Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “You did your research on me. Maybe you can tell me something more about you? Even it up a bit?”

  “Stay focused, Eve. Why didn’t you come home? You weren’t sightseeing.”

  It always surprised her how easily she could share her intimate thoughts with an enemy, thoughts she wouldn’t share with her closest friends. “I decided to search for a story,” she answered evenly. “One that would explain things I don’t understand about my stepfather’s life—or his death. There are gaps in his history, involving an old family friend. He was important to Zev. He might be important to me.”

  “What’s the mystery?”

  “Everything. Nothing,” she said evasively. “Right now, I can’t separate the truth from the myths and legends surrounding it.”

  “I’ve always liked a good story. Tell me this one.”

  “Maybe when this is all over. Which it could be—right now—if you want to come on out.”

  He laughed softly. “I propose a trade. Tell me how your story starts—and in return, I’ll tell you something useful.”

  Why do we share these things with each other? Eve wondered. To connect and establish some bond of trust, of course. That’s what she’d been taught to do. But it was also something else. Maybe it was the appeal of an interested listener. Maybe this was just her own twisted therapy session. “I think my story begins with six numbers. 174531. Tattooed onto a man’s left forearm, next to a short scar. I can find nothing before it. But I think 174531 explains everything about his life afterward.”

  “It would be great if all our stories had a clear beginning. A spot we could point to and say, ‘Yes, because of this, I understand—’ ” The Hostage Taker broke off. “The priest that’s dead? He was a bad priest. I heard his confession, not two hours ago. So he fuckin’ deserved what he got.”

  “And the other victims? Did they deserve it?”

  “Enough.” His voice was pure steel.

  “Did you make all your hostages confess?”

  “I need to know what they’re guilty of. How are my witnesses?”

  “Bewildered. Wondering why they’re here.”

  “As long as they’re present and accounted for.” His tone was clipped.

  “Why do you need them?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “I won’t jeopardize their safety,” Eve warned.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Maybe just a show of good faith, then?” Eve wanted to test whether their moment of bonding could yield a concession—and yet she had to tread softly. “Release one hostage,” she suggested. “Just one. Maybe the boy’s mother.”

  There. She’d once again broken one of the fundamental rules of hostage negotiation. The one that forbade the negotiator to draw attention to the hostages. The theory was that you should always keep the Hostage Taker’s attention directed somewhere else—and avoid suggesting that his hostages had value.

  Except he’d already shown a soft spot for the boy.

  “Why the mother?” His voice was rough.

  “The boy needs his mother.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t know much about you. I still don’t know your name. Where you’re from. Or even why you’re doing this. But I know one thing: You’re a parent. And that kid you released before? He’s eleven. Just like you were, when your Catholic school teacher hurt you.”

  In the silence that followed—the breath of his hesitation—Eve imagined she could hear his emotions jostling together. “You know nothing about me,” he finally growled. “Nothing at all.”

  “Just the mother,” Eve pressed. “Just one hostage.”

  Click. The line went dead.

  And Eve was left alone in the silence, wondering how close she had come.

  Chapter 43

  I didn’t think about Mrs. Brescia again for more than twenty years. Not until I was back in Afghanistan.

  It should have been a lucky tour. I’d been deployed with Stacy, who was fluent in both Pashto and Dari, and would be working as an interpreter out of my FOB—forward operating base. I was a combat engineer who’d gone through the sapper course at Camp Pendleton—arguably the best training available, stateside. I’d learned to defuse the IEDs that plagued the military operation over there.

  We had no illusions: We were going to hell in a sandstorm. A place with a name most Americans couldn’t spell. Located in a no-man’s-land most couldn’t find on a map.

  Stacy had been on four past tours, and I’d done three, so I figured we knew just what to expect. I remembered how once we left base for the FOB, it would be months before I felt clean and full and rested. How I would die of boredom most of my days—and be constantly on edge the rest of them.

  Because we’d be on patrol through bazaars swarming with locals wearing robes big enough to conceal suicide vests.

  Because most places we went, we’d be greeted with the thumbs-down signal.

  Because there were too many Afghan soldiers who played both sides of the game. One day, they’d pretend to be our ally. The next, they’d try to shoot us.

  Mostly because the roads were full of buried IEDs.

  What I also remembered from those tours was how we all carried pictures of our loved ones in our wallets. After an extended trip outside the wire, we’d come back to base, strip out of our gear, and take out those pictures. And just stare—wishing we were home.

  I knew Afghanistan was going to be hard.

  I thought having Stacy with me would make it easier.

  I had never been more wrong.

  Chapter 44

  The team agent in charge was having a word with Henry Ma. They had just walked the circumference of the Cathedral, encompassing an entire city block, checking out all four sides. The streets on that block—Fifth Avenue and Madison, Fifty-first, and Fiftieth—were jammed with emergency vehicles. Fire trucks filled the center span; police, ambulance, and unmarked government sedans filled the side lanes, spilling onto the sidewalks. A television crew was trying to sneak around the police barrier on Madison. Uniformed officers converged, blocking their path and confiscating their cameras. When one reporter ducked through, he was immediately tackled and pinned to the ground. His chest landed in a leftover puddle.

  The agent allowed his gaze to follow the steep lines of the roof. “I’ve been wondering since first thing this morning how to do it. How to get inside, once the time comes to breach the Church.”

  “My negotiator is convinced this building is as impenetrable as a medieval castle.” Henry angled his head. “What do you think?”

  The lead man gave a slow nod before continuing. “I couldn’t figure it out for the longest time myself. The only visible vulnerabilities are the windows near the roofline and certain areas of crumbling stone that are in the process of repair. Both access points require an assault from above. Breach the roof and drop in from above. And while it would work, given enough armor and firepower, good people would die. The Hostage Taker would see us coming. He’d have the opportunity to detonate all the explosives anchored to the foundation.”

  “So you do not recommend such an approach.”

  “No, sir. Absolutely not.”

  They had circled back to the front of Saint Patrick’s. Cops and Feds and firemen still swarmed. But now they were all working behind bulletproof glass barriers. Newly erected to offer protection from the sniper or snipers inside.

  The agent focused his attention on the central bronze doors. “Those doors aren’t just wired with explosives. Each one is sixteen and a half feet high. Each weighs about nine thousand two hundred pounds. There’s a lever lock on the bottom. And both the Church and the Landmarks people will erupt in a shitstorm if the saints on the front of them are disfigured in any way.”

  “If it’s our only option, I can handle it.”

  “There may be a better approach. Three hostages have come out those doors. And what’s happened every time the doors open? He disarms the explosive charge so the hostage can walk
outside and speak to your negotiator. Best I can tell, we have one small window of opportunity to act while he rearms the explosives and gets himself or his associates in position.”

  “So assuming he sends another hostage out?”

  “We have an eight-second window to breach.”

  “Risk to the hostage?”

  “High. But what is it your casebooks say? The hostage is already as good as gone. Better to deploy our resources toward those inside—the ones we still have a chance of saving—and end this once and for all.”

  Henry considered this. “The faster this crisis is over, the better. I don’t just have the FBI director breathing down my neck. I have the mayor’s office. The Landmarks Commission. The Chamber of Commerce people. The police commissioner. I’ve fielded three calls from the White House. And don’t get me started on officials from the Church. Everyone is upset, wanting answers. Most of all, wanting this to be over, so Christmas season in Manhattan can get back to normal. But everybody’s worried about the hostages, and I can’t risk a bloodbath.”

  “Either way, you might not be able to avoid it. My guess is the guy inside isn’t done yet.”

  VIDOCQ FILE #W19767588

  Current status: ACTIVE

  Henry Ma

  Age: 56

  Race/Ethnicity: Asian (Chinese American)

  Height: 5’9”

  Weight: 196 lbs.

  Eyes: Brown

  Hair: Black

  Current Address: 152 Hester Street (Chinatown).

  Criminal Record: None.

  Expertise: Behavioral analyst.

  Education: Georgetown University, B.S.

  Personal

  Family: Daughter Julie, age fifteen. His large extended family—including nine cousins—still resides in Hunan, China.

  Spouse/Significant Other: Separated from wife, Caroline, after twenty-seven years of marriage.

  Religion: Active member, First Chinese Presbyterian Church.

  Interests: Deep knowledge of modern Chinese history. Model train enthusiast.

  Profile

  Strengths: A political animal always seeking out the next opportunity or promotion. Succeeds because his ambition is backed up by his ability: He’s adept at solving complex scenarios, always thinking multiple steps ahead. Can be relied on to execute, even in the most difficult situations.

  Weaknesses: Inspires little loyalty in those he supervises because he shows them none. He treats them as pawns in the larger game that he plays—and should he find himself back in the field, he will discover few allies willing to support him.

  Background: Entered duty as a special agent with the FBI in 1981. After completing training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, he was assigned to the Los Angeles division, where he investigated organized crime, drugs, money laundering, and gang matters. In 2001, he returned to FBI HQ as assistant special agent in charge of the FBI Critical Incident Response Group, National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Henry joined the New York division in 2006, serving as head of the Vidocq Unit until his promotion in 2008 to assistant director in charge.

  *Assessment prepared and updated by Special Agent in Charge Paul Bruin. For internal use only.

  Chapter 45

  Frank García walked briskly down Seventh Avenue, having decided he would cut east only when he reached Fifty-first Street. He didn’t like crowds—so he usually had a strategy to avoid them. He also didn’t like being cooped up, told what to do, and forced to talk about his feelings—so he was happier today than he had been in weeks. His ex-wife had certainly gotten her revenge. Teresa had convinced some judge to mandate his participation in a PTSD treatment program for vets as a condition of continued custody visits with Frankie Junior.

  Frank got it: Four tours overseas had changed him. His already short fuse had become hair-trigger. His generally wary nature was now nakedly suspicious. His brain sometimes churned with memories he wanted to forget.

  None of this made him an unfit parent.

  Men had gone to war for centuries. Afterward, soldiers came home—manned up—and buried their wounds so deep they couldn’t be touched. No one needed a shrink or the “talking cure.” They sure as hell didn’t need medication. Or a treatment plan. Or a schedule so tedious it was clearly designed to bore them to death. The irony hadn’t escaped him that Eve—who could psychobabble with the best of them, and who actually seemed to believe some of that shit—was responsible for his newfound freedom.

  García breathed in the mix of smoke and exhaust from the hundreds of cars that were stalled. Traffic was backed up for miles. He noted the familiar: His favorite deli. A bar he knew all too well. A gentleman’s club he’d frequented years ago. Then focused on the new additions choking out the seedy establishments that were his comfort zone: A French bakery. Two banks. A wine bar. All catering to the thousands of tourists that roamed the streets surrounding Manhattan’s most popular destinations—Times Square and Rockefeller Center.

  Cops stood at every street corner. Security, in theory. Except the uniforms didn’t know what the hell was going on, either. Their main job was to make sure no traffic went east.

  The real law enforcement presence began at the rear side of Rockefeller Center. The cop standing by the concrete blockade on West Fifty-first Street gave García a sour look.

  “I’m on your list,” he said, producing his ID.

  The officer glanced at García’s scruffy jeans and mud-stained boots. “Didn’t expect to come in today, huh?” Then he compared García’s mug with the official photo and frowned. “You look older now.”

  “No shit. Happens to all of us, pal.”

  The officer chuckled. “You can say that again. Go on ahead.”

  García walked on, passing by more banks. The entrance to the ice-skating rink. He glanced at the Christmas tree, all set for lighting. The only thing missing was the tourists. Normally, one could hardly walk in this area during the holiday season. Now all he saw were men and women in uniform—NYPD and FDNY—standing around, waiting, jumpy. Frank got a chill and made the sign of the cross. It was a habit he’d developed overseas to protect himself.

  He reached Fifth Avenue. Showed his credentials again to four different cops. Saw the bulletproof fortifications that had been put in place in front of the Cathedral. Ignored them—and went up the short flight of stone steps to the massive bronze doors in front. Considered the various sculptures of the saints. Everyone paid attention to Saint Joseph and Saint Patrick on the top row. But he’d always preferred Mother Cabrini in the middle row. Mother of the Immigrant. He crossed himself again and cast a quick prayer to her now.

  Then he knelt by the door.

  It was as though that one action grabbed everybody’s attention. Cops started waving their arms. Emergency personnel shouted for him to take cover.

  Frank ignored them all. He’d said his prayers. He was wearing his lucky red socks and bandana. He believed this wasn’t his time yet.

  Eve had said the explosive technique was an HBIED. García had seen too many of them. Sometimes, doors or lights switches were rigged with wires leading to an initiator switch. Sometimes the makeshift bombs were embedded in the floor. Still other times, insurgents built holes in the load-bearing walls and packed them with explosives—so if the explosion didn’t get you, the structural collapse would.

  Hostages were coming and going through this door, however. That meant it had to be rigged.

  Which was good. Because when IEDs were buried, the only safe way to clear them was to level the structure.

  Someone with a bullhorn shouted for him to leave the door. “Take cover, for Christ’s sake!”

  He ignored that, too. Checked out the small doors on either side of the main entrance. In his own time, he turned the corner and continued his inspection, walking down Fifty-first Street.

  Taking in the side access doors. Windows of jeweled stained glass up high, shrouded in scaffolding. Past the Parish House. Then the Cardinal’s Residence. Then back towar
d Fifth Avenue via Fiftieth.

  Eve had said their experts had discovered few vulnerabilities to exploit.

  García didn’t understand why they’d had so much trouble. Maybe that was because after four tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan, he was good at finding openings where they didn’t exist. Not much ever surprised him. And the issue at Saint Patrick’s was really no different from what he’d encountered half a dozen times in Fallujah.

  A madman was inside a house with weapons. He’d booby-trapped the place with IEDs. There were civilians around that Frank was forbidden to hurt. Not to mention religious treasures he was forbidden to destroy. Despite these impossible parameters, he had to complete his mission.

  It was just a matter of being creative. Outsmarting the dirty bastards.

  He glanced down at the pavement under his feet.

  Yes. He had no doubt that his idea would work.

  HOUR 10

  5:42 p.m.

  As we continue to follow this developing situation at Saint Patrick’s, we have a caller on the line, Jorge Valdes, a sous chef at Café Bonne Nuit, who believes his coworker is among the hostages being held. Mr. Valdes, what can you tell us?

  VALDES: First of all, I don’t think my friend, Ethan Raynor, is inside the Church. I know he is. He’d made a Mass request for his father, who died in October. And this morning’s Mass was going to be said for Raynor Senior. So Ethan wouldn’t have forgotten. He wouldn’t have overslept. He wouldn’t have been deterred by the bad weather. He definitely wouldn’t have skipped work after. He’s responsible, loyal, and generous to a fault.

  We’re all worried about Ethan. We’ve been calling the number the city gave us. They haven’t been able to tell us anything. They say they’re doing everything they can. But they aren’t.

  What are you asking for, Mr. Valdes?

  VALDES: I want the kind of response we got on 9/11 and with Hurricane Sandy. So what if every single first responder in New York is working this? Bring in responders from Baltimore and Boston, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. Bring in all the help we can get—so we can save these hostages and send them home.