Hostage Taker Page 2

  Eve stood motionless in the rain. She didn’t pray or talk. But she remembered. And if she imagined that she and Zev had a wordless conversation, that was only because she had once known him so well. Under the bleak December sky, her past and present bled together.

  She’d made it through four of the five stages of grief. She had denied it, ranted at Zev, bargained with a God she wasn’t sure she believed in, and learned to live with her dark thoughts. Now all that was left was acceptance.

  Acceptance is a gift not always granted, a man in New Delhi had told her.

  Eve didn’t know about that. But her every instinct was to avoid accepting that Zev was forever gone. She couldn’t face setting foot in Zev’s home. Or returning the probate lawyer’s calls. After Zev’s funeral three months ago, she’d boarded a flight leaving JFK for Rome and kept on moving.

  It seemed Zev had died holding a Scheherazade’s store of secrets—and she was resolved to uncover the important ones. She wanted to understand his life; she needed to understand his death. So she started in Rome and Madrid. Then Paris and Bruges. Followed by Munich, Prague, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, and eventually Athens and Shanghai. It was only after she’d reached Hong Kong—and felt the twist in her throat, watching men in the park play mah-jongg, as Zev had once done—that she realized the answers she needed were at home.

  So she returned to New York. She visited this cemetery. That had to count for something.

  She closed her umbrella and turned away from the grave. The morning’s teeming rain had finally stopped, but a thick fog filled the air and the temperature was dropping. Shivering, she pulled her gray jacket tighter around her and started walking north alongside the Riverside Drive retaining wall.

  The huge cemetery had been deserted, except for her. Now she noticed two men approaching through the mist.

  No reason to think they were a problem. There were plenty of graves in this cemetery. Plenty of potential mourners. So what if a couple had decided to show up for an early-morning visit?

  Nevertheless, she quickened her steps. Pushed her tangled blond hair away from her face. Took a closer look.

  The men were walking south from West 155th Street.

  She headed east toward Broadway.

  From the corner of her eye she saw: They switched direction and went east as well.

  Definitely not here to pay respects.

  Her eyes scanned the landscape. No one was around. Just her—and these two.

  She picked up her pace. They followed. Closing in fast.

  She cut an angle toward the southeast. Used her peripheral vision to observe them.

  They walked with a straight bearing. Authority in every step. A slight bulge near each of their waists betrayed the weapons they carried. Law enforcement, she decided.

  What did they want with her?

  She walked faster. Still watching. Still wary.

  The one on the left, she determined, was plainclothes NYPD. He had gone days without shaving. And while once he might have had the body of a linebacker, he was now starting to go to seed. But he walked with swagger and confidence—still the man on the field, despite his lack of uniform.

  The man on the right was smooth-shaven and clean-cut. He walked a half-step behind his partner. Because he had been trained to blend in, not stand out. FBI, definitely.

  Two men working together—a model of interagency cooperation. The new norm in a post-9/11 world.

  She wished they would just go away. But she knew they had to be dealt with—so she slowed and allowed them to catch up with her.

  The NYPD officer arrived first. “Special Agent Rossi? I’m Rick Connor, and this is Special Agent Chris Anders.” Connor thrust his NYPD ID in front of her. Anders flashed his FBI shield. “We need you to come with us.”

  Eve stopped abruptly. “I’m on leave.”

  “This is important.”

  “I’m on leave,” she repeated. “Bereavement. You need to ask someone else.”

  “Director’s orders,” Anders persisted. “He wants to see you.”

  “Henry?” Eve raised an eyebrow. Her attitude toward a command from FBI assistant director in charge Henry Ma was no different from her view about stones on graves. She would follow the custom—or the command—only as she saw fit. Not because she lacked respect for the job Henry did or felt that his work was unimportant. But the man was a political schemer who couldn’t be trusted. “Tell Director Ma that I’m sorry, but I’m not available.” She started walking away from them.

  “It’s an emergency.”

  Eve’s heartbeat quickened. They didn’t mean a personal emergency. She was the only child of now-deceased parents, responsible for no one. Anders hadn’t bothered with pleasantries or wasted words, so Eve didn’t, either. “What kind of emergency?”

  “A woman is dead.”

  “There are other profilers—”

  “It has to be you. I’ll explain on the way to the car.” He indicated an unmarked sedan parked just up the hill. It was scarcely visible through the fog.

  “How did you find me?” Eve didn’t move.

  “It’s our job. Now we need you to do yours.”

  “I’m not on payroll.” The government offered thirteen days of paid leave. Eve had already taken six times that amount, unpaid. And she fully intended to take more. “I’ve also got an appointment downtown.” She made a point of glancing at her watch.

  Connor found a cigarette in his pocket, lit it, and sucked in deeply. Like he was more desperate for nicotine than air. “There’s more at stake than the dead woman. Director Ma said your presence was critical.”

  “Why?” Eve demanded.

  “Hostages. We think the victim was a hostage. We’re worried there are more like her.” Except Connor didn’t sound concerned. He was the kind of cop who had lost all ambition. She knew the type well. He performed his duty and counted down time: the minutes until quitting time, weeks until vacation time, and years until pension time.

  “If you’re worried, then you’re not sure.”

  “It’s complicated.” Connor stood, smoking, staring at Eve like she was the problem.

  Eve shook her head. She didn’t want anything complicated. She had even less interest in a crisis involving hostages. Maybe at one time she would have been considered the top hostage negotiator in New York’s FBI field office.

  Not now.

  She’d left that work for a more unconventional assignment, put it behind her. No, this was a situation she wanted no part of.

  “I haven’t worked a hostage case in over a year.” She turned away from them. “Pick someone currently on HRT.” The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team was top-notch. So was the NYPD’s.

  This time it was Connor who spoke. “This is going down at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  In spite of herself, Eve felt a prick of curiosity—but she trained a blank expression on the NYPD officer. “I heard nothing on the news.” In her home, growing up, at least three televisions had always been on so Zev could monitor the different news channels. Another family tradition she now followed.

  “The media haven’t broken the story. But you should have received an encrypted message with the particulars.”

  Eve’s fingers reached into her pocket for her phone—and she saw to her surprise that Connor was right. Even though this phone received only personal email. She opened the first page and swiftly scanned its contents. The spare words of the official report grabbed her interest and held it. This was complicated.

  She looked up. “How long since the Hostage Taker barricaded the Cathedral?”

  “Initial report came at seven-oh-nine a.m. After the first victim was killed.”

  “How?”

  “Gunshot. We took a preliminary suspect into custody—but looks like he’s clean. The shot was fired from high in the Cathedral scaffolding—which is a patchwork of steel and wood, in the process of coming down.” Connor dropped his cigarette butt to the ground. It sparked until he squashed it under his heel.<
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  “The area’s contained?”

  “Completely. NYPD and a half-dozen officers from HRT have established a perimeter. No one inside is getting out.”

  “Victim ID?

  “Still working on it.”

  Her interest flickered again—but Eve dropped her phone back into her pocket. “I’ve been out of the game for too long. Besides, I’m too busy.”

  “Because that seven-mile run you’ve taken the past three mornings can’t wait? Sounds a little selfish to me.” Connor’s smile mocked her.

  She turned to Anders with a cold stare. “Since when does the FBI spy on me?”

  “Since early November,” the agent answered with a shrug. “That’s when the top brass started wondering if there was a problem. Why you were visiting so many foreign countries. If you were ever coming back.”

  “Give the lead negotiator my number. I’ll share my thoughts if anyone needs some support,” she lied. She had no intention of getting involved.

  Anders wouldn’t let it go. “You’re not understanding us. It’s possible that Ma will need you to be lead negotiator.”

  “Out of the question,” Eve said firmly. The last time she’d worked a hostage case, she’d made the wrong call—and people had died. Eleven in all, including children. It was not an experience she cared to repeat.

  Connor fixed her with a withering stare. “There may be a number of people inside Saint Patrick’s this morning who need you to reconsider your answer.”

  “Sorry.” Eve started back up the path.

  “The Hostage Taker left a message.”

  “Give it to someone else.”

  “Can’t,” Connor called out after her.

  “Why not?” She threw the words over her shoulder, still walking.

  “He asked for you by name, Agent Rossi.”

  VIDOCQ FILE #A3065277

  Current status: ACTIVE—Official Bereavement Leave

  Evangeline Rossi

  Nickname: Eve

  Age: 34

  Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian, Italian

  Height: 5’5”

  Weight: 117 lbs.

  Eyes: Hazel

  Hair: Blond

  Current Address: 348 West 57th Street (Hell’s Kitchen).

  Criminal Record: None.

  Expertise: Behavioral Science and Criminal Investigative Analysis, subspecialties in kinesics and paralinguistics. Seasoned interrogator and hostage negotiator.

  Education: Yale University, B.S., and M.S., Clinical Psychology.

  Personal

  Family: Mother, Annabella, deceased. Stepfather, Zev Berger, recently deceased, former CIA operative. Father, unknown.

  Spouse/Significant Other: None.

  Religion: Agnostic.

  Interests: Addicted to crossword puzzles. Concert-level pianist. Avid runner who has finished four NYC marathons.

  Profile

  Strengths: The stepdaughter of a CIA spook, Eve was born into the business and is passionately dedicated to her work, believing that it makes the world a better place. Her instincts and training give her insight into the criminal mind that most agents of her age and experience do not possess.

  Weaknesses: A perfectionist. She likes control and does not delegate well.

  Notes: Subject to debilitating migraines triggered by stress, lack of sleep, or caffeine mismanagement. Claims medication keeps condition under control. Suffered a crisis of confidence following failed hostage negotiation resulting in multiple fatalities (case history #175137662). Currently on Personal Leave of Absence after Vidocq Unit was disbanded.

  *Assessment prepared—and updated—by ADIC Henry Ma. For internal use only.

  HOUR 2

  9:31 a.m.

  This just in. We have a developing situation in Midtown.

  Police and first-responder activity is causing multiple street closures in the vicinity of Fifth and Madison throughout the Forties and Fifties.

  Our Sky Chopper is in the air to bring us this live shot of the area. There’s a crush of emergency vehicles—including multiple fire department vehicles—jamming both Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets on either side of Fifth Avenue.

  Over to you, Jim. From your vantage point, can you tell whether the incident response seems directed to Rockefeller Center—or to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?

  JIM: All I can say right now is that we’re seeing a massive emergency response on the ground, centered on Fifth Avenue between these two major tourist destinations, especially busy at holiday time.

  Chapter 3

  The man who’d summoned Eve was pacing back and forth under Atlas—the enormous bronze statue who held up the heavens—at Rockefeller Center, directly across the street from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Watching him, Eve realized: The timing of this crisis was bad, but it could have been far worse. They were fortunate that the area had been secured before tens of thousands of visitors swarmed the site for that evening’s world-famous Tree Lighting ceremony.

  This was Midtown Manhattan’s prime tourist arena, transformed into a brilliant holiday spectacle. Normally the smell of roasting chestnuts would fill the air. The jingle of bells from Salvation Army Santas would compete with the Christmas carols played by every store.

  Dazzling window displays demanded attention, each more ornate and magnificent than the last. And every building would be decorated with an extravagant array of Christmas lights, red ribbons, and ubiquitous green wreaths. Even the most jaded New Yorkers found it extraordinary—and they joined tourists who came to spend the day shopping at Saks, ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza, or wandering through Saint Patrick’s.

  Eve returned her attention to it: an enormous neo-Gothic cathedral with stunning stained-glass windows and graceful twin spires soaring more than three hundred feet into the air, disappearing into low-hanging clouds that lingered after the rain. Though dwarfed in size by the skyscrapers encircling it, the Cathedral’s grandeur ensured that it easily dominated the block. Even obscured by scaffolding—part of a massive restoration project designed to rehabilitate the Cathedral inside and out—the building retained an almost mystical aura. It didn’t matter to Eve that she wasn’t Catholic, or even particularly religious. The building itself was so uniquely beautiful that she had always found peace there.

  Not today.

  Fifth Avenue between Forty-ninth and Fifty-second Streets was transformed into a circus of police cars, emergency vehicles, equipment vans, and dozens of unmarked government sedans. The seventy-one thousand twinkling white lights of Saks competed with the flashing of crimson-and-blue emergency vehicle lights as first responders from different organizations—NYPD, FBI, Homeland Security, EMS—swarmed the block. They created a secure perimeter around the front of Saint Patrick’s.

  As expected, all approaches to Saint Patrick’s were blocked off. Beyond the perimeter, concrete barricades manned by police in full body armor held back the crowds and the members of the press with their video cameras and microphones. Detoured drivers were honking, and somewhere a car alarm was blaring. Meanwhile, an elderly woman, upset she was not allowed through, wielded an umbrella like a weapon in her futile argument with a cop.

  “I need that barricade moved two blocks uptown, hear me?” Henry Ma shouted into his radio. “Get rid of those cameras!” The director shrugged off his raincoat and thrust it at the assistant who followed him, clipboard in hand. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow—overheated, despite the increasing chill in the air. He wore his usual bold red tie and spit-shined shoes, but he had put on at least fifteen pounds since Eve had last seen him three months ago. His suit barely fit, his shirt was unironed. And his wedding ring was missing.

  Eve waited for his eyes to find her. Then he froze—and motioned toward a tactical response van. It was a signal. The assistant with the clipboard retreated, and a Hispanic woman in plain khaki pants and a black fitted coat stepped out of the van, nodding to the cluster of officers. She was in her early thirties; her long, dark hair was in a simple ponytail; and
she carried no weapon. But her chest was thick, out of proportion to the rest of her slender body—a telltale sign of bulletproof armor underneath.

  This woman was an NYPD negotiator.

  Henry straightened his tie and stalked toward Eve. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Maybe he regretted the way he had abandoned her when the political winds shifted during their last case. Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, this was as close to an apology as Eve would get.

  “I didn’t want to. I wasn’t given a choice,” Eve replied.

  “Because there isn’t one. They told you about the message the dead woman carried? There was a note on the back of her sign. Asking for you.”

  Eve nodded. “Yes. Why would the Hostage Taker ask for me?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us. Maybe you’ve crossed paths with him before.”

  “What do you think we’re dealing with?”

  Henry made a noise of frustration. “Who the hell knows. The guy inside could be a criminal or a terrorist or a religious nutjob with some beef against the Catholic Church. Take your pick. I’ve got one team combing surveillance video and another trying to get eyes and ears inside. Tactical is standing by. We can’t get our infrared to penetrate the walls of the Cathedral.”

  “What about the military?”

  Henry bristled. “Our equipment is military-grade—the latest technology. It’s just no match for those walls. They’re made of about ten feet of granite and marble, concrete and brick.”

  “Any word yet on how many are inside?”

  “There’s no telling. This situation unfolded shortly before seven-o’clock Mass, so we suspect there are multiple hostages. At least the bad weather may have limited the damage. I would be surprised if too many people braved this morning’s monsoon.”

  “Any IDs?”

  “The media hasn’t broken the full story. When they do, we’ll drown under tips about people known or suspected to be at Saint Patrick’s.”