by J. S. Carol
‘The Internet is where it’s happening these days,’ Rob said. ‘Online gambling is a multi-billion dollar a year enterprise. You can bet on anything you want. Anything. And the reason for that is because most of the action is controlled by organised crime. They couldn’t care less what you gamble on. All they care about is that the punters are losing more money than they’re winning. And they are. It doesn’t matter if the casino is on an Indian reservation or it’s based at a web address in cyberspace, the house always wins.’
‘Nice work.’
Seth hung up as Rob started to say thanks. He reached for his Marlboros, lit one, then looked down at his assistants. He was about to start barking out orders, but something about the way they were staring at him made the words choke in his throat. They were huddled together, arms almost touching. The way they were standing grouped like that made him think of a bunch of kids standing in front of an angry principal. The quick, shared glances made it obvious they’d been whispering together while he’d been on the phone, and that the news wasn’t good.
‘Spit it out,’ he hollered, and all three just about jumped from their skins.
More whispering, more jostling, then the white lesbian stepped forward.
‘Fox has a story,’ she said.
‘Fox has lots of stories, sweetheart. They’re a news channel. It’s what they do. I’m going to need you to be more specific.’ His voice sounded calmer than he felt, but it was a stretched calm. This was the sort of calm you got when you passed through the eye of a hurricane.
‘LA Abuse has just received a six million dollar donation from the bomber.’
‘And you know this how?’
She nodded towards one of the smaller monitors. Fox News had been playing on it non-stop since the crisis began. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: ‘ALFIE’S BOMBER DONATES SIX MILLION DOLLARS TO LA ABUSE … STAY TUNED FOR MORE’.
‘Who the hell is LA Abuse?
‘It’s a charity that helps people who can’t afford to go to Betty Ford. People on food stamps, the homeless, prostitutes, people right down on the bottom rung of the ladder.’
Seth glanced at the cigarette burning away between his fingers. The vein in his temple was throbbing, and he could feel that unpleasant tingle you got when nicotine and caffeine mixed with adrenalin.
‘Okay, here’s my question.’ He widened his gaze to take in his three assistants, and then he let rip. ‘Why is the world hearing this from Fox and not from us? For Christ’s sake, do I have to remind you who makes the news here? You’re all fired. Get the hell out of my sight.’
All three assistants had expressions on their faces like they were trying to work out if he was serious. No one was looking at Seth. They shared some glances and a couple of shrugs, then sat down and got on with their work. Seth glanced at the clock above the hi-tech screens. Twenty seconds until the top of the hour. TRN’s title sequence was playing on the main screen. The graphics were funky and cutting edge, the music suitably dramatic. On one of the smaller screens, a make-up girl was working on Caroline Bradley.
Ten seconds to go.
The make-up girl hustled out of shot and Caroline turned to face the camera. She rubbed her lips together, flicked away an imaginary stray hair, then straightened the papers on her desk.
‘Everyone get ready,’ Seth said.
There was no enthusiasm in his voice, just weariness. He would get back up on the board. He always did. All he needed was a second or two to get his breath back, that’s all. Or maybe he was getting too old for this game. He shook this last thought away. It was so ridiculous it wasn’t even worth entertaining.
‘Cut to Caroline on my mark,’ he said. ‘Three, two, one.’
15:00-15:30
1
‘And the main story here at Fox News at the top of the hour is a major worldwide exclusive. The bomber holding ten people captive in the Alfie’s siege has just made a six million dollar charity donation to LA Abuse. The move has got people calling him a modern-day Robin Hood.’
The bomber pulled the lid of the laptop closed, cutting the anchorman off in mid-flow. Those last few words were still playing in JJ’s head. A modern-day Robin Hood. What was that all about? She looked over at the bomber and saw him rub his head again. He pulled a small white tub from his pocket, shook a couple of pills into his hand, then dry swallowed them, throwing his head back to help them down. For a moment he just sat there looking down towards the restaurant’s lower level, his hand resting on the lid of the laptop. He was staring at the dead accountant, but JJ had a feeling that he wasn’t really seeing him. There was a faraway look in his eyes, like he was puzzling something out. But puzzling out what?
Since he’d last spoken to the hostage negotiator, the energy in the room had become more positive again. Everyone was no doubt thinking the same thing. Someone was getting out, and there was a one in ten chance it could be them. Everyone except her. She was still wondering what the catch was. And now she was wondering something else, too. What was the bomber’s real agenda?
Earlier, when he’d collected six million dollars, she’d assumed his motivation was money. It made sense. With a couple of keystrokes and a couple of clicks he had become a multimillionaire. All he had to do was escape from Alfie’s and he’d have enough money to comfortably live out the rest of his days. A tall order, but doable. He’d got this far through careful planning, so it followed that he must have an escape plan. Mexico wasn’t far. If he managed to get there, he could disappear for ever. With six million dollars in the bank it would be easy to ensure that nobody ever saw him again. Except that wasn’t how it was going to go down.
That donation to LA Abuse was a game changer. The media was renowned for getting things wrong. It was inevitable. News stories were fluid and organic. They grew and changed and took on a life of their own. Trying to pin down a big story was like wrestling an alligator. But JJ was confident that Fox had called this one right. Since the siege had started, they’d been playing catch-up with TRN. This was their chance to regain some of that lost ground, so they would have made damn sure that they’d got their facts straight. If they hadn’t been one hundred per cent certain they wouldn’t have led with the story.
Which brought her back full-circle to the question of motivation. Why was the bomber doing this? What was his agenda? Because he must have one. Every single person on the planet had an agenda.
JJ shut her eyes and tried to clear her mind. Since the siege had started she’d been reacting to events rather than instigating them. Usually she was on the outside, looking in. That’s what gave her the clarity of perspective she needed to get the job done. Being on the inside, looking out, was a whole new ballgame.
The doubts and what-ifs made it almost impossible to think straight. She’d seen this time and time again with her clients. Their precious little worlds had been blown apart, so they started questioning everything in the hope that a solution would magically present itself. The irony was that nine times out of ten, they were the problem, and that was the one place they never looked. They were happy to blame everyone else. They never blamed themselves.
But this situation was the one in ten. Whichever way JJ looked at it, she couldn’t see how any of this could be her fault. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that was that. End of story.
Giving the money to charity was a shrewd move. She had to concede that much. It was the sort of move she’d suggested to her clients on numerous occasions. JJ loved charities. It was amazing how much goodwill you could buy with a large donation. It was amazing how much damage could be undone. Of course, you always got a few cynics who were quick to pour scorn on the gesture, but they were in the minority. The majority loved the big gesture.
The only thing better than giving away money was giving time, actually getting out there and getting your hands dirty. Anything that provided a good photo op was fine in JJ’s book. Dishing up food to the homeless at Thanksgiving, or a trip to an African orphanage
to play soccer with the kids. It didn’t matter what it was, so long as the client was smiling when they did it.
What JJ found most interesting was the bomber’s choice of charity. There were more than a million registered public charities in America. Some massive, most tiny. He could have given the money to the American Cancer Society or the Red Cross, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d chosen LA Abuse, a charity so obscure she doubted anyone had ever heard of it. She certainly hadn’t. There was a good chance that donations to LA Abuse hadn’t hit seven figures in the entire time it had been in existence. A cash injection of six million would be like a gift from God.
The six-million-dollar question was why had the bomber chosen LA Abuse. The answer was to be found in the last part of the news report. A move that has got people calling him a modern-day Robin Hood. From a PR point of view it was pure genius. With one gesture, he’d transformed himself from bad guy to anti-hero. When this had all started everyone had thought he was an al-Qaeda suicide bomber. Now he was the new Robin Hood. Despite everything, JJ was impressed. She couldn’t have done a better job of spinning this herself.
Question: if money wasn’t his motivator, then what the hell was?
From where JJ was sitting, fame was looking more and more likely. Maybe he was after his fifteen minutes of fame, after all. The reason he’d made the donation was because he was clearly looking for history to remember him in a favourable light. Whatever the reason, the bottom line was that you didn’t just burst into a restaurant with a bomb and a gun and start killing people for no reason. And the stats really weren’t on his side. Like Gary Thompson had pointed out, most hostage situations ended up with the hostage-taker either dead or in custody. Not that there was much difference between the two. There wasn’t a single jury in California that wouldn’t return a guilty verdict on this guy. And there wasn’t a single judge who would hesitate to pass the death sentence.
2
Seth stared at each of his assistants in turn, fixing them with a stern look. They were shuffling their feet and avoiding eye contact at all costs. No one seemed to know what to do with their hands.
‘I’ve come up with a way for you three to redeem your sorry selves,’ he said.
‘How?’ asked the Asian kid, and this won him a couple of Brownie points. At least he’d had the balls to open his mouth, which was more than could be said for the other two.
‘I want you to find out who the bomber is.’
‘How?’ the Asian kid asked again, wiping off the Brownie points he’d just earned.
‘Jesus Christ, don’t they teach you anything at those fancy colleges you allegedly graduated from?’
‘Obviously not,’ murmured the black kid, earning himself a dirty look.
‘Look, I don’t care how you get it. I don’t care who you have to bribe or how many laws you have to break. All I care is that you get me that name.’
‘You want us to break the law,’ the white lesbian said.
‘No sweetheart, what I want is for you to grow a pair and go out there and pretend for two seconds like you’re a real journalist.’
‘LA Abuse is one possibility,’ the black kid suggested. ‘The money must have been wired to them. They should have a record of who sent it.’
‘Hallelujah and praise be to Jesus. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. But remember, Fox didn’t get the name, which means that LA Abuse is being cagey. You’re going to have to be more persuasive than they were. Can you do that?’
The black kid nodded. ‘Yeah, I can do that.’
‘Good. Have the researchers had any luck tracking down the owners of the cars in the lot?’
‘They’re still working on it,’ the Asian kid said.
‘Well, tell them to work faster.’
3
The bomber stopped in front of Ed Richards and let his gaze wander from person to person. Once again, JJ was convinced that he looked longer at her than at the others, but she put this down to paranoia. No doubt every single person was thinking the exact same thing.
‘I wish you folks could see yourselves right now. You know, I’m sure I’ve seen more smiles at a funeral. Okay, I want everyone on their feet. It’s time for a party game. That should help blow those dark clouds away.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I said everyone up! Come on people, let’s hustle.’
JJ timed it so she was fifth. The first person up would stand out. So would the last. The ones in the middle, the fours, fives and sixes, wouldn’t be so noticeable. Kevin Donahue was the last person up again. Her heart went out to him. Getting to his feet had been a major test of endurance. He was looking worse than ever, like he was about to collapse. His breathing was shallow and quick. She wanted to say something, but kept her mouth shut tight. The bomber had singled her out once and she’d somehow survived. She doubted her luck would stretch far enough to save her a second time. She chanced a quick glance. Nobody was about to step up and fight Donahue’s corner. Not even Tony. The restaurant owner looked utterly defeated.
One of the things she loved most about Tony was his laugh, particularly when he was trading gossip. Right now he looked like he might never laugh again. His eyes were swollen to narrow slits, the skin around them turning from red to dark purple. In a sunset those colours would look glorious. On Tony it was just another reminder of how much danger they were in. And if she needed another reminder, there was the ache in her jaw from where she’d been hit.
The bomber was marching up and down in front of them, the silenced submachine gun cradled in his hand. He stopped and faced them.
‘I take it everyone’s heard of musical statues, the kids’ party game? The rules are simple. You dance around and when the music stops you stand absolutely still. Just like statues. First to move is out, and the last one standing is the winner.’
There was something about the way he said this that troubled JJ. The last one standing. It sounded too final, like a death sentence. The bomber hit a couple of keys on the laptop and the tinkly, rainbow-soaked sound of ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ came out of the computer’s speakers. The female singer had a bright, bouncy voice, like she’d OD’d on sugar. The sound was thin and reedy and lacking in bass, and that was creepy enough, but the choice of song made it even creepier. JJ felt like she’d been transported into a horror movie.
‘What are you waiting for?’ the bomber yelled. ‘Get dancing.’
He pointed the gun at Ed Richards and sighted along the barrel. Richards started shuffling his feet. He looked ridiculous, like an embarrassing old uncle at a wedding. He was a mess, a car wreck just waiting to happen. If his fans could see him now they wouldn’t believe this was the same man who’d stolen their hearts.
‘All of you, get dancing!’
JJ started shuffling her feet. She no doubt looked as ridiculous as Richards, but didn’t care. Looking stupid beat the hell out of being dead. Staying alive trumped everything else. The longer she stayed alive, the more chance there was of being rescued. The music stopped, and JJ stopped, too. The way she was positioned she could see Richards and Simone but she couldn’t see anyone else. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Next time she would position herself so she could see everyone. The room had fallen completely silent. This was the sound of ten people desperately trying to stay still. JJ already had her strategy worked out. She was going to bail out at number five.
‘Kev, looks like you lose round one.’
JJ glanced over her shoulder. Kevin Donahue looked paler than ever. He was as white as a ghost. The bomber raised his gun and aimed at the producer’s head.
4
‘I can get you odds of fifty to one on Kevin Donahue winning,’ Tara said.
Rob looked over her shoulder, angling himself so he could see her cell phone. They were standing apart from the crowd, waiting for something to happen. Anything. They’d done as many MOTS as Rob could stand doing, which was six. And Tara had plenty of background shots of cops, firefighters and paramedics doing what they did in these situations, which basica
lly amounted to hanging around waiting for something to happen as well. It was like being trapped in an airport departure lounge.
‘Who’s the favourite?’ he asked.
Tara jabbed at her cell. ‘Ed Richards. You’re only going to get evens on him.’
‘Who’s favourite to take the next bullet?’
More jabbing, then a laugh. ‘You’re not going to believe this. Ed Richards is favourite for that, too. The odds are slightly better, though. You’ll get two to one on that.’
Rob thought about this for a second. ‘Actually, I do believe it.’
Tara looked up from her phone. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got your thinking face on.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it’s something. Look, Rob, just tell me what’s on your mind. Maybe I can help. Hell, maybe just putting your thoughts out there will help to clarify them.’
Rob bit his lip then pulled out his cell phone. He went to CNN’s live feed first, then Fox’s, then TRN’s. Everything he was seeing and hearing was a variation on the same theme. The bomber was the new Robin Hood. Tara was hovering at his shoulder, watching him.
‘What are you seeing, Rob?’
He turned to look at her. ‘We can agree this guy’s a complete puzzle, right?
She nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s the original riddle wrapped up in a mystery trapped in the middle of whatever the hell it was he got himself trapped inside.’
‘An enigma. He’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Anyway, to start with, we think he’s a terrorist, right? Then he’s a psychopath, murdering people for kicks. Then he’s Robin Hood. And now people are making bets on who’s going to live or die. I’ve got to tell you, this situation is starting to look less and less like a hostage situation and more and more like a popularity contest.’