Hostage Taker (23 page)

H
addox looked at the clock. Seventy-eight minutes until deadline.

Still no ID for the guy inside—or the hostages he was holding.

Still no connection among the witnesses.

Still no line on the Hostage Taker’s motive or end game.

He didn’t have much. But he had the voice recording taken from Eve’s conversations with the Hostage Taker. Might as well try voice biometrics.
His
brand of it.

Other Feds had already run the recording through the FBI Biometric Center of Excellence database. It hadn’t yielded a hit. In the years since 9/11, the Feds had developed an extensive database for law enforcement to use. It included biometric data ranging from palm prints and iris scans—to voice and facial recognition—to scars, marks and tattoos. His absence from that database only meant the Hostage Taker hadn’t yet been arrested—or left behind bio-data at a crime scene that was part of the Next Generation Identification system, or NGI.

Haddox wasn’t surprised. The NGI was rife with errors and far from perfect. Recently, a poor bloke in Massachusetts had his driver’s license revoked because the government’s facial-recognition system screwed up and said the man wasn’t himself.

So to be thorough, Haddox ran another standard industry program. It also came up empty. No surprise there, either. The telecommunications industry might estimate that fifty million customers had enrolled their voiceprints for authentication. Trading their voice fingerprint for faster customer service, or to replace a passcode, or for a bank to process a payment.

But Haddox agreed with Eve: Their Hostage Taker had a background in security. This guy wasn’t the type to trade privacy for convenience.

Fingers flying, Haddox brainstormed.

He’d known a hacker in London who was on the cutting edge of this technology. The fellow had invented a creative fix—or so Haddox thought—for the failings of most software systems. Namely, the fact that a regular guy might speak in one accent—say, his educated London one—when he was being questioned at the police station. But he might revert back to his East London Cockney when he was with his mates at the local pub.

Haddox remembered a good bit of what the British hacker had done.

Plus, he had pretty decent instincts of his own.

García never made
a big deal about goodbyes—so he was equally low-key about greetings. He walked into the MRU, acknowledged Eve and the team with a brief nod, and got right down to business. “I know how to get inside that Cathedral. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Welcome back, Frankie.” Mace didn’t look up. The center table in the MRU had just been transformed into a smorgasbord of hot deli sandwiches, salads, and coffee. He couldn’t decide between the steak, pepper, and onion—or the chicken with melted cheese.

“You know, I’m so happy to be away from the white coats, even Julius Mason can’t get under my skin today. But don’t test me, Mace. You never know when my happy juice is gonna wear out. In case you forgot, I don’t like being called Frankie.”

“So talk to me. How do we get in?” Haddox asked, ignoring their banter.

“Pull up the blueprints and I’ll show you.”

Haddox pressed a series of buttons on the computer. A partial schematic projected onto the white board. “They’re incomplete,” he explained. “The result of the Cathedral being constructed in so many different phases over such a long period of time. There aren’t many surviving building documents—certainly no sketches, schematics, or blueprints from the early days. That’s hampered the restoration effort considerably—and now it’s slowing us down, too.”

“There are rumors of a secret tunnel offering access to the Cathedral.” Eve frowned at the screen. “People are convinced it’s there. But just like the missing cornerstone, no one claims to know exactly where it is. There’s a Church representative here who may have an idea of where to try. But he’s not exactly cooperating.”

“Don’t need him. I know exactly where to find it,” García said matter-of-factly. He noticed their looks of consternation—and took a moment to savor having the information advantage.

“Since when did you become a construction expert?” Mace challenged. “Able to locate a passageway nobody’s been able to find for a century. You don’t know shit about this.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” García retorted. He stalked to the window that faced the front of Saint Patrick’s. The world outside was dark, but spotlights designed to illuminate any movement the Hostage Taker might make were focused on its layers of scaffolding. It transformed the Church into a hulking iron structure—but García knew that underneath, it remained pure white marble stone and spires. An American Cathedral, built in the old traditions.

His mind jumped over an ocean and past a handful of countries. “You know how I spent my thirteenth wedding anniversary?” he asked them.

“If the answer involves anythin’ other than your wife, I understand how you ended up alone,” Haddox answered.

“Thirteen’s his unlucky number,” Mace added. “So this story can’t be good.”

García glared at them both. “It was when things were starting to go bad with Teresa. So my buddy Tony decided we should go out drinking in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d just started a new job, so he was flush with cash.”

“Is this going anywhere useful?” Mace’s patience was running thin.

“Put a cork in it, Mace.” Eve nodded at García to continue.

“We’d downed too many shots of tequila when he decided he wanted to show me something. Tony called it the Bat Cave, ’cause it looked like something straight out of Gotham.” García paused long enough that they got the impression he was on a crazy tangent. “It was kind of like entering a different world, going inside this massive tunnel that runs through the heart of this city’s bedrock.”

“What
are
you talking about?” Mace couldn’t help himself.

“You’ve heard of the East Side Access project?”

“You mean the Long Island Railroad extension?” Eli asked.

“Yeah. Almost six miles of brand-new tunnels being built under this city. Tony snuck me inside the main tunnel extension serving Grand Central. Runs from the Sixty-third Street Tunnel right down Park Avenue.”

“Park is a whole ’nother block behind the rear of the Cathedral. How’s that help us?”

“It’s close enough that the Church was pretty worried about the tunnel work causing damage to Saint Patrick’s—even an entire collapse,” García answered.

“I repeat: How’s that help us?”

“Sometimes when they’re drilling through bedrock with these monster machines, they create openings in the rock that maybe they don’t fully intend. Not big enough for a subway car…but plenty big enough for an average sort of guy. Tony took me into one of them. Guess where it went?”

“We’re all ears, Frankie.” Mace took a bite of the steak-and-pepper sandwich he’d chosen.

García frowned. “Not gonna ask again: Don’t call me that. He took me down a passage that went right to the air vent for the new East Side tunnel—the one that’s right on Fiftieth and Madison. Not far from the Lady Chapel in the rear of the Cathedral. And here’s the best part: It just kept right on going.”

“How far?” Eve’s eyes went wide open.

“What do you know about the Lady Chapel?”

“I know it was an addition to the Cathedral by”—Eve paused to check her notes—“Charles Mathews. Not part of Renwick’s original plan. Work began in 1900 and finished in 1906. And—the last major renovation was in 1931, when the organ was added and the sanctuary was enlarged.”

“It was built in the same old-school style as the main Cathedral,” García said. “The exterior wall is white marble. But it’s backed with brick and stone, with plenty of hollow spaces built in to prevent dampness and aid ventilation. A few of those are wider than others. Again, not
big
…but large enough for an average-sized man—”

“Such as yourself,” Haddox interrupted.

“I ain’t average,” García objected. “Tony found the way in. Said you followed the passage between the walls. Then there was a hidden panel.”

“But you were with him?” Eve asked, confused.

“Not the whole way.” García looked down. There was no good way to explain the problem. The claustrophobia. What it had felt like, being trapped in Fallujah.

He had wanted to follow Tony through the narrow walls. But the farther they walked, the tighter the walls had closed in. Soon he had been struggling just to breathe. Fighting the heat that threatened to overpower him. Bombarded with the images he wanted to forget. Crumbled concrete. The stench of burnt flesh. The body parts everywhere.

“But you trust this guy? You don’t think he was just pulling your leg?” Eli found his way to the food. He loaded up on salads, knishes, and a turkey-avocado sandwich.

García looked Eli square in the eye. “He says he snuck all the way in and lit a candle for me in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It was the night of my thirteenth wedding anniversary. Tony wouldn’t lie to me.”

“So do we need to bring in Tony?” Eli glanced at Eve.

“Not an option, unless you brought someone who can wake the dead into Vidocq. But if he found the route, I can find it, too. I’ll use the same principles: Get us inside the walls, find the access panel door, and avoid the booby-traps this asshole has set for us.”

There was a dry cough from the doorway. Monsignor Geve had decided to rejoin them. “Try not to take offense,” the Church representative said. “But what you’ve just described is impossible.”

“Excuse me?” García locked his gaze.

The Monsignor’s lips pinched in disapproval. “You’re discussing an assault entry into a national treasure that’s afforded the
strictest
landmark protection.”

“I thought we were discussing a rescue operation,” Eve interposed coolly. “There are at least five hostages. Likely more.”

Geve kept his eyes on García. “You mention the Lady Chapel in particular. You say it would be your point of entry to the Cathedral. It’s of particular importance.”

“If we do it right, everything’s going to be fine, padre,” García said flatly.

“Wait.” Monsignor Geve held up a hand. “There are seventy-one stained-glass windows within Saint Patrick’s. All of them masterpieces. You cannot risk the use of gunfire in the Cathedral.”

“We cannot risk the continued massacre of innocent victims, Monsignor.” Eve straightened, crossing her arms.

“What does he want? Can’t you just give him what he wants?” His tone scarcely concealed his irritation.

“Unless the Church knows how to read minds, not an option,” Eve replied, her own irritation rising to the surface. “He still hasn’t told us what he’s after.”

“Maybe instead of tunnels and walls, you should be thinking about that.”

“Maybe you should be thinking about letting us do our job.” At six-foot-seven, Mace towered over the Monsignor.

“The Rose Window is just one example of the priceless treasures in the Cathedral,” the priest persisted. “Charles Connick’s work depicts the faces of angels in the eight petals of the rose. I’m here to make sure you protect it—and other treasures like it.”

“I’m not saying Saint Patrick’s isn’t an awesome place to pray,” García shot back, “but any Church—including this one—is for people. Right now, there’re people stuck inside whose lives are in big danger. What’s more important to you: Saving this building? Or saving the hostages with the bad luck to be stuck inside?”

The Monsignor was trembling with anger. He was about to argue more, but then he changed his mind. “You people don’t understand. There must be another way.”

6:18 p.m.

We continue to monitor ongoing developments at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Meanwhile, we have Cliff Raymond on the line, a security expert at Broadwell International and former FBI agent.

Mr. Raymond, tell us: How could something like this have happened?