“It’s Joe. I think you know who I am.”
Gabriel froze. He saw Korsak watching him, instantly alert.
“We have things to talk about, Agent Dean.”
“How did you know—”
“Your wife here tells us you’re trustworthy. That your word is your bond. We hope that’s true.”
“Let me talk to her. Let me hear her voice.”
“In a minute. Once you promise.”
“What? Tell me what you want!”
“Justice. We want you to promise to do your job.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We need you to bear witness. To hear what we have to say, because there’s a good chance we’re not going to live through this night.”
A chill sliced through Dean. They’re suicidal. Are they going to take everyone else down with them?
“We want you to tell the world the truth,” said Joe. “They’ll listen to you. Come inside with that reporter, Agent Dean. Talk to us. When it’s over, tell everyone what you’ve heard.”
“You’re not going to die. You don’t have to.”
“You think we want to? We’ve tried to outrun them and we can’t. This is the only choice left to us.”
“Why do it this way? Why threaten innocent people?”
“No one will listen to us any other way.”
“Just walk out! Release the hostages and surrender.”
“And you’ll never see us alive again. They’ll come up with a logical explanation. They always do. Watch, you’ll see it in the news. They’ll claim we committed suicide. We’ll die in prison, before we ever get to trial. And everyone will think: ‘well, that’s how it goes in jail.’ This is our last chance, Agent Dean, to get the world’s attention. To tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“What really happened in Ashburn.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’ll do whatever you want if you just let my wife go.”
“She’s right here. She’s fine. In fact, I’ll let you—”
The connection suddenly went dead.
“Joe? Joe?”
“What happened?” Korsak demanded. “What’d he say?”
Gabriel ignored him; all his attention was focused on reestablishing the link. He retrieved the phone number and hit DIAL.
“. . . we’re sorry. This number is currently unavailable.”
“What the hell is going on?” Korsak yelled.
“I can’t get through.”
“He hung up on you?”
“No, we were cut off. Right after . . .” Gabriel stopped. Turned and looked up the street, his gaze focusing on the command trailer. They’ve been listening in, he thought. Someone heard everything Joe said.
“Hey!” called Korsak. “Where you going?”
Gabriel was already running toward the trailer. He didn’t bother to knock, but shoved open the door and stepped inside. Hayder and Stillman turned from the video monitors and looked at him.
Hayder said, “We don’t have time for you right now, Agent Dean.”
“I’m going into the building. I’m going to get my wife.”
“Oh, yeah.” Hayder laughed. “I’m sure you’ll be greeted with open arms.”
“Joe called me on my cell phone. They’re inviting me in. They want to talk to me.”
Stillman abruptly straightened, his face registering what looked like genuine surprise. “When did he call you? No one told us.”
“It was just a few minutes ago. Joe knows who I am. He knows Jane is my wife. I can reason with these people.”
“It’s out of the question,” said Hayder.
“You were willing to send in that reporter.”
“They know you’re FBI. In their minds, you’re probably part of this crazy government conspiracy they’re so scared of. You’d be lucky to last five minutes in there.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“You’ll be a prize for them,” said Stillman. “A high-profile hostage.”
“You’re the negotiator. You’re the one who always talks about slowing things down. Well, these people want to negotiate.”
“Why with you?”
“Because they know I won’t do anything to endanger Jane. I’ll pull no tricks, bring in no booby traps. It’ll just be me, playing by their rules.”
“It’s too late, Dean,” said Stillman. “We’re not running this show anymore. They’ve already got their entry team in place.”
“What team?”
“The feds flew them in from Washington. It’s some crack antiterrorist unit.”
This was exactly what Senator Conway had told Gabriel was about to happen. The time for negotiations had clearly passed.
“Boston PD’s been ordered to stay on the sidelines,” said Hayder. “Our job’s just to keep the perimeters secure, while they go in.”
“When is this supposed to go down?”
“We have no idea. They’re calling the shots.”
“What about that deal you made with Joe? The cameraman, the reporter? He still thinks it’s going to happen.”
“It’s not.”
“Who called it off?”
“The feds did. We just haven’t told Joe yet.”
“He’s already agreed to release two hostages.”
“And we’re still hoping he does. That’s at least two lives we can save.”
“If you don’t hold up your end of the bargain—if you don’t send in Peter Lukas—there are four hostages in there you’re not going to save.”
“By then, I hope the entry team will be in.”
Gabriel stared at him. “Do you want a massacre? Because you’re going to get one! You’re giving two paranoid people every reason to think their delusion is real. That you are out to kill them. Hell, maybe they’re right!”
“Now you’re the one who’s sounding paranoid.”
“I think I’m the only one who’s making sense.” Gabriel turned and walked out of the trailer.
He heard the negotiator call out after him: “Agent Dean?”
Gabriel kept walking, toward the police line.
“Dean!” At last Stillman caught up with him. “I just want you to know, I didn’t agree to any assault plan. You’re right, it’s just asking for bloodshed.”
“Then why the hell are you allowing it?”
“As if I can stop it? Or Hayder? This is now Washington’s call. We’re supposed to stand back and let them take it from here.”
They heard it then—the sudden buzz through the crowd. The throng of reporters tightened, surged forward.
What is happening?
They heard a shout, saw the lobby doors swing open, and a tall African-American man in an orderly’s uniform stepped out, escorted by two Tactical Ops officers. He paused, eyes blinking in the glare of dozens of klieg lights, then he was hurried off toward a waiting vehicle. Seconds later, a man in a wheelchair emerged, pushed by a Boston PD cop.
“They did it,” Stillman murmured. “They released two people.”
But not Jane. Jane’s still in there. And the assault could start any minute.
He pushed toward the police line.
“Dean,” said Stillman, grabbing his arm.
Gabriel turned to look at him. “This could all end without a single bullet being fired. Let me go in. Let me talk to them.”
“The feds will never clear it.”
“Boston PD controls the perimeter. Order your men to let me through.”
“It could be a death trap.”
“My wife is in there.” His gaze locked with Stillman’s. “You know I have to do this. You know this is the best chance she’ll have. The best chance any of them will have.”
Stillman released a breath. Wearily he nodded. “Good luck.”
Gabriel ducked under the police tape. A Boston Tac-Ops officer moved to intercept him.
“Let him pass,” said Stillman. “He’s going into the building.”
“Sir?”
/>
“Agent Dean is our new negotiator.”
Gabriel gave Stillman a nod of thanks. Then he turned and started walking toward the lobby doors.
NINETEEN
Mila
Neither Olena nor I know where we are going.
We have never walked through these woods, and we don’t know where we will emerge. I wear no stockings, and the cold quickly penetrates my thin shoes. Despite the Mother’s sweater and turtleneck, I am chilled and shivering. The lights of the house have receded behind us, and glancing back, I see only the darkness of woods. On numb feet, I trudge across frozen leaves, keeping my focus on the silhouette of Olena, who walks ahead of me, carrying the tote bag. My breath is like smoke. Ice crackles beneath our shoes. I think of a war movie I once saw in school, of cold and starving German soldiers staggering through the snow to their doom on the Russian front. Don’t stop. Don’t question. Just keep marching was what those desperate soldiers must have been thinking. It’s what I’m thinking now as I stumble through the woods.
Ahead of us, a light suddenly twinkles.
Olena halts, holding up her arm to make me stop. We stand as still as the trees, watching as the lights move past, and we hear the whoosh of tires on wet pavement. We push through the last tangle of brush, and our feet hit blacktop.
We have reached a road.
By now my feet are so senseless from the cold that I am clumsy and floundering as I try to keep up with her. Olena is like a robot, trudging steadily forward. We begin to see houses, but she doesn’t stop. She is the general, and I’m just the dumb foot soldier, following a woman who knows no more than I do.
“We can’t walk forever,” I tell her.
“We can’t stay here, either.”
“Look, that house has its lights on. We could ask for help.”
“Not now.”
“How long are we supposed to keep walking? All night, all week?”
“As long as we need to.”
“Do you even know where we’re going?”
She suddenly turns, the rage so apparent on her face that I freeze. “You know what? I’m sick of you! You’re nothing but a baby. A stupid, scared rabbit.”
“I just want to know where we’re going.”
“All you ever do is whine and complain! Well, I’ve had enough. I’m done with you.” She reaches into the tote bag and pulls out the bundle of American money. She breaks the rubber band and thrusts half the cash at me. “Here, take it and get out of my sight. If you’re so smart, go your own way.”
“Why are you doing this?” I feel hot tears in my eyes. Not because I’m afraid, but because she is my only friend. And I know that I am losing her.
“You’re a drag on me, Mila. You’ll slow me down. I don’t want to have to watch out for you all the time. I’m not your fucking mother!”
“I never wanted you to be.”
“Then why don’t you grow up?”
“And why don’t you stop being a bitch!”
The car takes us by surprise. We are so focused on each other that we do not notice its approach. Suddenly it rounds the curve, and the headlights trap us like doomed animals. Tires screech to a stop. It is an old car, and the engine makes knocking noises as it idles.
The driver sticks his head out the window. “You two ladies need help,” he says. It sounds more like a statement than a question, but then our situation is obvious. A freezing night. Two women stranded on a lonely road. Of course we need help.
I gape at him, silent. It is Olena who takes command, as she always does. In an instant she has transformed. Her walk, her voice, the provocative way she thrusts out her hip—this is Olena at her most seductive. She smiles and says, in throaty English: “Our car is dead. Can you drive us?”
The man studies her. Is he just being cautious? Somehow he realizes that something is very wrong here. I am on the edge of retreating back into the woods, before he can call the police.
When he finally answers, his voice is flat, revealing no hint that Olena’s charms have affected him. “There’s a service station up the road. I need to stop there for gas anyway. I’ll ask about a tow truck.”
We climb into the car. Olena sits in the front seat, I huddle in the back. I have stuffed the money she gave me into my pocket, and now it feels like a glowing lump of coal. I am still angry, still wounded by her cruelty. With this money, I can manage without her, without anyone. And I will.
The man does not talk as he drives. At first I think he is merely ignoring us, that we are of no interest to him. Then I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s been studying me, studying both of us. In his silence, he’s as alert as a cat.
The lights of the service station glow ahead, and we pull into the driveway and stop beside the pump. The man gets out to fill his tank, then he says to us: “I’ll ask about the tow truck.” He walks into the building.
Olena and I remain in the car, uncertain of our next move. Through the window, we see our driver talking to the cashier. He points to us, and the cashier picks up a phone.
“He’s calling the police,” I whisper to Olena. “We should leave. We should run now.” I reach for the door and am about to push it open when a black car swings into the service station and pulls up right beside our car. Two men step out, both dressed in dark clothes. One of them has white-blond hair, cut short as a brush. They look at us.
In an instant, my blood freezes in my veins.
We are trapped animals in this stranger’s car, and two hunters have now surrounded us. The blond man stands right outside my door, gazing in at me, and I can only stare back through the window at the last face the Mother ever saw. The last face I will probably ever see.
Suddenly, the blond man’s chin snaps up and his gaze shifts to the building. I turn and see that our driver has just stepped outside, and is walking toward the car. He has paid for the gas, and he is stuffing his wallet back in his pocket. He slows down, frowning at the two men who now flank his car.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” our driver asks.
The blond man answers. “Sir, could we ask you a few questions?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Steve Ullman. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Our driver does not seem particularly impressed by this. He reaches into the service station bucket and picks up a squeegee. Wrings out the excess water and begins to wipe his dirty windshield. “What do you two fellows want to talk to me about?” he asks, scraping water from the glass.
The blond man leans in closer to our driver and speaks in a muted voice. I hear the words female fugitives and dangerous.
“So why are you talking to me?” the driver says.
“This is your car, right?”
“Yeah.” Our driver suddenly laughs. “Oh, now I get it. In case you’re wondering, that’s my wife and her cousin sitting in the car. They look real dangerous, don’t they?”
The blond man glances at his partner. A look of surprise. They don’t know what to say.
Our driver drops the squeegee back in the bucket, throwing up a splash. “Good luck, guys,” he says, and opens his car door. As he climbs in behind the wheel, he says loudly to Olena: “Sorry, honey. They didn’t have any Advil. We’ll have to try the next gas station.”
As we drive away, I glance back and see that the men are still staring after us. One of them is writing down the license number.
For a moment, no one in the car speaks. I am still too paralyzed by fear to say a word. I can only stare at the back of our driver’s head. The man who has just saved our lives.
Finally he says: “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
“They lied to you,” says Olena. “We are not dangerous!”
“And they’re not FBI.”
“You already know this?”
The man looks at her. “Look, I’m not stupid. I know the real deal when I see it. And I know when I’m getting bullshitted. So how about telling m
e the truth?”
Olena releases a weary sigh. In a whisper she says: “They want to kill us.”
“That much I figured out.” He shakes his head and laughs, but there is no humor in it. It’s the laugh of a man who cannot believe his bad luck. “Man, when it rains on me, it just fucking pours,” he says. “So who are they and why do they want to kill you?”
“Because of what we have seen tonight.”
“What did you see?”
She looks out the window. “Too much,” she murmurs. “We have seen too much.”
For the moment he lets that answer suffice, because we have just turned off the road. Our tires bump over a dirt track that takes us deep into woods. He stops the car in front of a ramshackle house surrounded by trees. It is little more than a rough-hewn cabin, something that only a poor man would live in. But on the roof is a giant satellite dish.
“This is your home?” Olena asks.
“It’s where I live,” is his odd answer.
He uses three different keys to open the front door. Standing on the porch, waiting for him to open his various locks, I notice that his windows all have bars. For a moment I hesitate to step inside because I think of the other house that we have just escaped. But these bars, I realize, are different; these are not to trap people in; they are meant to keep people out.
Inside I smell wood smoke and damp wool. He does not turn on any lights, but navigates across the dark room as though he knows every square inch of it blind. “It gets a little musty in here when I go away for a few days,” he says. He strikes a match, and I see that he is kneeling at a hearth. The bundle of kindling and logs are already waiting to be lit, and flames soon dance to life. The glow illuminates his face, which seems even more gaunt, more somber in this shadowy room. Once, I think, it might have been a handsome face, but the eyes are now too hollow, and his lean jaw has several days’ growth of dark stubble. As the fire brightens, I glance around at a small room made even smaller by tall piles of newspapers and magazines, by the dozens and dozens of news clippings he has tacked to the walls. They are everywhere, like yellowing scales, and I imagine him shut up in this lonely cabin, day after day, month after month, feverishly cutting out articles whose significance only he understands. I look around at the barred windows and remember the three locks on the front door. And I think: This is the home of a frightened man.