The Siege

by Stephen White

  Poe could have told Sam the story Dee had shared with him in April 2004 while they were sitting at the end of the bar at Don’s Mixed Drinks in Denver. The barkeep at Don’s kept free-pouring Dee scotches. The abundant whiskey provided her with the courage she needed to tell Poe a story she really needed to tell.

  Storytelling wasn’t Deirdre’s thing—especially personal storytelling—but once she crossed the inebriation threshold with Poe that night in Denver, she found the resolve to tell him about Valentine’s Day.

  Deirdre had picked the previous Christmas Eve—that was December 24, 2003—to reveal to Jerry the monumental news that she was finally ready to start a family. Jerry reacted by getting up from the holiday dinner table and walking away from her. He switched out CDs, changing the music from Christmas carols, Dee’s choice, to Toby Keith, his choice. He circled back to the table. He sat down. He said, “Let me tell you what I’m thinking.”

  It took him a while to get there, but he finally got around to saying that he preferred to wait another year, or two, to have kids. It was mostly about money, he explained.

  Dee had heard it all before. It was the exact same excuse Jerry had used the last time they’d discussed starting a family. That was in the summer of 2000. Since then they had both gotten raises. They had tripled their savings, reduced their debt to nothing more than a mortgage and a car loan that was almost paid off.

  Dee didn’t see a point in arguing. She had no illusion that Jerry’s extended procrastination was due to a financial planning oversight. The joyous holiday that Dee had been anticipating for the two of them ended up awkward and tense. She dropped the baby talk. Jerry knew she would.

  She was grateful when the Company sent her to South Africa for eight days to do nuclear security research during the beginning of February. She was back in Virginia just in time for Valentine’s Day. Jerry took her out to dinner, gave her gifts of lingerie and roses, along with a card he’d written in his neat hand that spelled out the news that he’d had a vasectomy while she was in South Africa.

  Dee had been injured in so many ways that night, she confessed to Poe in Don’s Mixed Drinks, that she didn’t know what ended up hurting most. Jerry’s dashing of her dreams. His betrayal of her trust. His denial of her needs. Or his presentation of the surgical fait accompli as a gift. To her.

  Poe fugued out momentarily as he was deluged by the memories of that night with Dee in Denver. It was a dark selection from his stash, one he’d never replayed before.

  Sam had no way to know where Poe had traveled during the interlude of silence in the Copper Kitchen. When Poe finally looked his way again, Sam shrugged and said to him, “Your friend is pregnant. Trust me.” Sam glanced at the adjacent table. “God, that bacon looks good. I should have gotten some. You know, since you’re buying.”

  Poe swallowed a too big sip of coffee and looked at Sam. “Don’t think so,” he said. “She would have told me. We’re kind of . . . close.”

  Sam said, “Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  Dee returned to the table. Poe thought she looked pale. He tried to recall whether she’d looked pale when she left.

  Sam caught Poe’s eyes and nodded. Sam thought Poe was looking a little pale.

  Before Dee could sit down, her BlackBerry sang a two-note alert.

  She looked at the screen. Her jaw tensed. “There’s news from the scene. Something about surveillance. I don’t quite . . . get what this is saying.”

  Then Poe’s BlackBerry buzzed.

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  NEW HAVEN

  A new video is posted on YouTube from a Yahoo.com account just before seven A.M. (eastern time). At about the same moment, the link to the clip arrives in the email inboxes of the New Haven Police Department and the Yale University Police.

  At 7:03 the video begins playing for the first time in the Tactical Operations Center parked near Book & Snake.

  The clip is three minutes and forty-one seconds long.

  It is clear from the long shadows that the video was taken in the soft light before dusk. The time stamp indicates the previous evening. It is an aerial shot. The shadows obscure some detail, but the images are clear. To the local cops the landmarks are familiar.

  “Is that from a balloon?” Jack Lobatini, asks after the first half minute of video. “Did anyone see one up there?”

  The FBI IT specialist replies, “It’s not from a balloon. A balloon wouldn’t be able to move around like that.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” offers the New Haven patrol officer who is keeping the log at the door. “I’m pretty sure that was taken from an RC helicopter. I fly one on my days off. It’s a . . . hobby. It’s kind of geeky but it’s . . . cool.”

  Jack turns away from the monitor and speaks to the patrol officer. “Lock that door, Officer Kroning. Tell us what you think you’re seeing.”

  Hade Moody has not yet arrived on the scene. Jack has phoned him twice since he received word about the existence of the video.

  Kroning is a six-year veteran of the New Haven PD. He locks the bolt on the door and steps closer to the group that is clustered around the monitor. “I’m almost certain it’s taken from a camera mounted below a remote control helicopter. That’s good resolution, considering the light. Better than a foot per pixel. Sweet setup—guy has a few grand in that equipment, easy. Not counting the camera. It may even be HD. To get shots like that, I mean that quality, those angles, I’d say the rig was flying three hundred fifty, maybe five hundred feet above the ground. No higher than that.”

  Everyone inside the command vehicle is looking at Kroning, the FBI guys included.

  Jack says, “The music yesterday? This explains the damn music yesterday. No way we could have heard a little helicopter flying around during that.”

  Kroning shrugs. He wasn’t on duty during the hip-hop intrusion the previous evening.

  He continues, “When RC choppers are used for aerial photography, it usually involves two people. The pilot flies the chopper with one controller while the other guy remotely operates the camera, which is mounted on a rig below the helicopter. The camera operator has independent control of his camera—tilt, pan, zoom, whatever. But from the look of this video, it appears that the camera was installed in a fixed position below the chopper. See the delay in focus, right . . . there—” He points at the screen. “That delay is because the lens is on auto-focus. Whoever’s flying the chopper isn’t doing anything more than adjusting the zoom on the camera. I’d say you’re probably looking at a one-person operation. Basically, he’s pointing the camera by flying the helicopter. Occasionally adjusts the zoom. Guy’s not a bad pilot.”

  Jack asks Kroning, “Could the man inside the tomb have been flying it? Without an accomplice? I guess I’m asking—could someone fly a helicopter like that if he couldn’t see it? If he was only able to track its flight based on the video he was getting on his monitor?”

  “With practice? Probably. Usually the pilot can see the aircraft. But military pilots fly drones that are out of their sight all the time.”

  “What is the effective range of something like that? How far can it fly?”

  “Depends on the equipment, of course. There’s a new one everybody’s talking about—it’s called the Draganflyer X6—that could do this. One person can fly it and operate the camera. It has wireless HD video. The thing is even flight-stabilized—has gyros, accelerometers, magnetometers, GPS. Sweet package. If it loses radio contact with the pilot, it can even land itself safely. It’s really a commercial-quality aircraft—way out of the reach of hobbyists like me. I’m talking megabucks.”

  Jack asks, “So it is possible—with the right equipment—that he was flying that thing himself? The guy inside the tomb?”

  Someone pounds on the door.

  Kroning says, “Sure,” as he steps toward the door. “Depends on his transmitter and his antenna. If he can send it a signal, he can fly it. If it was something like a Draganflyer, he could also put it on auto
pilot temporarily if he had to.” He unlocks the bolt. He stiffens his posture as Haden Moody bursts inside.

  The lieutenant’s face is as red as a baboon’s butt. He stands behind Jack and joins everyone else in staring at the largest video monitor in the vehicle.

  “Start it again,” Moody says. “Somebody get me some coffee.”

  The IT tech looks at the SAC. The FBI commander looks at Jack. Jack raises his eyebrows. The commander nods.

  The video is restarted.

  The video from the helicopter is a concise aerial tour of the wide-ranging law enforcement response to the hostage situation in the Book & Snake tomb. There is no audio.

  One by one, the camera clearly identifies each of the four FBI rooftop sniper positions. All the HRT activity in the tent city on the New Haven Green is highlighted. Every square yard of the Grove Street Cemetery is captured. SWAT’s staging area behind the tomb is documented.

  The Mobile Command vehicle gets a ten-second cameo.

  After watching less than half of the restarted video, the FBI SAC says, “I can’t fucking believe this.”

  He storms out of the vehicle and marches toward Commons to consult with his sniper and assault team leaders.

  Twenty seconds after the commander leaves the vehicle, he rushes back in. His eyes are fire. He has been summoned back to deal with a fresh communication from the HRT sniper perched on the roof of Beinecke.

  The Zulu sniper has just reported a fleeting visual of what he described as a “tube” moving quickly across the opening that’s been created in the attic vent. He is estimating that when he spotted it, the tube was being moved around about one foot back inside the vent.

  “Ask him the diameter of the tube,” the commander says.

  The question is relayed.

  Seconds later the radio operator says, “Eight to ten centimeters. Estimated.”

  The SAC and the HRT hostage negotiator exchange glances. The commander blinks twice before he shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

  “Whiskey? Any activity in the other vent?” he asks.

  The Whiskey sniper responds to the query quickly. The comm officer relays the message. “Negative. His scope is on that vent. He reports his sector is unchanged.”

  The commander says, “Get Whiskey, Yankee, and X-ray snipers off their positions now. I want them redeployed to new FFPs immediately. I want the new FFPs invisible from the tomb, invisible from the ground, and invisible from the air. I want the redeployment to be completely undetectable. In fact, I want them invisible to God for the remainder of this mission. Am I making myself clear?”

  The comm operator asks, “And Zulu, sir?”

  The SAC says, “The Zulu sniper stays where he is until his backup is in place.”

  The orders are relayed to the snipers.

  The SAC says, “Based on the YouTube video, we have to assume that the Zulu sniper has been made. Make sure he knows that.”

  The radio operator relays the information.

  “What did he say?” asks the SAC.

  “He said, ‘Copy,’ sir.”

  Moody turns to the agent closest to him. He whispers, “FFP? What’s that?”

  The agent says, “Forward firing position. The sniper’s lair.”

  The SAC looks past Hade Moody toward the Yale campus physical plant liaison. He says, “That building is evacuated? The one the Zulu sniper is on?”

  “Beinecke? Yes, sir. Completely. Yale Security inside only. We have armed personnel at the entrances.”

  “Good.” The SAC looks around the inside of the command vehicle. “What about updates? Did we find those floor drains? Is the crap cam experiment dead?”

  No one answers.

  “Has the army shown up with the penetrating radar?”

  Nothing.

  “Well, is anyone prepared to brief me about the deployment plan for the radar? People?”

  The space is silent.

  The SAC’s words grow crisper, not louder. “Does anybody know anything? I’m tired of being blind. I want some damn intel from inside that tomb. I want it now. And somebody locate that goddamned little helicopter he’s using. I swear. God damn it.” He takes a deep breath. “I want a briefing from intel and from the assault team leaders on planning and readiness in five minutes inside Woolsey.”

  The SAC calls Hade Moody over. They walk to the far end of the vehicle. “You see any reason your negotiator needs to know this?”

  “What part?” Moody asks.

  “The tube part.”

  “The unsub . . . the guy . . . may bring it up with her. We should maybe prepare her for that.”

  “I disagree. She may reveal something. We should keep her in the dark.”

  Moody says, “That shouldn’t be hard. I’m in the dark.”

  “You’ll know more when we know more,” the SAC says. “In fact, you’ll be first.”

  Moody isn’t sure whether he’s being patronized. “The helicopter? Should I tell her about that?” he asks.

  “That’s on fucking YouTube, Lieutenant. Jesus H. Christ. Her kids know about the damn helicopter.”

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  Sam and Poe and Dee

  Dee said, “I think I should make a call or two. Clarify what’s going on.” She marched toward the front door of the Copper Kitchen, her phone already in her hand.

  Poe figured she was planning to talk to G.B. Jerry. She always walked away before she called G.B. Jerry.

  Poe was involuntarily mesmerized by the arc of her hips as she walked toward the door. In his mind’s flash memory he highlighted the image and hit SAVE. Then he turned back to Sam. “She almost always hears things before anybody else. It’s annoying at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

  Poe waited until that moment to check his BlackBerry. Sam noted that it was another text message.

  Sam decided at that moment that the woman with Poe was CIA. Or NSA. Or DIA. Or some alphabet agency he’d never heard of that was even more clandestine than the ones he did know about. He’d done cases with the FBI before. This was the first one he knew about that involved intelligence, not law enforcement.

  The waitress delivered their breakfast. The plates of food ran all the way up her left arm. The two men began to eat in silence.

  Sam was considering all the various reasons Poe might be so reluctant to believe that the female fed was with child.

  It wasn’t a long list.

  Dee returned after a few minutes.

  Poe waited for her to announce what was up. She didn’t. He said, “Hey? Pretty please? Throw me something?”

  Dee bit the corner off the crust side of a piece of toast before she replied. She washed it down with some herbal tea.

  She leaned forward slightly, dropping her voice to a hush above a whisper. “This much is public, probably too public: Late yesterday, the unsub apparently used some state-of-the-art remote controlled helicopter to do aerial surveillance of the HRT and SWAT preparations around the tomb. He succeeded in identifying the locations of all the HRT sniper teams and did successful reconnaissance of the entire law enforcement response on the ground, including the staging areas that are away from the tomb on the New Haven Green. He got HD video of one of the assault teams doing breach rehearsals on the Scroll & Key tomb. The video is now posted on YouTube for the world to see.”

  “Wow,” Poe said.

  Dee said, “HRT is redeploying assets. Everything they’ve done until now has been compromised.”

  Sam said, “The damn music yesterday. That was to cover the sound of the helicopter.”

  Dee nodded. “Probably. And there’s something new going on in the attic of the tomb.” She looked at Sam. “That part’s not public. It isn’t on YouTube.”

  Sam did a zipper motion across his lips. He thought he’d made it quite clear to both of them that he was a more-than-adequate keeper of secrets.

  “What’s going on in the attic?” Poe said warily to Dee. He narrowed his eyes.

  Dee knew
that Poe had a nose for things that blow up. She felt tension framing Poe’s question.

  Dee looked at Sam. He repeated the zipper motion.

  Poe waited until Dee looked his way again. He was working to disguise his swelling apprehension about any number of things. He shrugged as he said, “In for a dime, you know?”

  “Yesterday evening HRT began to detect activity in the attic. Someone removed a couple of the stone louvers from the rear attic vent.”

  Sam focused on the architecture. The gable ends on Book & Snake pointed in two directions only. He said, “The one facing the plaza?”

  “Yes, that one. Since then they’ve been detecting intermittent infrared signatures. Someone has been moving in and out of the attic space. At times, two people. Last night a sniper detected a brief visual of a reflection. Initial read is that it was eyeglasses.”

  “But it might have been a scope,” Poe said.

  “I can’t confirm that, Poe,” Dee said.

  Poe said, “That’s it? That’s all?” His tone announced his skepticism.

  “That’s all I know so far, Poe. But, no,” she added ruefully, “I suspect that’s not it.” She puffed her cheeks in exasperation. “Intel reports that the only known hostage wearing eyeglasses is the son of the secretary of the army.”

  The men rushed to finish eating. Dee barely touched her food.

  Poe sensed Sam’s instinct to get himself to the action as fast as his feet could carry him. He admired the reflex, but he knew it presaged disaster. He said, “You can’t go back over to the tomb, Purdy. I’m not making the stuff up about SSG. They catch you on that perimeter again they’ll pull you in. Once the interrogation team has you, they won’t be as understanding as I’ve been. Your career? History. The kid you’re trying to help? An afterthought.”

  Sam looked at Poe’s face, then at Dee’s. She nodded her agreement. He settled his eyes back on Poe. “I have to do something. I have to. Get a disguise maybe? I don’t know. There’s too much . . . I can’t just . . . I promised to help that . . .”