by Julie Cave
Michael made a noise of contempt. "You think the abused wife and children don't need help more than the men?"
"I don't know," admitted Dinah, not wanting to upset him again. She steered away from the topic. "So that's why you chose the Catholic church — because they were offering help to men?"
Michael nodded.
"And what about the Methodist church at Manassas?"
"They run a prison vocation service and parole advocacy at Waverly," said Michael. "In case you don't know, Dinah, Waverly is a maximum security prison for murderers, rapists, and abusers of the worst kind. Oh — who just happen to be men."
"I see," said Dinah. "So again, this prison advocacy group exists to help men who have been violent." I can see a pattern emerging here.
"Yes."
"What of the Episcopalian church?"
"Free legal and financial advice," explained Michael. "Including free representation in court for those pesky assault charges and restraining orders."
Dinah chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. "Did you ever intend to bomb the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church or the Calvary Holy Church?"
He looked perplexed. "No, why?"
"Just wondering," she said vaguely. They sat in silence for a little while, both Isabelle and Dinah using the time to think about what he'd said.
"Michael, you are very angry with your father, aren't you?" said Dinah, at the risk of stating the obvious.
He glared at her. "You think?"
"Did bombing those churches satisfy your anger?"
Michael sighed. "No."
"Is your father still alive?"
"No."
"Did you ever think about having a conversation with your father about what he did to you?"
Michael laughed, but it was not a happy sound. "You tell her, Isabelle."
Isabelle, who was looking more wilted with every passing moment, said, "You don't understand the power the man held over all of us, even as adults. We didn't question him or challenge him. We tried to make sure he was always happy. We never, ever provoked him. It was like living with a rabid dog."
Dinah briefly touched the other woman's hand. "Okay, I understand. So Michael, did you target the churches just because of the charity programs they were running?"
His foot bouncing on the floor underneath the table, he said, "No, I've managed to nurse quite a healthy hatred toward churches without any help from anyone else."
"Why is that?" Dinah sensed she was getting to the crux of the matter, where what Michael needed to end this siege would be revealed.
"It reminds me of the church I had to go to as a child," he mumbled.
"What happened, Michael?" Dinah asked. She thought of his mother, skirting around the issue of Michael leaving the church and pronouncing that there was no God.
"My father, if I may use the term so loosely, didn't try to hide the marks he left on us," said Michael, through clenched teeth. "Mom would turn up at church with a black eye. Isabelle would have a broken arm and a completely implausible story as to how she'd broken it. I'd have a broken nose. Do you think one person at that miserable church bothered to find out if we were okay?"
"I'm guessing not," said Dinah quietly.
"Don't get me wrong — Dad was a very charming man when he wanted to be. You see, nobody wanted to believe that he would do such a thing, not when he was such a pillar of the community. They didn't want to believe it was happening, so they didn't."
Isabelle hunched even further into herself, if that were possible, as if to protect herself from the memories being conjured by Michael's words.
Dinah had to check in with the command post, so while Michael checked the curtains and doors, she phoned in.
"Is everything okay?" Sinclair asked.
"We're all perfectly fine," said Dinah, smiling at Isabelle. "Nothing to worry about."
"Okay, good. Have you felt fearful for your safety at all?"
"No, not once."
"Okay, keep us updated."
Dinah hung up as Michael came back in. He looked haunted and worried. "When are you sending in the troops?" he asked.
"Don't worry," said Dinah. "They're all well back. They won't come while I'm in here."
He nodded and stared in the distance.
Dinah had a thought and said, "Michael, getting back to those churches you bombed. Have you thought about the fact that all three of those charity programs being run by the churches could have helped you?"
"Oh, yes," said Michael, with a smile that was more a grimace. "I have thought about that."
"Yet you've reacted with such hatred toward them? Why would you hate something that could be beneficial to you?"
"Isn't it obvious, Dinah? Because I hate myself."
Chapter 18
While Dinah continued to talk to Michael and Isabelle, and win their trust, outside the troops were getting edgy. It was a given that the Bureau never agreed to terrorists' demands. Therefore, the SWAT teams reasoned, there was nothing the suspect inside could ask for that the FBI could deliver. Why, then, were they wasting time with talk?
Ferguson and Sinclair knew better. The key to a peaceful outcome was not caving in to the suspect's demands but reaching a point where he no longer had any demands and surrendered peacefully. It was easier to achieve such an outcome through negotiation than brute force.
Strauss and Carroll were unhappy that they'd been told to back down. They were keyed up on adrenaline and testosterone to do their job, and they didn't want to wait. That's why they convened a secret meeting well away from the command post, under the guise of checking their weapons.
"This is nuts," said Strauss bluntly. "We have a guy in there who blew up three churches, killed innocent people, and hurt dozens more. Why are we treading so lightly here?"
Carroll agreed. "Not only that, they sent in a civilian to negotiate!"
"She's a civilian?" Strauss was shocked.
"Used to be FBI, but that doesn't matter," explained Carroll. "She's not FBI now, yet she's who they trust to solve this scenario."
He didn't need to elaborate on what he meant by "they": it was implied to be Ferguson and Sinclair.
"It's a small house," said Strauss. "Uncomplicated layout. We could assault the building before the subject could locate the button he needs to push to blow the joint."
"Right," enthused Carroll. "We know he spends most of his time sitting at the kitchen table. I think we should begin with stun grenades. He's not going to be able to detonate anything in that environment."
A stun grenade, also known as a flash-bang, was a non-lethal grenade that used the bright light of burning a small amount of explosives — the flash — and a very loud sound — the bang — to confuse and disorient targets. It gave the SWAT team the element of surprise, and therefore the upper hand. They only needed several seconds of lead time to capture and neutralize the suspect before he could reach his gun or detonate the bomb.
"Could the stun grenade detonate any explosives in the house?" asked Strauss. Neither had to explicitly say it, but they were formulating a plan of attack, both fully intending to carry it out.
"They can ignite volatile fumes," said Carroll. "But ANFO is reasonably stable and has to be contained — within a barrel or bag for instance — to work. It also requires primary explosive to detonate it, and flash-bangs aren't powerful enough to set off a primary blast."
Strauss nodded. "The suspect keeps his weapon on his person at all times," he observed. "I propose an assault to his rear will provide the best outcome, as he'd have to swing around 180 degrees to defend himself. That'll buy us a few seconds, even assuming he's not incapacitated by the flash-bangs."
"What about the friendlies?" Carroll asked, referring to Isabelle, who was technically a hostage, and Dinah, who represented law enforcement, however loosely.
"We could potentially warn Harris," said Strauss. "But we'd have to communicate that through the phone to her, and to do that, we'd need to have their support."
; "Which is unlikely," chimed in Carroll.
They fell silent for several moments. Both knew there was virtually zero chance of an assault taking place while Dinah Harris was in the house. She was clearly a favorite of Ferguson's and had some kind of special relationship with Sinclair. Yet she was unlikely to come out unless the situation deteriorated badly, by which time the SWAT teams would have no advantage over the suspect. In fact, they would be disadvantaged, because they'd be reacting to a situation they hadn't created.
It seemed that the choice came down to sacrificing Dinah Harris, or sacrificing the SWAT team troops. By every greater good argument, the troops won due to their numbers. It was better for one to be injured than a large number.
"How are we going to get authorization?" Carroll asked.
"We need to go over their heads," said Strauss, thinking out loud. "We need to somehow imply that the chain of command has broken down, and that he's not capable of making decisions."
"Without actually saying that," added Carroll. They both knew that such a conversation would be taped, and if the situation deteriorated badly, they needed to ensure that their butts were covered. If the idea to overrule Ferguson's authority came from a superior, rather than from Strauss or Carroll, they would be okay.
It would be a delicate conversation to frame, but Strauss thought he knew how to do it. They had an ace up their sleeve: Ferguson had sent a civilian into the house to negotiate. Even worse, he'd sent an unarmed and unprotected civilian into a house where they knew the suspect was armed and could have wired the house to explode.
"What if the worst happens?" Carroll asked, trying to think of every contingency. "What if we receive the order to go in, but Ferguson commands the troops to back down?"
"My team is wholly loyal to me," said Strauss. "If I give an order, they'll follow. It'll be up to me to defend my decision to give the order."
Carroll nodded. "Good. My guys will follow me in, too, no questions asked."
"We need to head off that situation before it happens," said Strauss. "I think we should quietly tell Ferguson that we've received authorization from a superior and to argue with him. In the meantime, we can carry out the order."
They both nodded and left their unspoken thoughts close to their chests.
There would be collateral damage, they knew that. It was likely to be Dinah Harris and Isabelle.
There would be a price to pay — as long as they or their men didn't have to pay it.
* * * *
"You know we talked to your mother," said Dinah.
Isabelle moved around the kitchen, her movements jerky as though she was forgetting how her arms and legs worked. She had offered to make them all a cup of coffee.
Michael scowled. "Yeah, I know."
"She was very worried about you," continued Dinah.
She watched him roll his eyes. "She also intimated that something happened at the church while you were in your teens."
Isabelle stiffened in the kitchen and turned around. Michael also suddenly looked disturbed.
"What did she say?" he asked.
"Nothing specific," said Dinah. "Enough that I know it was something. Enough to make you leave the church. Enough to make you hate the church, even."
Michael stood up and skulked around the house, checking the doors and windows. When he returned, Dinah was waiting for him. He didn't look at her.
"Look," she said. "I understand this is tough to talk about, but I really think it'll help you."
"How is it going to help?" he demanded. "It's not going to change the fact that your troops out there want to kill me, or that even if I make it out alive, I'm going to jail for the rest of my life. Maybe I'm happy to die right now, in this house, on my terms!"
Isabelle gasped and turned white. The coffee was forgotten.
"Michael, everything you're telling me is important," said Dinah. "I can be your advocate, if only I can gain some insight into your actions. If you just let me in, I can be your greatest ally."
Michael glared at her suspiciously for a moment. "When I was 15, I went to see the pastor at our church," he said, his tone expressionless. "I was desperate for someone to help us. Dad was getting worse, and I really thought he was going to kill one of us."
Isabelle slipped into the seat beside her brother and touched his arm briefly, in encouragement.
"I explained to the pastor everything that had been happening," Michael continued. "Everything, over all the years. I reminded him of the times Mom had come to church with a black eye, and of the times we had turned up with a broken limb."
Dinah nodded, afraid that if she said a word he would clam up.
"I had never told another soul about our family. It took all of my courage to go to the pastor. I was afraid of what would happen if my father found out." There was a long pause as Michael struggled with the emotions the memories caused.
"The pastor looked at me for a long time," Michael said at length. "I was just a skinny teenager, sobbing in front of someone from outside my family for the first time. I had never been so vulnerable in all my life."
Isabelle's eyes filled with tears as she remembered.
"Then he said to me, 'Son, it's a grave sin to dishonor your father.' I had no idea what he meant so I didn't say anything. He then said, 'Are you familiar with a verse from Proverbs that says, "A wicked man listens to evil lips; a liar pays attention to a malicious tongue"?' I shook my head. I still didn't understand what he was talking about. Then he asked me if I wanted to make a wicked man of him? It was slowly dawning on me that he didn't believe a word I'd said. He went on to tell me that a father is a great blessing from the Lord, if only I would think about all the kids out there who didn't even have a father. He told me to lie about my father like that was a very serious sin. He listed all of the wonderful things my father had ever done for the church. Finally, he told me I should go home, repent of my sin, and ask both my father and God for their forgiveness for my lies."
Dinah was shocked. Such a profound betrayal at an early age would have damaged Michael even further.
"I walked out of that church and vowed that I'd never return," finished Michael. "I have never set foot in a church again until last week."
"That's why you hate churches?" Dinah said, still trying to process what he'd told her.
"Yes, but not only for that one man's betrayal. All of them turned a blind eye, pretended it wasn't happening. They were happy to listen to sermons about loving one another, caring for the weak, et cetera, et cetera, as long as it was an abstract concept. When it came to the reality of loving one another, they weren't interested."
Michael's voice was steeped in bitterness.
"Why did you take it out on churches you'd never been to?" Dinah asked gently. "The churches you bombed could have been very good at practicing love, for all you know."
Michael shrugged. "I doubt it. Christians are well known for their hypocrisy. Every time I turn on the news, another pastor or evangelist or well-known Christian admits to having affairs or being a drug addict or embezzling funds from their own organization. In any case, I decided on that day that God had also betrayed me and I stopped believing Him."
Dinah nodded. "Michael, I can't tell you how sorry I am that all of these things happened to you. I am particularly saddened that your pastor didn't believe you or help you in your hour of need. What happened when you got home?"
"What do you think?" Michael said with a grimace. "The pastor had phoned ahead to inform my father of what I'd done. He was waiting for me. I spent the next two days in the hospital."
* * * *
Strauss and Carroll decided to use a cell phone to call the deputy director of the FBI, James Wakefield, the man to whom Ferguson reported and the only man who could authorize an assault without Ferguson's agreement.
Carefully, they rehearsed what they were going to say.
"It has to be his idea," Strauss cautioned. "We have to be sure we don't bring it up. All we can do is strongly recommend
a certain course of action."
"Right," agreed Carroll. "And you have to make sure it sounds like there is no other option."
Strauss and Carroll looked at each other. "I guess I'm making the call?" said Strauss.
Carroll nodded. "You're better at this than me."
Strauss dialed the number and tersely explained to Wakefield's assistant a brief rundown of the situation. He was immediately patched through to James Wakefield's office.
"What's up, Agent Strauss?" Wakefield asked, his deep voice booming. He had presided over making changes to the "new" FBI, a Bureau that was seen to be more caring, more generous with their information, more interested in preserving life. He had achieved the massive cultural achievement with a will of iron. He was both respected and feared in the Bureau.
Strauss planned to capitalize on the deputy director's deep aversion to negative publicity.
"We have a situation, sir," said Strauss. "We currently have a hostage situation with the terrorist who bombed the three churches."
"I'm aware of it," said Wakefield. "Has there been loss of life?"
"I don't believe so, sir. The situation as it stands is that there is one hostage, and the terrorist is refusing to leave the house. He is armed and claims to have built a bomb big enough to inflict major damage on the entire street."
"It would seem he's capable of building such a bomb," said Wakefield. "I'm inclined to believe him. How are the negotiations going?"
"Well, sir, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Strauss. He hoped he sounded empathetic and concerned. "That's not going well, at all."
"How so?"
"The terrorist refuses to negotiate and has made no demands. He simply does not want to come out of the house."
"Made no demands?" Wakefield said. "That's unusual."
"Negotiations failed quickly," continued Strauss. "He doesn't want anything, and so there is nothing we can promise him to entice him to end the siege peacefully. I then suggested that we mount an assault on the house, as per our procedures."
"An assault on a house with a bomb?" Wakefield said skeptically.
"It's believed to be an ANFO bomb," explained Strauss. "A primary explosive must be detonated to in turn detonate the ANFO. If the terrorist is unable to send the signal to the primary explosive, there is no danger."