I was struggling to come up with appropriate words of thanks and pertinent household-running instructions, when she just opened the front door and said, “Go, Mike.”
Part Two
SINNERS
Chapter 18
A LOW WHISTLE escaped through my teeth as I pulled my department-issued blue Impala up to the barricade thrown across Fifth Avenue at 52nd Street. I hadn’t seen so many cops out in front of the landmark church since the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
Only instead of goofy tam-o’-shanters, shamrocks, and smiles, they were wearing black steel ballistic helmets, automatic weapons, and deadly serious frowns.
I showed my shield to a sergeant by one of the blue-and-white sawhorses. She directed me to the mobile command center, a long white bus parked across the street from the cathedral. The sergeant told me to park in front of the Sanitation Department dump trucks that blocked up Fifth next to the 51st Street barricade.
Two barricades, I thought. Mobile command centers. This was no single homicide for sure. This was a disaster in the making.
As I got out of my car, a jackhammer throbbing sounded, and I looked up as a police helicopter swung out from behind Rockefeller Center and hovered low over the cathedral. Dust and coffee cups and newspaper pages spiraled up in the rotor wash as a sniper in the helicopter’s open door scanned the stained glass and stone spires over the barrel of a rifle.
I took my eyes off the helicopter when I almost walked into a famous, controversial radio host who, for some reason, was holding court on the street in front of the inner barricade. “What in the hell did those friggin’ priests do this time?” I heard him say as I passed.
As I entered the staging area between the grilles of the parked dump trucks, I stopped and stared in disbelief. A half dozen Emergency Service Unit cops were crossing the avenue with their heads down. They stopped and pressed their bulletproof backs against the side of the long black hearse parked at the curb.
How could this be happening at Caroline Hopkins’s funeral?
Chapter 19
THOUGH ONLY FIVE SEVEN, with his broken nose and violently frank way of looking at everybody, except maybe his mother, borough commander Will Matthews was about as pugnacious-looking an Irish cop as you could still find on the force. He looked like he’d just gone fourteen and a half bare-knuckle rounds when I found him standing on the sidewalk smack in front of the command center bus.
“Glad you could join us, Bennett,” he said.
“Yeah, well,” I said, “I hadn’t had a chance to see the tree yet anyway.”
Instead of chuckling, Matthews looked like he wanted to hit me with a billy club. So much for trying to lighten things up.
“I’m in no mood for stand-up, Bennett,” he said. “The mayor, the former president, the cardinal, several movie, music, and sports stars … who else? Eugena Humphrey, and about three thousand other VIPs are being held hostage inside by a dozen or more heavily armed, masked men. You follow me so far?”
It was hard to register what Will Matthews had just said to me. The mayor and the former president alone would have been mind-boggling, but all the rest?
The borough commander stared at me belligerently, waiting for me to pick my jaw up off the sidewalk before he continued his rant.
“We don’t know if the gunmen are terrorists. Preliminary reports from the law enforcement personnel who were just released from inside the church indicate that the lead hijacker, at least, is non-Arab. He spoke to the crowd, and I quote, ‘sounds white,’ unquote.
“These unidentified masked men took out thirty-one cops and about two dozen federal agents, including the former president’s Secret Service detail, with nonlethal weapons. Tear gas and rubber bullets and Tasers.
“There’s more. Twenty minutes ago, they opened the Fiftieth Street entrance doors and bum-rushed all of the cops and security personnel. There were a lot of broken noses and black eyes, but they could have gunned them down just as easy as let them go. So I guess we can be grateful for small mercies.”
I struggled to keep the shock and confusion off my face. It wasn’t that easy. The security must have been incredible, and it was taken out? Using nonlethal weapons?
“How can I help?” I asked.
“Excellent first question. Ned Mason, our top negotiator, is on his way. But he has a place upstate, in Orange County or some other ridiculous place. Newburgh, I think. I know you’re not in Hostage Negotiation anymore, but I needed our best option in case these guys call before he gets here.
“Also, as I recall, you’ve got a lot of media airtime under your belt. So I might need you to run interference with the locust swarm of press this thing is bringing. Steve Reno’s got the tactical lead. You can consult with him when he comes down off that bird, okay? Sit tight. Think about what to say to the press.”
I was following orders, “sitting tight,” staring across at the huge, stately church, beginning to try to figure out what kind of person or persons would pull this—when I heard a terrible commotion by the 50th Street barricade. Something bad was happening. Now!
Instinctually, I went for my gun as a shirtless blond man and a heavily made-up redheaded woman sprinted out from behind the barricade. What the hell? They made it across cleared-out Fifth Avenue and were running up the cathedral’s stairs when three ESU officers came out from behind the hearse—and tackled them.
The redhead’s wig flew off, revealing a crew cut. The blond kid was still smiling, and I saw that his drug-addled pupils were as big as dinner plates.
“One love! Transgender love!” the blond yelled as the cops carried him and the kicking transvestite right past the press at 51st Street.
I released a tense breath. Nothing to worry about. No suicide bombers. Just another performance of bizarre street theater, courtesy of New York City.
I saw Commander Will Matthews staring open-mouthed on the sidewalk beside me as I holstered my Glock. He took off his hat and rubbed at his stubbled head.
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette on you by any chance?” he said.
I shook my head. “Don’t smoke,” I said.
“Neither do I,” Will Matthews said, stepping away. “I thought I’d start.”
Chapter 20
THE FBI ARRIVED in style about ten minutes later.
Four black-on-black Chevy Suburbans were let through the 49th Street barricade, and a fully armed tactical team poured out of the vehicles. Tall and gracefully quick, the black-uniformed commandos resembled a team of professional athletes. I wondered if they were part of the FBI’s famed Hostage Rescue Team. The current situation certainly called for it.
A middle-aged man with hair the color of his charcoal suit came up and shook my hand.
“Mike Bennett?” he said amicably. “Paul Martelli. Crisis Negotiation Unit. The special agent in charge sent us up from Twenty-six Fed to give you guys a hand if we can.”
The FBI’s CNU was at the cutting edge in hostage negotiation. Martelli, its head, was famous in negotiation circles. A book he’d written was pretty much the bible on the subject.
I usually bristle at the presence of Feds, but I had to admit, I was relieved that Martelli was here. I’d done some stand-offs in my three years in Hostage Negotiation, but nothing like this. Especially right now, given the sad state of my own emotions over Maeve and the kids. This situation was obviously off the chart in terms of importance and profile. Hell, I’d take all the help I could get.
“I see you guys got the communication and press angles taken care of,” Martelli said, looking around casually at the command center and the barricades. “Mike, who’s the primary negotiator?”
Even talking about trivial stuff, Martelli exuded tranquil confidence that was contagious. I could see why he was at the top of the game.
“Me for now,” I said. “They have me holding the fort until our top guy gets here. Then I switch to secondary. ESU lieutenant Steve Reno has the tactical lead. Commander Will Matthews, our team commander, has t
he final word.”
All crisis incidents required a strict chain of command. The negotiator can’t make decisions. He has to ask higher authorities before acting on hostage-taker’s demands. This buys time as well as engenders a bond between the hostage-taker and the negotiator. Also, there has to be someone there to make the final decision—to keep negotiating or to go tactical. Negotiators tended to want to keep talking. Tactical guys, to start shooting.
“Most important thing now, ” Martelli said with a half smile, “is to show patience. We have to burn some time. Time for us to set up. Let SWAT gather tactical intelligence. And time for whoever’s inside to cool off. Time dissipates pressure.”
I think I read that in a book, actually—Paul Martelli’s book.
Chapter 21
THE TWO OF US turned as a cop in a flapping NYPD Windbreaker roared in through the 49th Street cordon on a dusty black Suzuki 750.
“Any contact?” Ned Mason barked at me in greeting as he got off his bike.
I’d worked with Mason briefly before I had left the Negotiation Team. The intense sandy-haired cop was a triathlete and a health nut. A lot of people dismissed him as arrogant and obnoxious, but I knew him to be one of those quirky loner cops who succeeds more by meticulousness and the solitary power of his strong will than teamwork.
“Not yet,” I said.
I started to brief Mason, but an NYPD Communications Division sergeant popped his head out the door of the bus holding a cell phone above his head.
“It’s them!” he said.
Commander Will Matthews joined us as we all rushed inside the bus.
“Write down everything I tell you to,” Mason said to me brusquely. “Don’t miss a word.”
I could see by Mason’s cocky attitude that he hadn’t changed a bit.
“Call came in to nine-one-one. We routed it to here,” a communications tech cop said, offering up the phone. “Who gets this? Which one of you guys?”
Mason snatched the phone out of his hand as Will Matthews and Martelli and myself pulled on headsets so we could listen in.
“Whoever you are,” Mason said into the phone, “listen closely. Listen to me.”
Mason’s voice was powerful, his tone stark and very serious.
“This is the United States Army. What you have done has gone beyond the bounds of governmental negotiation. The president of the United States has signed an executive order, and all normal channels have now been closed. In five minutes’ time, starting now, you will either release the hostages or you will be killed. The only guarantee I will give you is this: If you lay down your weapons right now and let everyone out, you walk away with your lives. This is your one and only chance to respond. Tell me now. Are these the last five minutes of your life?”
Mason was making a very bold move, I knew. He was using a controversial strategy, originated by Army Intelligence to end a stand-off by basically scaring the living shit out of the hostage-taker. He’d just gone “all in” on the very first poker hand. If pressure was gasoline, Mason had just dropped a five-thousand-pound daisy cutter.
“If this asshole,” a voice replied with equal starkness after a short pause, “isn’t off the line in five seconds, the former president joins his wife in the afterlife. Five …”
I almost felt sorry for Mason when I saw the deep frown cross his face. It had been a risky bluff, one that had completely blown up on him. And it didn’t look like he had a backup plan.
“Four,” the voice said.
Commander Will Matthews stepped forward.
“Mason!” he said.
“Three.”
Mason was clutching the phone; he didn’t seem to be breathing.
And nobody else was doing anything either.
“Two.”
I had been a good negotiator, but I hadn’t done it in three years, and this was a precarious time to dip my toes back into the pool.
But Ned Mason had just crashed and burned, and like it or not, rusty or not, as secondary negotiator, it was my job to step in.
“One.”
I stepped across the bus and pulled the phone out of Mason’s hand.
Chapter 22
“HI,” I SAID CALMLY. “My name’s Mike. Sorry about the screwup. The person who spoke to you wasn’t authorized. Disregard everything he said. I’m the negotiator. We will not attack the cathedral. In fact, we don’t want anyone to get hurt. Again, I’m sorry for what just happened. Who am I speaking with, please?”
“On account of the fact that I just jacked this cathedral and everyone in it,” the voice said, “why don’t you call me Jack?”
“Okay, Jack,” I said. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“No problemo,” Jack said. “Do me a favor, Mike, would you? You tell that soldier-of-fortune dickhead who was just on that before he goes Raid on Entebbe on our asses, I got news for him. We have every window and door and wall in this place rigged up to a whole lotta C-4 on a multipoint motion-detector laser trigger. He better not breach.
“In fact, he better not let a pigeon shit in a three-mile radius of St. Paddy’s, or everybody on this block is going to be blown to thy will be done kingdom come. In fact, I’d seriously consider moving that NYPD helicopter off the roof if I were you. And I’d do it PDQ.”
I found Commander Will Matthews with my eyes and made a cutting motion toward the roof of the bus. Will Matthews spoke to one of his cop entourage, a radio crackled, and a couple of seconds later, the rotor thump of the helicopter began to fall away.
“Okay, Jack. I got my boss to move the helicopter back. Now, is everybody okay in there? I know we have some older folks who might need medical attention. There were reports of some gunfire. Has anybody been shot?”
“Not yet,” Jack said.
I ignored the provocative response for the time being. Once I bonded a little more, I would try to curtail the threats, get him to speak more reasonably, more calmly.
“You guys need food or water or anything?” I asked.
“We’re good for now,” Jack said. “At this point, I just want to lay two things on you that you need to start wrapping your mind around. You’re going to give us what we want, and we’re going to get away with this. Say it, Mike.”
“We’re going to give you what you want, and you’re going to get away with this,” I said without hesitation. Until we had more of an advantage, I needed to get him to accept me as quickly as possible. See me as someone who was willing to give him what he wanted anyway.
“Good boy,” Jack said. “I know it’s a little hard to compute, sitting where you’re sitting, Mike. A little hard to believe. So I just wanted to reach out and plant the seed there. Because it’s gonna happen. No matter how hard you try to resist. No matter how much you tough guys huff and puff. We’re going to get away with this.”
“My job is to make sure we all come out of this in one piece. Including you, Jack. I want you to believe that.”
“Aww, Mike, what a sweet thing to say. Oh, and don’t forget. It’s already over, okay? We win. Smell you later,” the hijacker said—and the line went dead on me.
Chapter 23
“WHAT’S YOUR TAKE on these guys, Mike?” Mason suddenly found his voice again.
I was about to try to answer, but being the closest to the command center window, I was the first to see the movement at the front of the cathedral.
“Wait a second,” I said. “The doors are opening. The front door! Something’s going down.”
The crackle of frantic radio calls ricocheted through the cop-filled trailer like one of my kids’ dime-store bouncy balls.
At first I could only make out the dimness of the church’s interior. Then a man in a torn blue dress shirt appeared in the doorway. He was blinking in the pale sunlight as he stepped onto the flagstone plaza.
Who was this? What was happening?
“I have him,” I heard one of the snipers call over the police band.
“Hold fire!” Will Matthews called back.
A woman in a broken-heeled shoe hobbled out behind the man in the blue shirt.
“What the … ,” Will Matthews said as a thin stream, then a flood of people started pouring out onto the cathedral’s front steps.
Hundreds, maybe a thousand people, were suddenly swarming out onto Fifth Avenue.
Were the hijackers letting everyone go? The other cops around me seemed as confused as I was.
We stared, silently watching the churchgoers scramble down the front steps. It was an unfathomable mob scene. Uniformed task force cops waded in immediately and guided the people south past the 49th Street barricade.
“Get every detective down here. Robbery, Special Victims, everyone! I want those released hostages identified and interviewed,” Commander Will Matthews barked at one of the assistant chiefs.
Then the doors of the cathedral began to close again. What was happening now?
Martelli patted me on the back.
“Nice work, Mike,” he said. “Textbook negotiating. You just saved thousands of lives.”
I appreciated the compliment, but I didn’t think what had just happened had much to do with me.
Maybe the strong-arm tactic Mason used had worked after all. Or they’d lost their nerve.
The whole thing was so utterly bizarre.
“Is it over?” Will Matthews asked. “Is that possible?”
There was a communal flinch around the room when the phone I was holding suddenly rang.
“My guess,” I said, “would be no.”
Chapter 24
“MIKE,” JACK SAID. “How’s it hanging out there, buddy? People make it to safety okay? Nobody trampled to death, I hope.”