The Killing Games

by J. S. Carol

  ‘Twenty-five people are currently trapped in the restaurant,’ Caroline continued. ‘So far, Victor Comaneci, Alfie’s parking valet, is the only casualty. A three-block radius around the restaurant has been evacuated, and the police have made an appeal for members of the public to stay away. We are now joined via satellite by Alistair Noble, a terrorism expert from NYU.’

  ‘Cut to Noble in three,’ Seth called out. ‘Three, two, one.’

  Noble was overweight with a round, flabby face and three chins. He was nowhere near as photogenic as Professor Dorian Michaels, but so long as he told the story Seth wanted told, that wasn’t a problem. The backdrop showed the New York skyline, the Empire State Building dominating the scene.

  ‘Mr Noble, what do you make of this situation?’

  ‘It’s classic al-Qaeda.’ said Noble.

  There was no hesitation, no prompting, and Seth could have cheered. The terrorism expert’s accent was no-bullshit Brooklyn, albeit with the harder edges smoothed away. It was a great TV voice, confident and believable.

  ‘They’ve chosen a high-profile target,’ he continued, ‘which is consistent with their MO. Think back to other attacks attributed to al-Qaeda and you’ll see what I mean. The London bombings, the Madrid bombings, 9/11. What these targets have in common is that they’re right there in your face. I’m a New Yorker born and bred, and the day the towers came down still haunts me. At the time, it was because footage of the attack was constantly on TV. Nowadays, it’s because every time I look at the city I see the space where the towers used to stand.’

  ‘What else makes you think this is al-Qaeda?’

  ‘The fact that there’s usually some symbolic significance attached to their choice of targets. On 9/11 they chose to attack the Pentagon and the World Trade Centre, a blow against America’s military and financial might, respectively. There’s speculation that the fourth plane was intended for the White House. If that’s the case, then the symbolic significance of such an attack speaks for itself.’

  He gave it a second for this to sink in, then added, ‘In this case, al-Qaeda haven’t chosen any old restaurant, they’ve singled out one that’s patronised by the entertainment industry. Make no mistake, this isn’t an attack on Alfie’s, this is an attack on the American Dream.’

  Seth smiled at that last bit. An attack on the American Dream. He was going to get good mileage from that particular sound bite. He whispered a question down to Caroline. He’d spoken to Noble before he went on air, so he already knew what the terrorism expert was going to say. Live TV was like a courtroom. Never ask a question unless you already know the answer.

  ‘But there are deviations from al-Qaeda’s MO,’ said Caroline. ‘Usually they strike quickly and silently, but that doesn’t seem to be the case here. What should have been a straightforward suicide bombing has turned into a siege. Can you shed any light on this?’

  ‘An excellent question.’ Noble smiled an encouraging, indulgent smile. ‘And you’re right, to a point. Yes, they normally attack quickly and quietly, however, another defining feature of their MO is adaptability. They are always changing and refining their techniques. What you’ve got to remember is that they want to spread their message to as wide an audience as they can. That’s what’s happening here. By drawing this out, they are able to maximise the media exposure.’

  ‘How do you feel this is going to end?’

  Seth saw Noble hesitate. ‘Zoom in,’ he whispered into the mike.

  Noble’s face got bigger on the screen. The New York cityscape blurred to grey then disappeared. The terrorism expert’s expression was grim. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head.

  ‘I wish I could say otherwise, but I don’t see this situation having a happy ending. When that bomber strapped on his explosive vest, his sole intention was to martyr himself. The one thing I am absolutely convinced of is that he will detonate his bomb. And when he does, people will die.’

  2

  According to Rob’s watch it was exactly two. He’d known this before he looked. His whole working day was defined by a succession of top-of-the-hour round-ups. He pressed his cell against his ear and counted the rings. Tara was beside him, wearing headphones, a digital recorder set up ready to record everything. They’d found a shaded spot where the temperature was marginally cooler. Somewhere away from the crowds and the noise and the distractions, and, most importantly, away from the twitching ears of the other reporters. King answered on the third ring.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he whispered.

  ‘My name is Rob Taylor, I’m a TRN reporter.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  The simple answer was that he hadn’t. One of TRN’s backroom people had lied and bribed and cajoled, and had eventually got it from a friend of a friend of a friend. Rob had already decided that the best way to play this was to bombard King with quick-fire questions. Nine times out of ten, when you asked a direct question, you got an answer. Conditioning was a hell of a thing.

  ‘You’re currently inside Alfie’s. Hiding out in the restroom. Is that correct?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m not hurt.’

  ‘Do you know if anybody else is hurt?’

  ‘He’s killed two people.’

  Rob smiled. That was scoop number one right there. Aaron Walters had categorically stated that nobody had been killed.

  ‘How many terrorists are there? We’re hearing one out here. Can you confirm that?’

  ‘Terrorists? Is that what you think this is? A terrorist attack?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s no way this guy’s a terrorist.’

  And that was scoop number two. A burst of excitement fluttered through Rob’s heart.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’

  ‘Only that he’s as American as you and me.’

  ‘Have the police been in touch?’

  ‘No, not the police.’

  ‘The FBI?’

  ‘Yeah, some guy called Brad Carter. He’s in charge of the LA office.’

  Rob had had a couple of run-ins in with Carter in the past. The agent was your typical G-Man. He had the grey suit and the shades, and he was as inflexible as a steel girder. Your basic everyday asshole, in other words.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ King hissed, and the line suddenly went dead.

  Rob looked at Tara. Tara looked at Rob.

  ‘Wonder what got him spooked,’ he said.

  ‘Well, there’s one sure way to find out, honeybun. Call him back.’

  He reconnected the call and put the phone to his ear. There was a moment of ghost static and noise, then an electronic voice told him the line was busy and that he should try again later. He killed the call and looked at Tara. The expression on her face made him nervous. This was her bad-news face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We can’t use this interview.’

  ‘Why not? Is there a problem with the recording?’

  Tara rolled her eyes. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’

  ‘So why can’t we use it?’

  She slipped her earphones off and they came to rest around her neck. ‘What if the bomber’s monitoring the news channels and he hears that King’s hiding out in the restroom talking to the FBI? What do you think he’s going to do? He’s going to kill him, right? You heard King. He’s already killed two hostages, so it’s not that big a deal to kill a third.’

  ‘That’s a big ‘if’, Tara. I mean, what’s the likelihood that he’s sitting there watching TRN? Pretty unlikely, I’d say.’

  ‘Pretty likely, I’d say. You heard King. This isn’t a terrorist attack. That changes everything. The endgame for a terrorist is a big, headline-grabbing explosion. We don’t know what this guy’s endgame is.’

  Rob opened his mouth and Tara showed him the hand.

  ‘What’s his motive?’ she continued. ‘It could be anything. Money, perhaps. Or maybe he’s out
to get his fifteen minutes of fame. If it’s either of those things, then you can guarantee he’ll be following the news. If he is, and we play that interview, then we’re effectively signing King’s death warrant.’

  As much as he hated to admit it, Tara had a point. He switched his cell back on. If in doubt, delegate. Just pass that buck on like it’s red-hot and smoking. Jonah could make the call on this one.

  3

  The drill head broke through the restroom wall with a low-level grinding crunch, and a shard of ceramic tile tinkled to the floor. A shower of powdered cinderblock followed, the particles hanging in the artificial light like dust motes caught in a sun ray. The drill slowly retracted, leaving behind a hole the size of a quarter, and a tantalising glimpse of daylight. King’s cell vibrated again. He connected the call in a daze, eyes fixed on the hole.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice, Alex.’ Brad Carter sounded as relaxed and laid-back as ever, but there was a slight edge that hadn’t been there earlier. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch, but I kept getting bounced to your voicemail.’

  ‘I switched my phone off for a few minutes to save the battery,’ King lied. The alternative was to tell Carter that he’d been talking to a reporter. He figured that probably wouldn’t go down too well.

  ‘Please don’t do that again, Alex. I need to be able to contact you.’ Carter let out a tiny sigh, and in that sigh King understood what had really been bugging him. The FBI man had thought he was dead.

  ‘What’s the hole for?’

  ‘We need you to do something for us, Alex.’

  ‘What?’

  Carter started talking and King listened, his disbelief growing with every word. What he was asking was suicidal. It was totally insane. Carter finished by saying, ‘If you can’t do this, we understand. However, if you can help us out here, we’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘Man, I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s your call, buddy. No pressure.’

  ‘And if I do this, I’ll get out of here quicker, right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  King rubbed his face and shook his head, indecision pulling him every which way. All his instincts were telling him to say no, but that wasn’t going to happen. It was all about doing the right thing, and, in this situation, the right thing was to do what Carter asked. Like he’d said, those people out in the restaurant were relying on him.

  Then there was his career to consider. If he did this then he wouldn’t just be a screen hero, he’d be a hero for real, and that wouldn’t do his image any harm whatsoever. Of course, the flipside was that saying no would make him look like a coward. Even JJ would have trouble spinning that into something positive.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thanks, Alex.’

  ‘You can save your thanks. All I want is for you to get me out of here.’

  ‘I’m hearing you, buddy.’

  King hung up and pushed the phone into his pocket. His hand was shaking so much it took two attempts. All the blood had drained down into his feet and his heart was beating so hard he was pretty sure he was about to have a heart attack. He’d been scared plenty of times, and what he’d come to realise was that fear came in all different shapes and sizes. The fear he’d experienced back on the trailer park in Ohio was different from the way he felt when he stepped in front of a movie camera. But this was a whole new brand of terror. Basically, the FBI man was asking him to risk his life. The bottom line: if he screwed this up, he was a dead man.

  4

  ‘Okay, folks, I’m going to make a quick call here. While I’m on the phone, I want absolute silence. I don’t want to hear so much as a mouse fart, got it?’

  Nobody nodded or gave any indication they’d heard whatsoever, but JJ knew that every single person in the room had ‘got it’. One look at the cooling bodies of Elizabeth Hayward and the accountant was enough to ensure that. The bomber picked up the restaurant phone and punched a couple of buttons. He put the phone to his ear, squashing it hard against the black balaclava. A couple of seconds passed.

  ‘Who am I talking to?’

  A pause.

  ‘I’m going to call you Louise. You got a problem with that, darling?’

  Another pause.

  ‘And that’s the right answer, Louise.’

  Another pause.

  ‘And why should I tell you my name? Go on, give me one good reason. Do you think you can use it to build up a bond between us? Is that what it tells you to do in your Hostage Negotiator’s Handbook? Next you’ll be wanting me to use the hostages’ names. If I start using their names then I won’t look at them and see targets painted on foreheads, is that it?’

  A longer pause.

  ‘Caught you on the wrong foot there, didn’t I? You know, they’re saying on the news that I’m a terrorist, one of the al-Qaeda bad guys. Now, where on earth do they get a notion like that? I’m offended. Really and truly offended.’

  Another pause.

  ‘What do I want? Well, that’s an interesting question. I suppose we could start with world peace and work from there.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Okay, time’s pressing on, so I’m going to stop you right there. Now, much as I’m enjoying gabbing with you, we’ve got some business that needs to be taken care of. The first thing you’re no doubt interested in is this explosive vest that I’m wearing. You’re looking at ten pounds of military-grade C4, which, I think you’ll agree, is more than enough to reduce me and my good friends here to our constituent parts. The explosives can be detonated in two ways. Manually, using a standard trigger. And automatically.’

  The bomber let that last sentence hang there.

  ‘Glad you asked, Louise. You know those watches joggers wear? The ones that monitor heart rate? Well, I’m wearing one of those. Now, where mine differs from a store-bought model is that I’ve got it wired into the detonator. My resting heart rate is seventy-five beats a minute. If that drops below fifty, the bomb will go off. Similarly, if it hits 180, it’ll also go off.’

  He paused again and this time JJ could tell he was grinning.

  ‘If you’re thinking about pumping the restaurant full of nerve gas or, heaven forbid, mounting a rescue operation where I end up dead, then that would be a really dumb idea. You see, Louise, for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Are you starting to get the picture?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Right answer, Lou. Clever girl. Okay, earlier you asked what I want. Well, I’m going to throw that question right back at you and the army of shrinks who are no doubt poring over my every word. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to phone you in five minutes and I want you to tell me what I want.’

  The bomber killed the call and tapped the phone thoughtfully against his cheek. His eyes were shining bright through the slits in the balaclava. The bastard was still grinning. JJ looked at his watch. Everyone was looking at it. She hadn’t paid it any attention before, but she was giving it plenty of attention now. The face was big and round, the digital numbers huge. The time was displayed in twenty-four-hour mode. In the top part of the display was a pulsing heart. The bomber’s heart rate was currently eighty-four beats a minute. As she watched, it changed to eighty-three. This was higher than his resting rate of seventy-five, but it was still well within the safe zone.

  This latest development was worrying. Up until now, JJ had been holding onto the idea that a SWAT team was going to come storming in at any second. That’s the way it worked in the movies. The SWAT team came charging in and the hostage-taker ended up dead. Except if that happened here, then they’d all end up dead. Once again this just highlighted the level of premeditation involved. What it didn’t do was take her any closer to working out what his motivation was.

  The bomber looked over at the hostages then held his arm up high and pointed to the watch. ‘That’s right, people. Everyon
e get a good look.’

  5

  Alex King rolled up the sleeve of his black silk shirt, scooped up the pieces of broken tile and carried them carefully into the cubicle. He plunged his arm into the cold water, getting right in there, all the way to his elbow. He got as far around the bend as he could before letting go of the pieces. Then he removed his arm and stared into the water until he was satisfied nothing was going to come floating back into the pan.

  That done, he stepped from the cubicle and dried his arm on one of the white handtowels piled up on the shelf near the door. He scrubbed until his skin was sore, but it didn’t matter how hard he rubbed, his arm still felt dirty. What he really wanted to do was wash it, but there was no way he could do that. The sound of water rushing through the pipes might alert the bomber, and if he came to investigate, a bad situation would end up a million times worse.

  King knelt beside the urinal, brushed the cinderblock dust away, then stood back. Unless you were looking for the hole, you wouldn’t see it. The metal tube arrived five seconds later, pushed through the hole with a long, thin rod. King caught it before it clattered to the floor. He unscrewed the lid and tipped the contents into his hand.

  The camera was tiny, a spy toy. It was so small he had a hard time believing that it was actually a camera. For a second he looked at it lying on the palm of his hand, Carter’s words playing inside his head. The thought of what he was about to do made him feel sick.

  He took a deep breath, muttered ‘nine-life cat’ under his breath a couple of times, and did his best not to throw up all over the floor. His feet were glued to the tiles and it took a while to get them moving. He made for the door and inched it open. His heart was racing and the blood was pulsing inside his ears. There was just way too much adrenalin slamming around his body right now.

  King could hear the low mumble of the bomber’s voice. Good. If he was talking, he was distracted. The more distracted he was, the better. King inched the door open, squeezed through the gap, then pulled it closed behind him. He didn’t close it all the way. If things went wrong, he didn’t want to be messing around with door handles.