“Just keep asking questions. Like in that personal story you were telling me.”
“Questions are good, but I like answers, too. Why did you choose me for this? I need to know.”
“You’re becoming tiresome.”
“I keep hoping eventually you’ll answer me.”
“Here’s your answer: You bring headlines, Eve.”
“Only if I screw up. What’s the real reason?”
“Maybe I like your voice. People told me it was low and sexy and sweet all at once. They were right.”
“Who told you that?”
“I haven’t forgiven you, Eve.”
“Enough of this. I thought you didn’t have much time.” Eve swung away from both the Cathedral and Sean Sullivan, cursed under her breath, and glanced at the MRU. “Are you ready for Sinya Willis?”
—
The phone link to the MRU rang exactly fifty-three seconds later.
“Hello? Is this Sinya?”
“Mrs. Willis to you. I turned sixty last month. I deserve some respect.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. And as long as we’re talking about names, I expect you to call me sir.”
“I’d call you worse names than that for what you’ve done today, you bastard. You’re a murderer!”
“Well, aren’t you feisty? But you got it all wrong. We have to talk about what you’ve done. What are you guilty of, Mrs. Willis?”
“Nothing. I’m sixty years old and I’ve got no regrets.”
“Don’t lie to me. Everyone has some, and you probably more than most.”
“I take care of kids, Mr. Sullivan. That means I make bottles. Change diapers. Cook mac and cheese. Read Goodnight Moon more times than you can count. I locate lost toys and bandage hurt knees. I wake up exhausted and I fall into bed bone-tired. I stay busy and I don’t have time for moral dilemmas.”
“And this has been your life for how long? Thirty years?”
“More than. Ever since I came to this country.”
“See that woman on the steps in front of you? Unless you can tell me about your past sins, I’m going to detonate the bomb that she’s wearing around her waist, under that coat. You’ll be fine in your bulletproof trailer over there. But plenty of people on the street will die. Do you want that on your conscience?”
Sinya tugged her yellow cardigan sweater tighter around her. Then she whispered, “You ain’t really going to kill her.”
“No? My body count isn’t high enough yet?”
“I imagine a life I’ll never have. I spend hours looking at listings for homes I’ll never buy, in cities I’ll never live, imagining what it must be like to live on my own, without tantrums and spit-up.”
“Doesn’t exactly sound like a sin to me. More like a vice. Like how some women can’t stop shopping for pairs of shoes. Although I don’t picture our Eve here addicted to shoes. She prefers things built for comfort, not style. Isn’t that right, Eve?”
“Sometimes when Mr. and Mrs. Abrams are out, I put the kids to bed early. Much earlier than their normal bedtime. And I escape online.”
“You’re not confessing anything here.”
“The point is that I let them scream. The little one had a nightmare. Must’ve cried for twenty minutes before I went to him.” She set her jaw and crossed her arms. There was no real regret in her demeanor. Just a tough exterior shell that she would protect at all costs, Eve suddenly realized.
“You’re really disappointing me, Sinya.”
“I regret plenty. It’s just none of your business.”
“The woman will die—in fifteen seconds—if you don’t confess. Counting now: fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…twelve…”
Tears were running down her cheeks.
“…eleven…ten…nine…”
“Stop!” She swiped at her eyes with a balled fist. “Nobody’s dying on my account.”
Sean stopped his countdown. He waited.
A lot was happening in just those few seconds. Teams of officers in pairs were staking out positions. NYPD. FBI. Interagency cooperation at work. Their radios were crackling. A new plan was being exercised. Eve took it as a sign: Henry’s patience—or perhaps it was the mayor’s—had nearly run out. Eve was on the verge of losing control. Her heart thudded into her chest.
“Tell me, Sinya. Tell me who’s died because of you.” His voice was low. Seductive. Trying to convey: I’ll be your confessor. I’ll understand.
“It happened back in Jamaica, before I came here. I was young. Had no experience with children, really—except for my own brothers, sisters, and cousins. But I needed a job—and Mrs. Palmer had three kids: The twins who were four years old and a six-month-old.” She looked around hesitantly to see who was listening. There was fear and guilt in her face; tears continued running down her cheeks.
“Go on, Sinya.”
“Not too long after I started with the family, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer had a business dinner out. I put the twins in the bathtub, and the baby was in his crib. Suddenly, he started screaming at the top of his lungs. Not his usual I want out or Change me or Feed me. No, he was yelling like something was seriously wrong.”
Her tears were streaming, her nose started to run. She ignored it. “I only left the twins in the tub for a few minutes. I checked on the baby. He was fine. He’d rolled over onto his stomach for the very first time and it scared him. I comforted him and put him to bed on his back. Then I returned to the bathroom and the twins.” Now her voice was a croak. “The girl was fine. But her brother? Just resting there—under the water.”
“Did the child live?” Sean asked.
She shook her head and turned away. She didn’t bother wiping her eyes anymore. “Once he was taken to the hospital, I ran. And I kept running. Found a boat to Cuba and took it. I never looked back. I never said a word.”
There was silence. But by the time Sinya Willis lifted her head and looked around, the EMS workers were no longer watching. The NYPD officers were back on their phones.
The truth was: They’d seen worse. They’d heard worse. And compared to what they were facing today inside the Cathedral, this was old news—and they just didn’t care.
—
The woman on the steps spoke one last time. “I am going to return inside the Cathedral. You will not interfere with me. You will not interfere with the next hostage who comes out. If you do, we will all die.”
But before she turned, she raised her face to the wintry sky, breathing in the light falling snow, as if she wanted to enjoy this final moment of freedom. To savor it completely—while she could.
Chapter 67
Deep in the tunnels surrounding Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Frank García kept moving.
It wasn’t by choice. It was an imperative. If he stopped, even for a second, his hyper-senses would take over. Instinct would rule over all rational thought.
The underground passageway was proving interminable. He half regretted having hung up on Mace. Nothing Tony had said indicated the secret passage was this long. He guessed it was all a matter of perspective.
He already tasted the smoke. It burned his eyes and his lungs. Telling himself it was all in his head—just a distant memory better off forgotten—didn’t stop him from choking on it.
The acoustics down here were unsettling. The sound of his boots reverberated back to him in odd echoes. His shoulders scraped the ceiling. His brain scrambled for a strategy to defeat the panic rushing at him.
For no apparent reason, one of his former commanding officers came to mind. Burrows had been a man with a full head of gray hair kept in a tight buzz cut. He was stocky, medium height, and his accent was pure Texas. He’d been to West Point, where he’d become thoroughly disillusioned with bad leadership and reductive thinking. He was famous for breaking their every mission down into his one mantra—KISS. Keep It Simple, Stupid.
García reminded himself of that now. What he was doing really wasn’t that hard.
Follow the tunnel to the Cathedral.
&nbs
p; Get inside.
Avoid the booby-traps.
Neutralize the Hostage Taker.
KISS.
Simple enough for a guy like him. Couldn’t be more than another two hundred, three hundred feet.
Is it my imagination, or is this passageway actually growing larger? He still smelled and tasted the smoke that triggered his panic attacks, but he also recognized the taste of fresh air.
In. Out. He steadied his breathing.
Until the moment he came not upon a door. But an entire room. A chapel of sorts.
Smaller. Much simpler, with no ornate stonework or decorations. Polished stone. Deep red and royal-blue tapestries. A small altar with a dozen candles on it—unlit.
Big enough that a person six feet tall would be comfortable standing in it. At five-foot-ten, García actually had room to breathe. Which he did—greedily. And relished the fact that he tasted air that was cool, damp, and without a hint of smoke.
Probably not religious—but it felt holy to him, so he crossed himself all the same.
What had Tony told him? That many of the stonemasons involved in building Saint Patrick’s had also been Freemasons. And the Freemasons were obsessed with secrecy. Noted for ciphers, communicating with invisible ink—and building unbelievable tunnel systems underground, complete with hidden rooms, to ensure members would be protected from the outside world.
García lifted his face up toward the ceiling—embraced the sensation of air and space—and smiled.
Chapter 68
Another hostage emerged onto the steps of Saint Patrick’s: a woman with clipped dark hair. Asian—probably Japanese. And young—early twenties at the latest. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans. No coat. And a waist pack with wires poking out at odd angles.
A message, Eve decided.
This hostage carried no detonator, and Eve instantly understood why: This woman was a bundle of nerves, swaying and trembling. Unable to exercise any measure of control.
The woman said nothing.
There was no reason to. Her appearance said it all.
Eve’s handset was rigged to take Sean’s call directly. She stood next to Atlas, in the same area where the witnesses had previously appeared.
Sean didn’t bother with hello. He asked, “Where’s Luis Ramos? Don’t tell me he’s still puking his guts out?”
“He’s very ill,” Eve replied. “You’ve spoken with the other four. Upset them. Humiliated them. Let’s move on to whatever’s next.”
“What’s next is the fact that none of them has truly confessed their sins. So I want to see them again—this time, together.”
“You’ve done enough today, Sean.”
“I require Ramos.”
“He’s not able.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Enough with the witnesses. What do you really want?”
“To talk with Ramos.” Sean’s breathing was coming faster. His voice was pitched higher.
“Why?”
“What kind of trick are you trying to pull on me, Agent? Just put the damn witness on the line.”
“Seems to me that you’re looking for something from people who’ll never give it to you. They don’t understand—so they can’t begin to help you.”
“Put Ramos on the phone. ASAP.”
Haddox’s voice came into Eve’s ear: We have a Hispanic agent here with acting experience from college. He’s ready to go.
“Calm down, Sean; there’s no need to yell.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Eve. Put Ramos on the line or the hostage dies.”
Eve had exhausted all attempts to reason with him. Maybe it was time to figure out what was the truth. Whether Sean Sullivan really knew the witnesses he claimed to want—or if they were only here because they represented something to him.
“I’ll get him. Just give me a moment.”
“Put Ramos on RIGHT NOW, or I’ll blow this hostage into so many pieces you’ll still be digging her out of Fifth Avenue come Easter.”
“Go ahead,” she directed Haddox. Then she stepped to the right, and the projected image appeared next to her. Life-size, towering five inches above her. Dark hair. Sturdy build. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his chin. Wearing a red-checkered shirt and dark jeans. She supposed he could pass for a day laborer. She wished he looked a bit more weather-worn. “Patch him in.”
“Are you there, Luis?” she asked after a moment.
“Sí.”
“Do you feel any better?” It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder to the Ramos substitute of his role.
“Sí.”
“Luis Ramos?” Sean interjected.
“Sí.”
“Speak English.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to confess your sins.”
“I’m an illegal. To your government, it’s a sin—and for that, they wish to deport me.”
Eve heard a sound that might have been the grinding of teeth. “What are you guilty of, Luis?”
“Nothin’.”
“Where were you working last July?”
“Midtown. Downtown. Harlem. Wherever I got work.”
“I don’t think so.” Sean said it coldly. “Tell me the last time you sent money home.”
“Friday before Thanksgiving.”
Sean exploded. “Wrong answer. Where the fuck is the real Luis Ramos? You’re outta time.”
“This is Luis Ramos,” Eve intervened calmly. “But there are plenty of men named Luis Ramos in this city. Did you mean a different Ramos?”
“YOU THINK I’M SOME STUPID IDIOT?”
“Calm down, Sean. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you’ve got some fucking Fed pretending to be Luis Ramos.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because of the jeans. The shoes. You thought I wouldn’t notice? Even after I told you the story of the homeless man?”
“Notice what?”
“The real Luis Ramos doesn’t wear brand-new denims. He wears old jeans, broken in, washed a thousand times by the man who eventually got tired of them and dumped them in a Goodwill box. And look at those shoes. The real Ramos wears beat-up sneakers.”
“I can ask my agent. It’s possible we cleaned him up for today,” Eve said.
The hostage on the steps began counting down. Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Her face was blank with terror.
“Okay. Stop. He refused to come,” Eve said, telling him the truth starkly. She explained how Luis had run away. How he had been scared, given his immigration problems. Especially given his wife and young daughter. “You of all people should understand that. You have a daughter, too.”
Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one.
“You’ve made a few mistakes, Eve.” His tone was cold, unyielding.
“Is your daughter with you inside, Sean? Or have you hidden Georgianna somewhere else?”
But he was breathing faster now. “First the assault team. Then the missing witness. Mistakes always have consequences.”
Thirty-two. Thirty-one.
“No,” she said firmly. “No, Sean. Mistakes happen, but then we fix them. There’s nothing that’s happened today—nothing you’ve done—that can’t be made better.”
Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three.
“There’s no way out. I have no choice—none at all.” He was losing his composure.
Fifteen. Fourteen.
“Talk to me, Sean. Do it for Georgie. How do we fix this situation? What will it take for you to give up and come out? To let those people go?”
Nine.
“I’m not sure we ever—”
There was a blinding flash of light. Then a rumble of sound.
Eve heard nothing but an eerie quiet.
It was the sound of the world closing in all around her.
Chapter 69
I look at the carnage below…and I remember.
They called for reinforcements after Stacy was taken. Of cou
rse I joined them—although the commanding officer mumbled something about conflict of interest and I had to promise to keep my head on straight.
Five hours and seventeen minutes later we received a report. A body had been found.
They were pretty sure it was an American. If not a soldier, then someone who worked for the U.S. Army.
One of the things I had first noticed in Afghanistan was how the locals didn’t wear socks. Villagers wore sandals. Afghan soldiers wore unlaced boots without them. That’s how everyone knew: This victim was not an Afghan. There were remnants of wool, stuck between each toe, wool that used to be socks.
The victim had been shot.
Then burnt.
Then driven through the city.
Then hacked to pieces by both adults and children in front of a cheering crowd before—finally—being hung from a bridge in a burlap sack.
After the autopsy results finally came through, the corpsmen—our medical personnel—assured me that Stacy had not suffered for long. That the torture had come well after the gunshot.
I knew they said this to everybody who lost a loved one.
I hoped—just this once—they weren’t lying.
—
Three weeks later, I was helping to clear the road of IEDs before a unit made up of a group of young twentysomething Marines passed through. The same guys Stacy had assisted.
Things happen in war zones. Sometimes in the chaos, we have friendly fire. Sometimes in our state of exhaustion, we miss spotting an IED. Tricky little buggers can be hard to find, after all.
Oops! My bad.
The way I saw it, if Stacy didn’t get to go home safe, then why should they?
Why should any of us?
There’s no safety or security left.
Not in our homes.
Not in our workplaces or cities.
Not even in this house of God.
Chapter 70
Aiko Tanaka was no more. She was the trace of blood that smeared a swath on the protective plastic that surrounded the perimeter. She was a fragment that rested against Saint Elizabeth Seton on the lower corner of the bronze door. She was no longer bone and flesh, but evidence in a crime scene.
Eve tried to take a step forward, but her knees buckled and she almost fell. Cops and Feds swarmed around her. A forensics team in full body armor swept in to secure the scene.
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