Hostage Taker (10 page)

11:37 a.m.

We have an eyewitness on the telephone right now. Vinnie is on the building staff at the Olympic Tower, the fifty-one-story building on Fifth Avenue next door to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

Vinnie, can you tell us what you saw?

Vinnie, tell us about your building’s evacuation.

E
ve checked to be sure the recording device was active. Then she answered the ringing phone. “I thought you’d forgotten about me. You said thirty minutes. It’s been forty-eight.”

“I’ve been busy. You found my message?”

“I did. What’s going on in there?”

“I needed to be sure you understood the situation. So you wouldn’t be tempted to try anything stupid.”

“I need you to understand something. I’ve taken your message offline. Before the media noticed it.” She waited, practicing patience. Now that she’d challenged him, she would find out: Did he have a hair-trigger temper? Or was he truly an ice-cold planner?

“Careful, Eve.” There was a hard element in his voice that betrayed the tension. But he maintained a tight rein of control. “Remember, the world is watching. Whether you want it to or not.”

Eve replied coolly, “I’m not sure you actually understand what so much attention means. Helicopters circling overhead with telephoto lenses will be relentless.”

“You’ve done a nice job keeping the media at bay. But I’m an open book.”

“Then tell me your name.”

“This is about my message. Names aren’t important.”

“The only message you’ve sent—and it isn’t particularly original—is that you have Saint Patrick’s Cathedral under your thumb. You’ve booby-trapped all access points with explosives rigged to hostages.”

“Because you need to know the stakes: If you breach the Cathedral, people will die. And when your tech analysts finish analyzing the video, they’ll verify that the explosives I’ve used are sufficient to bring down the Cathedral, too.”

“I understand you mean business. But what do you
want
?”

“You have pencil and paper, Eve?”

“That sounds old-fashioned.”

“I’m going to give you a list; it contains the names of five people you need to bring to me.”

“My job is to get you and your hostages
out.
Not bring more people
in.
”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Eve? This might be the greatest show on earth, but it’s my show and it needs an audience.”

“You said it yourself: The world is already watching.”

“The world is not enough. I need these five. Let’s call them
witnesses.
”

“Why do you need specific witnesses?”

“Not your concern. Your job is to bring them here to me. You have until seven p.m.—or more hostages will die.”

“I need more time,” Eve said quickly. “There’s no predicting how long it might take to track someone down.”

“I’ll reassure you: No one on my list is vacationing in L.A. or honeymooning in Paris.”

“We can put them in touch with you remotely. We live in the age of Skype and FaceTime.”

“Do you know what a witness is, Eve? A witness must be present to see an event. Personally. To confirm the truth of it.”

“I cannot bring people—
witnesses
—here. That’s preposterous.”

“Did you not understand the implications of that video, Eve? You saw all those images of New York’s destruction? If you don’t do as I say, they’ll have to add Saint Patrick’s to the deadly montage. You
will
bring these people here. Set them up in a bulletproof bubble, put them in the damn Popemobile. I don’t care
.
But they have to show up to
see.
”

“See what, exactly?”

“The first name is Blair Vanderwert.”

They were being recorded. Eve scribbled it down anyway.

“Luis Ramos.”

“What about you? Once these witnesses arrive, will you need a helicopter or armored car? I can help you get out of there.”

“The third name is Alina Matrowski.”

“How do you know these people?”

“The fourth name is Sinya Willis.”

“Do you have a particular message for them?”

“The final name is Cassidy Jones.”

“How do I reach you, if I have questions? Like if two Blair Vanderwerts live on East Eighty-sixth Street and I don’t know which one you mean?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Why me?”

“Because you came very highly recommended. Better get started, Eve. The clock is ticking.”

“Wait! Is there anything you need for the hostages? Food? Medicine?”

The line clicked, then went dead.

Five people. He’d called them witnesses.

Put them in the damn Popemobile,
he’d said. Was this about the Church?

Why did the Hostage Taker want these particular five people brought here?

Four and a
half minutes later, Eve heard Mace’s deep, husky rumble. “Well, now I’ve seen everything. Eli Cohen come to work in a
suit
?”

She swung open the door to find a pudgy man in his mid-forties standing awkwardly as another man approached. The first was wearing a burnt-orange jacket that made a fiery contrast with his red hair and beard—and did not match his olive-green pants. The other was a six-foot-seven-inch-tall African American, lean, with solid-cut muscle, who moved with rough, jagged motions like he was still playing offense on the courts.

“Looks like you raided your dad’s 1975 collection, mothballs and all,” Mace continued. “Dude, where’d you find that outfit?”

Eli tugged at his collar. “This isn’t a suit. It’s a sport jacket. The latest style, I might add.”

“It’s
orange.
Looks like you spilled your breakfast on it.” Mace’s eyes zeroed in on a dark coffee stain.

“My jacket’s
tan.
So what if I dress better these days? You should try it.” Eli’s gaze rested with disapproval on Mace’s gray hoodie and layup shorts.

“Eve sounded like she was in a hurry.” Mace flashed her a wink before taking two giant steps and wrapping her in a hug that could easily have snapped her spine. “Me and
Welcome Back, Kotter
here, reporting for duty.”

Eli gave her a shy nod. “Can’t believe I actually agreed to work with this group of morons again. Who’s the nutjob inside? Terrorist? Or religious fanatic?”

Eve allowed her eyes to wander along the wet, windswept landscape—first up Saint Patrick’s twin spires, then back down along Fifth Avenue. Receding fog framed a scene that felt oddly surreal: the heart of Midtown Manhattan, frozen to a standstill at the height of the Christmas season.

A block uptown, the Cartier building was wrapped in a fourteen-foot-wide giant red bow. A block downtown, Saks was adorned with wreaths. And thousands of white lights created glittering snowflakes all over the building—a breathtaking spectacle to complement its iconic window displays, which this year brought back Yeti, the magical snowmaker. And just behind, a seventy-six-foot Norway spruce from Connecticut awaited its ritual lighting. Fifth Avenue should have been packed with thousands of people—tourists and locals alike—who’d come to enjoy the city at its most festive. Instead, all activity had slammed to a halt.

Traffic was stretched to a standstill for forty blocks in either direction.

Police in flak jackets and ballistic shields kept back gawking onlookers.

A siren wailed and a policeman shouted instructions into a bullhorn.

Keeping a wide perimeter, a helicopter circled the Midtown area.

Everyone was watching. Waiting. While Eve worked to resolve this crisis on the most public stage of her career.

“The hell if I know who we’re dealing with.” She opened the door to the Mobile Response Unit. “Come on inside, you two. Help me figure this out.”

I
look down onto Fifth Avenue and imagine Eve inside a little box, racked with indecision, wondering what to do.

I sympathize with her.

How can I not?
She has no good options.

Some situations don’t offer any.

Seventy-three days ago, I was riding the M104 bus uptown around half past three. Dismissal time for the area schools, which had just started back after Labor Day. I had a window seat to myself near the rear exit. Students piled in, girls from a local middle school, pushing one another forward and shoving.

Rude little bitches.

I noticed the smallest one, wearing black leggings and an oversized pink T-shirt with sparkles on the front. She wasn’t pushing or shoving; she was lagging at the rear. Kid had a thin face and sad eyes, and she was struggling under the weight of a purple backpack, brand-new, with no marks or tears in the fabric. It must have weighed as much as she did.

She wanted to sit down. She looked right and left for an empty seat, found one, and headed for it—an aisle seat two rows in front of me.

“You can’t sit there.” A fat girl with braces and frizzy hair dropped her leg over the seat.

“There’s room if you move over,” the smaller girl said nicely. She shifted the weight of the backpack from one shoulder to the other.

“Better get your vision checked, ’cause this seat’s taken.”

“You’re screwed up. Who’d want to sit by you anyway?”

The bus moved forward and the small girl lurched in the aisle, struggling for balance. She almost fell.

I reached out my arm. She grabbed it instinctively—like she was reaching for a lifeboat in a storm.

With that single action, I helped her plenty. More than most people would.

She steadied herself and started to walk to the rear exit, where she’d stand until she reached her stop.

She jerked her chin up, trying to ignore the taunts coming from the back.

“What’s wrong, can’t walk?”

“One foot in front of the other, loser.”

“You must have cooties—no one wants to sit with you.”

I’ve never liked bullies. I despise the way they have a sixth sense for weakness. Some uncanny ability to identify those with shaken confidence and bruised egos—and target them.

I’ve also never liked standing by and ignoring a problem when something could be done to fix it. Most people don’t care about trying to make a difference.

But what’s the point of that?

Inaction is still a kind of action. Just like indecision is still a decision.

I counted nine different problems on that bus, but I figured taking care of the main one would solve the rest.

I started by getting up and offering my seat to the girl. Her cheeks went pink, but she took it with a shy smile and a soft “thank you.” Then I walked toward the ringleader—the girl with the frizzy hair who’d denied her an empty seat. Who still had her chunky leg stretched out across the whole bench. Before I sat, I reached down and grabbed that leg. Then I twisted it and shoved it hard into her other leg, at an angle, so she couldn’t kick me. The space wasn’t big, but I had just enough room to jam her tight against the window.

“Hey!” she yelped.

I looked straight ahead. Kept my face calm. The other passengers didn’t even care. They were too busy trying to ignore the raucous girls. Three girls talking might be loud. Six girls laughing and shrieking could be deafening. But nine teenage girls? The noise they produced was inhuman.

Next I leaned in, grabbed Chunky’s left wrist, and twisted. It wasn’t a natural movement, given the tight quarters. But when it came to hand-to-hand combat, years of training made my movements fluid and instinctual. With my free hand, a quick blow to her solar plexus was payback for her actions.

She couldn’t scream, though I knew the pain and shock must be stunning.

“Could’ve done much worse, but I think you get the point,” I whispered.

She was sobbing now, great heaving gulps, snot running from her nose.

I stood. My stop was nearby.

The small girl in the pink shirt had been watching me with cautious eyes, not sure what to think.

I stared at her. “Backing down is never an option. ’Cause somebody like that? If they’re hurting you, then they’re hurting somebody else, too.”

She nodded, uncertainly. She had no real idea what I’d done.

She had less idea why.

The bus screeched as it slowed by the curb. The middle exit doors rattled, then hissed when I shoved them open.

That’s how I live my life. I take matters into my own hands.

The fat girl was a little brat, but I took no pleasure in hurting her. It wasn’t about that.

There are no good options in a bad situation.

But inaction is still a form of action. Indecision is still a decision.

And justice is in short supply these days.