by Larry Bond
Helen frowned. “And we know that’s true?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Lang matched her expression with a frown of his own. “Tomorrow’s the first day of a major Jewish holiday—something called Sukkot.”
“That’s right. The Feast of Tabernacles.” She saw his questioning look and explained. “I had a Jewish roommate at the Academy. It’s some kind of harvest festival, isn’t it?”
“Correct.” Lang hunched his shoulders. “Part of the celebration involves building a wood hut, a tabernacle, outside and decorating it with autumn crops—pumpkins, Indian corn, that kind of stuff. This year the folks at Temple Emet decided to make the tabernacle a preteens-youth project.”
Helen’s jaw tightened. “How many kids are we talking about?”
“We’re still trying to get an exact count from the parents, but it looks like at least ten to twelve boys and girls, two or three mothers who were chaperoning them, and the assistant rabbi in charge of the temple’s youth group.”
“God.”
Lang nodded somberly. He had two small children of his own. “This could be a real bad one, Helen.” His mouth turned down. “I don’t know why, but my gut’s telling me the negotiators aren’t going to be able to talk these bastards outside. I think it’s going to be up to us to get those kids out alive.”
“Yeah. You could be right.” To hide a sudden fear that they might fail, Helen turned away from him, staring blindly out the helicopter’s side door. She’d already been seeing horrifying mental images of what might happen to those children and their mothers if things went wrong.
She looked at the ground. There were man-made lights down there now—the regular glow of streetlamps that told her they were already flying over the capital’s southernmost suburbs.
The Blackhawk rolled right suddenly, altering course to the north.
“ETA now three minutes,” the pilot warned.
Helen squared her shoulders, pushing her doubts away for the moment, and turned back to Lang. “Who’s already on scene?”
“Last I heard, the Arlington cops had most of their patrol force and their SWAT team deployed around the perimeter. Plus, the Virginia state police have their people on the way. It’s going to get crowded.”
Helen nodded, unsurprised. Major hostage situations were like criminological black holes—sucking in every local and state police agency within driving distance. Waco, the standoff with Mormon extremists in Utah, and all the others in recent history had wound up involving hundreds of police officers, state troopers, and federal agents. By definition, domestic counterterrorism operations came under the FBI’s control, but it often took hours to confirm those lines of authority. Nobody local willingly surrendered power to the feds before making absolutely sure they were dealing with a real terrorist incident and not just with a burglary or robbery gone sour.
She asked about that. “So exactly how did we get jurisdiction here so early, John?”
He shrugged. “We don’t have jurisdiction. At least not yet. But we will.”
“What?!”
For the first time, Lang looked slightly abashed. “One of the hostages is the nine-year-old daughter of Michael Shorr.”
“Shorr?” Helen mentally paged through a list of VIPs. “The President’s economics advisor?”
Lang nodded. “That’s the guy. I guess the President’s already been on the phone to the Director. I know the Director has a call in to both the mayor of Arlington and the governor of Virginia.” He shrugged. “And you’re aware that the Director is a very persuasive fellow.”
Helen shook her head, even more troubled now. Starting off with a set of crossed administrative wires and with nervous politicians hovering over her shoulder sounded like a ready-made recipe for disaster. She rechecked the magazine on her submachine gun as the Blackhawk dipped lower, clattering toward a floodlit football field.
Outside Temple Emet, Arlington, Virginia
The Arlington police and the Virginia state troopers had set up their command post in a two-story brick high school down the road from Temple Emet. Patrol cruisers and unmarked cars crowded the parking lot. Policemen wearing bulky bulletproof vests and carrying rifles and shotguns stood in small clumps outside the front entrance, all talking at once and gesturing excitedly toward the distant bulk of the synagogue complex caught in the glow of the full harvest moon.
Other uniformed officers were busy directing a steady stream of men, women, and children down the street and away from possible danger. Most of the civilians were still in their pajamas with jackets and coats hurriedly thrown on against the brisk night air. Some were clearly confused, still sleep-fogged. Others were obviously angry at being rousted out of their beds without notice. Most were just plain curious, turning back now and again to stare at the synagogue before being ushered on by the police.
Helen followed Lang up the steps leading into the school, letting him clear the way through the curious cops with his FBI identity card. She’d left the rest of her section back at the makeshift helicopter landing pad to avoid getting them mixed up in the media circus she saw developing there. Print reporters and TV news crews were already starting to swarm on the street outside the police command post. And, like other special tactical units, the HRT worked best outside the glare of publicity and camera lights.
When they were through the high school’s big front doors, Lang stopped a police technician wheeling in a cartload of radio gear. “Where’s the CP, son?”
After a cursory glance at his ID card, the radio tech nodded down the hall. “Principal’s office, sir. End of the corridor. Captain Tanner said it had the best line of sight to the synagogue.”
Lang headed that way after signaling Helen to close up with him. “Tanner’s the local area commander for the state troopers. I guess we’re not in charge here yet.”
She glanced at him. “You know him?”
He nodded. “I’ve met him at a few conferences. He’s a good guy. Tough. Smart. Pretty levelheaded.” His tone left a few other things unsaid.
“But he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to enjoy seeing the feds bulling their way onto his patch?” Helen prompted.
Lang’s thin lips creased into a slight sardonic smile. “Not hardly, Agent Gray.”
Wonderful.
The principal’s office was a sea of uniforms: blue for the local police, brown and khaki for county sheriffs, black for SWAT personnel, and blue-gray for the state police. Helen found her eyes drawn to the one man out of uniform. Everything about him shouted FBI to her—everything from his well-tailored gray suit, power tie, starched white shirt, and shiny black shoes to his close-cropped blond hair and chiseled chin. He was busy talking earnestly into a cellular phone, cupping one hand over his unused ear to shut out some of the pandemonium around him.
She frowned. She knew Special Agent Lawrence McDowell all too well. They’d had one date a couple of years back. That was before she’d instituted her self-imposed ban on office romances. In fact, he was the reason she’d laid down the ban.
McDowell was a climber, an ambitious prima donna with his eye firmly fixed on sitting inside the Director’s corner office someday. Right now his star inside the Bureau was rising fast—boosted both by some solid investigative work and by constant self-promotion.
He was also a first-class jerk. He toadied to his superiors and politicians of all stripes, yelled at his subordinates, and generally rubbed most law officers outside the FBI the wrong way. He’d also taken Helen’s refusal to sleep with him very hard. She suspected he was the one behind a series of nasty little rumors percolating through the Hoover Building that she was either frigid or a lesbian.
She nudged Lang. “Is Mr. Wonderful here for a reason? Or just to have his picture taken?”
The older man hid a sudden smile. He didn’t like McDowell much either. Then his mouth turned down. “He’s got a reason.”
“Oh, crap,” Helen muttered. “Don’t tell me we’re going to be saddled with him as the AIC for
this op.”
Lang nodded flatly. The AIC, or agent in charge, was the top-ranking FBI officer on the scene.
“Perfect.” She eyed him sharply. “Any other pieces of good news you’ve been waiting to dump in my lap?”
“Not at the moment.”
A brawny, balding man with captain’s bars on his state police uniform suddenly pushed through the milling crowd and strode toward them. He held out one large paw to Lang. “John, how the hell are you? Did you bring any of your Bureau cutthroats with you? Or just your ugly self?”
“I brought ten of them, Harlan.” The HRT commander shook hands with him and turned to Helen. “This is their section leader, Special Agent Helen Gray. Helen, this is Captain Tanner of the Virginia state police.”
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Gray.” Tanner’s right hand came out again and engulfed hers in a firm, dry grasp. If he was surprised to see a woman wearing the HRT’s black coveralls and body armor, he hid it well. He pulled the pair of them aside to a slightly quieter corner of the office.
“So what’s the drill, Harlan?” Lang asked softly when they were out of earshot of the assorted policemen setting up phone lines and radio gear and laying out maps of the surrounding neighborhoods.
“It’s a mess. A great big goddamned mess,” Tanner replied bluntly. He nodded angrily toward McDowell. “But we were getting a handle on things when Jesus Christ over there showed up and announced himself. I expect he’ll put that cell phone down anytime and come tell me that God Almighty and the governor have jointly decided to put him in charge.”
Helen winced. McDowell was working his own personal black magic again, pissing off every sheriff and state trooper he came in contact with.
Lang hastily started to offer his own embarrassed apology. “Jesus, I’m sorry about that, Harlan. I wish …”
Tanner shrugged. “Hell, it’s not your fault, John. I knew you feds would butt in sooner or later. Anyway now that you and Agent Gray here have arrived, we’ll just put our heads together and work around J. Edgar Junior over there if need be. Okay?”
Helen nodded firmly and was relieved to see Lang doing the same thing. Tacitly agreeing to side with local law enforcement against their own anointed Bureau superior might not be strictly kosher, but the truth was that they needed the manpower Tanner controlled a lot more than they needed to stroke McDowell’s overinflated ego. For the two HRT agents, getting the hostages held inside Temple Emet out safely took precedence over every other consideration, even their careers.
Tanner seemed satisfied. He began briefing them on the latest developments. “My boys and the Arlington SWAT have had a pretty tight perimeter set up for the last couple of hours. Nobody’s gotten in or out of the synagogue complex during that time.”
That was one piece of good news, Helen decided. Containing the terrorists and their hostages within known geographical bounds was a key first step. It froze the tactical situation in place and lowered the odds of an accidental contact that could panic the hostage-takers into killing their captives.
“Any further word from the people inside?” Helen asked.
Tanner shook his head grimly. “Not a peep. We’ve tried calling every number listed for the temple, but they’re not answering.”
Helen frowned. That was not a good sign. Close communication was always a crucial part of ending any hostage crisis peacefully. At best, the FBI’s skilled negotiators could often persuade the bad guys to surrender or to release some of their prisoners as a show of good faith. Even at worst, voice contact between the two sides played an important role in keeping the surrounded terrorists on a relatively even keel. And conversations with them always provided significant information on their numbers, behavioral patterns, motivations, and intelligence.
She shook her head suddenly. Unless they could find a way to make contact with the terrorists holding those kids, she and her teams would have to go in after them blind. And that was the way people got killed.
Lang’s grim face showed his own comprehension of the mounting risks. He lowered his voice even further. “Any better idea of the numbers we’re up against?”
Tanner spread his hands. “Zip. But the way I figure it, we’re talking at least two bad guys … probably more.” He gestured toward the windows. “I’ve got troopers out canvassing the neighborhood right now, looking for cars or trucks that don’t belong around here at this time of night.”
Helen nodded to herself. Lang’s assessment of Tanner’s competence had been squarely on target. Pinpointing the terrorists’ vehicles would give them a much better idea of their likely strength. She looked up at the big state police captain. “What about hard data on their weapons?”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “They’re heavily armed. There’s at least one full-auto assault rifle in there. That poor dumb bastard who walked in on them got cut almost in half. No semiauto could do that.”
Helen nodded her understanding.
Lang pointed out the nearest window toward the synagogue. “You know much about the temple layout yet, Harlan?”
“Not as much as I’d like to, which is why I’m having somebody dig the blueprints out of the county records office,” Tanner admitted. He pursed his lips. “I do know it’s a hell of a big place, John. See that large building on the eastern end? That’s the centerpiece. Got a worship hall in there that can seat six hundred and an adjacent auditorium that’ll hold as many more. Plus a slew of offices, dressing rooms, kitchens, classrooms … and that’s just the main building. The whole complex takes up a full city block. And there’s wide-open ground on all three sides facing away from the street.”
Helen fought down the urge to swear out loud. This situation was sounding worse and worse. They were up against an unknown number of enemies, holding an as yet undetermined number of hostages in an unknown location somewhere inside a labyrinth. Just terrific. She focused her attention on the main building, trying hard to concentrate on possible solutions instead of intractable problems. “That roof’s flat all the way around?”
Tanner nodded slowly. His eyes gleamed. “You thinking about working this one from the top to the bottom, Agent Gray?”
“Maybe. I’d like to—”
“Mind if I join your little planning session, Captain Tanner?” Lawrence McDowell’s perfectly modulated voice broke in on the conversation. He looked triumphant. “Especially since your governor has now agreed that I’m in command here?”
“Fine by me.” The Virginia state police officer nodded dourly. He stepped back slightly to make room for the other man.
“Good to see you, Larry,” Lang lied smoothly, apparently determined to avoid a scrap with the agent in charge until it proved necessary.
McDowell smiled thinly. “You too, John.” He glanced at Helen briefly, frowned coldly, and immediately turned his attention back to the two men. “I don’t usually work this informally, but since you’ve already begun, let’s just carry on from here, shall we? Now, as I see it, our first order of business is to conduct a covert reconnaissance of the synagogue grounds. Once we know where these terrorists have barricaded themselves, we can work on establishing communications with them. Our negotiating team is en route by helicopter. I expect them no later than 0100 hours …”
Helen listened to him regurgitating the Bureau field manual with mounting irritation. The son of a bitch apparently intended to ignore her whenever possible. Very well. That suited her just fine. Let him pass his orders through Lang, then. He could play his inside-track power games, and she would get on with the business of rescuing those kids.
Suddenly, she noticed him eyeing her again, nervously this time. She made him nervous? Why, for God’s sake? As the agent in charge, he held all the cards here. What kind of threat did she pose to him?
Then she understood his reasoning and hurriedly tamped down a crooked grin. McDowell was deathly afraid that her presence would jinx his chance to be a media superstar. If the press found out that the Hostage Rescue Team’s tactical c
ommander was a woman, they’d trip all over themselves making her the story—and not him. He evidently judged everyone else by his own low standards. Didn’t he realize that the very last thing a counterterrorist assault section leader wanted during a hostage standoff was publicity?
She was still shaking her head in disbelief when McDowell finished issuing his orders with a terse “Very well. You know what I want done. Now let’s go do it.”
While a rigid, poker-faced Tanner stormed off to marshal his own forces, Helen followed Lang out into the hall. They walked a few steps away from the crowded doorway and then paused, looking closely at each other.
“Can you put up with McDowell’s shit? Or should I try to have him yanked off this operation?” the HRT commander asked abruptly. His tone was dead serious, and he clearly expected a carefully considered response from her. During any hostage crisis, tension between different agencies and different branches of the same agency was normal and expected. But bitter dissension between the overall commander and his ranking subordinates was another matter entirely. When you were dealing with terrorists holding prisoners, success or failure often hinged on a snap judgment made in a split second. Under those circumstances, uncontrolled personal disputes and rancor carried far too high a price in lost innocent lives.
Helen faced her superior full on. She wasn’t going to be sidetracked by personal animosities—not now and not ever. Besides, laying her squabble with McDowell in front of the Bureau’s higher-ups was more likely to hurt her than him. He had more pull with the FBI brass than she did.
With that in mind, she spoke firmly and with absolute determination. “I won’t lie to you, John. I don’t like him, and I don’t like his attitude. But I do know who the real bad guys are here. And you know my troops and I are the best there are. You keep McDowell off my back and let us do our job, and I promise you we’ll bring those hostages out alive and in one piece.”
Lang nodded sharply, making up his mind with the swift assurance that characterized all of his decisions. “Okay, Helen. That’s good enough for me.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Carry on, Special Agent Gray. Let’s go pinpoint those terrorist sons of bitches.”
