06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  Easier said than done. Even more so when you began your morning with a nearly empty gas tank.

  Darby sat beside Coop in the back of the screaming patrol car, focusing on her breathing as she tried to drown out the sirens and Coop shouting on the phone and the voices blaring over the police radio. The patrolman, an old Irish guy probably around the same age her father would have been if he were alive, kept eyeing her in the rearview mirror. He had gin blossoms on his cheeks, and the warm interior reeked of the chemical-induced vanilla odour from the air freshener hanging from a radio knob. She wished she could crack a window, but the back windows in a squad car didn’t open.

  She ignored the odours packed in the warm air, which was growing hotter with each passing minute, and forced her attention on her breathing, taking in a slow draw through her nose and counting to four, feeling her lungs expanding until they couldn’t hold any more air. Then she held her breath and counted to four. Exhaled slowly through her mouth for another four count. Another sixteen, maybe twenty seconds had passed, bringing the time until the first bomb went off to –

  No, she told herself – again – and went back to her combat breathing. Do not play that game.

  The problem – the thing gnawing away at her self-control – was time. It had taken Coop nearly seventeen minutes to find a patrolman who had a nearby vehicle who could drive them to Northeastern University, the nearby college that was the designated ICS command site in the event of a terrorist attack. The campus was less than ten miles away from BPD headquarters, but Boston was a small city with narrow streets, all of which were still clogged with morning traffic. Police sirens and flashing lights couldn’t magically widen the streets or make the traffic disappear. She couldn’t control any of these things, and it ate at her.

  Do your job, Darby reminded herself as she inhaled, counting to four. That’s the only control you have.

  Or, to use one of her father’s favourite expressions, this one coined from his Marine days: Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

  Coop was on the phone, on a conference call with SAC Gelfand and the hostage negotiator, when the patrolman delivered them to the rear of the parking lot, which was already shut down and in the process of being evacuated by Boston PD and college security. The lot needed to be cleared in order to make room for the incoming swell of city, state and federal vehicles.

  The patrolman mercifully killed the siren and put the car in park. At the moment, they were the only law enforcement inside the lot. The patrolman turned down the radio a bit, and when she saw him eying her in the rearview again she shifted in her seat and looked down at the floor mat, breathing and counting, breathing and counting, while she reviewed what information she had managed to glean from Coop’s conversation.

  Gelfand and the hostage negotiator were en route, fighting their way through traffic. The Boston Bomb Squad had been called in to inspect and search any vehicles parked near the station, city garbage cans and any suspicious packages, for explosive devices. The state troopers’ bomb people would coordinate their operations with federal bomb experts to see if there was any way to render safe the two IEDs inside the lobby. All information and tactics would flow through the Mobile Command Post, which had been dispatched. Not much could happen until the MCP arrived.

  Her gaze landed on the dashboard clock. She saw the time and before she could stop herself her mind was off and running, doing the calculations.

  Seventeen minutes to find the patrol car, then twenty-four minutes and change to arrive here. Call it forty-three minutes. That left them an hour and fifty-nine minutes to find the former mayor and deliver him and the TV crew to the lobby.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  Even if Briggs were standing here right now, the people in charge wouldn’t allow him to go inside the lobby. She didn’t blame them. The gunman’s true agenda could be to detonate the bombs and kill Briggs and everyone else on live TV. Was that his true endgame? If that happened, his message, grievance, whatever this was about, would ensure global headlines.

  Another minute had passed.

  Another minute lost.

  Stop, she told herself. You can’t control that part.

  Intellectually, she knew that. It made perfect, logical sense.

  But that didn’t mean she had to accept it.

  The inside of the car felt too hot, too close. She wanted fresh air. Because the squad-car doors couldn’t be unlocked from the inside, she had to ask the patrolman to let her out.

  Darby stepped outside and began to pace back and forth near the chain-link fence overlooking Huntington Ave. Traffic was clogged on both sides, and the Green Line’s E-train rumbled down a track in the centre of the street, clank-clank-clank, brakes screeching. Her head pounded from the hangover and from not having eaten. She wished she had grabbed something back at the hotel when she had a chance. She wished –

  Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.

  Her father’s voice quoting one of his favourite sayings, one he had used when she was younger, railing against some real or perceived injustice and wishing it were different. Either do your job, Darby, or step aside and make room for someone who can, he liked to say. Being back in Boston had dusted off all sorts of memories. Here came another one: Big Red’s massive frame filling the doorway of the principal’s office and Darby feeling the weight of his gaze and judgement as she sat in the chair, indignant, a bag of ice resting on her scraped and swollen knuckles. During recess, Mark Alves had snuck up behind her and snapped her training bra, to the cackling delight of his friends. The laughing died when she broke his nose. Darby was eleven.

  Big Red wasn’t mad at her about the fight. But he was upset about what happened afterwards: her confrontation with the elderly principal, Sister Agnes, a stern and humourless woman who wore orthopedic shoes and had a face that looked like melted wax. The Catholic nun had asked – no, she had demanded – that Darby apologize to Mark Alves for hitting him. Darby refused, even after Sister Agnes had threatened her with a week’s detention and then, finally, expulsion from school for two days.

  ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t have popped the Alves boy,’ Big Red said as they drove home, Darby sitting beside him, her face still hot with anger. The windows were down, the spring air cool and fresh, but all she could smell was the cigar smoke baked into his clothing and the upholstery of his squad car. ‘No one has a right to lay a hand on you. Someone does, you’ve got every right to defend yourself. And I’m not saying you should have to apologize to him either.’

  Darby turned her head to him. Waited.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a two-day vacation. First thing Friday morning, you’re to march into her office and apologize, then serve out your week’s detention. If you don’t, you don’t go back to school – her words, not mine.’

  Darby sat up in her seat, indignant. Her body trembled with rage when she spoke, but her voice was clear. ‘I did nothing wrong. I am not going to apologize to her, and I am not going to serve a week’s detention all because I refused to say I was sorry for hitting an asshole.’

  ‘Right or wrong, she’s the one in charge, and she makes the rules. It’s your call, your problem. You’re the one who has to deal with it.’

  Darby’s eyes watered. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she refused to cry.

  Big Red pulled the car over on to the shoulder of the road, and sighed tiredly, as if he’d been asked to perform some Herculean task. ‘Darby, even when you’re right, there are going to be times when it’s better to play along in order to get along – even if you have to fake it. The world isn’t a fair place; the same goes for people. If you spend your life battling every person who doesn’t do the right thing or acts unfairly, you’re going to wind up like Sister Agnes: bitter and angry and very, very lonely. You’ll always be an outsider.’

  The January wind slapped her face. Darby blinked behind her sunglasses, remembering that Friday morning when she apologized to Sister Agnes. Reme
mbered the smug look of satisfaction on the crone’s face and remembered how she so badly wanted to reach across the massive desk and punch the woman in the face. Darby had always suspected the nun was, at heart, a bully. Only she wasn’t as transparent as someone like Mark Alves. At least Mark had the guts to do it in public. Sister Agnes enjoyed performing her brand of torture behind closed doors, safe from prying eyes.

  Darby remembered the bitter taste in her mouth after she left the office. So this is what defeat tastes like, she thought. Her mouth tasted that way right now as she recalled another memory, this one new and fresh: Murphy’s comment about her and her father.

  You think you’re so goddamn high and mighty, that you’re better and smarter than the rest of us – so fucking righteous. Your old man was the exact same way. That’s what got him killed.

  You never spoke out against the tribe. That was the primal rule when you grew up in places like South Boston, Charlestown and Belham; when you became a member of the Catholic Church or part of the Blue Brotherhood. You kept your secrets and sins at home. Right and wrong never factored into the tribe’s decision because the tribe’s job was to protect itself, ensure its survival. Disobey or break a single rule and you were banished.

  Or, in her father’s case, killed.

  Darby was watching a news copter flying in the direction of BPD headquarters when Coop’s head popped over the squad car’s roof, waving at her to join him.

  8

  +01.11

  Coop was still on the phone. It was too windy and too noisy to talk outside, so he ducked back inside the squad car. When Darby slid next to him, she felt better, more in control.

  Coop, though, looked a little frayed around the edges. He had juggled multiple phone calls while taking notes in his small Moleskine notebook during the bumpy drive. The writing and shorthand he used was practically illegible.

  Darby shut the door as he hung up on his call. ‘The commander of the state’s bomb squad wants a conference call with you,’ he said. ‘His name is Ted Scott.’

  Darby fished her cell out of her jacket pocket. ‘Was that him on the phone?’

  ‘No. BPD’s building manager. He’s at a remote site where he can access all of the station’s security camera feeds. He’s got full control of the cameras and all building operations – power, heating and cooling, the phone lines, everything.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Not good. There’s a problem with the lobby security cameras.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘The cameras are working, and the building manager can operate them from his control station, make them turn every which way, zoom in and out, all of that. The problem is the CCTV feeds on his screens; they’re full of static. We can’t see what the gunman is doing, the lobby or the hostages. We’re blind.’

  ‘Just the lobby cameras are down?’

  ‘Just the lobby cameras.’

  Jamming unit, Darby thought, but didn’t say it. She didn’t know how much to say in front of the patrolman, but knew Coop would want to contain as much information as possible, to minimize leaks.

  Then, as if reading her mind, Coop turned his head to the patrolman and said, ‘Hey, Jimmy? It’s Jimmy, right? You mind shutting off the heat? It’s like Miami back here. We’re roasting.’

  The patrolman looked into his rearview mirror as he spoke. ‘A gauge or some shit in the heating system crapped out, so it’s got only two speeds: off and inferno. Only way to shut it off is to kill the engine.’

  ‘So kill it and open a window. In fact, open two. And go and grab yourself a smoke while you’re at it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve been dying for like an hour.’

  ‘No shit. You look paler than my sister does after she stumbles out of a confession box.’ Coop had slipped back into his Boston accent: pale-ah and sis-tah.

  The patrolman chuckled as he rolled down both windows just enough to get some fresh air without freezing them out of the back. Darby was always amazed by how easy and natural it was for Coop to break the ice and make people feel comfortable and at ease with just a few choice words – even hard nose piss-and-vinegar types like Patrolman Jimmy here, a street cop from a generation where you treated strangers and outsiders with suspicion and derision.

  Coop didn’t speak until after the guy stepped outside and away from the car. She realized then he had gotten the patrolman out of the car so he could talk to her alone.

  ‘That device you pulled out of his backpack,’ Coop said. ‘You sure it was a mobile router?’

  ‘Am I a hundred per cent sure? No. It looked like ones I’ve seen before, but I didn’t see anything to indicate that it was. I told you he painted over any logo, numbers and letters.’

  ‘Was it powered on when you took it out of the backpack?’

  ‘I didn’t see any lights to indicate it was. And he didn’t ask me to turn it on, just to place it on the counter.’

  ‘So it could very well be a jamming device.’

  ‘Could be. I’ve seen units that size and shape. They typically have a range of anywhere from thirty to sixty metres.’

  ‘Sixty metres … that’s just under a hundred feet – more than enough to jam the lobby cameras.’

  She nodded. ‘He’d want control over all communications, not only video surveillance but cellular frequencies, Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, all of it. Those jamming units are all handheld, though.’

  ‘How big are they?’

  ‘The portable ones? About the size of a walkie-talkie.’

  ‘So he could be carrying one with him, clipped to his belt or something, and you didn’t see it.’

  ‘Possible. Why?’

  ‘The building manager reviewed the recorded footage for the cameras posted outside the main entrance,’ Coop said. ‘At eight thirty-three this morning, the feed for those cameras started experiencing mild static interference. The feed then turned to snow two minutes and thirty-three seconds later. Then it began to gradually abate.’

  ‘So he had the jamming unit turned on as he approached and entered the station.’

  Coop leaned closer. ‘Briggs lives in Brookline,’ he said, his voice low. ‘We have two agents who live there. Howie got on the horn and told ’em to hightail it over to Briggs’s place. He’s not there. No one is. Neighbours are saying he and the family are up north, at their vacation house on Lake Winnipesauke.’

  Darby felt her stomach drop. ‘You have the number?’

  ‘We have all of them. The home line keeps going to voicemail, and Briggs isn’t answering his cell phone, either. Same with the wife. Even if the man picked up right now, he’s at least a hundred miles away. That’s over two hours by car – more, if it’s snowing in New Hampshire.’

  ‘Helicopter?’

  ‘Several, ours and the state police. But we’ve got to locate the man first.’

  She pulled back her jacket sleeve and checked her watch.

  One hour and forty-five minutes left.

  ‘He’s not going to make it in time,’ Coop said.

  ‘Let me go in and talk to him, see if I can buy us some time.’

  ‘That’s Howie’s call.’

  ‘Get him on the phone.’

  ‘Listen to me. The Bureau and BPD have a joint terrorism task force, but Howie’s the one driving the bus, so he calls all the shots. That means we’re going to be taking all the heat. It means you can’t go off half-cocked –’

  ‘You’re referring to what I did in the lobby?’

  Coop sucked in a deep breath through his nose, steeling himself.

  ‘What should I have done, Coop? Just stand there and watch Murphy waffle his way through a hostage negotiation? He’s lucky he didn’t get himself shot and killed, the way he was pressing our guy.’

  ‘And that’s the word I want you to always keep in mind: our. Not your guy or your case – our guy and our case. He chose you as his spokeswoman, so now you’re involved in this thing even if BPD puts up a fight – and they will, you know they will.’
/>   ‘Coop, you don’t have to explain what –’

  ‘The first sign of trouble, the moment something goes wrong, BPD is going to point the finger at you – at us. You want to stay involved, you’ve got to follow orders even if you don’t agree with them.’

  ‘Be a good girl and do what I’m told and shut my mouth and smile.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Coop’s phone rang.

  ‘I’m not the enemy,’ he said, glancing at the screen showing the incoming call. ‘I would think you would know that by now.’

  Darby sighed. Swallowed. She went to rub her face and caught sight of the time on her watch and felt the lining in her stomach constrict.

  Coop put her on the line with the hostage negotiator.

  9

  +01.27

  The Mobile Command Post was a long fibreglass structure without windows and had the look and feel of a luxury mobile home. Developed by Homeland Security, the MCP featured the highest levels of government encryption and surveillance technology. The roomy interior was buzzing with activity and beneath the morning scents of deodorant, shampoo, soap and competing brands of cologne, she smelled new carpet. Darby suspected this was the MCP’s inaugural run.

  The conference room was in the rear, equipped with a table that could seat six comfortably. She sat next to Coop. Peter Donnelly, BPD’s police commissioner, sat across from her with his elbows on top of the speckled grey laminate top and his large hands folded together and resting against his mouth, his jowly face dour as he stared at the conference call unit, a UFO-shaped device with speakers.

  On the phone was Ted Scott, the commander of the Massachusetts State Troopers’ Bomb Squad Unit. His deep voice sounded crisp and clear when he spoke. ‘Tell me again about the sample you collected.’

  ‘White and hard, like putty,’ Darby said. She had just finished walking Scott through what she’d seen on the suicide vest and the items in the gunman’s backpack. ‘It smelled like bleach.’