The Siege

by Stephen White

  “Girl,” Poe said.

  Dee leaned forward. “You’re not the only one, Sam. Poe’s at risk near the tomb, too.” She glanced at Poe, expecting him to squawk at her assessment. “There are undoubtedly a few people over there who know him from . . . previous cases. But they don’t know me. Here’s what I propose: Sam? You should go back to the hotel and stay glued to the television and the computer. Keep us posted about things we’re not in position to see. Poe, you watch my back. From a distance. We all stay in touch.”

  “How?”

  “Cell phone. Text.”

  Poe turned to Dee. He said, “And your back will be where?”

  “I’m going inside the perimeter.”

  Dee was on her feet already. Her BlackBerry sang two notes. She lifted it and stared at the screen. “Shit,” she said.

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  NEW HAVEN

  The Victor sniper checks in with the TOC from a new forward firing position in the tower in Sterling Library. The new lair is much farther from the roof vent in Book & Snake than was the Zulu position on Beinecke. He reports that wind has started gusting off Long Island Sound at ten to twelve knots. The HRT commanders know that means that if he’s asked to take a rifle shot into that attic vent, it will be a more technical shot than the one Zulu had from Beinecke.

  The SAC says, “Put the Zulu sniper on speaker.”

  The communications officer switches the open comm line to speaker.

  The Zulu sniper, the one in the original blind on Beinecke Library, adds to the conversation in a hushed voice. His whisper belies no anxiety whatsoever. He is a golf announcer describing a twenty-inch gimme on the twelfth green in the middle of the second round of a third-rate tournament. “TOC, I have visual confirmation of the tube in the roof vent. Repeat, confirm. Diameter ten centimeters. Length approximately one meter. It now appears to be in a fixed position, recessed approximately fifteen inches behind the opening. Two infrared signatures present. One is static. One is . . . moving.”

  The SAC asks, “Weapon signature?”

  Moody is lost. He is waiting for someone to tell him what is going on. “Tube? What does he mean, ‘tube’?” he asks. “What weapon? Somebody?” He also wants to know how big ten centimeters is, but knows he can’t get away with asking that.

  No one answers him. Jack would answer his questions, but Jack doesn’t know what the presence of a ten-centimeter tube might indicate, either.

  “Does anybody fucking know?” Moody blurts out. His face is getting red again. He thinks he’s the only one in the room who doesn’t know what’s going on.

  The SAC says, “Repeat. Do you have a weapon confirmation?”

  The Zulu sniper says, “Negative on signature—the tube may be the barrel of a Russian Vampir. At ten c-m, size is right. I am attempting to get a visual on an optical sight or a night scope. Insufficient natural light.”

  To the room, the SAC says, “Vampir is the RPG-Twenty-nine, right?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Zulu sniper, can you tell where the tube is pointed?”

  Hade Moody stuffs his hands into his pockets. He spreads his feet a good twenty inches apart. It’s a posture he adopts when he’s trying to restrain himself from a tantrum.

  The sniper’s tone stays as flat as a lake at dawn. He says, “Ninety degrees from the attic vent, parallel to the ground.” The sniper adds that one of the infrared signatures has just disappeared from his scope. The other one is stationary.

  Everyone who can does the geometry. The tube is aimed at the sniper’s position on Beinecke.

  The HRT hostage negotiator says, “Static infrared may mean a hostage.”

  The SAC poses a question to the room. “Does anyone know if the RPG-Twenty-nine can be operated remotely?”

  Someone says, “Checking Jane’s.”

  The SAC looks past Hade Moody. His eyes lock on the Yale campus physical plant liaison who is standing by. He says, “Before? You said that building is evacuated, right? The one the Zulu sniper is on?”

  “Beinecke? Yes, sir.”

  The SAC orders the Zulu sniper off the roof of Beinecke.

  He turns back to the Yale rep. “Is there anything in that building to be concerned about? Hazardous material? Radioactivity? Biohazards?”

  The Yale representative says, “Uh, no. Not at all. That’s a rare book library. I mean, there’s a . . . Gutenberg Bible in the lobby. There are four Shakespeare folios inside. Beinecke is one of the premier collections of old books and manuscripts and literary artifacts in the world. It is a treasure to . . . humanity. You name it, if it has to do with literature and it’s really old, or unique, or even if it’s just rare, it’s in that building. That’s all that’s in there. Nothing else.”

  The SAC says, “Well, that probably explains the RPG. I’m afraid this is bad news for Yale and, you know, humanity. You should inform the university administrators that the unsub has an RPG-Twenty-nine—” He stops himself, exhales. “The subject has an armor-piercing rocket-propelled grenade pointed at their rare book collection.”

  “What?” the Yale representative says. “I don’t . . . understand. What does that mean? He’s planning to blow up Beinecke? Can a grenade—that’s what you called it? Can a grenade . . . go through stone? The building is . . . stone. Can it do that?”

  The SAC has turned his attention back to the monitor. He says, “He’s not going to blow it up. The building is way too big to be blown up with an RPG.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m not talking the kind of hand grenade an infantry soldier might toss in combat. The Vampir isn’t technically a grenade launcher. It’s an anti-tank weapon. It fires a roughly thirteen-pound, one hundred five-millimeter rocket that is designed to penetrate armor. Will it go through stone? How thick?”

  “Those squares you see on the library? Here?” The Yale rep steps forward. He points at the exterior wall detail on the closest monitor. “The exterior of the building is constructed of special marble panels that are less than an inch thick. They’re translucent, but they block light from the ultraviolet spectrum to protect the books inside. All the old paper and ink? It’s a remarkable design. Secure. Practical.”

  The SAC sighs. “It would be a lot more secure and a lot more remarkable if those marble panels were a foot thick, not an inch thick. An inch of marble isn’t going to stop a round from an RPG.” He snaps his fingers. “First round’ll bust right through a thin slice of stone like it’s not even there. There will be an explosion, possibly a fire. If he is able to get off a second round and it goes through the opening that was created by the first one? You could see serious damage inside. Another explosion, more fire. What are we talking? Value-wise? For the books? Millions? Tens of millions?”

  The Yale rep is almost speechless. “Millions? No . . . More like . . . Much more than . . . The collection is priceless. It’s . . . one of the best there is . . . anywhere. Completely irreplaceable. There are original manuscripts from the greatest . . . I mean, one of a kind. . . It’s hard to exaggerate the importance of . . . There’s not a . . . comparable collection anywhere . . . Even a small fire . . . It would be a catastrophe.”

  “Inform the university that it appears that their building full of old books is officially being held hostage.”

  The Yale rep moves from bewilderment to bargaining. “Wait. No. Inside that building is another building, an interior building, if you will. A cube within a cube. The library’s collection is contained inside the interior building. The interior cube is a sealed environment. It has a state-of-the-art fire-suppression system. Because of the fragility of the old paper, no water can be used to extinguish fire. If any smoke or unusual heat is detected in the inner cube, the fire suppression system kicks in. The oxygen in the inner cube is vented and largely replaced by inert gases. There isn’t enough oxygen left behind to permit a fire to continue, so the flames are suppressed. The gas mixture itself doesn’t damage the paper in the collection. It’s
. . . elegant.”

  “There you go,” the SAC says optimistically. “What’s the inside cube made of?”

  “Glass.”

  “Glass?” He returns his attention to the monitor. “Sorry. You should start making arrangements to move the best stuff some place safe.”

  “But . . . It’s . . . It is the best stuff. Beinecke is the some place safe. It would take a week—a month—to move it out.”

  “That’s your call. If you decide to move anything, I will require you use an entry that’s not exposed to Book & Snake. Coordinate with Special Agent Farmer in Commons.”

  The Yale rep’s mouth is fixed in the universal O-sign of the flabbergasted.

  The SAC says, “What do you want to risk? The old books? Or the people you have to send in there to try to save the old books?”

  The Yale rep is frozen in place.

  The SAC says, “Look, I’m sorry. The building is, literally, in the unsub’s sights. The marble won’t stop his rocket. And the glass inside . . . well, it won’t stop shit. Frankly, I’m more interested in trying to save the students still stuck inside that tomb.”

  “What does he want? How do we keep him from—”

  “We don’t know that until he tells us.” The SAC leans in closer toward the Yale rep. “This is need-to-know. You will have one of my men with you as you consult with your superiors. He will determine who can learn this information. He will determine what steps can be taken to mitigate the risk to the library. If this gets out, hostages die. Do you understand me?”

  The rep tries to speak, but can’t. He swallows. And nods.

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  Sam and Dee and Poe

  Dee sat back down.

  She raised her BlackBerry, started reading. The message was long enough that she had to scroll to finish it. She lowered her voice. “HRT is confirming that there is small artillery aimed at the Beinecke Library from the attic vent.”

  Poe shook his head slowly. He asked, “What’s the weapon?”

  “A ‘Vampir’? I’m not familiar.”

  “It’s an RPG-Twenty-nine,” Poe said. “The library is the target?”

  “Currently.”

  “Isn’t the library made of stone?” Sam asked.

  Dee said, “Very thin stone, apparently.”

  Poe intuitively sensed where she was going. He asked, “Target value?”

  She scrolled and read from her BlackBerry. “Quote: ‘The library contains a remarkable collection. One of the finest in the world.’ Let’s see . . . It lists two Gutenberg Bibles. Four Shakespeare folios. Thousands of original manuscripts. Tens of thousands of ancient texts. Total? Countless billions of dollars.”

  Poe said, “Having an armor-piercing rocket that will destroy it all?”

  Dee took another bite of her dry toast. She closed her eyes.

  Sam watched their faces. But he didn’t volunteer the answer to Poe’s question.

  Poe sat back. He’s the one who said, “Priceless.”

  Dee said, “I’m going to the tomb.”

  Poe said, “With how you’re feeling? You’re sure you’re up for this?”

  She stood up, grabbed her bag. She gave him a quizzical look. She said, “My stomach’s upset. That’s a disqualifier?”

  “Wait a second,” Poe said.

  She paused. Poe reached into his back pocket. He handed her one of the throwaway maps from the Omni. He pointed at the area in front of the power plant. “I’ll be over here. You can probably get as close as you want with your ID. You need to keep me informed of what’s happening in front of you. I will let you know what’s happening behind you.”

  Dee nodded. “I don’t want to be seen with you. I’m leaving now. Give me a minute or two.”

  Sam said, “I should have your phone number.”

  Dee said, “What’s yours?”

  Sam told her. Her fingers flew on her BlackBerry. “I sent you mine.”

  She was up on her toes as she rushed from the restaurant.

  Sam drained his coffee. He said, “Your friend doesn’t eat much. She needs the calories. It’s important for her, for the baby. I can’t believe I know these things, but I do.”

  “Give it up,” Poe said as he stood. “I got this,” he said, grabbing the check. He threw way too much money on the table. “Stay in touch, Sam. I’m counting on you.”

  Sam waited in front of the café until he could no longer see Poe. He spotted a campus souvenir shop on the far corner. He would spend the last of his money on a baseball cap and a Yale hoodie that was just like Poe’s. Sam was praying that SSG had better things to do than follow him.

  His phone vibrated before he made it to the corner. PRIVATE CALLER. He opened the phone. He said, “Yeah.”

  “My name is Deirdre, by the way. Is Poe gone? If he’s right next to you just tell me I have the wrong number.”

  Sam said, “He’s gone.”

  “I have this sense—I pick it up from Poe, really; I swear the man’s contagious—that we’re heading into a combat zone this morning. Right now, any minute. There’s something you need to know about Poe before anything else happens.”

  “Okay.”

  “I first met Poe on the job in Oklahoma City in April 1995.”

  Sam said, “McVeigh. The Federal Building. Wow. Okay. Enough said. Got it.”

  “It’s not enough. I met him in the hospital. Poe was one of the victims. He was on the phone at his desk in the FBI office in the Murrah Building when the truck bomb went off. He—”

  “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—”

  Sam imagined Poe’s little prison. The box he walked.

  “Don’t,” Deirdre said. “Don’t interrupt me. I’m almost at the perimeter. I need to finish this, please. Poe was injured that day. Badly. But it was the kind of injured that people recover from. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.”

  “Poe was also . . . hurt that day. It was the kind of hurt that people don’t ever recover from.”

  Sam said, “I have a friend . . . He’s a marine. Three tours. Two Purple Hearts. Fallujah, Afghanistan. I think I understand.”

  “No. No, no. You don’t. You may think you do, but you don’t. In Afghanistan and Iraq—after the incoming mortar rounds, or after the IED exploded—your friend didn’t crawl around in the rubble shredding his skin to the bone searching for his wife or his three-year-old daughter. Did he, Sam? Did your friend do that?”

  “In Oklahoma City? Poe lost his family?”

  “He did. His wife worked in the Social Security office. His daughter was in the day-care center on the second floor.”

  Sam remembered Poe’s words in the Omni the night before.

  “Moot. Don’t have a kid.”

  Sam said, “God.”

  “Yeah, God. Poe has a problem with . . . explosions. It’s a PTSD thing. He reacts. It can be violent. It takes him time to . . . reorient, come back. Okay? If you’re next to him or around him or are talking to him when . . . there’s another explosion. You have to stay with him. Keep in touch with him. Physically, your voice. Something. Retrieve him, lead him back. Can you do that?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  “I’m at the perimeter. I’m going in.” Deirdre hung up.

  Sam tried to imagine Poe’s world since 1995. He couldn’t.

  He made it to the souvenir shop on autopilot. He was standing at the cash register, his almost useless Discover card in hand, when his phone vibrated. He didn’t recognize the name or the area code.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “It’s Ann. I borrowed this phone from my cousin. She’s from South Carolina.”

  The geographic trivia Ann tacked on was meant to inform Sam that she wanted to be certain that the call she was making wouldn’t be within law enforcement’s surveillance reach. At least from her end. He walked away from the counter, leaving the sweatshirt and the hat behind.

  “I was about to call you, Ann. You need to stay i
n front of a computer and a TV. Keep a phone line open for me. There’s a lot going on here. This time you’re my eyes and ears. I’ll explain later. This could be it.”

  Ann said, “Sam, do you trust me?”

  “What?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Sam covered his other ear. He said, “I do.”

  “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Sam.”

  Yeah? “Yeah?”

  “There are things I couldn’t tell you. For Jane’s sake. Her . . . safety.”

  What the fuck? “Okay.”

  The silence between them extended for seconds that felt infinite to Sam.

  “Should I still trust you, Ann?” he asked.

  “You should, Sam. I need you to.”

  “Okay. What’s next?”

  “Do you have your gun? Your police . . . pistol?”

  “I’m not traveling with it. The suspension.”

  “But your luggage arrived at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you pack a white shirt, Sam? For the engagement party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get the shirt. And a tie. Then find a taxi.”

  “Where am I going, Ann?”

  “To save my baby.”

  “I’m three blocks from the tomb, Ann. I don’t need a cab. I can be there in minutes.”

  “Trust me, Sam, please. Will you do what I ask?”

  Sam hesitated for a heartbeat. He already knew what he had to do next. It was something he couldn’t tell Ann. “Goes both ways, Ann. Do you trust me?”

  “I do, Sam.”

  He thought, You trust me, but I’m not deserving of your honesty back. What am I supposed to make of that?

  Sam said, “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m broke. How far am I going? How much do you think the taxi will be?”

  APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING

  NEW HAVEN

  Joey Blanks returns to Christine’s side outside the tomb as soon as the first pale light peeks over the Connecticut hills.