In another corner stands the third gunman with a Kalashnikov assault rifle pointing at Grogan.
Four women, also blindfolded, arms raised, stood against the control room. The third gunman has moved and now stood directly behind Grogan, rifle pointed at the back of the broadcaster’s head. The gun rests near Grogan’s ear, the muzzle hidden, covered by his hair.
John Grogan is terrified.
“We will resume broadcasting at 11 o’clock sharp.”
A pizza commercial comes on, then the screen goes blank.
Immediately, the first newscaster is seen blithely announcing, “Due to the situation in Studio 3, ATN will be rescheduling its normal morning broadcasting. We will keep you posted of all new developments as they unfold throughout the day. Stay tuned to ATN, America’s number one station.”
Josh turns down the volume.
“Ken, get me tapes of the last ten minutes. I want blown-up, still photographs of each section as they panned the cameras. Donny, bring me a TV technician. I want him to explain the layout and workings of the studio. Move.”
Turning to two other members of his team, Josh says, “David, you and Grace start digging. Get me the name of the Iranian ambassador at the UN, his private telephone number, and if he’s out of the country, find out where he can be reached. Get me Rangel, head of Interpol, London. If he’s unavailable, his assistant Daniel, but I need to speak to someone of authority at Interpol HQ.”
Another directive. “Eric, I want any language professor you can find who specializes in Iranian and Middle Eastern languages. Start by checking with Maple at GMD Matrix. I want a criminal psychologist. Get me Jay Cheung. He has offices in Admiralty House.”
He turns to me, “Well buddy boy, what do you think?”
I begin, “It happened so fast. I’m not sure if they’re the ones. Let me think a while. I’m not as fast on my feet as you guys are.”
I find a notepad and start making notes as my mind replays the past few minutes. Try to concentrate on nuances, how the man spoke, where the others stood, what they said. Telephones ring incessantly. Two men with earphones are monitoring the other networks.
Josh is on a speakerphone talking to Deputy Superintendent Jay Mann and someone named Stephanie. He is getting an update of what is happening outside the ATN building.
People are hurrying in and out of the conference room with computer printouts, memos, files, and messages. All seem to know exactly what they are doing and where they are going. Perfect, organized chaos. The room, buzzing noisily, reverberates with steady activity. No panic, just another job, each team member with his or her own mental checklist, quickly and methodically doing what needs to be done.
A cup of coffee is put in front of Josh. He grabs it, then drinks thirstily.
Ken walks into the room, holding a videotape in his hand. Still drinking his coffee, Josh points to the tape deck, waving his pen and continuing to talk into the speakerphone.
I am suddenly aware of perfume. I look up from my notes and see Ken talking to Josh, who turns and looks past me at a woman standing next to my chair. I turn, lean back sideways, and look up to see who she is. The bottom swell of her breasts is at my eye level; her pale silk blouse nearly brushes my cheek.
I move away slightly to see her face. She has coppery hair, shoulder-length, and appears to be in her late thirties. She is watching Josh, a slight frown creasing her forehead. Finishing his speakerphone conversation, Josh motions for the newcomer to sit down. She sits in the chair next to me, looking slowly around the room, absorbing its frenetic energy.
Her back is rigid as she leans forward slightly in the chair, tense and uncomfortable at the noise of people shouting and milling around.
Watching her intently, I see her face searching the room. Occasionally she purses her lips, sometimes chewing on the bottom one. When she finally turns toward me, our eyes connect. Hers are brown. Our eyes lock, and I hold her for the briefest second with my eyes. How long is a moment in time when two souls meet for the first time? She nods her head slightly, giving me a quick, embarrassed smile then unsure, looks right past me.
I can see the silk blouse straining, contouring tightly to her body as she twists looking around the room. I can’t take my eyes off her.
Josh calls, “Miss McGinnis.”
Startled, she snaps around. “Sorry, I was just looking around.”
“Please go to the blackboard and outline the studio as well as you can, showing doors, camera positions, anchor desks, and so on.”
She gets up and walks toward the blackboard, straight-backed. She has the gliding walk of a fashion model, and is wearing a blue skirt that falls a fraction of an inch below her knees. Her white silk blouse is expensive designer and perfectly tailored to the contour of her body.
Picking up chalk, she rapidly draws the interior of the ATN studio, marking each exit and showing where the anchors are sitting. Using a different color, she positions each cameraman.
Intently watching every move Ms. McGinnis makes, I begin fantasizing about her. Everything about her movements are magnified. I find myself drifting.
I am right-handed, can hardly use my left to write or sketch. However, when sculpting, I am totally ambidextrous. My best works, which I’ve occasionally sold to dealers who commissioned my work, were sculptures of the female form. When looking at a nude model I am about to sculpt, it is a purely clinical experience. How her neck or legs are angled or her breasts positioned evokes no desire. As a sculptor, my concentration is the shape of the breast as its size and fullness fall into whatever pose the model on the turntable is adopting. I prefer to move the turntable slightly about every ten minutes or so, until I’ve completed the full circle, and the clay is now beginning to take the form of the posed model. Next, I concentrate on each feature, spending hours to find the right proportions and how they relate to the overall figure.
Watching Ms. McGinnis working at the blackboard stirs more than just desire. I ponder about the way soft clay would have the same smooth texture and feel as her flesh. Sculpting her breasts or thigh, calf, or leg, would be sensuous, erotic. Subconscious memories will guide my fingers, unconsciously reminding me of loving and being loved.
Fantasy gives way to reality as she finishes and turns toward Josh, waiting for him to direct her further.
“Please explain these sketches to us, Ms. McGinnis. Talk to us as if we were fourteen-year olds. Don’t use technical terms.”
Addressing him, while half looking at the blackboard, she points with the chalk, making circles where the anchors sit.
“Both anchors sit on a couch. The flowers on the table in front to them hide a microphone or TV monitor, or their notes. A teleprompter will be here, just out of camera range. Three cameras will be filming from different angles pointed at them. A small red light flashes on the camera that will be shooting them. The red light alerts the anchor to look into the lens of a specific camera.
She takes a breath, stretching the white silk. “Cameras are on wheels so they’re able to move them from one section to another. Cables are all over the floor. Four separate areas take up about half the area of the studio. The couch is one area. The second is where an anchor interviews a guest. It usually consists of two easy chairs. The third is weather maps. The fourth is sports. Each section on its own is very small. All are decorated differently. Chairs are also on wheels. Telephones are everywhere, as are clocks. The lighting is bright in this section. TV screens out of our camera range show all three major networks, plus a local station will be on. The reason for that is in case any station breaks a story that we want to follow up on. Special copy would then be written and read into the teleprompter.
“This is how we flash across the screen something like ‘Breaking News.’ The teleprompter is situated above the area where the technicians sit. Two assistant directors, assignment editors, and reporters make up the studio crew. The floor director is in constant communication with the director in the booth. Our booth is situated over her
e, near the exit door. There is only one exit door.”
She takes a step backward, pausing to look at the blackboard to see if she’s missed anything. Satisfied, she continues.
“Looking through one-way glass, our booth director can see the entire studio at all times. He’s the TV announcer, the voice that is never seen. He announces the start of news, and so on. In front of him, on a wall, are twenty-eight TV screens. Most will be in use at one time. He chooses which angles and shots to use. For example, he’ll call out, ‘ Use camera one, two, or three, dolly in for close up, dolly in for double shot, two shots, head shot’ and so forth. They have a special language, a sort of TV shorthand.
“A video technician sits next to him and presses buttons. He has buttons that will split the screen, superimpose, use special effects, dissolve, fade, or wipe. Next to him is an audio technician. His job is to make sure that all sounds are clear and free of distortion or static. I know our general manager and chief engineer are in the building somewhere. They will have provided the police with engineering, electrical, sewage, structural, and layout maps. Do any of you have questions?”
“Are there any other exits, trap doors, sky lights?” asks Josh. “Is there any way for us to go in, no matter how small, that you know of?”
“None that I’m aware of,” she answers. Her voice is deep with a lovely timbre.
“Any other questions?” Josh looks around the crowded room. “Okay. Rick you and Jeannie run the tapes. Steve, have Townsend help move the TV around so Miss McGinnis can see it. Please stand next to our TV and point out anything else you see. Here. Take the remote then freeze the picture when you speak.”
For the second time, I watch ATN’s 7 o’clock news. I see the Iranians and admire their professionalism. They’ve thought of everything. A rescue attempt will obviously fail.
When Ms. McGinnis finishes, she stands near the blackboard, uncertain of what to do. Josh asks her to sit down. I will her to sit next to me once more. When she returns to our space and sits down, I know it is meant to be. Our legs briefly touch as she pulls the chair towards the table.
CHAPTER NINE
Josh says, “Okay, people, let’s hear some ideas. Jay, go first.”
I fleetingly say a prayer to myself, invoking an intention that I won’t make a fool of myself in her eyes. I direct my observations toward the Subversives, occasionally looking at Josh as I speak, all the while knowing she as of now is really my only audience. I’ve been making notes from the time of the first broadcast.
Looking at the note pad, I stand up from my chair and begin, “Seeing the men a second time, I’m sure they’re not the group I saw. The Iranians in the hotel room were slim; these men all seem to be heavier. I know their clothes are different, but surely they wouldn’t disguise their body bulk. They would have no reason to do so, unless they spotted me in the hotel. If they did, they could probably have killed me there, so I assume that they’re still unaware of me. Body armor would bulk them up, but not as much. Looking at their hands; they are larger. I don’t think that slim people have large hands, so my gut says this is a different group.
“If that is so, then we have two teams of terrorists, not one as I’d originally suspected. Maybe with the mayor being killed and the other incidents today, we have numerous small cells of these people getting ready to commit more killings that could happen in any part of the city, or anywhere else in America. They seem to be well trained and confident, in perfect control of the people they have captured, as well as their surroundings, for the timing of each incident so far is according to a predetermined schedule with precise planning.
I glance around the room. Everyone’s eyes are on me. I continue, “Nothing seems to be haphazard. Everything has gone their way. Until now, nothing has happened where they have to react. Everything is pro-active. This means meticulous detailed intelligence has been passed on to them by someone who understands the inner workings at ATN. I suggest you take my tapes and get a voice expert to compare them. Speaking through a kaffiyeh shouldn’t distort their voices that much.”
I turn to Ms. McGinnis ,”We see only four terrorists. Could a fifth have been hiding in the control booth?” I try to appear casual, as if I’ve asked a professional question, but it was just to look at her again, my eyes taking in her beauty, reveling at my boldness. Her eyes hold my gaze longer than the question I’ve posed.
“I doubt it,” she says, her voice steady and lovely. “When our booth director realized what had happened this morning, he turned on the emergency switch. That activates tapes that continue to pick up all conversations anywhere in the studio. Our people and I presume also the police are hearing everything that is being said inside the studio. If the hostage takers are not aware that they can be heard by the police, it might give the police some sort of an advantage.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Josh, why don’t you check with the SWAT team to see if they’re talking. Get the tapes here and I’ll translate. Also, you’d better find a fifth man. He’s either getting ready to provide them with their escape when they decide to finish this, or he could be in a room across the street or in another city. I think you should look for a tie-in between all the incidents. I got the tape on Tuesday. The buses were shot up Monday. The killers left behind pamphlets, nothing else. Why were there no other incidents all day? The terrorists just disappeared, melted into prearranged hideouts. We tried to find them, but couldn’t. Hotels would have been too dangerous, so my bet is that they have accomplices who have hidden them, and also hidden the explosives and weapons. They must have one or more safe houses because the amount of explosives used to blow up Lower Wacker’s roads and retaining walls could not have been carried in briefcases. Explosives of that magnitude must have been stockpiled over a period of time, and would have needed to be transported, probably in a truck.”
I glance at my notepad, crossing off points I’ve discussed.
“Today is Wednesday. On the tape, they spoke to someone, mentioning specific airlines, with very precise times. The names of the airlines and times were repeated twice. You’ve all got transcripts of those times, so they are a critical part of an overall plan. O’Hare will need to be covered at the airline concourses that where mentioned later today. Killing the mayor, blowing up Wacker Drive, and now hostages at ATN, clearly these people know what they’re doing and each incident has been a success, especially when selecting their targets.
“They’re thorough, do not hesitate to kill, and I’m sure are being helped by someone who is the director of operations, or some group locally that has infiltrated Chicago earlier on. Find their accomplices quickly, then maybe you might be able to stop this. If you don’t, a lot more people will die.
“Remember at the World Trade Center in 1993, the Oklahoma bombing, the army barracks in Saudi Arabia, the killers planted their bombs and gave themselves enough time to escape before these were detonated. If they cannot make an effective getaway, the Iranians will always view it as a failure. Worst case scenario, which the ones in the hotel alluded to, is the Iranians want to die with their victims and consider it a victory for their motherland. They all reiterated their pride in the fact that today they were going to die.
I look around the room again. Rapt attention greets me. The members of the Subversive team are taking notes. “But in the studio, there are only eight people and four Iranians. They won’t sacrifice four for eight; it would be an insult to their cause. Martyrdom requires killing many infidels, not just eight. If all four are going to die, they have plans to kill hundreds of others. Those are the percentages that they’re aiming at. Maybe it will happen when they exit the building with their hostages. I do not know, but four for eight is definitely not going to happen. This is what you have to prevent or you’ll have a bloodbath.
“Grogan is one of the most famous high-profile T V anchors in this country. He sympathizes with their views completely, so his status has value worldwide. I am sure Al Jazeerah, where he has appeared many times as their Amer
ican commentator, is broadcasting this live to all Arab countries, and they are doing re-runs of the earlier incidents. So, how this ends is going to be how America is perceived. If it ends badly, Grogan and his followers will be all over us, blaming us. America will be the villain and America will be vilified. I am sure you all are personally going to get some high-up major political pressure very soon.”
I glance down once again at my notes and cross off more points. Then I think of something else. Quickly running my finger to the bottom of the page, I jot down a few words, then say, “When these killers die—and for sure they’re going to—you have to find a way to limit how many people they’re able to and take with them when they detonate those bombs, whether in the studio or wherever their planners want them to die.
“Your biggest problem will be that the hostage-takers might just be a diversion. They have requested twelve hours. While we are geared up to await their continuation, all of us are focusing only on the TV. These terrorists and their companions know exactly what they’re planning. You don’t, so you can only wait and then counterattack. That puts you at a distinct disadvantage. You’re aware of that, but so are they. You don’t have much time left, so you need to pull in all available resources to find their accomplices. And you need to find them fast. What I am concerned about is, where are the five from the hotel, are they in Chicago, and if so what are they planning while we continue to watch TV?”
I sit down.
Then I look at Josh, I wait for him to say something. The smallness of my future burns. Have I made a fool of myself? He sits, tapping a pencil on his notepad. The room is quiet, save for the straining air conditioners that now seem to be humming loudly. There is no movement anywhere around the table. Expectant, immobile, the Subversives watch Josh warily, sensing the thunder that is building within him.
He smiles a tight grimace, ominously banging the table with his fist as he stands up. With a sudden movement, he hurls his coffee cup savagely with the viciousness of a snake against the wall across the room from where he sits.
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