The Siege

by Stephen White

  He fell back onto the bed. His feet remained on the floor. He was looking up at the ceiling. After a brief pause, he said, “With this particular group of parents, that could be something. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. What if . . . You know, if . . . With the right . . .”

  I didn’t think he was eager for me to interject my thoughts. He was having this portion of the conversation with himself. I was content to allow him to catch up with me. If he filled in the blanks on his own, it would teach me something important about him.

  He said, “This all happened on Friday? The individual negotiations with the parents? That’s why Friday was so quiet inside the tomb? That’s why he set up the distractions outside? The hockey murder? The sniper? He was in the middle of all these negotiations?”

  Poe seemed to want an acknowledgment. I said, “There were two reasons for what happened outside the tomb on campus on Friday. Distraction was one of them.”

  “What was the other?”

  “He wanted to ratchet up the pressure, to demonstrate to the parents how easy it is to kill a kid on a college campus, and he wanted the parents to see how willing he was to murder their children if they didn’t give him what he wanted. He was making the previous threats real—making it clear that they had no chance to bargain, and they had no time to decide.”

  “Okay,” Poe said. He sat up. “The negotiations with the parents? The threats he made? Determining exactly what information they would give in exchange for their kid’s life? That’s all Friday?”

  I turned to the television.

  The young man was standing at attention outside the tomb. His gaze was down, toward his feet. He wasn’t speaking.

  “Pretty much,” I said to Poe. “He’d done his homework. He didn’t go into the negotiations blind. He had some idea what kids would be tapped by Book & Snake. He had background information on the kids’ families. He knew their parents’ work histories, had done research on what important information they might know, what broad categories of secrets they might have access to. Especially what might be valuable to him.

  “He used phone calls—VoIP, all Skype is what I’m thinking—texts, links to obscure websites, PGP encryption, passwords that only family members would know. He used recordings of the kids’ voices. Parents were led to one website, then were expected to post the encrypted information on another. As soon as they did, the website would go down. With the one situation I’m familiar with, he didn’t pressure the parents individually. He allowed the kids he killed to provide the pressure.”

  Poe digested for a moment. He said, “We’re talking national security, right? That kind of information, right? Not financial information?”

  “Yes. National security. He explicitly declined seeking money.”

  Poe said, “And even though he made the parents jump through all the hoops—Internet, Skype, encryption, yada yada—he has to know we’ll eventually track all that down. Right? Everything he’s doing is starting with a solitary machine or two in that one building. He knows NSA will be able to follow his trail. He probably knows that NSA is already on his trail. He has to know that.”

  “He doesn’t care,” I said. “He never said a word about his own safety. I’m thinking he knows he won’t survive this siege. His solitary goal is to get the information to the next station. Whatever that is. Whoever that is. He had all day Friday to accomplish that.”

  Poe nodded. “Unlike money, information is easy to move and difficult to track. Once he gets it offshore electronically, it’ll be hard for us to know where it’s gone next.”

  I said, “Impossible. Once it’s offline? Impossible.”

  Poe opened his eyes as wide as he could. “I think I got it. He threatens the parents that if they don’t pony up something valuable, he’ll kill their kid. He gives the parents a way to know when another parent doesn’t cooperate. He then kills that kid in a way that all the other parents recognize? I got that right?”

  “Pretty much. You left one part out. If anyone talks to the authorities, he kills their kid.”

  Poe looked over at me. Held the glare for a good ten seconds. “Your kid? Is she still alive?”

  “As far as I know the kid is still alive.”

  “The parents cooperated?”

  “I’m not going there,” I said. “It got to the stage where he made it clear what he wanted. I won’t tell you how the parents responded.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Something big, Poe. Leave it there.”

  “No,” he said. “I won’t leave it there.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I meant it. I was exhausted.

  I checked the screen. The kid hadn’t moved.

  Poe exhaled in a way that caused his cheeks to balloon with exasperation. Then he said, “Those two vaccine labs? If they were both contaminated during a bad flu season? Remember what I said? Three million people could have died. So I know all about ammunition, Sam. Is what you’re talking about worse than that? Is this guy going to be able to top three million casualties with the information he wants from the parents you know personally, the ones you’re working for?”

  Poe said it to me the way a confident champion poker player lays down three queens across from an upstart challenger.

  I said, “I’m no expert on the subject, Poe. But the person who is an expert in this particular field tells me the answer is yes. The potential casualties do top three million.”

  “Yeah?” Poe said, obviously surprised. “I’m talking six zeroes here.”

  I took a deep breath. I said, “Up the casualties by a factor of ten.”

  Poe didn’t blink. “Physical damage?”

  I said, “Catastrophic.”

  “New Orleans? Katrina? That kind of catastrophic?”

  I didn’t want to think about it. I said, “A hundred times worse.”

  Poe didn’t challenge me. He leaned forward. He asked, “Could the information your client provided on Friday be useful already? Is the risk clear and present?”

  As fast as I could I said, “No.”

  “How doable is it? Exploiting the information?”

  “Here’s what I was told: Not very. The threat is theoretical. Is it practical? In this one expert’s opinion, it’s real. Others might disagree. Apparently there continues to be a scientific debate about whether or not it’s actually possible to use the information . . . that way. To . . . weaponize it, I guess. And even if it is possible, the logistics of exploiting the information as a military threat or terrorist threat is daunting. Doing it is . . . complex. It would require major strategic resources.”

  “Could we do it? The U.S.?”

  “To ourselves?” I thought about Ann’s scenario. “Yes. To someone else? No.”

  Poe said, “I don’t understand.”

  “The weapon is aimed at us. At the U.S. That doesn’t change. That cannot change.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Sorry.”

  Poe stood up. He took a step. I knew what was coming. He pivoted ninety degrees. He took another step. He was back in the damn box.

  “Could Israel exploit it?”

  His question surprised me. After I considered it for a moment, I thought I recognized what he was trying to do with the question. “Yes,” I said. “Probably.”

  “Iran?” Step.

  “Maybe.” Step.

  “Al Qaeda?” Step.

  “I don’t know.” Step.

  Poe paced off his box while he thought about my answers to his questions for another half minute. He said, “There’s no location a terrorist could set off a small nuke in the United States that would kill thirty million people, Sam. Believe me, I know. I’ve talked to experts about it. I’ve seen the maps, the casualty projections. Contamination zones. Long-term radiation illness rates. Can’t be done. Not even close to a number like that.”

  I thought about denying the nuclear part of his argument, but quickly convinced myself that there was no way Poe could use that information to get from New Hav
en to a volcano on the Canary Islands and then back to the Calderóns. I said, “The nuke in question wouldn’t be set off on U.S. soil.”

  Poe thought through the new piece of the puzzle for another thirty seconds. He expanded the box to two steps in each direction. The confines of the room wouldn’t permit him to annex any more territory. Finally, he said, “I seriously don’t get it. How does an offshore nuke kill thirty million Americans?”

  I didn’t reply. We were both temporarily fixated on the television as the young man not wearing orange stripped down to his underwear. I didn’t know whether he had been ordered to undress by his captor or by the hostage negotiator.

  He was wearing white briefs. He was not carrying any explosives or any weapons.

  Suddenly, he spoke.

  “Don’t interrupt me” was how he started. The young man waited until all was quiet.

  “His strategic interests supersede all other interests. All others.”

  The hostage paused long enough at that point that I thought he was done.

  But he continued. “Prior to launching this mission, other factors were considered, including the likelihood of civilian casualties. A determination was made that some civilian casualties were acceptable in order to achieve the strategic objectives.”

  He marched down the steps. He stepped out the gate. He turned and assumed the position. Hands on the fence. Feet spread.

  Poe said, “What the fuck was that?”

  “Rationalization,” I said.

  “No . . . No. What the—”

  “Poe,” I said. “This hostage is free. That shows me there’s still a chance that the kid I’m here to help could be let go.” I shook my head. “I can’t put that at risk. I’m sorry.”

  “But other people’s kids?” he asked. “That’s okay with you?”

  His words pierced me like a sharp knife.

  I watched cops hustle the latest hostage away from the tomb.

  Poe said, “Have you noticed that none of the families of the kids who have been killed are grieving publicly? Have you seen even one interview with an irate or despondent mother? Have you watched one eloquent uncle step outside and offer any words on behalf of the family?

  “The networks have reporters and cameras parked outside their houses. But the families aren’t talking.”

  I said, “I noticed that, Poe. The parents know that one misspoken word might kill another parent’s child. The guy in the tomb? He has his fist”—I growled the word as I tightened my fist in front of my face—“clenched around those parents’ hearts, Poe. He’s squeezing life from what is most precious to them. I’m not happy to admit this, but in their shoes, the parents’ shoes, hell, any of those parents’ shoes—these same circumstances—I would give the guy what he asked for. Everything he asked for. As callous as that sounds. I wouldn’t sacrifice my kid that way. I couldn’t. Could you?”

  “Moot,” Poe said. “Don’t have a kid.”

  Poe suddenly stopped his confined march. He said, “I need some sleep, but first I need to make sure they’re not going in tonight.”

  “You mean the Hostage Rescue Team?” I asked. “You know something? I’ve been thinking about it since I saw that building for the first time. He chose that place because it’s a fortress. A breach of that tomb could end up being a bloodbath. Now with those sensors he has in place everywhere? Jesus. All the kids will die.”

  Poe winced. At first I thought I’d said something so stupid that it caused him physical pain. But I quickly recognized that it was the kind of wince that acknowledges the accumulation of a day’s strain, nothing more specific than that.

  He shook his head, disregarding my entire line of thinking. He said, “During a crisis like this, with innocents being held, deciding to breach isn’t a rational act. You want it to be, in a perfect world it is, but in the end, it’s not. You never know when patience is going to run out during a hostage event. Could be a day, could be a couple of months. But at some unpredictable point, someone high up the chain will succumb to pressure—personal, political, lunar, whatever—and decide it’s time to stop talking and send in assault teams. I can almost guarantee you that looking back on it, the decision won’t seem logical. History never makes it seem like it was an imperative.”

  Even before he finished speaking, Poe had started pecking away at his BlackBerry. I thought he sent out three different texts. I looked out the window. In the distance, the sky above Beinecke Plaza was lit bright.

  I counted three texts coming back to Poe in the next few minutes.

  After he read the final message, he said, “Doesn’t look like HRT is planning a breach overnight. There are high-value kids still inside.” He got to his feet and took a step toward the door before he stopped and pivoted to face me. “I’ll be here to get you tomorrow morning at six. You’ll be here. We’ll plan our day. Together.”

  It wasn’t an invitation. I nodded. I said, “You know, they’re all high-value kids to somebody.”

  He glared at me. “Yeah. Thanks for the reminder. Write this down. It’s my cell.” I picked up the pen from the desk. He dictated a number. “You hear from that family, I want to know. And give me your real phone number.” He stared me down. I blinked. “Don’t fuck with me again, Purdy. I’ll run over you and I will treasure the tire marks I leave on your neck.”

  He spoke the threat without a detectible alteration in inflection. Destroying me would be all in a day’s work.

  I gave him my cell number. “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  “This being what? Threatening you? Tormenting you? Protecting you?” He offered a spare grin. “My intelligence colleagues in the Bureau already know everything I just learned from you. I’m sure they got it, and more, from the families of the kids who were killed yesterday and today. All that would happen if I told them what you revealed to me is that I’d waste you as a source and I’d put your girl at risk. I don’t see how it helps anyone to do either of those things. For now, I’m willing to string you along and hope it pays off. Your job is to make it pay off. Hey, hope keeps us alive, right?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was indulging in irony. I said, “Your bottom line? You want to know what all the parents gave up and where the information is going?”

  “More likely where it’s already gone. Yeah, that’d be nice. I’d also like to know who the hell the unsub is and why the hell he’s doing what he’s doing. Once he moves the information out of that tomb, we’re never going to get it back. If we figure out who he is and why he wants it, we might be able to mitigate some of the damage.”

  “Your colleagues have the same agenda?”

  “Not exactly. I have no doubt that the Hostage Rescue Team negotiators are trying to persuade the parents to come clean about their dealing with the unsub and, of course, to encourage them not to provide any more information. But the parents are watching TV, too. They can see how impotent the FBI is so far. I suspect there’s a stalemate going on out there that I don’t want to replicate in here.” He waved a finger between us. “With you and me. I want your help. I want you to trust I’ll do anything I can to spare your kid.”

  I believed him. “So we’re clear, Poe? You and me? I want the kid alive. Unhurt.”

  “That’d be nice, too, Sam. So we’re clear, you and me? It’s not the highest priority on my list. But you can rest easy tonight that it’s in my top three or four.”

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY NIGHT

  Poe and Dee

  The first thing Poe saw when he opened his hotel room door a couple of minutes later was a purple lace bra that had been carefully tossed carelessly on the floor.

  The damn thing brought tears to his eyes.

  Rudy’s was a cultures-collide dive bar.

  Since it was in a student neighborhood, some of the variance was seasonal. There were nights Rudy’s was the most déclassé of New Haven’s student bars. Some nights it took on the harder edge of a biker bar. Other nights it had the affectionately neglected vibe of a mutt neighb
orhood watering hole. Some nights, when the stars lined up just so, Rudy’s had to manage to be everything to everybody, and the disparate clientele had to find a way to coexist through the natural tension.

  Dee had been to Rudy’s once before, without Poe, to interview a Yale professor about some worrisome military developments in China. The guy was in his late fifties but rode a Harley whenever the weather allowed. He chose Rudy’s for the consultation, thinking the biker aura might gain him some advantage with Dee, either consultative or predatory. Dee left the meeting hoping the guy’s judgment about China’s infantry was superior to his judgment about women.

  Returning to the tavern with Poe was Dee’s idea—she was the sole official who made the call that the pub met their dive bar standards. Poe was so happy to see her he would have been thrilled to be drinking at a T.G.I. Friday’s.

  They took the last two seats at the bar. Dee had to bribe a couple of gruff old boys wearing black leather vests with one of her sweet smiles and a free round to cajole them to scoot their asses over a stool so that she and Poe could sit side by side. She chose the stool with the seat that was already warm from one boy’s wide butt.

  Poe said, “I hoped you’d come.”

  “No, you didn’t, Poe. Never crossed your mind that I’d come.” She said it with affection.

  “True. But if it had crossed my mind, I’d have hoped you’d come.”

  Dee ordered a scotch neat and a ginger ale back, no ice. Poe, a Pabst. No whiskey shot. He was working.

  He had never seen her order scotch neat before. The ginger ale? Maybe once. “Neat?” he said.

  “My stomach . . . ,” she said. “Today? I’m not accustomed to watching . . . I don’t know how—”

  Poe put his hand on hers. “I know. You look tired.”

  She shook her head. “Compared to these families? What they’re going through?”

  “You fly here from Philly?” he asked her.

  “Amtrak. Missed the connection in the City, had a long layover at Penn Station. At least it gave me time to run to Duane Reade and . . .” She put a hand on her gut. She left the sentence unfinished.