Sam knows it’s true. He doesn’t like hearing it out loud.
“So we improvise?” Sam says.
“Sí. These people are my family,” Carlos says. “The Calderóns.” Again, he taps a fist to his heart.
Sam looks back at Andrew. He thinks about Dulce. “Mine, too,” Sam says.
Sam pulls out his phone. He calls Deirdre.
Sam says, “Don’t talk, listen. Think twins. Go back and check the video of the first hostage, before he was blown up. Watch his eyes and his fingers before he dies. I think he was signaling to us that the hostage takers are twins. I don’t know if that’s important, but it’s . . . something.”
Dee says, “Got it. Where are you?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
Sam closes his phone. To Carlos, he says, “I think she’s a spook.”
Carlos says, “You’re connected that way? Señor Calderón said the feds didn’t know about this trip.”
Sam smiles at Carlos. “Officially, they don’t. You know . . . if you rewind three days, I’m the least connected man on this planet. Life is funny.”
“La verdad,” Carlos says.
The word is beyond Sam’s Spanish comprehension. He hears the distant chop of helicopter blades. He texts Deirdre.
I’m in the jet. I assume you know about the jet.
Then he texts Carmen, his girlfriend, and Simon, his son. The texts are identical.
Love you.
The roar of an approaching helicopter precedes a swirling cloud of dust by about five seconds.
APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING
NEW HAVEN
The helicopter that landed on the roof of Beinecke Library is back in the air less than six minutes after it touched down.
It departs campus on almost the same flight path on which it arrived. In seconds it has cleared Old Campus and is crossing downtown New Haven.
Its altitude never exceeds one hundred feet.
Three new passengers are on board.
The sign is absent from the pilot’s window.
The SAC stares at the monitor as the helicopter lifts off from the roof.
“Range? Fuel capacity?” he asks. He knows it doesn’t really matter. The helicopter is no longer his problem.
Hade Moody asks, “You going to shoot it down?”
The SAC decides to answer one of Moody’s questions. “It’s no longer my call. It’s now a military problem. We need to focus on getting the rest of the kids out of that tomb.” He raises his voice. “I’m still waiting for some intel from you people.”
The second man to exit Book & Snake that morning is sitting on the front passenger seat of the helicopter, next to the pilot. As soon as they are airborne, he hands the pilot a note indicating he wants private communications between his headset and the pilot’s headset. The pilot toggles some switches and gives him a thumbs-up.
The man says, “You’re flying directly to Tweed New Haven on heading one-five-zero. You’ll see the airport soon enough, it’s on the Sound just on the other side of I-Ninety-five. You are looking for a white Gulfstream on a taxiway adjacent to runway oh-two. Do not adjust your route for traffic. Fly directly there. No contact with the tower. Do not ask for clearances. Ignore warnings. Stay at this altitude or lower. You will be landing on the taxiway adjacent to the jet. Understood? Land on the runway side of the jet. Do not hesitate. Once I give you the signal, move the helicopter away from the jet. Land it elsewhere on the field. Wait.”
The pilot says, “Roger.”
“Keep this channel active. I want to hear all incoming radio communication. Do not respond to any of them.”
“Deirdre Drake, CIA,” Dee says as she hands her identification to the New Haven cop at the door of the Mobile Command vehicle.
He examines her ID. Nods. She enters the vehicle. She immediately spots the two FBI power centers in the room. By default, she approaches the HRT hostage negotiator. He is the one of the two agents without a phone at each ear.
“Deirdre Drake,” she repeats. “CIA. Is there someone who can show me the video of the first hostage who was released?”
“Why?”
“No time. You’ll see in a moment. Just get it on the screen. I may have something for you.”
The negotiator instructs the IT guy to play the clip of hostage one’s release.
The comm officer turns to the SAC. He says, “Air Force assets are almost in position to remove the target helicopter, sir. DHS wants you to stand by to advise.”
The HRT commander says, “The chopper is over civilian populations. Tell Homeland Security if it poses an imminent threat, yes. Until then, not yet.” He pauses. “And pray that I’m right.”
The comm officer says, “Destination appears to be Tweed New Haven, sir. It’s flying just above the rooftops.”
“Do we have assault teams on the way to the airport?”
“Charlie and Golf. ETA ten minutes.”
“The unsub has gotten us to split our assets.” The SAC stares out the window toward the tomb. “Let me guess—the asshole has a jet waiting for him at the airport.”
“Tweed Ground Control reports two possibilities, sir. A Cessna Three-ten . . . or a Gulfstream Two hundred. Both have landed in the last few minutes. Should airport security approach?”
“Not until our assault teams arrive. The locals are not equipped for this. I don’t want them near those planes. I can’t run the risk of friendly fire casualties if the air force decides to take out the jet or the helicopter with a missile. Run the registration numbers on both planes. Do the Gulfstream first. It will belong to the parents of another hostage.”
“Sir.”
“Get photographs of the interiors of those planes. There will be family members inside one of them. New hostages. More hostages.”
“Sir.”
“I want data on the range of the jet. And ground speed after takeoff. Get me a list of nearby targets vulnerable to assault by that jet. I’m talking within minutes, right after takeoff. I know there’s an oil storage facility on the Sound. Get me a list of bridges. Important buildings. Military installations. Assume the unsub is a trained pilot. What else? What am I missing? Anybody?”
“Include New York City?” asks the hostage negotiator.
“If he turns toward the city, he’s dead. He knows he’ll never make it that far. Inform DOD and DHS that I do not advise permitting the Gulfstream to fly. If there is any attempt to transfer munitions from the helicopter to the jet, both should be taken out on the ground, immediately.”
“Sir. Victor sniper reports that the RPG’s target has been readjusted—it is now aimed at the side of the library.”
The HRT hostage negotiator states the obvious: “If he manages to get off two quick rounds from that RPG, the library is toast.”
The SAC asks, “Rate of fire on an RPG-Twenty-nine?”
The negotiator is ready with the answer. “According to Jane’s, ten to fifteen seconds, depending on operator skill.”
The IT specialist chimes in, “High-value target, sir. Submarine Base New London is forty miles east. It’s a . . . nuclear base.”
“By air, that’s—”
“Shortly after takeoff? Five to ten minutes, plus/minus.”
The SAC says, “Get DOD to alert the base commander. Close all major bridges within fifty miles. Is there a demand on the table? What does this asshole want for the library?”
Christine Carmody steps past Deirdre. She looks at the HRT hostage negotiator. It’s the guy from overnight. She asks, “Is that zip line ready?”
Her HRT counterpart says, “You should not be in here, Sergeant.”
“Do you have the zip line ready?”
Deirdre asks, “What zip line?”
The HRT hostage negotiator says, “We are . . . preparing to deploy a zip line above the tomb tonight . . . for some reconnaissance.”
Carmody interjects, “It could be used right now for preemptive strike on the grenade launcher, or later before it
can fire a second round.”
Deirdre doesn’t get it. “That’s important? The second round? Explain.”
The HRT negotiator says, “Given the penetration capacity of the RPG-Twenty-nine shell, we think he’ll need to use the first round to pierce the stone panels on the side of the library. We assume he’ll then fire a second round through the hole created by the first. The second rocket will shatter the glass wall of the inner airlock of the library.”
Dee says, “And that will destroy the books?”
“Yes. With the glass compromised, fire alone will do it.”
Dee sees the dilemma. “How long to deploy the zip line?”
The negotiator says, “We could be ready to shoot the line in . . . ten minutes, maybe less. Five more minutes to secure it and get personnel in place.”
Deirdre says, “You don’t have fifteen minutes. This will be over.”
“Ideas?” asks the SAC. “Anyone?” He waits two seconds. “Shit.”
“I have a question,” Deirdre says. “Why is your unsub waiting? Why doesn’t he just take out the library?”
The HRT negotiator looks up from the monitor. He says, “You know, that’s a good question.”
The SAC raises his voice to a decibel less than a shout. “Anyone?”
Dee reads a text from Sam. I’m in the jet. I assume you know about the jet.
She thinks, I underestimated you.
The IT officer turns to Deirdre. He says, “Got that video, ma’am.”
Deirdre steps toward that monitor. She watches for a few moments before she says, “Stop it right there. See those fingers. One in each hand. He was telling us there were two hostage takers. He used his two index fingers. Same finger, twice. Twins.”
Carmody recognizes the clue. “Twins. I missed it.”
Dee says, “We all did. But what does it mean?”
The HRT negotiator says, “It could be the two who just boarded the helicopter. They were dressed almost identically.”
Dee says, “Maybe, but twins doesn’t mean identical.”
Carmody says, “But it might.”
Dee says, “Let’s deal with what we know. The unsub is going over our heads—leaving us out of the loop. He’s bartering hostages for transportation—but he’s trading directly with the hostages’ families, not with our negotiator. One of the three people who got on board is a hostage in trade for the helicopter. Another has to be a hostage in trade for the plane at the airport. That leaves one unidentified. The one might—might—be an unsub. That means that if we’re dealing with twins, at least one unsub remains inside the tomb.”
“He could be operating the RPG,” Christine Carmody adds.
Deirdre says, “But, again, why hasn’t he fired? Why not take out the library before we’re set to retaliate? What do they want that they haven’t demanded yet?”
The hostage negotiator says, “What about the thousand-pound bomb? How the hell did he get that?”
Dee is about to ask, What thousand-pound bomb? as her eyes drift to an adjacent monitor. The video of the three hostages moving from the tomb to the helicopter atop Beinecke Library is being replayed on the screen.
Dee is startled. She says, “Wait! No! One of the three who was just released is wearing a wedding dress? What the hell is . . . ?”
None of the men responds. For them, the wedding dress is old news.
Christine says, “A wit saw them carry the dress into the tomb on Thursday.”
Dee’s eyes open wide. Her brain churns the new data. Dee says, “That is symbolism. Symbolism. Not tactics.” She exhales. Thinks. She allows her shoulders to drop. “You know what? I think this means he may be . . . done. He’s not going to destroy the library. He’s not going to use the jet as a weapon. Commander, you need to stand down. You need to tell the military to stand down. Now!”
“Stand down? What? Are you nuts?” says the HRT negotiator. “He has a thousand-pound bomb in that chopper.”
Dee can’t make sense of the bomb. “What kind of bomb?”
“A BLU-One-ten JDAM.”
“Yeah?” she says. “I know that . . . weapon designation. Where have I seen that before?”
She’s frustrated that she can’t fit the bomb into the puzzle, but she thinks she understands the dress. “That’s what this is about. . . . The weddings. The damn . . . weddings. This isn’t about Iraq, it’s about Afghanistan. Oh God. Commander, you have to stand down. He’s trying to get you to respond. No—no, he’s trying to get you to over-respond. He’s being intentionally provocative right now. He wants you to fire on the jet, or open up on the library, or even on the tomb. All three if he can get you to do it. He wants you to start killing civilians. Out in the open. In front of the cameras. He’s not going to blow things up. He wants us to start blowing things up. You have to hold your fire.”
The HRT hostage negotiator says, “Why would he be doing that?”
“To prove a point,” Dee says.
“What point?”
Her brain is desperately trying to make sense of the hijab and the half-ton bomb. “I’m thinking this all has to do with a wedding in Afghanistan,” she says. She’s recalling the intel reports that had crossed her desk with a thousand others. “A mistake . . . A terrible mistake we made in Afghanistan. Twice, I think. We made it twice. Two different weddings.
“Holy. That’s where I’ve seen that bomb designation. I think both bombing errors were made with thousand-pound JDAMs.”
The HRT SAC has been listening to Dee’s theory take shape. He doesn’t get it. He says, “Who the hell is this woman? What the fuck is she doing in my TOC?”
APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING
Sam and Poe
Sam asks Carlos, “What would I be doing right now? I mean, if I were a real copilot?”
“We don’t have cabin crew. One of us would greet the new passengers.”
“That should probably be you, Carlos. If they talk to me, I’ll say something stupid and give everything away.”
“That’s your chair on the right. Act busy checking things. Probably best not to, you know, change any settings.”
Sam likes Carlos’s sense of the absurd.
Sam says, “Either of us gets a clear shot, we take it. Yes?”
Carlos nods.
Sam is peering out the windshield of the jet. He watches the helicopter touch down nearby. Two people scramble out. The helicopter immediately pops back up off the tarmac. It tilts nose-down before it hops a couple of hundred yards across the airfield like a grasshopper, never gaining much altitude. It touches down again.
The pilot kills the engine.
Three more passengers run out of the helicopter in the new location. One is dressed exactly like the man who had already climbed out of the helicopter. The others are a middle-aged woman and a young child. All three are running as fast as they can away from the chopper.
The pilot’s feet hit the macadam ten seconds behind them.
Sam recognizes that another hostage has been released. Or . . . the first unsub has escaped. He hopes Poe saw what just happened.
The first person up the stairs of the jet is wearing a wedding dress. A white fabric veil circles her head. Not even her eyes are exposed. She stops at the top of the stairs.
The second new passenger is wearing a ski mask. The man is right behind the woman. Close enough that they could be dancing. Together they move inside the jet.
The man in the ski mask faces Carlos. The cockpit door is open. Sam is visible over Carlos’s shoulder.
“First thing? I have a dead man’s switch, a contact switch, between my fingers. My waist is wrapped with explosives. Kill me, we all die. Including that one in the back. If I’m dead, no message is sent back to the tomb. If that happens, those hostages die. We understand each other?”
That’s the voice, Sam thinks. The guy on the phone call.
The man is holding the woman in the wedding dress as though she is a hostage. Her body shields almost all of his body. The man say
s, “I was hoping it was clear by now that I’m not stupid. I saw the personnel switch you did as we were approaching the airport.” He shakes his head. “Binoculars?”
He waits a moment for the men to deny it. Neither does.
“Which one of you is the cop?” the man asks.
“That would be me,” Sam says from the cockpit.
He looks at Carlos again. Then once more at me. “Are you both armed? Or only you, Mr. Cop?”
Before Carlos can make the mistake of being valiant, and lying, Sam answers for him. “We’re both armed. Handguns.”
The man nods. “On the floor. Slide them this way.”
Sam and Carlos produce their guns. They push them in the direction of the man. He leaves them where they stop. He is confident no one will shoot him while he’s holding a dead man’s switch.
The moment his fingers relax, the switch would open, and everyone would die.
“You FBI?”
Sam says, “No. Local.”
The man looks at Carlos. “You ready to fly?”
Sam thinks it’s an interesting question.
Carlos says, “Yes. Airport security is staging over there, near the terminal. You can see.” He points out the open door. “I would guess that they are awaiting reinforcements. I can get us moving and . . . up in the air pretty fast, if that’s what you want. But you should know I don’t think they will—”
“Close the door. Roll into position for takeoff beginning in one minute. Check your watch. One minute.”
Carlos sets his stopwatch. He secures the door, hurries to his chair. Sets his controls.
Why one minute? Sam wonders. As surreptitiously as he can, he texts Dee.
He types, Guy is stalling, I think.
Almost immediately she replies, Yes, hold fire.
Poe greets the four people who ran from the helicopter.
His handgun is in his hands. He forces all four to their knees and then onto the tarmac. Prone. Even the kid, a girl who is no more than seven.
The Siege Page 34
