T he drive back to the mobile command center was practically unbearable for Alicia. At least a half-dozen times, she had to fight off the impulse to jump onto I-95 and just keep going. She had no particular destination in mind. It was simply about getting away. Running, however, was rarely the answer. With the lives of at least four hostages still hanging in the balance, it wasn’t even a remote option.
She switched on the car radio and caught the tail end of a news update at the top of the hour, delivered in rapid-fire cadence.
“The hostage standoff between police and the homeless man accused of stalking Mayor Mendoza’s daughter now enters its eighteenth hour,” the announcer reported, “with no outward signs of progress. At least four hostages remain holed up in a motel room with the gunman, one of whom is now believed to be Walter Finkelstein, better known as Walt the Weather Wizard, the colorful meteorologist with Action News in Miami. More news at the bottom of the hour.”
Alicia switched off the radio. To her knowledge, the identity of the hostages had yet to be released. The leaks were starting. With more than a little concern, she wondered what other secrets might find their way into the media.
She returned to the staging area just before dark and found a parking space a few car-lengths down from the mobile command center. The rain continued to fall, though no longer in the blinding sheets that had made her drive to Coconut Grove so treacherous. Still, completely overcast skies and plenty of threatening dark clouds made for a premature dusk. Darkness came early in December, and on a miserable day like today it would come even sooner than usual, which gave her an uneasy feeling. She was no expert in hostage negotiations, but Vince was. He was living and walking proof that nightfall often triggered action in a hostage situation-for better or for worse.
Alicia dodged raindrops as she darted toward the mobile unit and pushed the door open, entering with more of a flurry than she’d intended. “It’s me,” she said upon seeing the startled expression on Vince’s face.
“You’re back,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d left us for good.”
“No, there was just something…something that came up. Can I speak to you alone for a minute, Vince?” Alicia glanced at the second negotiator from MDPD, who was gracious enough to volunteer that he needed another jolt of espresso. He pulled on a windbreaker that was already rain-soaked, stepped out into the drizzle, and left Alicia and Vince alone in the command center.
“What’s up?” said Vince.
Alicia pulled up a chair that faced him and sat close enough for him to feel her presence. She felt an urge to reach out and take his hands in hers, but she resisted, in this setting. “Vince, what do you know about Argentina’s Dirty War?”
The question didn’t seem to surprise him the way she had thought it would. “Up until this afternoon, I’d say I knew virtually nothing.”
“That probably puts you in the same boat as most Americans, except for the fact that your answer implies that you now know something about it.”
“I have learned a few things.”
“Did something happen while I was gone?”
“Someone came forward with some information. A source.”
“Who?”
“An old woman who cleaned out the cash from Falcon’s safe deposit box in the Bahamas.”
“She stole it?”
“No. It appears that he authorized access. He gave it to her.”
“Why?”
“She claims she knew Falcon. Told us all about him.”
Alicia knew exactly whom he was talking about, and she was glad that Vince couldn’t see her reaction. “What did she tell you?”
“Lots of things. Turns out that he spent most of the Dirty War torturing prisoners at one of over three hundred secret detention centers that the military dictatorship set up around the country to deal with dissidents. He was known as El Oso.”
“How did she know him?”
“Her daughter was detained there.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” said Vince.
She wasn’t quite sure how to read his tone, but he didn’t wait for her response.
“Interesting thing is that the detention center was called La Cacha. The guards gave it that name. It was short for La Cachavacha. Apparently there was a popular cartoon in Argentina called La bruja de la cachavacha, about a witch who could make people disappear.”
“I know the cartoon,” she said.
“El Oso and his buddies must have been a real bunch of comedians. I guess that’s what Falcon was hinting at when he kept talking about the witch and the Disappeared.”
“What do you expect? You’ve seen him, talked to him. He’s crazy.”
“No, he’s not crazy. He’s more of a sociopath.”
“Is that what your source told you?”
“She didn’t use that word, but she told us the stories. If it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck…”
“What kind of stories did she tell you?”
“Some pretty horrible things,” said Vince.
“What?” she said, conveying more urgency than she would have liked.
“Basically, her daughter was seven months pregnant when she was taken into La Cacha. Believe it or not, she was one of nineteen pregnant women detained and tortured there. Nobody ever saw her again, but there were rumors that she lived long enough to give birth.”
“Does anyone know what happened to the baby?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“You didn’t ask her?”
“She wouldn’t discuss it.”
“You didn’t push it?”
“It didn’t seem pertinent to the hostage negotiation. And when I say she wouldn’t discuss it, I mean she would not discuss it.”
“You were okay with that?”
“Actually, that was part of our deal. She was willing to tell us everything she knew about Falcon, but the more personal details about her daughter were her business.”
“Was she hiding something?”
“Could be. Or maybe it’s still too painful for her to discuss it. Either way, I always honor my deals with sources. She gave us plenty of helpful information about Falcon, and she asked for just one thing in return.”
“What?”
“She asked that I give something to you.”
“To me?” she said, trying to act more surprised than she was. “What is it, the money?”
Vince shook his head. He laid two files on the table. Alicia could see the entire label of the top file, which was written in Spanish. In translation, it read: SECRETARY FOR PUBLIC HEALTH. BUENOS AIRES. DURAND HOSPI-TAL. ATTENTION: DR. DI LINARDO. Only a portion of the label was visible on the second folder beneath it. This one, however, was written in English: AMERICAN ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF SCIENCE. WASHING-TON, DC. An abbreviation of some sort followed: CONADEP.
Alicia had never seen the files before, never had any dealings with a Dr. Di Linardo or any of the listed entities. “What is this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not for lack of interest, but obviously I didn’t read it.”
“Your source didn’t tell you?”
“No. That was our deal. She tells me all about Falcon, and I give you the files. But she insisted that what’s in there is between you and her.”
Alicia was looking straight at the files, but she didn’t answer.
“What’s wrong?” said Vince.
“Nothing.”
“Come on. The old lady said it was personal, but she also promised that you wouldn’t hate me for giving it to you.”
“I don’t kill messengers, Vince.”
“Then what is it?”
Alicia couldn’t tear her gaze away from the files, but she was hearing that voice inside her head again-the one that had told her to get on the interstate and just keep driving. “I think it’s more than I want to know,” she said quietly.
S ergeant Chavez was in a SWAT power struggle, and he was determined to win it.
As lead representative of the City of Miami’s tactical team, Chavez was inside the SWAT van with the head of Miami-Dade SWAT. Joining the debate by telephone were Chief Renfro from the city and the MDPD director. Paulo was not invited.
“I thought this was settled hours ago,” said the director. “If a breach was necessary, Miami-Dade SWAT would lead it.”
Chavez said, “It’s a different ballgame now. We’re not staging a straight breach. The breach occurs only if the city’s sniper misses the target.”
The director asked, “How does that change things?”
Chavez said, “The timing of the breach is tied directly to the sniper’s shot. My sniper is taking the shot. I’m in direct communication with him. We’re talking about split-second coordination here. It makes no sense to link the breachers from one law enforcement agency to the sniper of another and expect everything to come off with precision. Pile on top of that the fact that if we need a negotiator to intervene for any reason, Paulo’s also from the city.”
Chief Renfro chimed in. “I think the sergeant has a point, Director.”
Chavez was ready to press his argument further, but to his surprise, it wasn’t necessary.
“All right,” said the director. “We’ll serve as backup. The city takes the lead.”
Chavez wrapped up the phone call quickly, before the director had a chance to change his mind. As they headed for the door, he extended his hand to the MDPD’s SWAT coordinator, but the return handshake was lukewarm. Chavez didn’t care. Already, it was as good as “mission accomplished,” and not a single shot had been fired. He stepped down from the SWAT van and started toward the restaurant. Before sharing the news with his team, however, he picked up the telephone and dialed. Right at “Hello,” he went straight to the bottom line.
“It’s done,” he said. “I’ll lead my team in first. MDPD’s SWAT will serve as backup.”
“Very good,” was the reply. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s everything. This Falcon is a stalker and a murderer. If your sniper misses and SWAT breaches, I don’t want a bunch of guys going in who are so afraid of losing a hostage that they can’t pull the trigger.”
“The safety of the hostages is always paramount.”
“Absolutely. That said, I want to be damn sure that if that door gets busted down, there’s at least one man on the team who is sharp enough, brave enough, and talented enough to take this guy out even if the place goes wild with screaming hostages. You understand?”
Chavez could have launched into a lecture on the critical importance of knowing when not to shoot, but he decided just to shut up and take the compliment. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I read you loud and clear.”
THE INJURED GIRL was deadweight in Theo’s arms. She was only semiconscious.
It was getting darker by the minute inside the motel room. Theo had lost track of time, but it was obviously near nightfall. Daylight was no longer seeping into the room around the edge of the draperies, and they would have been in total darkness but for the very white, artificial glow that had replaced the natural light of day. Theo surmised that the police were aiming high-powered search lamps at the door and window.
The two other hostages, Natalia and the weatherman, were seated on the floor, back to back. Their ankles and wrists were bound tightly, and with hands behind their hips, they were tied together at the elbows. Theo was standing before the door, which remained closed, though the pile of furniture had been pushed aside for a clean exit. His ankles were tethered together by a two-foot length of lamp cord, a makeshift version of the shackles he’d worn in another life on death row. He stood a full head taller than his captor. Falcon came up from behind and pushed the barrel of his pistol against the base of Theo’s skull.
“I have no problem shooting you,” Falcon said in a calm voice.
The feeling was entirely mutual, but Theo didn’t say it.
“So don’t even think about running,” Falcon added.
“Don’t worry,” said Theo.
“No ducking, no sudden jerks from side to side. I’m standing right behind you. You’re my human shield, big guy.”
The girl shifted in Theo’s arms, and Theo rocked forward onto the balls of his feet to keep his balance.
“Don’t move till I tell you to!” Falcon said, pushing Theo’s head forward with his gun to emphasize the point.
Theo froze, which forced him to hold the girl in a somewhat awkward position. “I’m not going anywhere. Just staying loose.”
The gun remained in place, aimed at the back of Theo’s brain, as Theo listened. There was very little sound, like the eerie calm before the storm. He heard the discomfort in the injured girl’s breathing. He heard the distant hum of helicopters hovering somewhere above the motel. He could hear Falcon rummaging through his pocket for the cell phone and then punching out the number.
“We’re coming out now,” Falcon said into the telephone. “If I open that door and see anything I don’t like, if I even sense something I don’t like, your friend Theo is dead.”
Theo heard the close of the flip phone, Falcon’s call to Jack having ended. Two things were now certain.
Falcon was ready to make his move.
And so was Theo.
T heo let the plan run through his mind one last time.
The moment of opportunity would arise when he bent down to lay the injured girl on the stoop. Crouched like a football lineman, he could let his right leg fly back with the force of a mule kick. Falcon would never know what hit him. Theo would sweep up the girl and roll away from the open doorway, out of the line of fire. The cops would see Falcon go down and immediately send in the SWAT to save the other two hostages. That was the plan, but Theo was nothing if not a realist.
Things never went according to plan.
“Open the door,” said Falcon.
“How? I’m holding the girl.”
“Hold her tight with your right arm, drape her knees over your left forearm. That will give you a free hand.”
Theo complied, and Falcon was right. The girl weighed maybe a hundred pounds, and he could easily free up a hand and still manage to carry her. He turned the deadbolt, and the door unlocked with the portentous sound of a shotgun shucking.
“Nice and slow now,” said Falcon.
Theo reached for the doorknob, grasped it tightly, and turned it to the right.
“Even slower,” said Falcon. “Now open it.”
Theo pushed the knob away from him, and the hinges creaked as the door swung outward. Building codes required external doors to swing out in south Florida, to prevent hurricanes from coming inside. This time it seemed that the hurricane might be going the other way. Theo, however, suddenly felt very small standing in the open doorway. Night had indeed fallen, and searchlights cut through the darkness like giant lasers. One was aimed directly at Theo, and it was momentarily blinding. Had he not been holding the girl, he would have shielded his eyes. He couldn’t see very far-that was probably one of the intended effects of the searchlights-but he sensed or at least hoped that somewhere out there was a huge police presence.
“TAKE THE SHOT,” Chavez said into his bone microphone. He spoke in a hushed voice, albeit with urgency.
The sniper came back in his earpiece, “It’s a black male, one of the hostages. I don’t have a shot.”
Chavez was with his tactical team in room 105, just two doors down from Falcon and the hostages. It was as close as they felt they could get to Falcon without tipping their hand that SWAT was on the way. The entire team was dressed in black SWAT regalia with Kevlar helmets, flak jackets, thigh guards, and night-vision goggles. Each was armed with an M-16 rifle and.45-caliber pistol. The front door was open for a quick exit. The men stood in the ready position in anticipation of the crack of a sniper shot that would be their starter pistol.
“Can you see Falcon?” said Chavez.
“Negative. The black male is holding the injured female in his arms, but there is no sign of-Check that. There’s Falcon. He’s standing directly behind the male hostage.”
“Then take the shot.”
“There is no shot.”
“If you can see Falcon, there’s a shot.”
“It’s too risky. He’s using the hostage as a shield.”
“What about the north-south snipers? Any angle for a shot to the side of the head?”
“Negative. The hostage is standing at the threshold. Falcon is still inside.”
“Then back off. It’s time to breach.”
“If you breach now, Theo Knight is dead.”
“Then take the shot, damn it!”
TAKE THE SHOT.
For a brief instant, Falcon thought he was hearing voices in his head all over again, but it sounded unlike any voice he’d heard before, and it was coming from a place that seemed all too real-specifically, one of the nearby rooms.
“Back inside!” shouted Falcon as he grabbed Theo by the collar and pulled him out of the doorway.