Hostage Taker (14 page)

T
here were moments when Eli was ashamed of himself. Sure, he felt bad that not a hundred yards away from him, people were suffering, their lives in imminent danger. But there was one part of this hostage crisis that he could get used to: the food. Because Eve’s team was expected to work around the clock until this thing was resolved, a junior agent—so young and inexperienced that the ink on his college diploma still hadn’t dried—had brought him lunch. And not just an ordinary lunch: a pastrami-and-corned-beef combo, dripping with mustard and sauerkraut, coupled with a cream soda. Eli willed himself to eat it slowly, savoring each bite, as he rebooted the Hostage Taker’s video on the open computer in the adjacent MRU.

Eli paid close attention, taking in everything on the video. But he was distracted by the quality of the recording. It made his heart sink with disappointment. Dimly lit, with grainy pixels. Not a professional effort.
Focus on the message, not the medium,
he scolded himself.

His finger pressed a button. The video slowed, each frame moving forward at a careful pace.

There was no time stamp. No frame division. First the camera flashed on a hostage or two—so quick, he couldn’t really tell—and the explosives threatening them.

Then it didn’t.

It centered on two stone columns with some pretty disturbing pictures.

He slid his chair closer, pushed up his glasses. They wiggled, so—eyes still on the screen—he pulled a piece of tape out of his pocket and wound it around the left temple. The added bulk filled in the gap behind his ear.

Then he reviewed the footage.

What did he
really
see? The Brooklyn Bridge was breaking in half as a bus plummeted into the water. Waves from the rising water crashed over the city skyline. People ran hell for leather below the New York Stock Exchange. And next to the people, a scorpion, snake, and other vile creatures swarmed around a skeleton. Meanwhile, the Statue of Liberty stood by, apparently unaware that she was drowning.

Eli burped. Guess he wasn’t eating his sandwich slowly enough.

What else did he see? Images that were even more unsettling. The city skyline—including the Chrysler Building, Citigroup Center, and the former Twin Towers—was swaying wildly, with plumes of smoke over it. What looked to be a big church was underneath its looming shadow.

Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?

And if so, what the hell did this Hostage Taker want everybody—and particularly his five “witnesses”—to see?

Eli closed his eyes and exhaled. He’d lost his appetite.

Maybe it was just because he was a New Yorker who didn’t like seeing his home depicted this way. Maybe it was because he’d lost friends on 9/11. But this didn’t feel like the work of a religious nut, like Eve thought. This felt like something else.

Terrorism.

T
he sounds from outside were deafening. Officers barked orders. Phones trilled. Motors hummed. Somewhere overhead, a chopper was circling. So much activity, so many vehicles actually generated a
smell.
An odor somewhere between grease and transmission fluid.

And the temperature was continuing to drop. Inside the drafty MRU, Eve could tell that the air was growing more frigid. The wind was whipping with more velocity.

Eve dialed the last number the Hostage Taker had used. There was no response. As expected, he’d removed the battery and trashed it. Time to use the advantage Haddox had given her.

Eve tried the first number on Haddox’s list. One from the Amsterdam shipment
.
And the moment she dialed, all trace of the world around her faded away—and everything was an eerie calm.

Eight rings. Then a message that the wireless number had not been activated.

“Keep going,” Haddox instructed. “One of them is the magic number. Linked to the phone he has charged up, ready to use next.”

She kept trying. Another six from Amsterdam. Four from Dallas. Five purchased in Bangkok. Seven from San Francisco. A large shipment of twelve from Munich. Just when she was starting to think Haddox had it all wrong, she hit pay dirt with a number from the Barcelona batch.

Someone answered. She knew because the ringing stopped. But this time, there was no recording. Just the soft rasp of someone breathing. The person on the other end of the line was waiting.

Eve didn’t.

“It’s me,” she said, forcing an intimacy into her voice that she didn’t feel. Creating the illusion that they had a relationship—that they could trust each other—was part of the game.

“How did you get this number?” Her heart leapt. It
was
the Hostage Taker.

“You asked for me. Specifically by name. Did you doubt I was good at my job?”

“Your job is to find my five witnesses.” He sounded hoarse, but something else, too. Skittish.

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Cassidy Jones.”

“Do your job already.”

“Wait. I need to know
which
Cassidy Jones. There’s dozens in the tri-state region alone. And that’s assuming you don’t mean the ones in California or Texas who live so far away there’s no hope of them getting here before your deadline.”
Unless your deadline is just a red herring. As ridiculous as your demand to bring “witnesses.”

Silence.

“I’m not playing games with you. You gave me a deadline. I’ve got five hours, seven minutes to go. Are these witnesses your real demand? Or is there something else going on we should discuss?”

Silence.

She acted on instinct. “Well, if you want me to help you, you know where to find me.”

She pressed a button. Ended the call.

Then waited.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen…Twenty…Twenty-five…

Fifty-two seconds later, when she had almost given up, the phone in her hand trilled. She answered. “You decided to help me?”

“I like to see you when we talk, Eve.” His voice was cold. “Come outside.”

“I’m not looking for a long conversation. Just info. An occupation. A street name. An address. Something to keep me moving forward with Cassidy Jones. Assuming that’s still what you want.” She held her breath.

“Outside, Eve.
Now.
”

She shrugged off his fury before she even felt its heat. She had been right: He needed to be in charge. Or to have the illusion of being in charge.

She kept the line open as she strode to the door of the MRU and stepped outside. A bearded agent she’d never met before offered her a bulletproof jacket. She shook her head to indicate
no
—and ignored the shouts and frantic waves of protest that several agents signaled.

This was about creating the illusion of control,
she reminded herself. What the Hostage Taker wanted—no,
needed
—if she was going to manipulate him into reassessing his plans. One step at a time.

She felt the worried eyes of dozens of officers on her, moving with her. Reminding her that she was not alone.

Only when she made her way to the steps of the Cathedral did the Hostage Taker’s voice crackle in her ear once more. “No bulletproof vest? I’m impressed, Eve, by your bravery. Or is it just foolishness?”

“I don’t believe in wasting time on something that doesn’t matter,” Eve said coolly. She looked up into the scaffolding. Tried to imagine him in the recesses of the Cathedral looking down at her.

“So your life doesn’t matter?”

“I didn’t say that. But you took down your first two victims with shots that most people would find impossible. Right to the head—from a bad angle, in worse weather. That means you’re a professional. You know what you’re doing. And if you want to kill me, you will—bulletproof vest or not.”

The Hostage Taker laughed.

Then a great gasp. It came from the crowd—the mix of federal agents and NYPD officers and EMS technicians and FDNY personnel who were standing by.

Eve knew, though she couldn’t feel it: Right now, there was a red dot dancing on her forehead.

She heard the crackle of a command behind her:
Find that damn sniper and take the bastard out!

“Stand down!” She made her voice loud, clear, confident. Even though inside, she was so frightened she felt her knees buckle. She stabbed the mute button on her cell. “I need everyone to
stand down.
He’s not going to hurt me. He’s upset. He’s reminding us that he’s in charge here. But he asked for me, specifically. No one else. Ultimately, he still wants my help.”

She unmuted her phone. And waited—praying she was right.

There was a lull. She kept staring upward, eyes raking each branch of the complicated scaffolding. The rain had made its rungs oily and black—which only served to remind her of the semiautomatic weapon that lurked there in the shadows.

She opened her hands, making a show of her submission.

Five seconds became ten. Fifteen. Twenty…

She was testing him more than she’d expected to at this early stage.
What does he want? Am I as important to him as he’d claimed?

If the answer was
no
—if he was a terrorist or a fanatic who’d been making demands just for a distraction—then she’d just played a losing hand.

But if he was something else?

The illusion of control—and trust—was paramount.

She was establishing both. Once she had them, she could work to find out things she could use to manipulate the situation. Extremely carefully, of course. Because illusions worked both ways—and if she wasn’t vigilant, she might end up being played for a fool.

After the longest seventy-three seconds of her life, she heard the crowd around her breathe in relief.

She forced herself to do so as well. The icy air filled her lungs and felt good. She spoke into her phone again. “It’s a two-way street. So I can help you, help me. We can do this together.
Which
Cassidy Jones?”

“She’s a wannabe actress. Lives in Astoria.”

“I appreciate that information,” she said.

“And just so you don’t bother me again: The Luis Ramos I want uses a middle initial.
J.
Works as a window washer at Trump Tower.”

“I’d like to do something for you, as a gesture of goodwill. You must be getting hungry. Can I send you some food?”

“Eve, Eve, Eve. Haven’t you learned anything? Nothing’s getting in or out of this building without blowing it to Kingdom Come.”

“I get that. But I’m out here talking to you because I want to get you—and everybody inside—out of the Cathedral without getting hurt. You must be holding—what?—at least a dozen people. By now, they’re probably tired. Hungry. Starting to complain.” That last was a calculated gamble. She usually preferred to avoid all mention of hostages—and she
did
avoid mentioning the cop. But the invisible presence of those hostages—still unidentified in name, unknown in number—weighed heavily on her mind.

“You’re not bringing me food,” he said. “You’re not delivering secret messages to my hostages. You’re not going to launch your best assault team. Because if you try any of these things, I will detonate the explosives you know I have.” His voice was rising.

Eve took one shaky breath. Then another. Forcing herself to think through her options. She hated this part of the job. Figuring out how far she could push. Deciding when to dangle a carrot—and when to threaten a stick. The smart move was to stop contact now. Let him consider his alternatives.

“Call me when you want to talk about your options.” She turned and started walking back to the MRU.

But before she closed the line, she heard him say one last thing.

“Just find the Jones bitch and bring her here.”

T
he symbols of Armageddon in the Hostage Taker’s video were definitely above Eli’s pay grade, so he wasted no time getting on the phone with Damian Galla, a professor of religious studies at Brown University. The fact that Professor Galla was also a longtime family friend didn’t hurt. As a child, Eli liked to tiptoe to the top of the stairs to eavesdrop on Professor Galla’s spirited debates about theology with his father. Eli’s father was among the most respected Talmudic scholars at Temple Beth David on the Lower East Side. And Professor Galla’s visits stretched into the wee hours of the morning, typically leaving young Eli fast asleep on the staircase.

Eli hadn’t seen him since his father died, but he doubted the man had changed: Professor Galla had always been small and bald, full of tics and eccentricities. The man never set foot outside unless he wore a suit and a red bow tie. His meals were eaten at the same time, in the same seat, at the same diner. And he answered every phone call not with “hello,” but with “What’s your question for me?”

To Eli, that was actually a relief. He had little interest in hashing through inane pleasantries. Not so soon after John’s family Christmas party. Plus, he was pretty sure that Professor Galla didn’t like him. Probably thought Eli was greedy; definitely blamed him for the way his father’s health had declined following Eli’s insider-trading indictment. “My question’s about some disturbing symbols carved into a column at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral,” he said, going on to explain about the Twin Towers and the other disturbing scenes of New York City’s destruction carved in marble.

“I’m at my computer,” Professor Galla said. “Can you send me the images?”

Eli complied with a few clicks of his keyboard. While it was sending, he also explained that the images were part of a larger message from the Hostage Taker at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

There was a pause. When Professor Galla spoke again, he sounded irritated—though it might have just been the gravel and phlegm that lived in the old man’s throat. “Well, those are famous—or perhaps I should say
infamous
—carvings.”

“If they’re so famous, how come I don’t know anything about them?” Eli demanded.

“Inadequate education, perhaps?”

No, the professor definitely didn’t like him, Eli decided.

“They’re from a New York Cathedral, but not
your
Cathedral. They’re carved into the west end of Saint John’s Cathedral uptown.”

Eli wasn’t a total dolt. He knew about the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. It was up on 112th and Amsterdam, near Columbia University. Started in the late nineteenth century, it was both one of the largest cathedrals in the world and still unfinished. He’d gone there once with a friend to see the annual Blessing of the Animals. There had been a baby kangaroo. “So why is this guy pretending they’re at Saint Pat’s Cathedral?”

“I’d say they have a meaning to him that Saint Patrick’s was lacking,” the professor responded dryly. “A lot of cathedrals have incorporated images of the End of Days. The practice came about in the Middle Ages. The images were meant to be read, just like scripture. And don’t forget: Saint John’s Cathedral is named after the presumed author of the Book of Revelation.”

“So famous Cathedrals in Paris and Rome have images showing their cities being destroyed?”

“I have to admit, what we see here is unusual,” the professor conceded. “And highly disturbing—which is why these carvings from Saint John’s have become a magnet for conspiracy theorists. They look at the swaying Twin Towers and they see 9/11. Then they look at the waves overtaking the city and they see the damage caused by Superstorm Sandy.”

“Can’t say they don’t have a point.”

“Sure, but that misses the entire context.”

“Which is?”

“Simon Verity was the artist who designed the images. His vision focused on Saint John the Divine himself standing on top of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Everything surrounding him was contemporary—and he even included representations of people from the neighborhood.”

“When did he do all this?”

Professor Galla took a moment to look it up. Eli could hear him clicking at his keyboard. “Stonemasons started in the late 1980s; finished about 1997.”

“Four years before 9/11.”

The professor made a dismissive noise. “Stuff and nonsense.”

“Then tell me what it means.”

“Can’t. There’s not much documentation about it. And the rest of Saint John’s contains plenty of art with strange symbols alluding to catastrophes. I think your question is: What does it mean to the man who made this video?”

“Don’t have to be a rocket scientist to conclude that he’s sending a message that he wants to destroy New York City.”

“Then why did he pick Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?” Professor Galla shot back.

“Major New York City landmark.”

“If his only goal is to destroy something, he could’ve gone for Rockefeller Center across the street. Or the Empire State Building. Or half a dozen other secular landmarks. He also didn’t need to send you a video about it.”

“Meaning you think this is religious?”

“Hard to imagine there’s not some religious component to it. He’s sent a message with apocalyptic images. You tell me he’s demanded you bring ‘witnesses.’ You can’t ignore the possibility.”

“He wants
specific
witnesses. He’s named them.”

“You know, throughout history, almost every society, religious or not, believed some inner spiritual force exists inside us. The soul. The Holy Spirit. The conscience. The psyche. The anima. The Force.”

“In one sentence, you take us from church to
Star Wars
?”

The professor ignored him. “Theologians question whether this spiritual force is something God-given, pure and whole. Or whether it’s shaped by our own experiences and desires.”

“I don’t even know what that means. Not in this context,” Eli said flatly.

“I’ll make it simple: Does something inside your Hostage Taker lead him to believe that God’s telling him to do this? Or is he acting from his own desires?”

“What difference does it make?”

“If it’s the latter, Eli, your negotiator’s got a chance of getting him to see reason and may resolve your crisis peacefully. But if it’s the former, you’ve got no chance in hell.” The professor snorted. “My latest book focuses on the root causes of religious zealotry. The case examples included a man who attempted to hijack a plane because God told him that killing all the passengers would rid the world of the devil. A serial killer who had no remorse for his crimes—in fact, was scarcely aware of them—because he believed God commanded him to kill certain individuals to eliminate evil. And a kidnapper who took a young girl from her bed at night on orders from God.”

Eli let forth a low whistle. “You know something, Professor? Your brain is filled with some weird shit.”