The commander asks, “Don’t bother. I know what it is. Get me DOD. Is it feasible—is it fucking feasible—that the unsub really has a thousand-pound bomb on board that helicopter?”
The comm officer’s voice is cool. “Snipers report no visual confirmation of that munition, sir.”
Once the helicopter has touched down, Joey Blanks is finally permitted to pass along Christine’s message to Haden Moody.
He steps inside the command vehicle. He says, “Lieutenant Moody? Sergeant Carmody would like to see you, sir. Outside. Now, sir. She says it’s urgent, sir.”
Moody doesn’t even look at Joey Blanks. He says, “Jack’s liaising.”
“Sergeant Carmody specifically requested no liaising, sir.”
Moody says, “Jack, take care of this. That’s all, Officer.”
Jack Lobatini glares at Joey Blanks.
Joey Blanks glares right back.
Christine steps forward from her usual position on Grove Street. She has advanced almost to the curb in front of the tomb. She chances a glance toward the command vehicle. Joey is stepping outside the door. He is followed by Jack Lobatini.
Christine recognizes that Moody is in full eclipse. Damn him.
Marko speaks again. Despite his powerful voice, he is forced to almost yell to be heard above the roar of the helicopter engines and blades.
He says, “He wants the plaza entrance to the library unlocked. Now.”
Of course he does, Christine thinks.
Behind Marko, the door of the tomb opens. Two people exit, one right behind the other.
The first one is wearing a wedding dress.
What the—? Christine thinks.
She—if it is a woman—is also wearing a white head covering that wraps her entire upper body. Only her eyes are exposed.
Even though Christine knows a gown was carried into the tomb, the presence of the dress on a released hostage is completely discomfiting to her.
She feels some relief when she realizes she is seeing no orange.
The other person who exits along with the costumed bride is dressed identically to Marko.
The three of them begin to descend the stairs in unison.
Christine turns to Jack Lobatini, who is at her side. “He wants the library door open. I think you better do it.” She hands Jack the photograph of Marko’s right hand. “It appears he does have that contact switch between his index finger and thumb. It looks like the two that are dressed identically both have switches.”
At the bottom of the stairs the three hostages exit the gate and turn left. They are following the approximate path that Michael Smith III took on Saturday after he jumped the fence—toward the stairs between Book & Snake and Beinecke Library that lead from the sidewalk down to the plaza.
Once they get to the plaza, the trio will be only yards from the entrance to Beinecke Library.
Jack uses his radio to communicate with the command vehicle. He recommends unlocking the library door.
He is told that the SAC has ordered no interference with the three people who just exited the tomb.
Seconds later he receives word that the library doors are open.
Christine thinks, Well, there goes contain.
Hade Moody is staring at the monitor, and at the progress of the three people as they step through the gate outside the tomb. He didn’t understand the latest discussion about munitions and JDAMs. Despite the earlier witness statement about a white dress in a bag, he has no idea why a hostage is wearing a wedding gown. He says, “What the fuck? Who are those three?”
The SAC asks, “Is that a hijab? Is that woman wearing a hijab?”
Moody says, “What’s a hijab?”
The SAC is talking to the room. “And why the wedding dress on a hostage? Is that a secret society thing? Is the hijab symbolic? Is he telling us this is about Islam? Thoughts, anyone? Intel? Come on. Some imagination please.” No one proffers an opinion. The SAC says, “Am I talking to myself here? Wait a second. Are those really hostages at all? Do we know that? Is it possible that one of those two—”
“One of those three,” says the HRT hostage negotiator. “Or more than one of those three. The unsub could be a woman. We don’t know it’s a man. There could be more than one unsub. Any or all of these people could be unsubs.”
“Or hostages.”
“Or hostages.”
The comm officer interjects, “Victor sniper reports visual confirmation of an optical scope on the tube in the attic vent. Repeat, confirmed. Weapon is an RPG-Twenty-nine Vampir. He reports that the target has been adjusted up slightly. It is now aimed at the helicopter. There are now three—repeat, three—infrared signatures in the attic. Two static, one moving. Reflection off a glass surface spotted once again.”
The commander says, “So it’s possible, maybe even likely, that there is at least one unsub still inside the tomb. It’s also highly likely that one of the three people in that attic is the son of the secretary of the army.”
“I read it the same way,” the HRT hostage negotiator says. He adds, “And, sir, according to DOD, it may be technically feasible to fit a half-ton munition on board that model chopper.”
The commander says, “Son of a—Make sure DHS and DOD are aware that there may be a BLU-One-ten on board that helicopter.” He takes a deep breath. He says, “Everyone?”
The room stills.
“Here’s what I’m seeing. We have a helicopter full of jet fuel that may also be carrying a thousand-pound bomb. The chopper has just landed on top of a gazillion dollars’ worth of one-of-a-kind books. In the back of the helicopter are two new hostages, including a child—a goddamn child. If we interfere with the three people the unsub has just released from the tomb, we have to assume that he’ll kill the three civilians in the chopper by firing the RPG. The Vampir is a heat seeker, by the way, in case any of you don’t know that. The rocket will blow up the helicopter, of course. Which will ignite the jet fuel. Which may set off the bomb. Which will destroy the library. And all those damn books. And God only knows what else.
“If he’s telling the truth about the contact switch in that hostage’s hand—and none of you is giving me a reason to believe he’s not—if we do anything that causes physical harm to any of the three newly released individuals, explosive charges will kill the hostages remaining in the tomb. If we attempt to take out the RPG position, we have to assume he will voluntarily open the contact switch, and the tomb will explode. With either intervention, we lose the hostages that are still inside the damn tomb. With either intervention, we will likely lose the helicopter, the new hostages, the current hostages, the library, and some unknown number of public safety officers.”
The HRT hostage negotiator says, “I’m afraid you’ve covered it.”
The SAC grimaces as though he’s just taken a physical blow to his gut. “Am I missing anything here?”
The sniper team leader says, “Whiskey or Yankee sniper might be able to take out the contact switch. Could work.”
The hostage negotiator says, “It could be ‘switches.’ Plural. We won’t get off two perfect shots at the same point in time.”
“Even if we could, it might not work. The impact might set the switches off. We can’t risk it.” The SAC says, “The unsub knows we’re not going to shoot at that chopper while it’s sitting on top of that library. The repercussions are too severe. Too many civilians. Too much collateral damage. Too much media exposure. Too many . . . goddamn Gutenbergs.” He rubs his forehead with his open palm. “Ideas? Anybody? This is fucking infuriating.”
The hostage negotiator asks, “Do we let it take off, sir?”
Everyone in the room recognizes that there is no good answer to that question.
APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING
Sam and Dee and Poe
The taxi has a GPS. Sam has the address that Ann Calderón texted to him.
The driver almost plows into the back end of a city bus while he’s simultaneously driving away from the
Omni Hotel and plugging the destination into the device.
“Oh, jus’ the airport?” he says to his passenger once the device responds. “Why didn’t you say so? Airport’s easy. Do it five times a day. Do it wi’ my eyes closed.”
The driver is a young black man. His eyes glisten like rock candy. He has a black tattoo on the side of his neck that looks like some kind of deformed tree. His teeth are as white as typing paper. Sam is thinking he may be addicted to tooth whiteners.
“How long?” Sam asks.
“Ten. Fifteen. Depends on traffic. You want this address? This one?” The cabbie pokes at the GPS. “Or you want the terminal? They be different.”
Sam says, “The address I gave you. You mind if I change my shirt back here?”
“Makes me no difference. Keep your pants on. Then I don’t care.”
The driver punches the accelerator to beat a light that is turning red. Sam notices. He says, “Thank you.”
“Hey,” the driver mumbles. “I always say, thank me later.”
Traffic is light. After some serious contortion in the narrow space, Sam gets the white shirt on. He gets his tie tied. Tucking in will have to wait until he’s out of the car.
The cab pulls off I-95, approaching New Haven’s airport.
Sam thinks about calling Poe again. If Poe isn’t already on the way, though, it’s probably too late. He calls Dee instead. He says, “It’s your friend from breakfast. Something’s up.”
“I know. I take it the chopper’s on TV?”
“What chopper?”
“The networks don’t have it? Really? A civilian chopper appears to have just touched down near Beinecke. I couldn’t see the landing from where I am. I’m still waiting to get inside the perimeter. I don’t have a visual on it because of the buildings. I assumed it’s all on TV.”
Sam tries to make sense of what he is hearing from her. He can’t.
“Where did it land? On the plaza? Is there room? Are any hostages getting on the helicopter? Tell me that,” he pleads. “Have any hostages left the tomb? Are any hostages boarding the chopper? Any . . . female hostages?”
Dee turns her back to the uniforms who are guarding the perimeter barricades. She lowers her voice to a whisper. She says, “I can’t see from here. I overheard a local cop say something about . . . three people . . . total, I think. Hostages or unsubs? I don’t know. But they were heading toward the chopper. I can’t tell where it landed. The engine is still on—I can hear it. I thought the guy said something about twins and a dress. I don’t know what that means. Same cop said there are two additional family members of one of the hostages already on board.”
A dress? “A girl?” Sam asks.
“Maybe, I’m not certain.”
Sam is thinking, Could be Jane. She’s one of the girls left inside.
Sam says, “Three in total? And there’s family already on board the chopper? They were in it when it landed?” He moves pieces around in his head so he can try to get them to fit together. Something about twins? He spins them. A dress? Shoves them. Twists them. He says, “Damn. I’m having the hardest time figuring this out. You talked to Poe?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll be back to you soon. Wait for my call.”
“Are you at the Omni, Sam? You’re not, are you? Wait! Wait!”
Sam closes his phone. The driver catches Sam’s eyes in his mirror. “Motherfu—This is secret agent shit. Idn’ it? That stuff goin’ down at Yale? That crazy-ass secret society thing? Dang. Well . . . dang.” He almost takes the cab onto two wheels as he screeches around the corner. “Man, you look nothin’ like double-oh-seven.” He switches into a posh British accent. “And there, straight ahead, is your hangar, Mr. Bond.”
Sam jumps out of the car. He says, “Wait for me. I’m sending somebody out with your money.”
“Man! Shit! James Bond don’t—My money? Man! Don’t you—”
Dee texts Poe. I just got inside. I think we lost Sam.
She is texting while she jogs, weaving her way toward the command vehicle.
You can’t find him? Poe replies.
Poe still doesn’t know if this blind quest he is on is taking him toward Sam, or away from him. He knows it is taking him away from Dee. He hates that.
Dee replies, He’s not answering.
Poe types, Let me know.
After waiting for a reply from Deirdre for half a minute, Poe pulls his eyes from his BlackBerry. He slides a couple of twenties onto the front seat of the cab. He has already looked up the destination on Google Maps. He knows he’s going to Robinson Aviation, a private plane facility at the New Haven airport. He still doesn’t know why.
Poe is silently preparing speeches that will either praise Sam or curse his ashes. He’s putting more rehearsal time into the curses.
“That’s hurry money,” he says to the driver.
“Yeah,” says the driver. “Is there more?”
A young woman in a tailored white blouse and a black pencil skirt is waiting for Sam in the lobby of the Robinson Aviation building. In three-inch heels, she is two inches taller than Sam. She says, “Mr. Purdy? Right this way.”
She leads him down a narrow hall, through two sets of doors, and into a spacious airplane hangar that is much cleaner than Sam’s house. Sam almost has to jog to keep up with her long strides. He’s busy tucking in his white shirt the whole time.
He follows her past two small business jets toward a door that leads outside.
A man emerges from a small office. “It just touched down,” he says. “We’ll make the switch during refueling.” The man throws Sam some coveralls. “Put this on.”
“What switch?” Sam asks as he struggles into the suit.
“Mrs. Calderón said you would be getting aboard the plane.”
Do you trust me, Sam? . . . I haven’t been completely honest with you, Sam.
“That green pickup truck right there is running. Drive it toward the fuel truck on the other side of the field. See it? There—at ten o’clock. Park between the fuel truck and the field. Got it? Go.”
Sam says, “Someone named Poe may be showing up soon. Tell him what’s going on. Tell him no cavalry.”
“No cavalry, got it.”
Sam climbs into the Ford and starts to drive toward the stubby fuel tanker. He tries to call Poe. It goes straight to voice mail.
Less than a minute after Sam gets to the tanker, a gleaming jet rolls up.
The door opens. At the top of a set of stairs that extend down from the jet is Ronaldo Angel Calderón. He is wearing a jumpsuit not unlike Sam’s.
“So good to see you again, Sam. Please come up.”
“And you, Mr. Calderón.” They meet near the top of the stairs.
“Time is tight. You will be in the copilot’s seat. It’s where I’ve been. We expect that Jane and her captor will be boarding this aircraft soon. Any minute. We don’t know how. We don’t know the circumstances.”
“This is your jet, Mr. Calderón?”
“Yes.”
“This is the . . . ransom for your daughter?”
“It’s a complicated arrangement, Sam. There are agreements in place.”
Sam is wondering where the Canary Islands fit into those agreements. He says, “What happens next?”
“Ann and I are not naïve, Sam. We have no illusions that an aircraft of this size carrying this much fuel with someone like . . . that man . . . on board is going to be permitted to fly. If this jet gets airborne, it will be shot from the sky. We know.”
Sam says, “What would you like me to do?”
“Save my family. That’s it. Save my family, please, before this plane takes off. I don’t know how. You can trust Carlos. I promise you that. And Sam, you should know I am proud of my son, and that I am proud of Dulce. She wanted to come. We wouldn’t allow it.”
Sam doesn’t know what Mr. Calderón means. He is about to ask when the pilot steps out of the cabin. “Señor, I think it’s time.”
“We both know I can’t fly, right?” Sam says as he struggles to get out of the suit.
“Ann says you can do this. She knows you can. Trust, Sam. Trust.”
Not quite, Sam thinks.
Calderón hands Sam a Glock. “This okay?”
Sam checks the gun. “It’s fine.” They pass each other on the narrow stairs. Sam says, “One thing, Mr. Calderón. There’s a taxi driver out front. Could you take care of him, please? I’m busted.”
Sam turns around inside the jet.
In the back of the cabin is Andrew Calderón. Alone, without his fiancé, Dulce.
Sam realizes exactly what Ronaldo meant with his comments about his son and future daughter-in-law. And Dulce wanted to come? he thinks. To be part of this?
Sam recognizes that the new hostage on board is an additional guarantee. The Calderóns have a child at risk at both ends of this transfer.
Andrew’s eyes are blindfolded. His ears are covered by headphones. His ankles and wrists are restrained. Somehow, he senses that something is going on in the plane. His hands are both giving the thumbs-up sign.
Sam says a silent prayer. He watches Ronaldo Calderón drive away in the fuel truck.
The pilot says, “I’m Carlos. Once the chopper gets here we need to be ready to roll.”
Carlos is a husky man in his forties with wide swaths of gray at his temples. Sam says, “Carlos? You know I don’t know shit about any of this?”
“I know that.”
“You have a weapon, Carlos?”
“Beretta.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I’m okay. I admit I’m better with a Maverick.” He taps his chest. “Navy pilot. Carriers. First Gulf War.”
“You don’t need a real copilot? You can fly this by yourself?”
“Two pilots are better than one, but sure, I’m fine. It’s not relevant. We’re too close to New York. They’re not going to let us take off.”
The Siege Page 33
