Chapter 51
Eve watched the clock tick seven. Then she waited for the call that was sure to come. It was deadline hour, and the Hostage Taker would want his witnesses.
The Hostage Taker. Paulie. No reason she couldn’t start calling him that.
When Haddox presented his findings to her, she found herself in complete agreement: It had to be the Marine. Paulie Corsillo. She felt she recognized his signature in all the events of this day. The careful planning. The knowledge of explosives. The sniper training. The way he’d buttoned up Saint Patrick’s like it was an ordinary HBIED. The fact that he had significant, unresolved anger against the Church.
He was also missing.
Corsillo worked part-time as a building super. But no one had seen him for four days—and the tenant complaints were mounting. That had been a pattern in recent months.
She stared at the Hostage Taker’s cellphone, sitting on her desk. A cheap little Nokia throwaway. Silent, like the proverbial pot of water that never boils when it’s watched.
What would Corsillo want with these witnesses—the four individuals she’d sworn to protect?
Would he recognize the fifth as an agency plant—a substitute for Luis Ramos, who’d vanished?
The cellphone sat silent.
Eve glanced at her watch. 7:02 p.m. It wasn’t like him to be late. She supposed his earlier punctuality was a Marines thing. Something that got drilled into them during basic training, just like making hospital corners or running a five-minute mile. Kind of like how at Quantico, she’d learned to shoot a Glock 23 and decipher basic forensic analysis—whether she liked it or not.
She felt rather than heard the gasp of surprise when the immense bronze door to Saint Patrick’s opened—and another figure stepped outside. She grabbed the phone that wasn’t ringing, shoved it into her pocket, and raced out of the MRU toward the Cathedral steps. If anyone followed her, she neither noticed nor cared.
The man on the step was maybe mid-thirties, maybe mid-forties. He had a dark-brown buzz cut, a thick five-o’clock shadow on his face, and his blue suit looked cheap. No coat. But he wasn’t shivering in the cold. In fact, he was sweating. Profusely.
He paused at the top of the steps and looked around. He was blinking, hard—the aftereffect of a blindfold? Finally, his gaze locked on Eve’s and he said, “My name is Ethan Raynor.”
Eve frowned. This was different—and change from the pattern wasn’t a good thing. No names had been given before.
She turned away from Raynor long enough to pin a wire on her collar and give a crisp order: “I need everything we have on him.” Then she turned back. “My name is Eve Rossi. I’m a special agent with the FBI. I’d like to help you, Mr. Raynor.”
He wore a pair of dirty, beaten-up sneakers. Blue-and-gray Nikes, easily two sizes too big. Not his own.
This man was a hostage; she was certain of it. Not just because his name was among those reported missing, presumed to be held inside, but because his body language betrayed both fear and bewilderment.
She took a step closer. She thought she saw the telltale red marks on his wrists. The sign of having been recently bound.
She squinted, trying to see what he was holding in his right hand. There was something—some small device—between his fingers and the palm of his hand. “Someone try to find out what what he’s holding. It may be a pressure switch, so this is important: Hold all fire,” she said into her piece.
“I’ve been instructed to tell you,” Ethan said. “Your time is up.”
Haddox’s voice was in Eve’s ear. Assuming he’s who he says he is, this kid is from Chicago. He’s come to New York to work as a chef. He handles vegetable prep at the Café Bonne Nuit in Midtown. No girlfriend—or boyfriend—but based on comments from his Facebook page, he’s well liked. There’s only one odd thing: He was in the news, maybe ten years ago. He was the boyfriend of a girl who disappeared. A young coed he’d been seein’ for a couple years. He claims he didn’t walk her home after a party one night. No one ever found her—and suspicion fell pretty heavily on him.
To Ethan, Eve said, “He gave me a deadline. I’ve met it. So why isn’t he calling me directly? Why is he talking through you?”
Ethan ignored her questions. “He wants to remind you that nothing is negotiable. That I will die—that he will detonate all his munitions—if his demands aren’t met. You must do exactly as he asks.”
This time it was Mace’s voice in her ear. That switch in his hand looks legit, Eve. Time to be super-careful.
“I need to talk with him directly,” Eve told him. “Can you tell him that?”
But Ethan gave no sign of wearing a wire. His speech seemed pre-rehearsed. “You are to bring each witness forward. One by one. For identification confirmation.”
Eve’s eyes raked the scaffolding high above. How was he going to confirm these IDs? Through his sniper’s lens? “His witnesses are here,” she told Ethan. “But I must guarantee their safety.”
Eve looked around. She had no advantage, anywhere. Never mind the threat of the switch in Ethan’s right hand. There were too many civilians. Too many cameras. Too many saints and stained-glass windows to worry about.
She closed her eyes. Remembered the Hostage Taker’s voice. Struggled to put her finger on their past connection. Tried to know him.
She took four steps backward and grabbed the bullhorn with her right hand. Maybe it would be a one-sided conversation. But like it or not, he was going to listen to her.
“I know who you are,” she shouted. “Your name. Your background. Your motive. I’m going to announce this information to the media—unless you contact me directly, right now.” She held up the cellphone with her left hand.
Waited one second. Two. Three. Four.
Nine seconds in, the cellphone bleated.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, angry, strained. “There’s too much at stake here for you to ad-lib the playbook.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she lied. “Tell me—”
The phrase Should I call you Paulie? was halfway out of her mouth when she looked again at Ethan Raynor—and thought of Luke Miller instead.
The boy who’d been let go.
Her gut clenched. She reminded herself of all the evidence. How it was solid and convincing. How Paulie Corsillo had documented sniper training and explosives experience. Then she thought: The Hostage Taker let the boy go.
Paulie Corsillo was childless. Alone.
Sean Sullivan was a father—with a thirteen-year-old kid.
“Time’s up, Eve. Either bring one of my witnesses out now—or Ethan Raynor is going to die.”
“All right. Let’s talk about how we’re going to handle these witnesses.” She took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I use your first name, Sean? Or do you prefer Captain Sullivan?”
—
Inside the MRU, Eli listened to Eve’s conversation. He recognized that things had taken a turn he would never have anticipated. What he didn’t understand was what it all meant.
He did know one thing that he resolved to tell Mace. NYPD Captain Sean Sullivan was stationed at the Midtown West Precinct. The same place where the stolen goods Mace was tracking had disappeared.
Eli saw clusters of cops and Feds converging on the holding unit where the witnesses were being held. Trying to decide if any were going to be permitted to go outside the secure area. Figuring out if it was possible to protect them, if they did.
They’d known for the past eight hours that there was likely a cop inside the Cathedral. They’d worried that he was disabled—but assumed he was a friend.
The cop was no ally.
And Eli had a secret others now needed to know.
—
García crouched low as he made his way down the narrow passageway. He was surrounded by Manhattan bedrock.
Wide in some spaces, giving him room to breathe. So narrow in others that his tight mental control threatened to vanish.
<
br /> Breathe in. Exhale out.
His footsteps made loud echoes, but he didn’t hear them.
He was too busy maintaining focus.
The reality in front of him was dank and stale and crushingly narrow.
His mind’s eye manufactured an image that was sunny and expansive. Wide skies. Vast beaches. Waves that stretched for miles.
García crept forward. His own demons were chasing him—and the only way out was to make it to that imaginary beach, hidden behind the secret door accessing the Cathedral.
—
Sirens filled the air. Choppers—from different media outlets—made wide circles overhead. Kept back only by the FBI chopper that held the perimeter. Rumors were spreading that the mayor was en route.
With all eyes on her, Eve steeled herself for Sean Sullivan’s response. For whatever would come next. A tornado of fury? Or just a calculated request?
Seconds ticked by.
She was half surprised that the world didn’t end. That time marched on. The Cathedral stood. The hostage lived.
Then she heard Sean’s voice cut through the chaos.
PART FOUR
* * *
DEADLINE HOUR UNTIL HOUR 14
7 p.m. to 9 p.m.
We are continuing with our live coverage of the unfolding crisis at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
The time is a quarter past seven. In normal circumstances, the Tree Lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center would be well under way.
Let’s listen in as Father Michael Ryan, who blessed the tree before it was cut down and brought to Rockefeller Center, leads a group of concerned friends and family in prayer, just beyond the police barricade that’s been established on Sixth Avenue and Fifty-first.
FATHER RYAN: We unite ourselves in prayer tonight for the victims who are suffering at the hands of those who have overtaken our beloved Saint Patrick’s. Violence cannot be conquered by violence. Lord, send us the gift of peace. Restore to us our brothers and sisters who are being held captive in your house against their will.
Chapter 52
“How did you find me?” Sean Sullivan demanded.
Eve focused on tuning out the background noise. Behind her, there was a commotion at Rockefeller Plaza. A news crew had broken past the police barricade. Officers with bullhorns were shouting at them to stay behind the perimeter; meanwhile a half-dozen SWAT team members had converged to stop them. A woman screamed as her camera was confiscated.
Above her head, a chopper circled.
At first Eve wondered what had become of the media blackout Henry had ordered.
Then she realized: The choppers overhead were FBI.
“How did you find me?” Eve answered Sean. “More important, why did you want me? There are plenty of other negotiators.”
“You’re a smart girl. I’m hoping you’ll figure out that answer soon.”
“Should be easy, now I know who you are.”
“Do you, Eve Rossi? Seems to me that all you know is a name. Maybe my date of birth. I’m sure right now, as we speak, your experts are pawing through my background. Figuring out where I went to school. What my teachers said. You’ll interview my commanding officers in both the police and the Marines. You’ll comb through my divorce papers. You’ll search for signs of a breakdown. For anything that will explain this. Explain me.”
“It’s what I do. I observe people; I catalog their behavior; I learn from their life experiences. It’s how I understand people—and I’m going to understand you, Sean.”
“Problem is: You’re going to find the obvious answers. And the answers are going to be wrong.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Before, Eve had recognized the half-truth in what Sean had said. Now she recognized the lie. He hadn’t wanted to be identified so soon. So he was strategizing, playing her, trying to minimize the damage.
“Look, Eve: What I’ve done for a living isn’t so different from you. I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews. And something I learned: Most people notice the obvious, then make the wrong assumption.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Hear me out.” The note of desperation in his voice was new. Her heart quickened. “Let’s say you’re walking past a church. You see a man wearing filthy jeans. No shoes. There’s a vacant look in his eye. A shopping cart a few feet away from him. What do you immediately assume? That he’s homeless. Probably an addict. Maybe even mentally ill.”
Up until now, Sean’s communications had fallen into two categories: instructions and threats. For the first time, she had the sense he was about to say something that mattered. Her hopes soared. “Sounds like a valid assumption, most of the time.”
“Exactly. Most of the time. But what if he’s not homeless? What if he’s a middle-class man with a family who worries about him? What if he got lost on the way to his doctor’s office or the grocery store because he’s suffering from dementia? What if the shopping cart just happened to be there, left by some other guy?”
“I’d look at any small clues that might tell a different story. Maybe he was wearing a nice watch or a wedding ring. Maybe his dirty jeans were new.” Sometimes communication was less about exchanging words than matching emotions. In this case, hope for hope. What-if for what-if.
“Sure, but not everybody notices small details like that. We’re all subject to bias. Happened to me. I made a wrong assumption. I learned my lesson: The obvious solution is usually right, but not always. Definitely not now.”
Sometimes the best approach was the direct one. “Are you saying that what you’re doing here today has nothing to do with the Church?”
She allowed herself to hope—to believe—that he’d answer the question. Because they’d now experienced a moment of understanding. Because the day had disappeared and she was tired. Tired of being kept in the dark. Tired of struggling to make sense of what defied all logic.
He must have heard it in her voice. “I like talking with you, Eve, but I’m tired, too. And we’re wasting time. We have only two hours, forty-five minutes until the next stage of my operation. Starting now.”
“Okay, I’m listening.” Eve set her stopwatch as a precaution.
“You have my witnesses on-site.”
“I need to know what you want with them.”
“They’re here to witness God’s truth.”
“You’re making no sense. You and I both know that.” And if your motive isn’t religious, then why the hell do you use phrases like this?
“How is Cassidy Jones?” he asked abruptly.
“She’s not happy to be here. She’d rather be home.”
“Working at that dead-end job?” he scoffed. “What about Vanderwert? I’ll bet he’s fit to be tied, being stuck here. He probably finds it worse than jury duty. Maybe I should see him first.”
“See him now, if you want. I’ll ask him to wave from the holding unit window.”
“That won’t convince me that he’s here.”
“He can send a smoke signal.”
“Get with the twenty-first century, Eve.” His slashing reply signaled his mood was shifting. Eve knew she was walking on emotional quicksand.
“I won’t risk his safety.”
“C’mon. I know you’ve installed a bulletproof shield around the perimeter.”
“So you’re saying you’d like the witness to stand behind the shield?” No way was she doing that.
“Right in front of Atlas. Where I can see him.”
“We can set up a Skype connection. Is that twenty-first-century enough for you?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Eve.”
“Help me understand something, Sean. Why do you need these witnesses?”
“Why do people need anything—air to breathe, food to eat, water to drink?”
“Enough one-upmanship. A simple answer would be nice for a change.”
“I knew you’d have a term for it. That’s what psychologists do: They train you to put a fancy name on everything. Because if yo
u can name it, you can understand it, right?”
He was trying to annoy her, to distract her from the dilemma at hand.
“Put Blair Vanderwert in front of Atlas,” he said. “You have four minutes—or Ethan Raynor will die, right in front of your eyes.”
“If I do as you ask, will you let me take Mr. Raynor into my custody?”
“I have to go, Eve. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”
The line went dead.
Eve hit redial last call. Her rings went unanswered.
He had been right about one thing. She was a psychologist by training—and that experience defined who she was. It gave her an eye for detail, an understanding of human behavior, and the ability to make reasonable leaps of logic.
But it wasn’t doing a damn thing to help her understand Sean Sullivan.
She looked up—beyond the scaffolding, above Saint Patrick’s spires—into the black void of the night sky. A big, wet snowflake fell on her nose. Followed by one on her forehead and another on her cheek. Suddenly snow was swirling all around her, coming down almost like confetti from the Cathedral itself.
Chapter 53
It was during the third month of Stacy’s deployment that it happened. It was getting toward winter, and the rains had started. I’ve always liked rainy days—but I have never loved rain as much as I did in Afghanistan.
It tamped down the sand so we got fewer of those damn sandstorms.
It freed us from the perpetual trap of dirt and grime.
Stacy had gone with a small team on an adventure beyond the wire. They were investigating a village that may have been harboring a group of insurgents responsible for planting a round of IEDs on the road. They went house to house, searching.
Asking questions.
Gathering intelligence.
They were told to look for a man at the bazaar. And that’s where Stacy became separated from the rest of the group.
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