6 Stone Barrington Novels (195 page)

STONE SAT IN
the left copilot's seat of the helicopter and looked back at Lance, who had contrived a harness and some straps to keep him in the back of the helicopter. He was checking over a heavy rifle with a telescopic sight. The pilot sat nervously in the right front seat, waiting for instructions.

Suddenly, the radio in Stone's hand came to life.

“
Chopper One,
this is Stanford.”

Stone handed the radio to the pilot.

“Stanford,
Chopper One,
” the pilot said.

“What's your location?”

“East Side Heliport.”

“Are you refueled?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here are your instructions: Take off and fly down the river to Forty-second Street, then up Eighth Avenue to Forty-third, then down Forty-third to the Briggs Building. Do you know it?”

“Yes, sir, there's a heliport on top.”

“Right. Set down there, and I'll get aboard with a passenger.”

“What's our destination from there, sir?”

“I'll tell you when I'm aboard.”

“Yes, sir, I'm on my way; starting engine now.”

“See you shortly.”

The pilot looked back at Lance.

“Let's go,” Lance said. He was practicing opening the sliding passenger door on the pilot's side of the helicopter. “When you set down, I want this door pointing at Stanford,” Lance said. “I don't care what the wind sock says, this door has to face him. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The pilot started through his checklist and a moment later, they were lifting off the heliport.

Stone put on a headset so that he could talk with Lance and the pilot over the noise of the engine. The pilot plugged Billy Bob's handheld radio into a socket on his headset, so they could all hear it over the intercom.

The helicopter rose and turned toward the East River, gaining altitude rapidly. At a thousand feet the pilot headed down the river, and when he was abreast of Forty-second Street he turned right and followed it west across Manhattan. Stone had flown in helicopters before, but never in the cockpit, and he watched as the pilot maneuvered the chopper. For controls there was a stick and two rudder pedals, as on a conventional airplane, then there was a lever Stone knew was called the “collective,” which, apparently, had something to do with the propeller on the tail cone. Stone's understanding was that it kept the chopper from spinning with the big rotors.

Stone looked back at Lance, who was on his feet, the big rifle slung over a shoulder, looking ready. “Lance?” he said.

“Yes?”

“You will remember that Billy Bob is handcuffed to Peter, won't you?”

Lance did not reply.

“Lance?”

“Shut up, and be ready to follow me out of the helicopter,” Lance said.

“Any other instructions?” Stone asked.

“Yes, don't let Billy Bob shoot either one of us.”

“Pilot,” Lance said. “I want you to land very slowly, more slowly than you're accustomed to, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.

They were passing Times Square. Stone craned his neck and saw that the NYPD had emptied it of traffic, that the only vehicles in the streets were black-and-white cars. He was amazed to see how quickly this had happened, but he knew the department had a procedure for clearing Times Square, as part of its response to terrorist threats.

“Eighth Avenue,” the pilot called out.

“Slow down,” Lance said. “I want him to have plenty of time to see you coming.”

The pilot eased back the throttle, and the nose of the chopper came up to allow it to maintain altitude.

“You see the building?” Lance asked.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied. “I'm aiming for the big
H
on the roof. Wind's from the north, less than ten knots, according to the wind sock on the roof.”

“Remember, land with the right side of the aircraft pointing at Stanford, regardless of where the wind is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone heard a magazine driven home and the rifle having its action worked.

“Remember Peter,” he said into his microphone.

No reply from Lance.

“I don't see anybody on the roof,” the pilot said.

“Neither do I,” Stone replied.

“Neither do I,” Lance said.

“If I don't see him, how do you want me to set down?” the pilot asked.

“Land into the wind.”

“Roger.”

Stone could see other helicopters in the distance, but they were all keeping well clear of Times Square. He wondered what arms Billy Bob had with him, besides the grenades. He supposed he was going to find out in a moment.

The helicopter turned south, flying a downwind leg to the building, and Stone's side of the aircraft was now facing the building, perhaps a hundred feet below. He still saw no one on the roof. The chopper turned its base leg, to the east, then turned for its final approach, upwind to the north. The entire rooftop was laid out before them, empty.

The pilot brought the machine slowly down, and as they cleared the edge of the roof they were only about fifteen feet off the deck.

Stone glanced back at Lance. He was braced, the rifle ready in his right hand, his left on the door handle.

Ten feet, then five. Then Stone saw somebody.

THE SOMEBODY
Stone saw was a man dressed in black with a helmet, full body armor and an automatic weapon. Then a dozen more of them stepped from behind air-conditioning units, ventilators and other objects on the roof. Stone caught sight of the back of one of them, and emblazoned across it were the letters “FBI.”

They surrounded the helicopter the moment it touched down, and one of them stood in front of the machine, his arms raised and crossed, which meant “Cut your engine.” The pilot did so.

Somebody threw open the sliding rear door of the helicopter to find Lance, strapped in place, with his rifle at port arms. Men were all over him, taking the rifle and cutting the straps. Lance was replaced by an FBI agent, who pointed his machine gun at Stone and the pilot.

“Out!” he screamed. “Out right now!!!”

Stone and the pilot were assisted violently from the helicopter, thrown facedown on the roof, searched and handcuffed. Then Stone looked up and saw a familiar face, under a mass of blond hair. “Tiff!” he yelled.

“You!”
she yelled back. “What are
you
doing here? Get him on his feet!” she shouted to the agents.

They stood Stone up. “Gee, aren't you glad to see me?” Stone asked.

“Throw him off the building!” she shouted to nobody in particular. Nobody moved, for which Stone was grateful.

“I asked you what you're doing here,” she said to Stone.

“Uncuff me and don't throw me off the building, and I'll tell you,” Stone said.

Two agents marched Lance up to where they were standing.

“I believe you've met Lance Cabot, of the Central Intelligence Agency?” Stone said.

“So nice to see you again,” Lance said drily. “How do you do?”

“How do I fucking do?” Tiff screamed. “I do terrible! What are you people doing on this roof?”

“We are here to detain one Billy Bob Barnstormer,” Lance said, “a man of many aliases. What, may I ask, are
you
doing here?”

“I am the goddamned United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and I am here to oversee the capture of the same man. Where is he?”

“My information was that he was on this roof and desired helicopter transportation,” Lance said, “which I was planning to provide, after I had shot him.”

“Tiff,” Stone said, “would you kindly uncuff us, and maybe we can help.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, exasperatedly, “take the cuffs off them.”

Stone, Lance and the pilot were uncuffed.

“Now,” Tiff said, “tell me why you're here.”

“I'm very sorry,” Lance said. “I didn't realize you were hard of hearing. WE ARE HERE AT THE INVITATION OF BILLY BOB, TO TAKE HIM OFF THIS ROOF. DID YOU GET THAT?”

“Stop shouting at me, you . . . you
spook!
” she shouted at him.

“Tiff,” Stone said, “Lance has told you repeatedly why we're here. We've been pursuing Billy Bob for some time, now. How did you and your band of merry men happen to be here on this roof?”

“We were in a meeting downstairs,” she said, “when all hell seemed
to break loose in Times Square. I called the police commissioner, and he advised me that Billy Bob was on or on his way to the roof.”

“And everybody just happened to have handy one of those fetching black outfits with the body armor?”

“The fucking New York office of the FBI is in this building!” she screamed. “Now where is Billy Bob?”

“Well, he's clearly not on the roof,” Stone said.

Lance spoke up. “Where are the NYPD?” he asked.

“In the fucking garage!” she shouted.

“Then, may I suggest a thorough search of the building, with the NYPD working their way up and your agents working their way down? If Billy Bob is in the building, perhaps you'll encounter him.”

“SEARCH THE GODDAMNED BUILDING!!” Tiffany screamed, waving her arms at the agents.

“Tiff,” Stone said, taking her arm and steering her toward the door, “if you don't calm down, you're going to have a stroke. Take a few deep breaths.”

She stopped yelling and began breathing deeply. “Thank you,” she said, finally. “That's better.”

“Now, why don't you just phone the police commisioner and request that he start his people up, floor by floor,” Stone said, as soothingly as he could.

“Stop talking to me as if I were a child,” she said, whipping out her cell phone.

“You're getting excited again,” Stone said. “Now, how can Lance and I help?”

“You can stay on the roof and out of the way,” she said.

Lance walked over. “Are you aware of what Billy Bob is carrying?” he asked.

“I heard he had a small boy and a suitcase,” Tiff replied.

“Do you know what is in the suitcase?”

“No.”

“It contains thirty-six extremely powerful new grenades developed by the army, and a rifle launcher. If he is allowed to start firing them, many people will die.”

Tiff looked appalled. “Nobody told me that.”

“Perhaps you should mention that to your agents?” Lance said.

She grabbed an agent. “Guard that door, and see that these three people stay on the roof,” she said, then she disappeared through the door.

“That,” Lance said, “is a madwoman.”

“Well, yes,” Stone said.

“It frightens me to think that she is in charge here.”

“I think she just wants to kill Billy Bob personally,” Stone said.

“You don't mean to tell me she's armed!”

“I don't think she'll need a gun; she'll just claw him to death.”

“How did this go wrong?” Lance asked.

“I don't know. Perhaps it was something to do with the FBI being housed in this building?”

“But why didn't Billy Bob make it to the roof?”

“I don't know, but I think we should hang on to his radio; it's in the helicopter.” Stone retrieved both his and the pilot's. “What do we do now?”

Lance was on his phone. “I'm calling my director,” he said. “Perhaps he can free us from this rooftop prison.” He walked away and began speaking into the phone.

Stone walked over to the edge of the roof and looked over the chest-high parapet into Times Square. The only things moving down there were police cars and policemen. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“It's Dino. Were you in that chopper that landed on the roof?”

“Yes. We were greeted by the insane U.S. Attorney and her mob of jackbooted thugs. Right now, we're prisoners on the roof, but Lance is talking with Langley about changing that. Where are you?”

“I'm on the ground floor of the garage, and I've had instructions
from the commissioner to start a search of the building. It has sixty-one floors, by the way.”

“Yes, Lance suggested that—quite sensibly, I thought. The FBI are working their way down, floor by floor. My guess is, the search shouldn't take more than a month.”

“That was my estimate, too.”

Then the radio in Stone's hand came to life. “Chopper One,” Billy Bob said. “This is Stanford. Do you read?”

Stone waved the pilot over. “Answer Stanford; find out where he is.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said into the radio. “I'm on the roof; where are you?”

Stone looked around for Lance, but he had disappeared, presumably behind some of the equipment on the roof.

“Here are your instructions,” Billy Bob said.