All the components of this alarm system are powered by batteries. If the doors are opened or knocked down, the magnetic sensors will record the breach. If anyone passes into the room behind the doors, the motion detectors will record the breach. If any attempt is made to overwhelm the other sensors, the glass on the back of the doors will shatter and the glass-break sensors will record that breach. If any of the batteries fail, the system will record a breach.

  “Any single identified breach will instantly trigger a series of explosive charges in the areas of the building where the hostages are being detained.”

  The narrator paused. He then said, “Are there any questions?” One, two, three. “Good. Let’s move on.”

  The second part of the video showed a similar alarm setup in the attic of the tomb, but the focus of the defenses arranged in that space was on a complex pattern of motion detectors, and on eight different glass panels and the breakage sensors affixed to them.

  The narrator stressed that hostages were being detained in the attic space and explosives were wired in that area.

  If any sensor in the building identified a breach or an attempted breach, all the explosives in the vicinity of any hostage would detonate.

  Carmen called.
I paused the video and took a deep breath. I tried to find a tone of voice that sounded normal. She wanted to talk about the unremitting tragedy in New Haven. “It’s on all the channels,” she said. “I can’t get away from it.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “Turn off the television. You don’t need this right now.”

  It took me another minute of cajoling to get her to agree to rest.

  A few seconds after I restarted the video, the screen went dark. For an instant, I thought the killer’s message was over. Then a single sheet of paper came slowly into focus. In the middle of the page, in a font I didn’t recognize, were three simple words.

  I am America

  The overt message of the YouTube video was a simple one that was intended for HRT and for SWAT. It was: If you breach this space, the hostages will die.

  The fact that the message was posted on YouTube was, in itself, a significant subtext: The world now knows what will occur if you attempt to breach this tomb.

  The public posting of the video was also a taunt to the authorities: I dare you.

  The final three words were, to me, a complete cipher.

  Was “I am America” intended for general consumption? For the parents of the hostages? For the FBI? I didn’t know.

  I wondered if Ann Calderón knew something she hadn’t told me.

  In the hallway outside the business center, I heard someone yell, “What does that mean? ‘I am America’? What does that mean? Does anyone know?”

  Yeah, I was thinking, does anyone know?

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY EVENING

  Poe

  He knows. The out-of-town cop knows what’s been going on in the tomb. He has to. Poe didn’t know how the cop knew. Or what the cop knew. He only knew that the cop knew.

  If Poe’s FBI partner, Kelli Moon, were at his side, she would have chided him right then about his mid-investigation tendency toward magical thinking. But Kelli was with her newborn baby in that cramped little apartment of hers in Adams Morgan. Dee was on a plane waiting to take off from Philadelphia. Poe had no one around to caution him about his always short-lived, almost always unwarranted, and otherwise uncharacteristic optimism.

  The most recent explosion had left Poe’s nerves raw. Exposed.

  He kept his eyes ahead of him. He commanded his legs to take measured steps even though they were screaming a desire to break into a sprint. He continued walking until he arrived at the downtown hotel where he’d dropped his things earlier that day. He traded the doorman ten bucks for his bags before he hiked two and a half blocks across New Haven with his duffel strap slung over his shoulder and his garment bag hooked on the middle joint of his fingers.

  His plan was to check into the Omni.

  The front desk clerk informed him that the hotel was full. “Sorry. This . . . problem on campus,” he explained. “The bomb that just went off? Can you believe what’s happening? Media has shown up from . . . everywhere. I am so sorry. Usually, we’d be able to do something for you.”

  Poe’s attention was distracted. He was using a mirror on the wall behind the clerk to survey the large lobby for members of SSG who might already be in position in the hotel. He watched a businessman heading out the revolving door. A couple—she was African-American, he was Asian—was waiting for an elevator. They were either in love, or they were damn good actors. A middle-aged woman was sitting on a sofa reading In Style magazine. She had those eyeglasses that turned dark outside. She hadn’t been inside long—the glass had not yet returned to clear. Her big designer knockoff purse was beside her.

  She could be a guest. Or not. Poe memorized her face. He thought she possessed a bland, out-of-town aunt, perfect SSG kind of face.

  “I’m sorry,” Poe said, as though he hadn’t heard the clerk.

  The clerk repeated that there were no rooms available.

  Poe tapped the counter to draw the man’s attention downward. He flashed his FBI ID, displaying it only long enough for the clerk to recognize what he was seeing. The credentials had the desired effect. The clerk was suddenly motivated to look a little harder for an available room.

  Poe slid a twenty to the man to acknowledge his additional effort. “To help you forget where I work. Understand?”

  The desk clerk smiled discreetly and said, “I don’t think you ever said where you work. Many of our guests are here for something to do with the college. You, too?”

  “Me, too.” Poe gave him another twenty.

  While he crossed the lobby toward the elevators, Poe made sure to scan the sidewalk in front of the building for loiterers. A taxi driver was standing in front of his cab waiting for a fare. Across the street Poe counted at least half a dozen pedestrians. People were still clustering together to try to make sense of the explosion across campus.

  SSG? Poe knew he was out of his league with SSG. He had been lucky to spot them earlier. He wasn’t likely to get lucky again.

  The elevator arrived. Poe checked the lobby one last time. The couple in love had departed. The woman reading In Style was gone.

  He found his room on the corner of the sixth floor. The room the hotel had been saving for some desperate VIP was small but well appointed.

  How many hotel and motel rooms since OKC? Five hundred? A thousand? Poe knew it was a lot. Moving in to each fine hotel and each cheap motel involved the exact same set of moves by Poe.

  He tossed his duffel onto the chair. He hung his garment bag on the rod in the closet. He removed his shaving kit and tossed it onto the counter in the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and dried it with a fluffy white towel.

  Poe had moved in.

  He stood at the window. From the vantage provided by the Omni, Yale was a Hollywood vision of college. It evoked the melodies and twang of Cole Porter songs. Students wearing tweed suits. Fall Saturdays watching the home team on the gridiron. A cappella choirs. Girls in Mary Janes and pleated skirts and ponytails. Brightly colored leaves falling from big oak trees in the quad.

  Unsubs in the tomb, and IEDs on the plaza. What the hell is next?

  The hotel room overlooked HRT’s tent city on the New Haven Green. Beyond the Green, Poe could see the very top of Harkness Tower. He tried but he couldn’t see Beinecke. He thought he could make out the rooftops of Commons and Woolsey, but he couldn’t find the blunt form of Skull & Bones, or the gable of Book & Snake.

  The smoke and dust from the explosion lingered in the still air hundreds of feet above Beinecke Plaza.

  Poe knew that the siege at Book & Snake had developed into a federal law enforcement resource black hole. Its gravity would prove so immutable that it would attract and absorb any national resources that weren’t committed to fighting wars.

  It was Waco. It was Ruby Ridge. It was 9/11, on 9/12.

  Poe suspected that an important war was already lost. The decisive battle had been fought on Friday, when none of the good guys had even showed up on the right battlefield. His current plan was to do an autopsy on that battle—to discover the nature of the ammunition that had been captured, and where it had been moved—and to do everything possible to save the kids remaining inside Book & Snake.

  He texted his assistant. Anything?

  Seconds later he read his assistant’s reply, SSG is fishing. No target identified.

  But they had a nibble, Poe thought. And now we’re after the same fish.

  Keep me posted on all hostage and family data please.

  Will do. Also, DHS has identified 161 potential Persons of Interest leaving the US by plane or vehicle since Thursday.

  Poe typed, Let me know when they’ve narrowed it to ten. Have we located the white van?

  Negative.

  Poe didn’t know how he was going to find the out-of-town cop without SSG recognizing his interest in the man. He only knew he had to do it.

  He turned on the television and began flicking the remote. Fox came up before CNN. He would toggle back and forth between them hoping to find an occasional kernel that resemb
led truth.

  Fox was replaying the YouTube video. Poe hadn’t seen it. He watched it all the way through, narrowing his eyes and tightening his jaw at the final words.

  I am America

  He wanted a drink. He grabbed the key to the minibar and went in search of a beer.

  Juice and pop and water. No alcohol.

  He called downstairs, figuring the previous guests had asked that the alcohol be removed from the room’s fridge. But he was wrong; alcohol-free minibars were hotel policy. The front desk clerk spelled out Poe’s options: There was a bar on the top floor of the hotel. Or room service could bring him a bottle.

  Poe figured the room service beer would cost him ten bucks and take half an hour. He had the ten bucks. The half hour? In circumstances like he was facing in New Haven, Poe didn’t take time for granted. He rode the elevator to the bar.

  The view from the twelfth-floor lounge included a lovely set piece of the sun disappearing behind rolling Connecticut hills, late-day lights dancing on the waters of Long Island Sound, and shadows engulfing the wide expanse of the Yale campus. Poe admired the view while he pondered his options. Drink at the bar or carry his beer back down to the room?

  Holy, he thought. He quickly added, shit.

  The out-of-town cop was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, with his hands cradled around a bottle of Miller Lite.

  Poe tried his best to act nonplussed. The out-of-town cop couldn’t see him without turning around. Poe settled at a cocktail table to make an assessment of the surveillance situation in the lounge.

  Poe wanted a boilermaker. He also recognized that he was perilously close to needing a boilermaker. Or two. When the waitress came over, he ordered just a beer.

  Poe counted eleven people in the room including the bartender, the cocktail waitress, and the out-of-town cop. An adjoining restaurant was about a third full with the early dining crowd.