Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “What about the Hostage Taker? Anyone claim responsibility?” The Hostage Taker—or Takers, if there were more than one—would need to show his hand before long.

  “We’ve got nothing. Just the message asking for you.”

  “The Cathedral would be a difficult space for just one person to manage,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “Try impossible. Security cameras and guards. Multiple entrances and exits. Hordes of tourists. And over two hundred skilled restoration workers on a typical day.”

  “How many doors provide entry to this building?”

  “Seven, not counting access from the Parish House and the Cardinal’s Residence.”

  “You’ve evacuated those buildings?”

  Henry nodded.

  “And the Cardinal himself?”

  “Fortunately he’s not in residence; he’s visiting the Vatican, together with the rector and all his pastoral staff. But because of the timing, shortly before first morning Mass, we believe the substituting Monsignor—Father DeAngelo—may be among the hostages.”

  “The Hostage Taker gave no warning—made no demand of any sort—before he killed the woman?”

  “Not in a traditional sense.” Henry hesitated. “You might learn something from the old man we took into custody. We cleared him of involvement in the hostage taking—but he claims he talked with the victim before she was shot.”

  “You’ve communicated with the Hostage Taker?”

  “Soon. Believe me, Tactical is considering all options.”

  Tactical was considering options? Henry’s reluctance to begin negotiations struck Eve as off base. The first order of business—always—was to establish a line of communication with the Hostage Taker. It wasn’t just the best way to learn about who he was and what he wanted. It was also the best way to minimize casualties among hostages. Because when the Hostage Taker was talking, he wasn’t shooting or worrying about defending his barricade from tear gas or a full-out assault.

  “I’m confused, Henry. Why didn’t you immediately reach out to the Hostage Taker?”

  Henry cleared his throat, realized he was standing in a puddle, and scowled at his custom-made shoes. “I’d like you to meet Sergeant Martinez. She will attempt first contact.”

  “Henry, you asked me to come here. Because the Hostage Taker demanded it.” Eve felt herself slipping off the rails of her control.

  “We can’t give in to his first demand. You know that, Eve. But I still need you close by—in case that message with your name on it means something.”

  Of course it means something, Eve thought. Otherwise she wouldn’t have come.

  She wanted to point out two things: If the Hostage Taker, unprovoked, had already murdered one victim, then substituting another negotiator for one he requested would be a mistake. And Henry’s excuse for not putting her in was complete bullshit.

  But she knew the deal: Henry was looking out for himself. He was poised to take over the crisis—and put Eve in play—the instant doing so benefited him. But so long as there was potential for this crisis to turn into an explosive mess, he was happy for the NYPD to shoulder the blame.

  “With all due respect, Henry—”

  “My decision is made,” he snapped, cutting her off. “Annie Martinez is a capable negotiator with the Hostage Negotiation Team. You know their reputation is impeccable.”

  “How long has she been on the job?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “She ever negotiate a release?”

  “She’s a bit wet behind the ears. But she’s had two completely by-the-book releases that impressed the top brass—kind of like the way you started, Eve. Plus, she managed it when it really counted. I read her file. Seems her father battled mental illness most of his life. Her senior year of college, she came home for spring break and found Mom shot to death. Dad was holed up in the garage with a shotgun and her little brother. She spent the next thirteen hours sitting and talking with him until he gave himself up.”

  “She’s got the right temperament, then.” Eve was impressed. “The problem is: This Hostage Taker asked for me.”

  “Which is why you’re here if we need you.” Henry said it reasonably. He missed—or more likely ignored—her lingering concern. Instead, he gestured for the slim ponytailed woman to come forward and made the introductions. Then he glanced at a group of officers who were working with an electronic device. They motioned him over. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  “Looks like they almost have the throw phone ready,” Annie Martinez remarked. The device wasn’t an actual phone—not anymore—although the colloquial name for it had stuck. It was a combination microphone/speaker, rugged enough to withstand a significant drop, but highly sound-sensitive, capable of transmitting through doors and walls and windows. It didn’t matter if the Hostage Taker didn’t want to talk. As long as you positioned the throw phone in the general vicinity, the Hostage Taker would hear you. If you were lucky, nearby hostages would, too.

  “How are you getting it inside?” Eve asked Annie Martinez. Between those ten-foot-thick marble-and-granite walls and bronze doors that weighed more than nine thousand pounds each, the Cathedral seemed like a fortress.

  “One of the stained-glass windows has a small crack in a corner. The tactical team plans to enlarge the break, then drop the device.” Annie shot Eve a rueful look. “There’s already a guy here from Landmarks Preservation. He won’t be happy.”

  “No,” Eve agreed. “And just wait until the Church gets involved. But that’s not your problem.”

  “By the way, it’s great meeting you.” Annie blushed. “What you did with the Marsh case is in all the casebooks. Your words and phrasing—and the way you established a bond with him. It’s the model for how to start a negotiation.”

  Eve shrugged. “I’ll be here if you need me. If my name comes up again—and I’m hoping it won’t.”

  Annie started to say something—but their attention was drawn by a flurry of activity in front of the statue of Atlas. An officer securing the scene barked an order. Two approaching cops stopped in their tracks. A half-dozen Feds rushed out of the tactical van—and instantly halted. The attention of every single first responder was now directed at one point.

  The center bronze door of Saint Patrick’s—where a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, had been thrust outside.

  He wore jeans and a puffy blue jacket, and he’d gelled his hair so it spiked straight up. His eyes blinked in response to the flashing lights. He seemed terrified by the vast number of police and emergency personnel who had converged around him.

  The boy took four cautious steps forward until he stood at the top of the stairs. He held a cellphone clutched in his right hand. His left clenched a sign reading HELP. Eve wondered if it was identical to the one the previous victim held.

  Two groups of officers began to come toward him. Many had raised their weapons.

  Startled, the child tensed. “No!”

  It sounded like nor—but without the emphasis on the r.

  “Don’t m-m-move! I’ve got to do what he says or he’ll shoot.”

  The officers slowed. One issued an order; a few took a step back.

  Snipers would be in position. Alert for the Hostage Taker, should he reveal himself behind the scaffolding.

  The boy waved the phone. His voice cracked. “He wants to talk with Agent Rossi. Eve Rossi.”

  To was only a t—with a breathy uh at its end. And the th was dropped entirely. Definitely a British accent. Yorkshire? A tourist—which meant he probably had a mother or father still inside.

  The boy put the phone back to his ear and listened. “He says you have exactly ten minutes to get her on the line. Starting now.”

  He again, not they.

  Eve glanced at Henry Ma. He was having an agitated conversation with an NYPD sergeant. They came to a decision fast. “Martinez! You’re on.”

  Annie Martinez lifted her shoulders and walked toward the steps.

  I
t was a mistake. Eve could sense it, more than she could rationalize it.

  “Hi, there,” Sergeant Martinez called, addressing the boy. “My name is Annie, and I’m a negotiator with the New York Police Department. I’m here to help you. I know you must be scared.”

  The child’s eyes followed her, but he said nothing.

  “What’s your name?”

  No response.

  “We’ve asked Agent Rossi to come. But she can’t get here in ten minutes. Not in the kind of crazy traffic we have this morning. Agent Rossi’s on her way, but it’s going to take her some time. Maybe you could tell him that. Assuming it’s a him, of course.”

  The boy just stared ahead.

  “Ask him what he’d like me to call him,” Annie urged. “You can let him know my name is Annie.”

  Good. Not Sergeant Martinez. Not even Annie Martinez. Just his friend, Annie—friendly and approachable.

  Despite the political game he was playing with the NYPD, Henry had been technically right about one point: It was a common negotiation strategy not to cooperate with the Hostage Taker’s first demand. Stalling for time was the name of the game—and that was what Annie was doing now. She would do everything in her power to string the minutes into hours, and hours into days. Her goal was simple: to tire the Hostage Taker out. If he got sleepy, he might make mistakes. If he got hungry, he might make concessions for food. Then the balance of power would switch and the negotiator would gain control and get results. That was how these crises typically played out.

  But on such a public stage, could they afford to let this drag out for more than a few hours? The whole world would be watching. And the shock waves from this situation would grind all of New York City to a halt.

  Annie took another step forward. “Why don’t you give me the phone? That way I can talk to him, grown-up to grown-up. You don’t need to be part of this.”

  The wind whistled as it gusted up Fifth Avenue. Multiple sirens wailed. At first, Eve barely registered the sound, she was so focused on the boy in front of her. It took her a few moments to realize that more emergency vehicles were approaching from Rockefeller Plaza.

  The boy shouted, “Don’t come closer!”

  Annie stopped. She nodded. “I’d like to explain to him how we can resolve this. Or if he prefers, he can use my phone. I have a special one that connects directly to me, personally. Will you let him know?”

  The boy didn’t reply. He held the phone to his ear.

  Emergency vehicles flashed red and blue lights around the secure perimeter. Both Annie and the boy were caught in their reflection.

  “I’d like to tell him that we’re working on getting Agent Rossi here. Meanwhile, I can help him.”

  The boy closed his eyes, listening.

  “He just needs to talk to me.” Annie waited, unmoving. This was all part of the stalling game.

  The minutes were slipping by. That was supposed to be a good thing, because time was usually the negotiator’s friend.

  Except nothing about this particular situation was usual.

  Annie Martinez was handling the crisis exactly according to textbook. She had focused on calming the hostage and establishing contact with the Hostage Taker. Her body language was relaxed, her voice patient and respectful. With every word, she was conveying her willingness to help.

  Paramedics and NYPD officers were jockeying for position next to Eve at Rockefeller Plaza. Everyone wanted to be close enough to help the boy.

  Radios squawked and cellphones trilled. In the distance, horns continued to honk and sirens shrilled. The crowd behind the cordons swelled.

  But the storm of sound seemed far removed from the boy, who remained mute. He shivered and swayed, buffeted by the wind. Then his HELP sign dropped to the ground, clattering down the marble stairs.

  Eve usually prided herself on being logical. And rationally, she knew: Everything was going exactly as it should. It took time to learn about the Hostage Taker, to convince him that you understood his problems, to establish yourself as his friend. Annie was doing a great job. Nothing Eve could put a finger on was wrong.

  Still, glancing at the sign the boy had dropped, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was watching a tragedy unfold. This was no fairy tale. There would be no happy ending today.

  Chapter 4

  Penelope Miller had crossed the Atlantic because of Fulton Sheen. Specifically, she’d come to New York City—and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral—in order to pray with him.

  Never mind that the good father had been dead the last several decades. Penny figured they needed each other.

  Father Sheen was buried in the Crypt, right under the Cathedral altar, in the company of several other archbishops. The difference was: He was on the fast track to Sainthood, with one miracle already credited to his name. Still, he needed a second miracle if he was going to be canonized.

  That was where Penelope came in. Her husband Stu had stage IV lung cancer; he had exhausted all medical treatment. He was a perfect candidate for divine intercession—and if Father Sheen’s first miracle had been to revive a stillborn baby, why couldn’t his second involve curing her husband’s cancer?

  So she had made the arrangements: taken her son Luke out of Ludgrove, booked the airfare and hotel, and convinced the Monsignor to meet her last night to take her into the Crypt of Saint Patrick’s.

  She supposed she ought to have noticed right away that something was wrong. But she had got caught up in the moment. Felt special because she and Luke had been granted this private visit underground.

  The priest had opened the massive bronze doors just for them—as expected, since their visit was after proper closing hours. Luke had dallied, asking questions about the saints on the double doors.

  He’d wanted to know about Mother Elizabeth Seton. Specifically, what had she done to earn her place on the lower portion of the door on the right? Daughter of New York, her inscription read. There was a rosebush to her right and an inscription to her left.

  The priest had sidestepped Luke’s question.

  Then Luke wanted to know what the motto next to Mother Seton meant.

  Sequere Deum. Follow God.

  Priests knew Latin, so a real priest would have known that. Just like a real priest would have appreciated Luke’s interest. Except this priest couldn’t be bothered.

  Penelope should’ve grabbed Luke’s hand and left right then and there—but all she could think about was what she planned to say to Fulton Sheen when she reached his vault in the Crypt. She needed the perfect words to make him see that Stu was worthy of help. Otherwise, Father Sheen would ignore her. Just like all the penitents who’d come before her.

  They were halfway down the staircase when Luke stumbled.

  When he went tumbling, rolling all the way down, landing in an awkward sprawl at the bottom, she thought he must have tripped. She had rushed toward her son and then she felt the bite of cold steel against her neck.

  “Freeze,” the priest had said softly. “Or I’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.”

  —

  When she awoke later, she remembered the blinding light when something had slammed into the back of her skull. Now her head was throbbing.

  And she was alone.

  Somewhere in the bowels of Saint Patrick’s. Hog-tied to a chair—with a set of colored wires running from her to a black box fastened to the paneled door behind her.

  She twisted her neck around.

  No sign of Luke.

  She saw only a small marble room illuminated by a soft yellow light.

  She listened.

  No voices. No footsteps.

  Where had the priest-who-wasn’t-a-priest taken her Luke?

  Then she heard a ringing noise that sounded odd. It seemed to echo from within the walls.

  Was that even possible—or was she hallucinating? Had her attacker drugged her?

  Penelope remembered something Father Bryant at home said once: that every Church had a few hidden passages, hollow wa
lls, and secret doors. A long-standing tradition. The invention of masons alone. Never part of the blueprints.

  Because even a Cathedral had its ghosts, and ghosts needed a place to call home.

  Chapter 5

  Eve watched as Annie continued talking to the boy on the steps in a compassionate, calm voice. “Why don’t you just come down the stairs? Bring me the phone.”

  The boy didn’t move. He stood, trembling, holding the phone to his ear. Waiting for his next instructions.

  Annie was asking the boy if everyone inside was okay. If anyone needed medical attention. She wanted to know how many people were with him.

  The boy didn’t respond. Eve knew that he wouldn’t. Eleven-year-old boys from Yorkshire, England, didn’t go to Mass by themselves. Someone important to this child was still inside—and that meant that he was going to do exactly what he was told.

  Eve stepped closer to get a better look. As close as she could get without someone from Tactical objecting.

  She noticed that the boy’s wrists were red and chafed. He had been restrained, just like the first victim.

  Now Annie was asking if anyone inside needed food or water. Saying it was really important if anyone was diabetic or needed medications.

  She was still following the textbook: trying to build goodwill while gleaning important information. If this were a simulation, Eve’s old instructor down at Quantico would have graded her an A+.

  The problem was: This was real life, not a test. And this Hostage Taker was not reacting to Annie’s script.

  “You have f-four minutes to go.” The boy’s voice was halting.

  “Honey, please tell me your name,” Annie responded.

  Eve shook her head. The time deadline was a warning. Annie needed to adjust her approach.

  Where did Henry go?

  “Where is your family?” Annie asked.

  Eve needed Henry to clear her to go in, right now. Not because the Hostage Taker had demanded it. Because doing the unexpected was this boy’s only chance.

  “How many people are with you?” Annie was still on script.

  The boy’s voice trembled. “You have three minutes.”