Hostage Taker (11 page)

12:18 p.m.

This just in, from the AP newswire…

The incident in Midtown Manhattan that we’ve been following closely is now confirmed to be a hostage situation. We repeat: We have confirmation of a hostage situation inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

We have no numbers—no idea of how many individuals may be held inside the Cathedral. And no details on the identity of the person or group responsible.

In this day and age, the first questions that come to mind are: How is this possible? Who are the hostages inside? And could this be a terrorist act?

We are told the mayor will be holding a news briefing shortly…

“W
e have two videos showing a limited view inside Saint Patrick’s,” explained Neil Brodsky, the FBI tactical liaison assigned to brief Eve. He stood ramrod straight between two computer screens, his wound-up-tight nerves on overdrive. “On the left, you see the YouTube footage uploaded by the Hostage Taker. On the right, you see the video that Special Ops managed to obtain. Individually, neither tells us much—and we certainly don’t trust what the Hostage Taker may have staged for pure theater effect. But taken together, we gain a better understanding of conditions inside.”

“
This
is how we’re gonna figure out how many hostages are holed up in there? Can’t tell a damn thing from that grainy feed,” Mace groused. His enormous frame was stretched back in his chair, sneakered feet on the table. Completely relaxed.

Unlike Neil, who flinched every time Mace spoke.

“W-we confirmed that the Hostage Taker’s video is largely ac-accurate.” Neil stumbled nervously over his words.

“Hope you’ve got equipment that shows something better than snow.” Mace shook his head in exasperation.

“Since when did you become a tech expert?” Eli challenged Mace.

“Calm down, Kotter. Gotta see the ball to make the call. We need a high-def recording.”

“Can you stop calling me that already?”

“Then don’t wear that seventies jacket.”

“Do you always have to be such a pain in my ass?”

“Who—me? I’m two hundred thirty pounds of muscle, sweetness, and light,” Mace retorted with a grin.

Eve was convinced they never actually listened to themselves. She planted her elbows on the table and refocused on Neil. “Can you walk us through the details?”

The question seemed to please him. “W-we snaked a flexible fiberoptic pinhole camera through a sm-small opening inside the construction zone on West Fifty-first Street. A spot where repairs to crumbling stonework are incomplete. We obtained video showing an unobstructed view of what the Church has named the North Transept Entrance. That’s the one on West Fifty-first Street nearest Fifth Avenue. We’re calling it Door Number Four.” Using his cursor, Neil moved a neon-orange dot on-screen to point out the area. “As far as we can tell, the Hostage Taker has taken the necessary steps to deter our entry. All g-gaps around the door have been filled with what’s probably a construction adhesive; you see that here.”

“Yes.” Eve’s eyes followed the orange dot.

“That d-deters our cameras as well as our ability to inject anything small—including gas—through the doors. Then do you see what looks like barbed wire, attached with concrete fasteners?” Neil pointed out wire loops that created a perimeter surrounding the door frame. “That’s actually concertina wire. Which is expensive—and far more lethal than barbed wire. It’s the choice of prison and military bases. Places where the highest level of security is required.”

Eve thought:
Possible military or security background.
She said only, “Tactical must have the capability to get past it.”

“Absolutely. It’s just window dressing. Since it’s
inside
the church, we believe its purpose is to discourage any hostages from foolishly trying to escape. Except here’s the problem: He’s placed additional obstacles. Do you see the motion-based mercury switch? That’s the detonator. It’s connected to a thin copper filament that’s strung the length of the door. Notice how it then attaches to the scaffolding that covers the north side of Saint Patrick’s—and crisscrosses, rung by rung, until it reaches the pews.”

“Yeah, we see it.” Mace stretched his arms.

“Watch. Two paired wires are connected to that copper filament. We follow the wires along this path…”

Eve’s gaze followed Neil’s orange pointer as it led to what looked like a package. Next to a pew. And sitting in the pew was a figure—with hands and feet bound. Almost as if posed for the NYPD and FBI to see. A visible deterrent.
Proof of life.

Medium height. Medium build. Short hair.

Hard to tell from the angle, but possibly a woman. Eve thought she detected a flash of jewelry on one of the fingers.

“What’s he got rigged there?” Eli squinted, nudging his eyeglasses up his nose.

“Basically, if we breach that door, the motion-based detonator will trigger and the hostage in the pew will die.” Mace said it flatly.

“You’re only partly right,” Neil continued to explain. “Keep following the wire.”

“So we can see more hostages? What I wanna know is: How many are there? When are we gonna talk about getting them out?” Mace slammed his palms onto the table, ready for action. He considered himself effective only when he was in the game, playing offense—not planning the next play on the sidelines.

“We only had a small window of v-visibility, so we couldn’t learn how many hostages are inside. But we have to assume there are others, likely restrained the same way,” Neil cautioned soberly. “All that is a challenge enough, but watch this.” The video feed advanced. “Other wires and more packages are attached to the columns that make up vulnerable points, according to the architects. The whole system is basically a set of IEDs that form a daisy chain. If one point on the chain is tripped, a series of explosions will result.”

“Kind of like a roadside bomb in Iraq or Afghanistan?” Eve hazarded.

“Worse. Basically, the whole system is what we call an HBIED. That’s House Borne Improvised Explosive Device. And you’re right that it comes from the Middle East—specifically, the military practice of clearing houses. Insurgents fought back by rigging entire houses to detonate and collapse moments after our guys entered.” Neil turned to face Eve, frowning. “The problem here is that the house in question is Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

“Does this Hostage Taker really have the explosive capability to blow that building up?” Eli shook his head. “Seems way too big—way too much stone—to be brought down.”

“People have said that about buildings bigger and sturdier than this,” Mace countered. “Like the Twin Towers on 9/11. Didn’t stop them from collapsing.”

“Anything’s vulnerable when you have the right explosives, placed strategically at the weak points,” Neil confirmed. “And I’m telling you: This guy knows what he’s doing.”

“How did he manage it, anyway?” Eli asked. “It seems…preposterous that anyone could. How much help do we think he had?”

Eve said, “We don’t know. As I figure it, and the details are still coming in, he succeeded by having extremely good timing. He must have entered the Cathedral before it closed for the day at 8:45 p.m. That’s also when the night security guards arrive to change shifts with the day guards. Except the real night guys had each been phoned and told their schedule had changed this week, due to construction. No one showed. The day guys were ready to go home after a long day, so when a new guard clocked in and said others were coming, just delayed because the subways were having signal problems, no one asked questions. That left the Hostage Taker—and anyone helping him—alone in the Cathedral. He had already entered their secure network and disabled the security cameras. He would have secured the doors. Poured concrete to block the plumbing and waste lines. Rigged all access points with explosives. All he needed to take total control.”

No one spoke.

Mace cursed. “How’d he get explosives and concrete inside?”

“We checked with the supply company that delivers materials for the renovation project. Turns out one of their trucks was stolen yesterday morning,” Neil explained. “Except here’s the odd thing: When we reviewed the surveillance tapes, it would appear that the same afternoon, a shipment of materials from a truck with the same license-plate number was delivered to the Cathedral. Forensics is checking the vehicle now, but I expect they’ll find trace evidence of explosives. With hundreds of different workers involved in this project, no one would question the arrival of a shipment from the usual supplier at the usual time—disguised among the usual delivery of plaster materials.”

Mace whistled.

“This nutcase has skills you can’t imagine. I just wanted you to be aware of what we’re up against,” Neil warned. “Bear it in mind when you’re negotiating.”

Eve was thinking fast. “So while I’m trying to talk with the Hostage Taker, Tactical is going to explore different options for a breach.”

“How are you going to do that,” Mace demanded, “without jeopardizing lives? Just the vibrations from an approach could trigger an explosion.”

“If we can identify vulnerable points, we’ll stand a decent chance,” Neil explained. “Basically, the Cathedral is buttoned up tight at ground level and below. But because of the construction, the upper areas may have some gaps.”

“Like a big slice of Swiss cheese,” Eli said.

Mace wasn’t buying it. “Any hole in particular you’re thinking about?”

“There was a stained-glass window behind the organ loft—invisible from anywhere inside the sanctuary, not indicated on any set of blueprints—that was ‘rediscovered’ during the restoration project. Maybe we can find something similar.”

Eve frowned. “So a point of access the Hostage Taker may be unaware of—but at the cost of a historic treasure.”

“Exactly.”

“What about those symbols of New York in the Hostage Taker’s video? The ones that look like they’re from a stone pillar?”

“You mean here.” Neil switched videos, then toggled forward until the screen showed a marble column. At the very top, there was an image of the Twin Towers collapsing—tumbling into the Chrysler building. Further below, cars tumbled off the Brooklyn Bridge, which was split in half. The Stock Exchange was in a panic, and the Statue of Liberty was drowning. The art was deeply disturbing. “The destruction of New York—or, at least, its fabled landmarks.”

“Where
are
these images?” Eve demanded. “Are they part of the restoration work?”

“We asked both the architecture firm and the GC doing the work. Neither was familiar with them. They swear those stone carvings are not from Saint Patrick’s.”

“So they’re either just a way for the Hostage Taker to make a threat—or they’re from a secret part of the Cathedral that even those who know it intimately can’t identify.” Eve drummed her fingers on the table. “It makes me worry what else we’re not aware of.”

“Plenty, I’m sure,” Eli grumbled.

Eve ignored him. “I’ve heard rumors all my life about various tunnels and catacombs that run throughout this city. Under the public library. Beneath Grand Central. Even within the first Saint Patrick’s—Saint Patrick’s Old Cathedral—in Little Italy on Mulberry and Prince. It’s still an active parish—it has been ever since
this
Cathedral replaced it—and people say it’s got hidden tunnels in its walls and catacombs, chock-full of ghosts.”

“How’d you learn this shit? Part of your special-agent training, for the day you’d need to tunnel under a city monument?” Mace asked.

Eve shook her head. “Part of being my stepfather’s daughter.” Zev Berger had owned property in upper Manhattan where the original owner, a Turkish tobacco importer, had built a tunnel from the house to the Hudson River to handle the arrival of illegal shipments from abroad. Some later owner sealed up the tunnel, but Zev promptly reopened it. Its covert access to Riverside Park and the Hudson River had proven useful in his own work for the CIA. “His home was one of many buildings in this city with secret passageways.”

Eve clicked a succession of keys and loaded a map of the Cathedral. She was trying to do what she did best: Think outside the box to accomplish the impossible. “We know of two underground entrances to the Cathedral, running from the Rectory and the Cardinal’s Residence into the Crypt.” She traced it with her cursor. “Rumor has it there’s more. I need to talk with someone who thoroughly knows the ins and outs of that Cathedral. Maybe the project manager in charge of renovations?”

“I’ve spoken with him extensively,” Neil said.

Eve leaned forward. “And?”

“The Cathedral is a unique challenge. Full of surprises that aren’t documented on any map.”

“But the workers who’ve had access to the Cathedral in recent months would surely know.”

“We’re talking about over two hundred workers each day. Rotating, depending on their expertise. Given enough time, it’s entirely possible we might learn something from one of them. But—”

“Then I just need someone who loves the building and cares about its history—every single nook and cranny. What I really need is a priest.”

Behind her, a door had opened.

Eve looked up to see a man with serious eyes, dark hair, and a cleft chin walk into the room. He was thirty-nine years old, six-foot-one inches tall, and wore a T-shirt that had once been white and was now spattered with blood. Despite a nasty bruise on his left cheek and a jagged cut under his lip that had only recently stopped bleeding, he was grinning.

In a musical Irish brogue, Corey Haddox said, “A priest, luv? No one’s ever confused me with a man of the cloth.”