As I charged down the steps, I calculated how many operators it would take to snatch a U.S. senator. Both taxi drivers, of course, plus a support crew. There also might be a shooter stationed atop a nearby building. Possibly atop the Explorers Club-it had six floors. And possibly more than one shooter, if it was a bag-and-tag operation.
Tag, as in coroner’s tag.
So there were at least four men, but maybe eight, presumably all armed.
On the bottom floor of the Explorers Club, near the stairs, is a world globe, museum-sized. On a nearby wall, I’d noticed a climbing ax from some Himalayan expedition. An ice ax, spiked at one end, a blade on the other.
I yelled to the desk attendant, “Where’s Sir James?,” as I pulled the ax from its mount, stumbled and nearly fell over the globe.
The attendant stared at me like I was insane. She pointed toward the rest-room, her lips moving to tell me, “Sir James is… unavailable.”
I told the woman to call 911. A United States senator was being abducted.
2
As I exited the Explorers Club, the kid Barbara had met at the airport was stepping out of the limo, a cowboy hat pulled low, boots ankle-deep in slush.
The essay winner? It was a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He looked like a bull rider, all shoulders and legs.
I yelled, “Kid! Get back in the car!”
The kid looked at me, his expression surly. “Huh?” Maybe he was masking confusion.
I hollered, “Back in the car- now!,” aware that the man with the pointed cap was watching the boy, maybe thinking about grabbing him.
The teen yelled to me, “ Kid?… A goat ever kicked your ass, mister?,” as I turned toward taxi A, parked in front of the limo.
An unusual vocabulary for a high school scholar.
The taxi’s rear door was open, exhaust condensing in the cold. Hands from inside pulled at Barbara’s coat while the guy in coveralls wrestled her legs into the car.
Barbara was getting in some shots, panty hose showing, as she hammered with her feet. But she was losing.
I could have thrown the ax but risked hitting her. Instead, I yelled, “Stop-I’ll shoot!,” imitating a television cop. Disciplined, but eager to squeeze the trigger.
It earned me a couple of seconds. The guy in coveralls straightened. His head pivoted. I saw a choirboy face, Mediterranean, maybe Spanish, which could mean anywhere. His dark eyes met mine as I raised the ax, running hard.
I don’t care who you are, an ax is unnerving.
I saw his eyes widen, and gained another second, ten yards separating us now. Close enough to lower a shoulder and use my momentum to hit him so hard we’d spring the door off its hinges.
Instead, I changed my mind at the last second-always a mistake. Ask any football coach. Decided I could use the ice ax to scare all three men, so why disable just one?
Sensible. But when I tried to stop, I hit a patch of ice and my feet went flying. I landed hard on my back, momentum unchecked, and ass-sledded into a tangle of legs, then under the taxi, Choirboy atop me, Senator Hayes-Sorrento in the slush nearby.
Barbara called, “Ford?,” as if reluctant to believe I was her bungling rescuer.
“Run! Get out of the street!” I was worried about a shooter, high above, watching through a rifle scope.
Several things then happened at once: The taxi driver panicked, and hit the gas. The spinning tires somehow kicked Choirboy free. The vehicle began a slow-motion doughnut that would have crushed my head if the ax hadn’t snagged the doorframe.
I grabbed the handle with both hands and levered my body away from the tires. I was half under the car, rotating with it. Let go, I’d be run over.
The car straightened, then slowly gained speed in the fresh snow, dragging me down the street.
I got my right hand higher on the ax handle. I lifted my butt off the pavement to reduce drag. Using the ax as a fulcrum, I was powering my legs from beneath the chassis when the guy in the backseat started kicking at the ax.
Because I had no other option, I made a wild lunge for the door. I got lucky. I caught the man’s ankle-but only for a moment before he yanked his foot free.
The additional lift was enough. I swung clear, expecting the bumper to clip me when I let go of the ax. It didn’t. I skidded through slush until I banged against the tire of a parked motorcycle. The ax clanked to a stop nearby.
I stood. Anticipated my legs buckling if something was broken. They didn’t. I used the motorcycle to steady myself and watched the taxi continue down the street.
A hand appeared from the backseat and pulled the door closed. The driver accelerated.
Dazed and cold, I turned, hoping to see Barbara. Instead, I saw her limo speeding toward me, its headlights blinding. It was a Lincoln Town Car. Black. The driver was silhouetted by the lights of the vehicle behind it, taxi B.
I knelt and grabbed the ax, assuming the taxi was chasing the limo. Maybe I could smash the windshield if I timed it right. So I stood my ground-until the limo veered to hit me.
I dove for the curb and felt the fender brush close. Taxi B tried next. Its right bumper smacked the motorcycle, knocking it onto the sidewalk.
What the hell?
I jumped up, hoping the driver would lose control. He’d almost crushed my legs. I wanted to grab the guy by the neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged like muscat grapes.
But he didn’t lose control. I chased him for a few steps, then stopped, watching the town car. The silhouettes of three people were visible in the rear window. It looked like two men were struggling to control a person sandwiched between them.
Barbara?
Brake lights flashed in tandem, then both vehicles turned right into the fast traffic of Madison Avenue. There were sirens now, squad cars converging from several directions
I pivoted toward the Explorers Club. I’d been dragged about fifty yards. A couple of men were jogging toward me, calling, “You okay?” My Brit friend, Hooker, wasn’t one of them.
Near the entrance was a cluster of people, none obviously female, none the obvious center of attention. U.S. senators are usually the center of attention, whether they welcome it or not. She was gone.
Goddamn it!
On the opposite side of the street, I saw a man walking fast toward Madison Avenue, head down. People who don’t want to be noticed also attract attention. He wasn’t wearing coveralls, but he could’ve trashed them.
I stepped into the street, interested in his reaction. The man glanced, then walked faster.
When he snuck another look, I followed. It was the Spanish-looking guy, Choirboy.
He ran.
I dropped the ax and ran, sirens close now.
I was losing ground until Choirboy fell when he tried to vault a stone wall that bordered Central Park. I was on the other side of Fifth Avenue, lanes of fast traffic separating us.
I got another break when a car actually pulled over for law enforcement vehicles threading their way from uptown, blue strobes pinging off a dome of falling snow. It stopped one lane of traffic and slowed others. I used the hole to juke my way across, ignoring the horns. I almost made it clean.
Almost.
A car locked its brakes and got rear-ended. As drivers swerved, I jumped behind a power pole and watched the chain reaction, cars skidding, spinning and colliding. The soft-metal percussion of fenders traced a firecracker progression.
When it was safe, I stepped back into the street as drivers got out to inspect the damage. Choirboy had disappeared into the park. The smart thing to do, I decided, was flag down a cop. I was cold and needed help. They needed information.
It wasn’t easy. Squad cars were snaking through the mess, sirens howling, fixated on getting to the Explorers Club. No time for fender benders. No time for the big tan tourist, alternately waving his arms, then blowing on his hands for warmth.
Then I heard someone yell, “That’s the guy! The stupid sonuvabitch that caused it!” A guy was p
ointing in my direction. People stared.
It took a moment. Me, the stupid sonuvabitch.
“Dumbass- you. You’re not going anywhere!”
Yes, I was.
I went over the wall, into the park, where the tree canopy was dark above, silver beneath.
The snow was candescent.
In the distance, horses pulled carriages over asphalt trails, and I could see a small building. Some kind of concession. People had gathered there, music playing.
I could also see Choirboy’s snow trail. I jogged and skidded, following his tracks downhill. Soon I got a glimpse of him through the trees. He had resumed the role of innocent stroller. He was walking. It looked like he’d been headed for the music but changed his mind. Not enough people there for him to disappear. So now he was angling north, where it was darker, but also where a white, unlighted space showed, a pond.
He hadn’t spotted me, so I circled uphill, keeping trees between us. I jogged, watching his shadow appear, then disappear. The footing was iffy and my feet were freezing. Also, my right knee was throbbing where my khakis were torn, blood-splattered from road rash.
Adrenaline was losing its kick. I couldn’t outrun him now. I needed to surprise him.
I found a fountain near the pond. The pumps were off. Stone encircled a potage of ice and maple leaves. A footpath curved along the pond where lamps created pools of light that followed the path uphill to the carriage road.
I knelt behind the fountain.
After a couple of minutes, I began to worry the guy had changed directions again. But then he appeared, hands in his pockets, still checking over his shoulder every few seconds. As he neared the fountain, I could see that he wore slacks and a windbreaker.
I crouched-an atavistic reflex incongruous with the Manhattan skyline. I wished now I hadn’t left the ax behind.
The best place to jump him was at the edge of the pond. The surface was frozen but not solid. In the middle, a pump maintained a melted-water space, where ducks and geese squabbled. With the pond at his back, Choirboy had fewer options.
As he neared, I crept toward him along the wall of the fountain. Because of the damn geese, I didn’t hear a policeman on horseback approaching until he was close enough to zap me with his spotlight.
“You lost, mister? Or running from something?”
Two men were with him, civilians, both on foot-probably because their cars were being towed.
The cop told me, “Turn and face this way. Show me your hands.”
Caught in the same beam of light, Choirboy reacted before I did. I saw him straighten, hesitate, then raise his hands.
I got my hands up, too, fingers wide, but didn’t take my eyes off Choirboy, as one of the civilians said, “That’s the asshole. Me with a brand-new Chrysler, this jerk runs into the street like he’s drunk.”
Choirboy looked at me, then at the cop, his brain putting it together, as I said, “My name’s Ford. I’m a friend of Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento-the FBI will confirm that.”
The cop leaned toward me, interested, as the man pissed off about his Chrysler said, “FBI-hear that? He’s not drunk, he’s crazy.”
I continued speaking directly to the cop. “The senator was abducted about ten minutes ago. They used two taxis. Four to eight men, maybe one of them posing as her limo driver. The guy in the windbreaker-this guy-was involved. I was chasing him.”
When I used an index finger to point, the cop snapped, “Keep them where I can see them,” shifting the spotlight to his left hand so he could unsnap his holster. His tone was different now. He was dealing with a crime that carried the death penalty. Less volume, more edge.
“You heard the call go out about a kidnapping?”
I said, “No. As I just explained, I was-”
“You work in law enforcement? That was a clean report you gave.”
I shook my head to mask exasperation. “I’m a marine biologist. I’m here on vacation from Florida.”
“Just a tourist doing his civic duty, huh? How do you know four people were involved?”
“Four, but as many as eight, I’m guessing. The point is-”
“Two taxis and a limo-another lucky guess? You know a lot of details.”
The cop had drawn his weapon, holding it against his riding boot, barrel down, so it wasn’t obvious. A revolver, not a Glock 9, which told me the guy had been with NYPD a lot of years. The civilians could see the gun. They were backing away
“You’re a close personal friend of this U.S. senator, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I’m a friend.”
“Friends with the FBI, too?”
“I said they can confirm my story. If agents aren’t already interviewing people, they will be.”
Staring at me, the cop said, “Cops and criminals-no one understands the system better. And you’re not a cop.”
I waited.
“Why’d you cause that pileup, running across Fifth Avenue?”
Before I could answer, Choirboy attempted a finesse. “This man was not chasing me. I was walking. I hear order to stop, I stop. I have read about the police of New York. They say you are the finest.”
Spanish-speaking, but from South America, not Spain.
Looking at me, the cop said to Choirboy, “I suppose you’re on vacation, too?”
He answered, “No. I am here for the United Nations. The Embassy of Venezuela.”
It was tough not to react. Even if the man was lying, it was a clever lie. Diplomats can be detained but not arrested.
“As a diplomat, I must protect myself for my safety, so I notice things. I think he is a robber, this man. Or a crazy person. I ask myself, why is he not wearing a coat?”
The cop and the civilians stared at me, seeing torn pants and my short-sleeved polo, as the horse snorted frosted plumes, saddle creaking in the cold.
When I started to explain, the cop told me, “On your knees. Now,” not raising his voice much. He holstered his weapon temporarily to dismount the horse.
The Venezuelan lowered his hands, a hint of a smile for me-just me-as he said, “I must go meet American friends because I am late. Thank you for arresting this dangerous man.” He was looking at the cop who had both feet on the ground now, gun still holstered, as he keyed a radio to call for backup.
When the cop told him, “Sorry, sir. Not until I see some identification,” the Venezuelan’s expression read I don’t understand. He turned and began walking.
“I’m talking to you, sir. Do you hear me?”
The Venezuelan smiled and gave a friendly wave, still walking. Then walked faster as the cop drew his weapon, telling him, “Stop now! I’m not going to tell you again.”
Because I saw it coming, I was already moving when the Venezuelan ran. Got a good jump as, behind me, the cop shouted, “Freeze! I’ll blow your fucking heads off!,” not sounding like an actor.
He yelled something else as I closed in on the Venezuelan, already at full speed because I was running downhill. Legs driving, head up as I lowered my shoulder, I hit the man so hard I heard the cartilage pop of his ribs as we went spinning out across the frozen pond.
On the ice, sliding, there was the illusion that we gained speed, and I could hear the honk of surprised waterfowl as they scattered. I wrestled my way atop the Venezuelan as we stopped and had my fist hammered back in case he tried to run again.
The man wasn’t going anywhere. He was bug-eyed, fighting to breathe with his broken ribs.
I got to my feet, shielding my face from the spotlight. When I took a step, my feet skated out from under me and I almost fell.
I hollered, “Get that damn light out of my eyes! I didn’t run. He did.”
The cop thought about it a beat before telling me, “I’ve got people on the way. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
I wasn’t in the mood. “Deal with it. You try walking on this shit with your hands up.”
The cop raised his voice to insist but stopped talking when I
stopped-froze, more accurately-both of us listening to a cracking sound. The noise spiderwebbed across the pond.
I looked at my feet, then into the spotlight. I was asking the cop, “Do you have a rope?,” as I went through the ice.
The Venezuelan dropped next.
3
The kidnappers didn’t get the senator. They grabbed the teenager instead. Will Chaser, a high school freshman from Minneapolis.
Apparently, Minnesota had cowboys.
The mounted cop, Marvin Esterline, gave me the news. Fitting. The man had twenty-seven years with NYPD, the last eight as a member of the elite mounted division. He stuck around after they’d driven us from the pond, then moved me from the Central Park office to the 19th Precinct, a five-story building on East 67th, red brick with blue trim.
For two hours, I answered questions. Every time I took a break, Esterline was in the lounge waiting. “Unlike a certain South American perp,” he explained, “you didn’t demand an attorney.”
“You can’t question him until a lawyer shows up?” I asked.
“No, Einstein,” the cop replied. “No questions because his attorney did show up. It burns my ass how tight the regs are now.”
The perp was Louis Duarte, a twenty-three-year-old university student from Caracas who had a couple of minor dings on his record, both associated with protest rallies, one in Rome. Interesting.
“A political activist,” the cop told me, showing his own politics the way he said it. Maybe because of his contempt, Esterline continued to refer to Duarte as the perp or the Venezuelan. And once or twice, as the greaser, even though Esterline looked Italian, the mother’s side probably.
Esterline was a veteran who wasn’t afraid to bend the rules. He made sure I got a shower in the precinct locker room, telling the duty officer, “There’s so much duck shit in that pond, this guy will be quacking. How you gonna question a man who quacks?”
He had a couple of uniforms talk their way into my hotel and bring me dry clothes. He also delivered a thermos of coffee spiked with whiskey.
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