The Last Hostage

by Nance, John J. ;

  “Is this Captain Ken Wolfe?” a new voice asked.

  “Mr. Springfield, I presume?” Ken replied.

  “That’s right. Look, Captain, let’s get right to it. You’ve demanded we arrest Bradley Lumin. The FBI didn’t find him at his home, but we now have a track on him and should have him in custody within ten minutes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s surrounded in a Kmart in Ft. Collins, and we’re simply trying to make sure we don’t alert him before we nab him, so we can protect innocent bystanders.”

  “How about the grand jury and the federal indictment?”

  “That’s the interesting part, Captain. Obviously what you’re doing is hijacking, and a capital crime. Normally we would never deal with the demands of a hijacker, but you’ve triggered an interesting investigation regarding our U.S. Attorney in Connecticut, Mr. Bostich, who I guess is on the airplane with you?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And Mr. Bostich is … still okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Springfield, I’m not about to kill the man before he confesses that he lied. Are you about to tell me the government now believes Bostich lied?”

  “No. I’ll be frank with you, Captain. We have virtually no reason to believe Rudy Bostich lied in that Connecticut court or anywhere else, but we’re quite concerned why federal charges weren’t filed against Lumin. That’s why we’ve convened an emergency session of a sitting federal grand jury, and they’re in the federal building in Manhattan as we speak looking at the evidence. I can’t guarantee they’ll indict Lumin, but there’s a good chance they will.”

  Ken took a deep breath and stared at the instrument panel for a few seconds before punching the transmit button again.

  “Mr. Springfield, I’m trained in the standard delaying tactics for hijackings. I know all your tricks. Promise the hijacker anything, don’t actually lie, but keep dangling hope out there and keep him in one place. I’m also aware the FBI has some sort of force on the way here. Now here’s the deal. When Lumin has already been arrested, and that grand jury has returned an indictment, and finally, when Rudy Bostich has confessed here on this aircraft, I’ll end this and deliver everyone safely. Until then, all the promises and the assurances in the world will not suffice, and if there’s any attempt to block me or take this aircraft, I’ll detonate the bomb.”

  “Okay, Captain, but here’s our deal. We do want you to stay on the ground there in … where the hell are you?”

  “Telluride, Colorado.”

  “Okay. I don’t know the area. Keep everyone, including Bostich, safe, stay on the ground, we’ll leave you alone until we can report back that the things you’ve demanded are done.”

  “Mr. Springfield, are you aware that I have Rudy Bostich’s phone records that prove he made the call he claimed under oath he never made?”

  There was no answer for nearly thirty seconds, and Ken could imagine the hurried, whispered conference taking place in Springfield’s office.

  Martin Springfield’s voice returned with a surprised tone. “I’ve reviewed that case against Lumin, and Mr. Bostich’s testimony. You’re sitting out there telling me that you somehow have possession of his personal telephone records, and that those records, if examined minutely, would prove that a call was made to that detective when and where the detective claimed it was?”

  Ken was nodding to the instrument panel. “That, Mr. Springfield, is precisely what I’m confirming to you.”

  “Well, where the hell did you get those records? How do I know they aren’t forged?”

  “I won’t tell you how I got them, but I will tell you they are a telephone company internal record of his telephone calls.”

  “We’ll check immediately, Captain.”

  “If you find anything different at the phone company, Mr. Springfield, someone’s altered them, and that is exactly what I suspect. If so, I’ve preserved a certified copy of the original computer tape.”

  “Where? Is it with you?”

  “It’s safely salted away where the FBI would never find it. Anything happens to me, though, it will be made public, and it has a perfect chain of possession that will hold up in court. That was done just in case someone in the government tried to rewrite the evidence at phone company level.”

  “Come on, Captain, we don’t do things like that.”

  “Yeah, right. Look, no one’s listened to me, Springfield, because everyone assumes a federal prosecutor is perfectly honest. Especially this one. He’s too highly placed, he’s too politically connected, he’s too respected to be human, right? Wrong. He lied. Hard as that might be for you to believe, he in fact lied under oath. I don’t know why the man lied, but he did pass that tip to an honest detective, then ruined the murder case against Lumin and the detective’s reputation when he perjured himself about the call. I have the proof. It’s available to you, too. The whole world’s going to see it after this.”

  “When did you get those records, Captain?”

  “A month ago.”

  “Jesus, Captain. You’re throwing away your life here and you could just as easily have called the FBI with those records? Why didn’t you just fly to D.C. and present it to us?”

  Ken looked over at Kat and shook his head slowly before responding.

  “Are you not aware, Mr. Springfield, that I did exactly that?”

  “What do you mean, you did? There’s no record of our having known about any phone records.”

  “Does the name Julian White ring a bell?”

  “Of course. Julian is head of the criminal division here at the Justice Department,” Springfield replied.

  “That’s right. I’d suggest you start by calling Mr. White in for a quick polygraph, with a court recorder present.”

  There was a long hesitation on the other end.

  “I’m not following something here, Captain. What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying I should administer a polygraph to Mr. White? Why?”

  “Because three weeks ago, Mr. Acting Attorney General, I did fly to Washington, and by appointment met with Mr. White. I gave him copies of the smoking gun records in the presence of a senior FBI official named Campbell. An assistant director, I think.”

  “I had no knowledge of this. But too often, what civilians like you think are ‘smoking guns’ very often are so flawed they can’t be used as evidence at all.”

  “I hardly think irrefutable proof of a call like this is flawed. Of course, there’s a strong possibility the Justice Department and the Administration want it covered up.”

  “All right, Captain. What proof do you have that anyone here, let alone Julian White, would participate in a coverup, and of what?”

  “Consider the evidence, Mr. Springfield. Mr. White was outraged when I showed him Bostich’s phone records. He promised to investigate immediately. He also pledged to be available to me by phone at any time and report back. The very next morning, however, the White House announced Rudy Bostich is the front-runner for Attorney General, something I’m quite sure Mr. White didn’t know when we talked. I tried for ten days after to reach him, but despite his promises, every phone call was refused, and faxed requests for a meeting were never answered. Finally, three days ago, I was told by White’s office that the United States Department of Justice had looked into my allegations and found them groundless, and that nothing more would be done. That’s a ridiculous lie, of course. I demanded to know whether anyone had checked the phone company’s records. The underling I talked to wouldn’t tell me, but I’m convinced now that the records have probably been altered, possibly by the FBI itself.”

  “Another wild accusation that’s going to be very difficult for you to prove, Captain.”

  “Well, what no one knew is the fact that even if the phone company records have been falsified, more than two complete, verifiable, intact copies are available, each of them providing irrefutable evidence that Bostich lied … and now, apparently, providing circumstantial evidence of a Justice Departm
ent coverup as well.”

  There was a long silence from Washington.

  “That’s quite an allegation.”

  “But it’s true, and you’re not going to weasel out of it. Now, Mr. Springfield, when you’ve got something substantive to tell me, call me back.”

  “How?”

  Ken passed the number of his cellular phone, then paused. “One more thing, Mr. Springfield.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Tell the FBI they’ve got a perfectly good representative aboard whom I’m comfortable negotiating with. They want to talk to me, they can talk to Agent Bronsky. Her intervention is the only reason these people are still alive, the only reason people were allowed off here in Telluride, and the only reason we’re still talking. They said she was off the case? I just put her back on.”

  He punched the disconnect button, aware that Kat was staring at him.

  “I … guess I never expected a recommendation from, ah …”

  “From the criminal?”

  She snorted softly and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Thank you for that, I think.”

  He nodded as he looked down at the computer screen that had been waiting for additional commands, then looked up to scan the sky to the west, north, and east.

  “I’ve got to look behind us.”

  He handed Kat the computer, moved his seat forward, and released the parking brake as he pushed the throttles up and brought the steering tiller full right, pivoting the 737 through a full 360-degree turn.

  “I don’t see anyone yet, but they’ll be here shortly.”

  “Ken, I told them not to.”

  He shook his head. “They wouldn’t have been listening to you by that point, Kat.”

  With the 737 sideways on the end of the runway once again, Ken set the parking brake, repositioned his seat, and put Bostich’s computer back on his lap.

  Kat watched from the copilot’s seat in silence for a minute. The screen was a blank from her angle, and she struggled with the question of whether she should even be watching what he was doing.

  If I’m not directing the search in any way, it will probably not affect admissibility, she concluded, then immediately upbraided herself. This is foolish! You’re buying into his fantasy that he’s going to find something substantive on there. Bostich may have lied, but he’s not a fool. He wouldn’t carry a smoking gun around on his laptop.

  Ken glanced at her. “You can’t see the screen, can you?”

  She shook her head no.

  He raised his left hand to show the trigger once more. “You do remember I’m holding onto this, right?”

  She nodded. “How can I forget? One heart palpitation away from disaster? Of course I remember.”

  “Okay. You can unstrap and sit behind me to watch if you’d like.”

  Kat thought it over quickly and unsnapped the seatbelt. She sat sideways on the tiny jumpseat behind him, aware of how easy it would be to disable him from such an angle—and how potentially fatal with the presence of a dead man’s trigger in his hand.

  Ken had opened a long list of files and was darting in and out of them, looking at various documents, most of them legal forms, memos, letters, and a financial program. With a series of staccato keystrokes he fired various search requests into the database, using the name “Lumin” in various spellings, “Matson,” “Connecticut,” and other potential links to the case.

  Nothing useful appeared.

  “You’re rather amazing with that, Ken,” she commented, realizing she was practically speaking into his right ear.

  “I love computers. So did Melinda. She loved the Internet and surfing the Web.”

  Kat saw his fingers freeze on the keyboard as he looked part way around toward her. “Lumin lured her in through the Internet, Kat. You probably didn’t know that.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “He pretended to be a thirteen-year-old boy who shared her interests. She hid all the e-mail behind a password-protected file, but I knew her password, and when I got in, I found a long, long list of missives the vermin had written to gain her confidence, and I found her long, chatty, innocent answers. She never suspected she was talking to an adult, let alone a monster.”

  “These were … love letters?”

  “No. Just pen pal stuff. Mutual interests. That animal had learned how to emulate a young teenage boy incredibly well.”

  “That was before the charges were dismissed?”

  He nodded, launching another search as he typed in a strange sequence of letters and numbers.

  “What’s that name?” she asked.

  “That was his screen name. WWWebster43. It was also his e-mail address, and the police easily traced it to one of his accounts.”

  The computer churned through a long search routine and repeated the same “No files matching your criteria” message.

  Ken leaned forward and searched the skies around them again before dropping his eyes to the list of files once more.

  “Just on the outside chance Bostich is a true idiot regarding files, I’m going to try an ‘undelete’ routine. That restores files the unwary think they’ve completely erased.”

  A series of keystrokes started an internal routine on the computer that ground on for nearly a minute before a lengthy list of files popped up.

  “Well, well, well. He is computer illiterate.” Ken studied the list.

  “Ken, what are those files?”

  He pointed to the three letters after the period in each filename. “That gives me information on what type of files they are. Wait a minute.”

  Ken launched a new fusillade of keystrokes into the keyboard and hit the enter button. Page after page of additional files popped up with the same three letters—TIF—as the last part of the filenames.

  “What is it, Ken?”

  “‘TIF’ files are pictures, or graphics. He’s got a bunch of them here, and they’re all password-protected, and he’s tried to erase all of them. I wonder why?”

  “How would he have gotten these?”

  “If he brought them in with a diskette, I probably won’t be able to find out. But if they came in through an Internet connection … let’s see.”

  Once again the screens changed in rapid succession as Ken called up more files and programs, then sat back and exhaled sharply.

  “What?” Kat asked.

  “These picture files came from the Internet, Kat. These aren’t official business. These are personal. In fact, he’s worked hard to erase the name of the Web site he got them from, which is very interesting.”

  “I’m not following this, Ken.”

  He looked around. “There are some Web sites out there a decent person would not want anyone knowing he’d visited.”

  “You mean sex-related stuff?”

  He nodded, returning to the previous list of picture files and typing in a series of commands.

  “If I can find the password he uses …”

  She watched in silence for nearly two minutes as he entered and reentered keystrokes, then sat back for a second and shook his head.

  “I’ll be damned!”

  “What?”

  “I thought everyone knew better than to write down a password where someone can find it, but not only has Bostich written it down, he’s labeled it.”

  “Where?”

  “In a special word processor file.” Ken pulled out a pen and wrote down a series of numbers, 97883PSY, which he then entered as a password.

  “First I’m going to check to see if this opens those picture files. I want to make sure this is really his code.”

  He worked the keys again, opening and closing three files in a row.

  “It does. It’s his. He’s got legal briefs behind this password, too.”

  Ken launched a graphics program and fired in the command to open one of the recovered picture files, entering the password 97883PSY when prompted. The computer screen dissolved to black for a few minutes, and even over the distant whine of the idling engines
she could hear the computer’s hard drive chattering away.

  Suddenly a picture began to emerge on the color screen. It was just a shadow of a sketch at first, then, as the data transferred from the disk and translated itself into points of colored light on the screen, a more coherent scene.

  “It looks like …” Kat began, “a shot of a woman, reclining.”

  Another burst of data brought more detail.

  “She’s on a … a couch of some sort,” Kat added, “with her arm around another figure … around the head … his head …”

  The computer blinked and added a new screen full of definition, and Kat looked in silence.

  “This is going to be pornographic, isn’t it?” she asked. “I think she’s nude.”

  He nodded.

  “Kat, that’s not her arm. That’s her leg, and that’s an adult male.”

  A final burst of information completed the picture, and Kat gasped, a feeling of utter revulsion shuddering through her.

  “Oh my God!” she said. “Ken, that’s a child! She couldn’t be … look at her body! She couldn’t be more than nine or ten.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Aboard AirBridge Flight 90, Telluride Regional Airport, Colorado. 4:23 P.M.

  Wolfe and Bronsky sat in silence, trying not to look at the disgusting color picture covering the screen of Rudy Bostich’s personal computer.

  Ken cleared his throat at last and shook his head slowly.

  “I thought I might luck out and find a letter, a reference, a memo, something incriminating in here. But kiddie porn? Even as much as I hate Bostich, I didn’t expect this. That little girl isn’t any older than Melinda.” He groaned as memories of what Melinda must have gone through flooded his mind, consuming him in helpless rage and despair for several moments. With great effort he focused his thoughts once again on the present, rubbed his eyes, and looked over at Kat. “What do we do now, Kat? What do we do?”

  With mixed feelings of sympathy for Ken’s loss, and relief that he had his emotions under control again, Kat sat back against the wall. “Ken, the mere possession of filth like this is a felony, and it belongs to Bostich. At the minimum, that launches a federal criminal investigation.”