What I wanted to know then…what I want to know now…is how does a group of Marines—a group of tough, battle-hardened, take-no-shit Marines—manage to lose their interpreter in enemy territory?
Chapter 54
It was snowing.
Not the dazzling display of illuminated snowflakes that normally lit the façade of Saks, but the real thing. Beautiful, thick, white flakes that made Saint Patrick’s look like something out of a fairy tale. And maybe it was—complete with a villain inside.
Outside, there was chaos. Shouts, and people running in all directions. Henry Ma was barking orders and federal agents and NYPD were getting into position. EMS had pulled back.
The buildings nearby remained dark. Empty. The goal was to see the sniper coming. Not give him an additional target.
For their plan to succeed, now the lights of Saint Patrick’s needed to be extinguished as well. Eve gave the command—and watched as the spotlights illuminating the Cathedral went black.
Inside the holding unit, Sean Sullivan’s photograph had been passed among the witnesses. They were shown two copies—one of him in full uniform, the other in casual clothes. Just to cover all bases, Eve made sure they were also shown photos of Paulie Corsillo. She had also sent the photos over to the hotel where Luke Miller—the only hostage to walk away so far—was being kept safe.
It didn’t matter. Not one of the witnesses remembered seeing either man before. And Luke was unsure.
“Are you ready?” Eve asked, Haddox behind her.
Her answer was the dance of his fingers on the keyboard and the hum of a video camera come to life. Haddox was in his element. Doing what he loved most.
Finally he said, “Showtime!”
“Blair, will you come over here?” Eve pointed to where the video camera was focused against a white wall. “The Hostage Taker is asking to meet you—”
He didn’t let her finish. He started babbling, voicing a dozen different concerns, but she made out You promised I’d be safe.
“—so we’re setting up a virtual connection,” she explained, shouting him down. “My associate here is going to project a walking and talking image of you outside this building. Do you want to take a moment to compose yourself? There’s water in the interview room.”
Eli waited until the realtor was out of earshot. “I dunno, Eve. Somehow I don’t think a projection is going to satisfy this guy. He went to all this trouble. He’s gonna want the real thing—”
“This is as close to the real thing as we can get,” Haddox cut in. “Remember how a few years ago everyone was talking about how computer technology more or less resurrected Tupac Shakur from the dead to perform with Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre at a music festival? Everybody called it a hologram—but it was actually a two-D projection against a transparent screen.”
“Sure,” Eli said. “Even people who don’t follow the music scene were talking about it. Some people thought it was totally awesome. Others said it was creepy.”
“Either way, it should work for us. The technique is a basic illusion based on Pepper’s ghost—a centuries-old theater trick. Onstage, the actor hides in a recessed area, faces a mirror, and his image is projected by a sheet of glass suspended above the stage. The rest is just lighting.”
“Okay, so how do you do that here?” Eli wanted to know.
“I use 3-D computer graphics to produce a reflection that is similar to a hologram. Remember my shopping list? Well, I now have everything we need—a video cam, a high-def projector, and a flat translucent screen.” He shot Eve a boyish smile. “I know; I surprise even myself sometimes.”
“You can do this live?” Eve asked Haddox.
“Have a little faith. I can do it live, prerecorded, upside-down—however you like it.”
“Do it. It’s certainly the only viable option we have. I won’t put innocent civilians in harm’s way.”
“What if he makes good on his threats?” Eli fretted.
“I believe this isn’t really about killing hostages or destroying the Cathedral. If we meet him halfway, I think I can convince him to compromise.”
“How can you say this isn’t about killing hostages, when so many have died?” Alina gave Eve an icy stare.
“Because he killed them as a means to an end. He’s not afraid to murder when he feels he must. He may even enjoy it—or see it as some kind of perverted act of justice. But it isn’t what he wants.”
“What do you think he really wants?” A muscle twitched in Blair’s jaw as he rejoined them.
“He wants you,” Eve answered. “Each one of you—for some reason I still don’t understand.”
She glanced at her stopwatch: Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven seconds to go. “It’s possible he will want to talk with you,” Eve told Blair. “If he does, we’re right here. We’ll be recording the conversation and coaching you what to say. You won’t be alone, not for one second.”
“Now,” she told Haddox.
And a full-sized image of Blair Vanderwert appeared right next to the statue of Atlas across from the steps of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
The image appeared to stare directly at Ethan Raynor.
And despite the tremor of surprise that Eve detected, Ethan Raynor stared right back.
Chapter 55
García continued his journey inside the rocky, cavernous construction site that would one day house New York’s newest subway extension. It was an eerie underworld that included a 160-foot cavern, dripping stone walls, and watery gravel pits.
Right out of a Batman flick.
To García, it was hell.
He had been underground for nineteen minutes. Which was already eighteen minutes too long.
His current location was eight stories below ground. Which was eight stories too many.
And seven stories below where he’d abandoned Tony the first time around.
He had followed Tony’s directions. First, he located the two wide metal ventilation pipes that led aboveground. Set on the wall between them was a circular hole covered with an intake screen. It was designed to look like any other vent—an ordinary air shaft allowing for efficient air movement. But according to Tony, it was the mouth of the secret subterranean tunnel that eventually led right inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
At first he was able to walk—albeit in a slightly stooped position. There was even a safety rail that lasted about fifteen feet. Someone had installed it to protect those navigating the rocky, wet terrain.
By the time he had gone twenty-five feet, he was in uncharted, cramped territory. Someone had tunneled out a narrow chunk of bedrock that Tony claimed was passable.
Passable didn’t look pleasant. He remembered what he’d been told about the tunnel’s construction. This was done as an inside job, by masons who didn’t feel the need to drill beyond the bare minimum. So the space was narrow. García had to drop to his hands and knees. Even then, his shoulders regularly brushed against the jagged roof of the passageway.
He shone his flashlight beam straight ahead—and cursed. It was like looking into a bottomless well.
He went on and on. One foot—or, rather, one hand and knee—at a time. Another twenty-five feet. Then fifty. Seventy-five. A hundred.
Ironically, it was when he felt he must be getting close that García felt the walls collapsing in on him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Focused on taking deep breaths. In. Out. Reminded himself that he had enough air. More than plenty.
But the air had changed. Where it had been cold and damp, now it was still and dry.
In his mind’s eye, he focused on his tranquil image: The endless stretch of sky and beach that some shrink had suggested he use when he needed to calm down.
In. Out.
He fought his growing panic.
Without success. He was losing it. He felt the tunnel ceiling start to come down. The walls edged closer. Even the floor seemed to rise up. He smelled smoke. Heard rumbling. All his senses started working in overdrive.
He was suffocating. Gasping for air that wasn’t there.
His palms were sweating. The taste of bile was in his mouth.
His brain tried to stay in the moment. But every overstimulated sense in his body was working to convince him that he was trapped—again—in the rubble of Fallujah. His mind couldn’t stay in control. Raw instinct took over.
There was a buzzing in his ear. Coming at regular intervals. Every three seconds.
He had to get out. If he didn’t, he was going to die down here.
A buzzing in his ear.
He ignored it as best he could. He was running out of time. He was hyperventilating.
His mind could not fully process what was happening. But some half-remembered muscle memory must have led his right hand to click the button and answer the call—because within seconds, Mace’s voice was booming in his ear.
Mace?
Mace saying, “Hey, Frankie, whassup?”
He recognized the disconnect. Mace was in New York, not Fallujah.
“Frankie, you with me?”
García focused on the voice. “Mace?” The name caught in his throat, came out strangled.
“Take a deep breath, Frankie.”
García did. Was surprised that he actually could.
“You with me now?”
“Yeah.”
In. Out. He was still hyperventilating, but only in spurts. Miraculously, his breathing was working again.
“Great, now listen up. You can do this. You’re almost there. Know how I know?”
García had no idea. In. Out. Just breathing deep.
“Those fancy sunglasses of yours have a GPS chip. So I can track your every movement.” Mace chuckled. “Just what I always wanted to do, Frankie. Hang out with you even when we’re not together. You never know, we could be Facebook friends.”
“Fuck you,” García growled. “And stop calling me Frankie.” He didn’t feel the walls closing in anymore. He felt the sullen tension he always felt around Mace. The guy he got along with least in the world. They were worse than oil and water. More like truth and lies. Fire and gas.
He reveled in that feeling—because it was familiar. It calmed him almost as much as being aboveground and breathing in a huge gulp of New York City pollution.
García started moving again. “How come you’re calling me?”
“Just checking in. Making sure you’re okay.”
“In other words, Eve knew something was wrong and told you to dial in. How come she didn’t do it herself?”
“I know, I know—this is Eve’s typical play. But give me some credit. Eve is kinda tied up right now, and it was me who noticed you starting to have a full-fledged freak-out.”
“It has a name. Post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD. Which you might know, if you’d ever worried about anything other than yourself.”
“Easy, Frankie. We’re all friends here—or what passes for it in Vidocq, anyway. Those fancy glasses of yours have two-way video stream. Do me a favor, put ’em on. You keep ’em on your belt, I can see where you’re going—but not as well as I want.”
Frankie obliged. But not without giving Mace the middle finger the moment he’d done it.
Mace chuckled. “Looks like you’re feelin’ better already.”
“Don’t know how I even have a signal down here.”
“Military technology. It’s the best. Now, normally I don’t like hearin’ your annoying voice, but today’s the exception. I’m gonna stay with you like white on rice, all the way in.”
“Don’t want you,” García grumbled again. “How much farther do I have to go?”
“Frankie, baby, I’m like death and taxes—unavoidable. Let’s just do this. You’re real close now. And once you’re in that Cathedral, you can turn those PTSD sensors of yours full on. In fact, we need you to. They’ll help you stay safe.”
García had heard that before.
“But right here, right now? We don’t want your superpowers messin’ things up. So one deep breath at a time. One step at a time.”
“Since when did you learn to talk like a hairdresser? All this understanding crap ain’t your style.”
“Eve’s fault,” Mace retorted.
“What—she gave you lessons in psychobabble bullshit?” One deep breath.
“Naw. She left me Bach—that German shepherd used to belong to her stepfather.”
“You’re making no sense, man.” One step forward.
“It was a CIA dog—already had attack training, not to mention plenty of other cool skills. Plus, it’s young. Got way too much energy pent up to settle down like some couch potato. I had to teach it something it couldn’t already do.”
“I’m afraid to ask.” Deep breath.
“Therapy training. Specific to PTSD, actually. I guess I picked up a thing or two along the way.”
Another step forward. “I nailed it, then. It’s like you took Hairdresser 101.”
“Change that to Bartending 101, and I won’t beat the shit out of you once you’re out of that tunnel.”
Another deep breath. “How much longer?”
“You’re getting there, Frankie. Just keep movin’.”
Chapter 56
Light snow was still swirling to the ground. Fifth Avenue was still dark. But there was one beacon of light: Blair Vanderwert’s projected image. It stood awkwardly next to the statue of Atlas. An illuminated hologram that lit up the night.
Eve hurried to position herself beside it. Beside him.
Haddox’s idea had been genius. Because apart from the neon glow, the image of Vanderwert was perfectly lifelike. Exactly the right height, with the right dimensions and the right expression. He seemed almost real, standing on the plaza with snowflakes falling all around him. No, make that through him.
Ethan Raynor shifted nervously on the steps.
Eve walked toward him; she didn’t stop until she was halfway between the hostage and the hologram. Then she positioned herself so she was facing up Fifth Avenue, situated to see them both.
The commotion around her had faded. Cellphones still chirped and radios crackled, but the uniforms around the perimeter had stopped what they were doing. They stared at the hologram. Nobody spoke. The only sound Eve heard was that of her own quick breaths—and Ethan’s heavy rasping, as mere feet away, he inhaled every gulp of air as though it were his last.
They stood there together…twenty-six seconds to go. Then twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three…
Finally, just before her stopwatch ticked the three-second mark, the cellphone in her hand rang.
“What the fuck do you think this is? Some Hollywood movie where you send me a message from Princess Leia and think it’s okay?”
“I think this is me getting with the twenty-first century, exactly as you asked. Not to mention, it’s clever. I’ve managed to offer you Blair Vanderwert—while keeping him under my protection.”
“Where is he?” Sean demanded.
“Inside the holding unit, of course. I wouldn’t lie to you, Sean.”
“Of course you would, if you thought you could get away with it. Prove it.”
“You can see him. Talk to him, if you want. I’ll give you the number.”
“Do you think I’m here to negotiate? If you don’t want that hostage bleeding to death in front of you, I want Vanderwert out here. Now.”
“He is here, ready to talk. I’m not playing games with you, Sean. You wanted these witnesses brought here. I did that. You demanded visual ID. I arranged for it. You want to speak with them? I’ll tell you the number to dial.”
“I’ll blow up the Cathedral. It’s not an idle threat.”
“Except then you’ll never get what you want.” She paused before she continued. “What do you want, Sean? When you’re ready to talk about that, let me know.”
She pressed the button on the handset, abruptly ending the call. Turned and started to walk back to the holding unit.
Henry Ma yelled from the perimeter’s e
dge, asking what the hell she was thinking.
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” she said serenely as she passed him.
“You hung up on him!”
“I did.”
“He’s going to kill that man on the steps!”
“I don’t think he will,” Eve said evenly. “Not now.”
“If anything happens, it’s all on you.”
She turned and looked him square in the eye. “You think I don’t know that? Whatever happens here today, good or bad, I’ve got to live with it. Yes, I’m taking a risk. But if I don’t play to win, I’m certainly going to lose.”
Henry wasn’t listening. “He’ll kill that hostage. Just like the others before. And when you walk away like that, it sends one message loud and clear: That you don’t care. That the FBI has abandoned those hostages inside.”
Eve started counting. One, two…
On the count of three, the cellphone rang. She reached for it and answered. “What do you want?”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
Eve hung up. Counted again. One, two, three…
She barely made it past three.
The cell rang again.
Henry put out his hand for the cellphone. “Give that to me, Eve. Clearly you weren’t ready for this. It’s too soon.”
She ignored him. Answered the call.
“IF YOU HANG UP ON ME AGAIN, I’LL—”
Eve clicked off the line.
One, two, three, four…
He called back on the count of five.
“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARN—”
Eve pressed the end key. With a glance at Henry, she said, “I’m handling this.” She forced a note of confidence into her voice that she didn’t feel. She still didn’t know nearly enough about this Hostage Taker. But she knew enough to realize that she had refocused his attention. He was absolutely enraged—but his fury was now directed at her.
Not at the hostage on the steps.
Not at the witnesses in the holding unit.
Eve counted again. This time the Hostage Taker called back on the count of eight.
Hostage Taker Page 23
