Steel reached out to stroke her neck. Poor May, he thought, she has absolutely no idea what could happen if I get it wrong.
NEWS HAD SPREAD TO those within their inner circle; members of Bianca’s immediate family were informed as a matter of courtesy.
Holleran, the Deputy Superintendent of the NYSP, personally called her parents to give them assurances all was being done to get Bianca out of harm’s way. Conveniently failing to tell them only Steel was permitted to defuse the bomb. He reasoned: What good would it do to know they could lose two members of the family in one go?
Two plainclothes officers were sent to her parents’ residence to sit with them in the vigil. They would later say that it was pure agony to watch Bianca’s Mom and Dad suffer in silence, helpless and despondent.
The entire New York Forensic Lab had practically ground to a halt, with every member glued to the television and watching one of their own cope with a life-and-death situation.
Fearing the worst, Queen Gomez, the ballistics superstar, clasped her hands in front of her face. She’s such a sweet girl, she thought.
And there’s May on the screen. Her head on her Mom’s lap, oblivious to the danger.
She remembered a conversation they once had out in the foyer. She had visited the Lab with Serenity Blue, her blind dog.
‘Hey,’ Bianca had said, ‘How are you?’
Before she could reply, the sweet girl who was Bianca was already down on the ground having a conversation with the golden retriever. When she finally got up, she said, ‘We’re thinking about adopting another dog. April is kinda lonely by herself. Is it hard to look after a blind dog?’
‘It has a lot of challenges, but nothing that can’t be overcome. And Moppet is such a great help. You know, blind dogs are always at the front of the queue for being put to sleep. It’s hard to find adoptive parents for them.’
Bianca had this look on her face. Put to sleep, a euphemism for being killed. But suddenly, her countenance changed. Queen knew then that the Steel’s new dog would be blind.
At the reception, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing. One detective was insisting on speaking to the Blood Spatter Expert, ‘This is urgent, it can’t wait. Tell her to pull her finger —’
He didn’t get very far, the Forensic Lab’s receptionist yelled at him and said, ‘The Blood Spatter Expert is the woman with a bomb strapped to her chest. Now get lost!’ Cora de Leon slammed the phone down on its receiver so hard it was a wonder it survived annihilation.
At the SWAT HQ, Team Leaders of Teams Two, Three and Four were gathered around the conference table and discussing a contingency plan in case it went hinky. Sam Logan and Team One were already on the ball.
Present at the meeting, representing their Teams, were Donna Phillips, and Conrad Troy and Ethan Lane, who also happened to be the younger brother of Dylan Lane.
As much as they wanted to be out there, too, it wouldn’t be practical. New York City is a big city, the chances of someone taking advantage of this dramatic siege was high and, therefore, they had to be on stand-by in the event of something else blowing up in their faces.
RON TAYLOR, FORMER top cop, now one of the City’s top hostage negotiators personally heard from Dylan Lane, requesting assistance. He promptly delegated his classes to senior members of his teaching staff at the Police Academy.
He knew where he’d rather be at this very moment. Ron Taylor was always up for a challenge.
Moments later he was at the scene, climbing on the Command Truck to confer with Dylan Lane.
Yamamoto was star-struck. She looked at the man with glazed, bright eyes like that of the Japanese cartoon character Sailor Moon. It’s not every day I get to meet a living legend.
Taylor smiled causing her heart to skip a beat. Lane introduced the rookie to his closest buddy. The man who wrote the manual on hostage negotiation for the City of New York.
Yamamoto managed to say what she would later describe as a dumb-ass response, ‘How do you do, sir?’
Taylor replied, ‘I’m good... and you?’
Before she could answer the phone rang, the bomber was calling yet again.
‘Dylan Lane, what can I do for you?’
The bomber, still unidentified at this point, issued another terse demand. ‘I want the tent torn down. And I want them back right in front of City Hall. You have thirty minutes, or I blow them up. Thirty minutes.’ He hung up immediately, clearly not willing to negotiate the terms.
By this time, a signing translator had arrived at the scene, Jean Martin’s girlfriend Maura, a sign language teacher. She raised a red flag to let Martin know to sight her in his binocular.
Using American Sign Language, she told Martin what the bomber wanted.
Martin gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. He coughed before going in to let Steel know that the tent had to come down. ‘The bastard wants his viewing pleasure,’ he said grimly. ‘We have thirty minutes.’
Steel nodded. He had an inkling it would be the case. Thinking laterally, he didn’t dismantle the tent. He just escorted Bianca and May back in front of City Hall. He then, with Martin’s help, moved the lightweight tent out to the concrete ground, as well.
He positioned the three of them on the shaded side of the temporary shelter, slightly off centre of the western side. It was a deliberate ploy on his part; he wanted to know where the bomber was situated; and, it worked.
Five minutes later, the bomber called again, sounding irked and menacing. ‘The tent has to go. You have twenty-five minutes.’ It indicated to them that he couldn’t see them standing on the west side. Going clockwise, he moved the three of them to the northern side of the tent. They would keep moving until the bomber would stop calling.
MINUTES LATER, STEEL approached Martin, ‘I have a recollection of taking out the top prize at a state-wide science contest twenty years ago. Different high schools were represented, so I don’t know any of the finalists. One of them could be the bomber.’
‘Well, that narrows it down,’ said Martin half relieved. ‘I’ll let them know.’
Martin raised a red flag; Maura put him in her sight. She conveyed the message to Lane, who in turn asked Yamamoto to search records from about twenty years ago.
The young officer couldn’t believe her ears, ‘Twenty years?’ she repeated. ‘That doesn’t make sense. That’s a long time to be holding a grudge.’
Taylor spoke calmly and authoritatively, telling the newbie, ‘It doesn’t have to make sense to you and me. It only has to make sense to him.’
She looked at the man, who wrote the Manual and said, ‘On it.’
Lane and Taylor locked eyes and smiled.
Ten minutes went by. The bomber hadn’t called; Lane called Logan to update him on the situation.
Logan cheerily said, ‘Well, then, it means we got it right. Our triangulation confirms he’s somewhere north. I’ll let you know how we progress.’
MEANWHILE, APRIL TOOK just fifteen minutes to locate the cleaning trolley. No one human would know, but she sniffed not the human scent, but the trace element of the plastique used in the bomb.
The bomber had concealed the vest inside the trolley. Once he had incapacitated Bianca, dressed her in her wedding gown and strapped the vest on to her, he placed her in it to be wheeled out to the City Hall grounds. The entire thing proceeded without a hitch, such was the efficiency of his planning.
The trolley was left not far from the rear exit door of the building; the bomber abandoning it in haste so that he could leave the premises before police arrived to cordon the area.
Knight and the building supervisor, together with April, returned to the Command post with the trolley where a fingerprint specialist was called in to dust it for prints. A match came up.
The fingerprint specialist, a CSI herself, identified the bomber as George Lee, ‘He’s in the system because he used to work for a private company with military contracts. He was doing classified research and development for them until a
month ago.’
When Steel was told of this, all he could think of was Great, a deranged genius.
Lane didn’t waste any time, ‘Knight, locate family members. We need to profile this guy. Get the police to help you.’
‘Copy that,’ he replied.
He turned to his second, ‘Kearns, look for former colleagues, employers, therapist if any. I want anyone who can give us an insight into George’s psychology.’
Kearns didn’t even waste time replying. She just went off to find a space to work on the case. Time was ticking away.
‘Yamamoto, speak to the building super again... find out what George Lee was doing here. How did he get into the cleaning crew?’
‘Copy.’
STEEL CONCENTRATED on the vest bomb, deliberately ignoring the timer that was so in-his-face. There were multiple wires, all tangled in a mess, like spaghetti. Worse still they were all the same colour, and by some touch of irony, George had chosen the one that denotes happiness and joy, yellow. Although he once read that yellow could also signify deceit and cowardice.
The tangle of wires brought back memories of a certain Aston Cole, another deranged genius with a death wish. He stopped his thought processes in its track. There’s nothing to be gained thinking of past traumatic events.
He decided there was only one thing to do, colour it himself.
He spoke to Martin, ‘I need balls of wool, five different colours. Sticky tapes and scissors. ASAP.’ He didn’t explain what he needed them for, but emphasised, ‘It’s urgent.’
Martin sent the message, highlighting the urgency. Lane sent an officer to get them without delay.
When the craft materials arrived. Steel proceeded to painstakingly loop the coloured wool around the wire. He saw the clock, 2:00.04.
Plenty of time yet, but he was sure all the armchair explosive-ordnance experts watching in the comfort of their homes were commenting how stupid he was and how long he was taking. Happens all the time, people watch movies and, not knowing the minutiae of it all, think all it takes to disable a bomb was to snip a wire with a cutter.
KNIGHT WAS THE FIRST to report back with George’s estranged mother no less. She was frail and stooped, emotionally and physically tired. The first words that came out of her mouth were, ‘He always had it in for Thomas Steel. It’s a wonder it took this long, but I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’
The broken mother wept and found comfort in the arms of Ron Taylor. He sat her down and said, ‘Why don’t we start from the beginning?’
MINUTES LATER, LANE’S earpiece crackled, ‘Yeah Logan, anything?’
The blond warrior reported they had cleared three possibles, ‘One to go.’
Lane was excited. ‘That’s great, Logan, your team is doing great.’
‘Yeah Lane, but now that we know who we’re dealing with, I think this guy has a dead man’s switch, a genius like that wouldn’t go down easy.’
Lane felt his chest contract, anxiety etched deeply in the creases of his skin, ‘That’s not what I want to hear, but you’re right. Besides, we can’t take any chances. We must assume the worst. What’s your tactical suggestion?’
‘My team and I, we’ll dress down, no tactical gear. Go door knocking in the last few buildings dressed as tradesmen. We’ll clear the building in pairs. We’ll just use chemical foam spray.’
‘Good plan. Go for it, Logan.’
Logan briefed his men, paired them off and gave each pair a gun dispenser with sticky foam. ‘Remember guys, the range for this non-lethal weapon is short and the aim can easily go sideways. So be careful with your aim, no mistakes. We can’t let him drop that switch or we’ll be vacuuming Steel and Bianca off the grounds of City Hall.’
The choice of words was deliberately harsh and graphic, but Logan needed every man under his command to understand the implication of making a mistake. ‘It wouldn’t be pretty,’ he said.
Logan patched through to SWAT HQ, ‘Do you have his latest photo for us, yet?’
‘Uploading to your phone now.’
Within seconds, their PDAs beeped. In the picture, George Lee appeared professional in his three-piece suit, silk tie, eyeglasses and trimmed salt and pepper hair. The face didn’t have any distinguishing features. ‘Let’s hope he still looks like that, though. This was taken three years ago.’
The last building had fourteen floors. With only three pairs of them, they wouldn’t have time to door- knock every office.
Using his extraordinary skills at geometry, Logan reckoned the bomber could only be holed up at the top three floors and the roof of the building. ‘He can’t be on the eleventh floor, or he couldn’t possibly have a view of the Command Truck,’ he reasoned.
‘Toby, Alex, Bravo One. Take the twelfth floor. Jess and Philip, Bravo Two, take thirteen. Bill... you and me, top floor. Any questions before we disperse?’
‘I have one,’ said Alex, ‘Why can’t we use April again or any of our K-9s?’
Logan thought about it for a moment, but decided it wasn’t a good idea. ‘What if April attacks and he lets go of the switch? It would be game over.’
‘Any other questions?’ The silence that followed assured Logan they were all on the same page.
They went to an adjacent building under construction and asked to borrow clothes from the workmen. They prepared themselves to go covert, very much aware that the Steel’s survival hinged on their success.
GEORGE LEE WAS AMUSED, as he watched Steel loop strands of wool around the wires; he was sure as hell Steel would soon run out of time.
The dead man’s switch was lying beside him on the desk, his thumb itching to press the switch and then... let it go, ‘Boom!’ he said to himself with glee.
He heard a knock on his door, ‘Who’s there?’ he asked angrily.
‘Fumigator. We have reports of cockroach and bed bug infestation,’ said the voice. ‘We’ve been called to fumigate. It’ll only take 10 minutes to spray. It’s really quick.’
‘I don’t need it.’ Lee said irritated
‘That’s fine, but you need to sign a form saying you’re refusing service. You know how it is?’
George Lee took a step to open the door, ‘One can’t be too careful,’ he said to himself, but before he opened the door, he armed the dead man’s switch.
The door opened.
‘Where do I sign?’ asked a grumpy old man who didn’t look anything like the man in their PDA. Toby handed the false form, not realising that the dishevelled, bearded, unwashed man was George Lee.
The mistake would come at an enormous human cost.
6: Profiling
THE INTERIOR OF THE COMMAND TRUCK appeared intimidating to Mrs. Lee. The whole array of gadgetry around her was disconcerting. She could have been inside the Star Trek’s Starship Enterprise for all she knew. To be surrounded by men and women who wore uniforms more suited to a combat zone than urban policing was frightening.
And those unfamiliar noises, what were they? She recognised the hum of the air conditioner, but not much else.
Ron Taylor smiled and asked her in the kindest way to help them get inside George Lee’s head. He looked into her eyes, held her hands reassuringly, ‘Let’s start from the beginning.’
But first, he turned to Yamamoto, ‘A glass of water, please, for Mrs. Lee.’
The Wii One heeded quickly. Moments later, she provided the old lady with a plastic cup of water, doing the same for the two bosses on board.
The frail woman gratefully sipped some of the liquid to moisten her lips and parched throat. Her hands shook a little, spilling some of the water down her shirt. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
Lane shook his head slightly and said, ‘Nothing to apologise for.’ He handed her a box of tissues.
Time was ticking by, seemingly too quickly for comfort. Taylor and Lane resisted the urge to look at the time. The old lady was under enough pressure as it was. The humane thing to do was to let her take her time.
Her lower l
ip trembling, she proceeded to tell a chapter from the pages of their life story. Her voice quivered, as she narrated a heart-breaking tale from their distant past.
She began with: ‘George expected to win the top prize that year. You should know, there was not a competition he entered that he didn’t win, but this one was special. It was State-wide, the biggest in the state of New York. His Dad promised him a trip to Cape Canaveral if he won the top prize.’ She paused to gather herself.
Twisting the tissue in her hands, she continued, ‘My husband... His Dad... was an astrophysicist, part of NASA’s international team. He took after his Dad’s genius.’
Her eyes watered with more tears. Taylor and Lane nodded, wordlessly encouraging her to go on. ‘George didn’t get to see Cape Canaveral,’ she said, daubing them with shredded tissue.
‘Never got to see where his Dad worked. Never experienced that time together because that day... the day the winner was announced ... his Dad committed suicide.’
Yamamoto, who was listening, clasped her mouth and thought, Oh my God.
Lane and Taylor telepathically exchanged messages as they locked eyes. In essence, they said to each other: Our boy is fucked.
MRS. LEE SOBBED UNCONTROLLABLY, as memories of that horrific day when an emotionally fragile fifteen-year-old found his Dad slumped on a chair with a gunshot wound to his head.
They had all returned home in silence from the award ceremony. The drive was fraught with tension. She couldn’t put her finger on it. It was only in hindsight she realised that it was on that day her husband had made a decision to end his suffering and so was peaceful. Yes, he seemed at peace. Not his usual cranky self.
She remembered him glancing at the back seat to smile at George, even patted his knees and said, ‘You did well to come second. I’m proud of you.’
She went about preparing dinner as soon as they got home. As usual, George went to his bedroom to sulk until a frightful sound, ‘BANG’ shattered the quiet.
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