Christine doesn’t know if or where the deep-voiced cop slept. She doesn’t know if anyone ordered him to assist her. She only knows she is grateful for his presence.
Christine is facing away from the tomb when Joey Blanks says, “We have company, Sergeant.”
The dull background murmur outside Book & Snake rolls to a stop over the next three to four seconds.
The latest hostage has stepped outside the door. All eyes turn toward him.
The young man stops his advance on the same line as the four pillars.
Everyone in the know is checking him for orange. And trying not to react visibly or audibly with either horror or relief.
Although each member of law enforcement at the scene is beginning to assume the man in the tomb is eerily omniscient, no one wants to reveal any awareness of the color thing.
This student is a male, five-ten. His pronounced eyebrows protrude from beneath a knit mask. Unlike the others, he is not barefoot. He’s wearing a pair of beat-up sneakers. His arms are not shackled. His ankles are not tethered. He is wearing a baseball cap that is pointed backward. His ears aren’t visible. They are covered by the ski mask.
He is blinking away the effects of a just-removed blindfold or hood.
Christine feels her wounded leg beginning to stiffen. She shakes it once. Pain shoots to her toes.
The pain focuses her.
She introduces herself to the hostage.
He doesn’t reply.
See, don’t look, she reminds herself.
This hostage is displaying a confidence that Christine finds reassuring. His feet are planted shoulder-width apart, his left foot slightly forward of the right. Her impression is that he has not been defeated by whatever he has been through.
She asks him to hold his arms out to his sides and rotate three hundred and sixty degrees. After a delay of about five seconds, he does.
Christine is shocked.
As he spins—the pirouette is graceful—she sees no orange. No apparent bomb on his body. No apparent bulge that could be a weapon.
Wait, is there something in his right hand? Between his index finger and his thumb? What is that? What the hell is going on now?
Joey Blanks steps back a few feet and grabs a sheet of paper offered to him by another officer. He returns to his position behind Christine’s right shoulder. He says, “We think this kid is . . . Markos Xanthis. Hope I’m saying that right. People call him ‘Marko.’ He’s from London. In England. His family has controlling interest in a company that lays undersea cable. Internet backbone, it says. I don’t know what that means. I can find out. Primarily in the developing world, it says. Office in Manhattan, Midtown, and Hong Kong. China. Parents live on Park Avenue. Sister is married to a guy in Parliament, House of Lords, if that means anything to you. Got lots more here if you want it.”
Christine holds her fingers in front of her mouth. She says, “Was Marko on the ATL list?”
“No, ma’am. He was not.”
“Do you see any orange on him, Officer?”
“I don’t.”
“Get me an enlargement of his right hand as he was turning around. As fast as you can. I think he has something between his fingers. Maybe a wire. Some electronics of some kind.”
Joey passes along Christine’s request to an officer behind him. Joey Blanks now has his own Joey Blanks. Seconds later Joey’s voice moves into an even lower range. “Heads up, fed talker walking, Sarge. Coming from your five—the bus . . . right now.”
“Thank you, Joey.”
Before the fed gets any closer, Marko interrupts. In a booming voice, he says, “I have something to say.”
Christine opens her eyes wide.
Oh, shit, she thinks.
APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING
Dee
Deirdre is hung up at the perimeter on College Street. She is unable to get permission to enter the secure area around the tomb.
She can tell from the tension she senses from the law enforcement personnel on the other side of the barricade that something is going on.
The massive form of Commons is blocking her view of the front of the tomb.
She leans forward toward the New Haven cop who is refusing to recognize her Company ID. In a saccharine voice she says, “I’m fucking CIA. Read it. Please.”
APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING
NEW HAVEN
Marko’s voice carries. His native accent is subdued.
Joey Blanks pokes at the paper in his hands. He says to Carmody, “Kid does theater. It says here he’s good. Shakespeare and stuff.”
Christine waves Joey quiet. She says, “Marko? Is that your name? May I call you Marko? I’m eager to hear what you have to say.”
The hostage turns his head and narrows his eyes. His mouth, framed by the fabric of the ski mask, forms a querulous “What?”
Christine guesses he’s taking instructions through an earpiece. She will wait him out. She doesn’t want Marko to get any of his directions confused.
Marko looks toward Christine. Directly at Christine. He exhales visibly. He inhales. He nods as though he’s an actor indicating that he’s ready to begin his audition.
She is ready, too.
He says, “Here is what is about to happen. Nothing . . . is negotiable.”
Been there, Christine thinks. She waits.
“A helicopter . . . ,” he says.
Christine thinks, Oh God, here come the getaway demands. He wants a helicopter.
“. . . is currently approaching New Haven from Long Island Sound. It will land . . .”
He has his own helicopter?
“. . . on Beinecke Plaza in . . . less than three minutes. Do not . . . interfere with it. Do not . . . approach it. Do not . . . scramble aircraft to intercept it. Do not . . . attempt any . . . contact with it. If you do . . . I will die. And I will not die . . . What? . . . Got it. Alone. I will not die alone. In my right hand I am holding a wireless closed-contact—Yeah? Okay. Kill switch. A kill switch. If I release the pressure on the switch, two hostages inside the tomb will die. Instantaneously.”
Christine covers her mouth. She says, “Joey, I need that photo of his hand.”
Joey Blanks says, “Sir.” He hustles away. The HRT hostage negotiator is right behind Joey as he heads to the command vehicle for the photograph.
Marko briefly closes his eyes.
Christine thinks he’s concentrating on the voice that is speaking in his ear.
Marko says, “Next. The tomb—behind me—is wired to . . . surprise you. He says . . . that when you enter, and he knows you will enter soon, if you are careful . . . if you are deliberate . . . and if you are lucky . . . you might be able to reach the remaining hostages. Eventually. But . . . if you choose a less deliberate, or rapid, or . . . explosive breach, many people will die.
“All the detonators and explosives are under his control via the Internet. Do not disable the network. The system checks for an operating broadband connection every five seconds. If it fails to detect one, the detonators are activated . . . immediately.”
Christine is staring at Marko’s face. She is convinced that he is nodding almost imperceptibly, maybe even unconsciously.
He is telling her that what he just said is true.
A cell phone behind Christine begins to play a ringtone that sounds like a calliope. One of the police videographers fumbles to quiet it.
Marko waits out the interruption the way a stage actor might outlast an audience member’s coughing jag.
“Next,” he says. “There are also dangers, unseen, outside Book & Snake. Interfere in any manner, and those threats will become . . .” Marko pauses. It’s apparent he’s not understanding, or hearing, clearly. Finally, he says, “. . . unfor—Unfortunate . . . Realities. Those threats will become unfortunate realities.”
Christine is in the dark about those external threats. She suspects that HRT is not. She curses silently as she turns her head to find Joey Blanks. He is just stepping back in
to position. He is holding the photograph.
He says, “Confirmation on the contact switch, Sarge.” She takes the photograph. With a quick, dispirited glance she confirms the presence of the device in Marko’s hand.
To Joey, she says, “Get the Sun out here. Not the Moon. And not my HRT shadow. No fucking liasing. I want Moody. I want him now.”
Joey jogs away once more.
The wind blowing in from the Sound is carrying the distinctive fwtt fwtt fwtt fwtt of an approaching helicopter. The rhythmic pounding punctures the stillness of the morning air.
Okay, Christine thinks, and there’s my confirmation on the helicopter.
The HRT special agent in charge is staring out the window of the command vehicle. He turns his head to look at his hostage negotiator. “Can you tell me one time—one—when a hostage taker has arranged his own transportation away from a multiday siege?”
The HRT hostage negotiator says, “Can’t.”
Hade Moody intrudes. He says, “You going to let it land?”
The comm officer says, “X-ray sniper has a visual on the chopper from the Payne Whitney tower. ETA . . . imminent. It is in his sights, sir.”
“What’s the status of Little Bird? Is it in the air?” The SAC is asking about the small helicopter that accompanied HRT to New Haven.
“Crew is mobilizing, sir. It will be up in . . . minutes. Air Force F-Sixteens are scrambled. They should be in position to intercept the chopper if it goes back in the air. Echo and Hotel assault teams are preparing to move toward the plaza from College Street, on your order.”
The SAC says, “Jesus.” His mouth is dry. “ID on the incoming chopper. Anything?”
“Only that it’s been spotted, sir.”
Law enforcement video cameras have picked up the approaching chopper. The people in the TOC are able to watch its maneuvers on one of the monitors. The landing gear is down. The pilot is swooping in, quickly adjusting to the wind, rotating the tail, and preparing to land the helicopter in the risky confines of Beinecke Plaza.
A large section of the plaza is a sunken sculpture garden attached to the Beinecke Library at the basement level. That portion of the plaza is unusable for a helicopter landing.
The SAC is conjuring all that can go wrong in the next few seconds. It’s a long list.
“You going to let it land?” Moody asks again.
The SAC ignores him again. He says, “We have an ID on that aircraft yet?”
“It’s a Sikorsky . . . an S-Seventy-six . . . uh, C-plus. November-four-two-six-one-Romeo.” The IT officer’s fingers dance on the keyboard. “U.S. Registration to . . . Black Swan Holding Company in . . . Hong Kong. Let me . . . Wait. Sir, that’s a company that’s connected to the parents of one of the kids.”
The SAC says, “No way. What kind of company?”
“Undersea cable, sir. Telecommunication . . . infrastructure. It’s a company chopper. U.S. offices based in . . . Newark.”
“Is it this kid? The one on the steps right now? My God. The unsub is planning to escape on a helicopter belonging to the company of the parents of one of his hostages.”
“It appears so, sir.”
“Get me those parents. On the line. Now!”
“We are letting it land, sir? That’s an affirmative?”
“We can’t shoot it down where it is now. God knows how many people would die. Let it land.”
APRIL 20, SUNDAY MORNING
Poe and Dee
Poe’s phone vibrates seconds after he finds his familiar perch outside the power facility down the block from the tomb.
It’s Purdy.
“Write down this address. Don’t argue with me, Poe.” Sam dictates the address. He continues, “There’s been a change in plans. Get a cab. Steal a car. I don’t care. Meet me there as fast as you can.” He hangs up before Poe can challenge him.
Poe tries to call him back. Once. Twice. Both calls go straight to voice mail.
Poe calls Sam back for the third time.
Sam doesn’t answer for the third time.
Poe texts Dee.
Have you heard from our guy?
No.
He types, Whererud?
He waits half a minute for a reply that doesn’t come. He is assuming that Deirdre is inside the law enforcement perimeter. She does not have the privacy to respond.
He thumbs, Barbara Lou?
Poe starts looking around, trying to decide what to do. He doesn’t know whether to stay outside the perimeter to support Dee or to chase after Purdy.
A taxi pulls up outside the law school to drop off a passenger.
Poe wonders if it’s an omen.
He hears a distant, deep, rumbling fwtt, fwtt, fwtt, fwtt beginning to fill the air.
Instinctively, he checks the sky for the sudden stain of an assault helicopter. He figures the approaching chopper will mark the advent of the HRT breach. A tricky, dangerous final descent to the target. A roof drop. Agents on ropes. Explosive penetration. Top-down breach.
A simultaneous entry will be happening somewhere else along the ground floor. Front doors? Probably.
More explosives.
Poe’s gut says that it’s the wrong time and the wrong tactic.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
He begins to feel like he’s floating. In his mind’s eye he is able to observe New Haven as though he’s become an astronaut in Google Earth.
Nice view, but a bad sign.
The burn of acid is infiltrating his long bones.
He knows he needs to reach out for a toehold on reality before it’s too late.
His eyes find the cabdriver just as the man is slamming the trunk of his car. Poe watches as the tall cabbie begins to fold his long body back onto the driver’s seat.
All of Poe’s instincts tell him he should not be heading away from the breach. Away from the tomb. Away from Deirdre.
The pounding blade chop grows louder. More insistent.
Poe finally spots the dark form of the helicopter as it appears just above the trees and rooftops, swooping gracefully over Cross Campus toward Beinecke Plaza. The chopper slows to hover. It is less than a hundred feet in the air. It appears to be rotating into the wind, preparing to land.
Poe can’t tell for certain, but he doesn’t think the helicopter is directly over Book & Snake.
When he sees the helicopter in profile, he is certain of even less.
It’s too small for an HRT assault. Not enough capacity.
It’s not a . . . It’s a civilian chopper.
What the hell’s with that?
He throws his right arm in the air. He yells, “Taxi!”
He’s thinking, Purdy, you had better be right.
Dee hears the helicopter, too. She sees it swoop down over the plaza.
She recognizes that it’s not a government aircraft. She doesn’t know what that means.
Four different cops from three different jurisdictions are huddling on the other side of the barricade trying to decide if she is going to be permitted to enter the secure zone. Two others are on mobile phones trying to answer the same question.
I’m missing everything, she says to herself. Everything.
NEW HAVEN
The HRT SAC is standing two feet from the largest monitor. He watches the helicopter edge into its final approach. He watches it land.
But not on Beinecke Plaza.
Just before touchdown, the pilot stops his descent and adjusts the approach to bring the craft down softly onto the roof of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.
The SAC mumbles, “The fucking roof. He just landed on the roof of the fucking library. Give me a break.”
The comm officer says, “Those parents are not answering, sir. Straight to voice mail.”
The FBI videographer with responsibility for the rear exposure of Book & Snake captures the landing. The aircraft is a deep, charcoal gray Sikorsky six-passenger helicopter. Luxury accommodations.
The camera reveals thr
ee people inside. The pilot is wearing a helmet and goggles. In back are two passengers. One adult, one child. They, too, are wearing helmets and goggles.
The photographic images of the interior, and of the two newest hostages huddled in the back, are displayed on the largest monitor in the command vehicle.
“That’s a child in there. Jesus,” the HRT hostage negotiator says.
“A child? What the . . . ,” says Hade Moody. “What does that mean?”
“It means that the family is doubling down,” says the HRT SAC, amazement clear in his tone. “Unbelievable.”
The hostage negotiator explains, “The family had one child at risk in the tomb. Now they’ve bet the life of yet another one of their children to try to get the first one back safely. I can’t imagine making that decision. It’s like a reverse Sophie’s Choice.”
Even after touchdown the helicopter engine continues to roar. The blades continue to spin.
“Capacity of that thing?” the SAC asks.
Someone says, “Six passengers, plus pilot. But I don’t think this guy is too worried about FAA regs.”
Hade Moody says, “Is that the getaway car? Is that what’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” the SAC says. “I don’t know what the hell it is.” He tightens his hands into fists. “Other than unanticipated. For the record, I’m not fond of unanticipated. Tell intel I want hypotheses. I want scenarios. I want containment strategies. I want them immediately.”
The comm officer says, “Whiskey and Zulu snipers report they have shots of the pilot, sir.”
“Steady,” says the commander. “We don’t know enough. Too risky. Story of this whole damn weekend.”
“Whiskey sniper reports a paper sign has just been held up to the pilot’s side window. It reads: BLU-One-ten JDAM.”
“What? Say again,” demands the SAC. His breath catches in his throat.
“The sign reads Bravo-Lima-Uniform dash one-one-zero, Juliet-Delta-Alpha-Mike.”
The hostage negotiator sits down at the nearest laptop. He says, “I’m checking Jane’s.”
The Siege Page 32