2
THEY ARRIVED AT a scene of controlled chaos. The setting was a nondescript working-class street in the ironically named neighborhood of Sunnyside, Queens. The house was part of a long row of attached brick houses, facing an identical row across a street of cracked pavement. There were no trees on the block; the lawns were overgrown with weeds and brown from lack of rain. The air hummed with the roar of traffic on nearby Queens Boulevard, and a smell of car exhaust drifted in the air.
A cop showed them where to park, and they got out. The police had set up roadblocks and barricades at both ends of the street, and the place was packed with squad cars, their lightbars flashing. Garza showed ID and was waved through a barricade, which held back a seething crowd of rubberneckers, many drinking beer, a few even wearing funny hats and carrying on as if it were a block party.
New York City, thought Gideon with a shake of his head.
The police had cleared a large area in front of the house in which Chalker had taken hostages. Two SWAT teams had been deployed, one in a forward post behind an armored rescue vehicle, the other back behind a set of concrete barricades. Gideon could see snipers peeking above several rooftops. In the middle distance, he could hear the occasional blaring of a voice over a megaphone, apparently a hostage negotiator trying to talk Chalker down.
As Garza pushed toward the front, Gideon experienced a sudden flash of déjà vu, a spasm of nausea. This was the way his father had been killed, exactly like this: with the megaphones, the SWAT teams, the snipers and barricades—shot in cold blood, surrendering, with his hands up…Gideon fought to push the memory aside.
They passed through another set of barricades to an FBI command post. An agent detached himself from the group and came over.
“Special Agent Stone Fordyce,” said Garza, introducing him. “Assistant commander of the FBI team on site. You’ll be working with him.”
Gideon eyed the man with instinctual hostility. The guy was straight out of a TV series, dressed in a blue suit, starched white shirt, and repp tie, ID hanging around his neck, tall, handsome, arrogant, self-assured, and ridiculously fit. His narrow blue eyes looked down at Gideon as if examining a lower form of life.
“So you’re the friend?” asked Fordyce, his eyes lingering on Gideon, particularly on his clothes—black jeans, black Keds without laces, secondhand tuxedo shirt, thin scarf.
“I’m not the maiden aunt, if that’s what you mean,” Gideon replied.
“Here’s the deal,” the man went on, after a pause. “This friend of yours, Chalker, he’s paranoid, delusional. Classic psychotic break. He’s spouting a bunch of conspiracy ideas: that the government kidnapped him, used him for radiation experiments, and beamed rays into his head—the usual. He thinks his landlord and landlady are in on the conspiracy and he’s taken them hostage, along with their two kids.”
“What does he want?” Gideon asked.
“Incoherent. He’s armed with what we think is a 1911-style Colt .45. He’s fired it once or twice for show. Not sure if he actually knows how to use it. You got any knowledge of his prior experience with weapons?”
“I would’ve thought none,” said Gideon.
“Tell me about him.”
“Socially inept. Didn’t have a lot of friends, got burdened with a world-class dysfunctional wife who put him through the wringer. Dissatisfied with his job, talked about wanting to become a writer. Finally ended up getting religion.”
“Was he good at his job? Smart?”
“Competent but not brilliant. As for brains, he’s way more intelligent than, say, the average FBI agent.”
There was a silence as Fordyce took this in and did not react. “The brief says this guy designed nuclear weapons at Los Alamos. Right?”
“More or less.”
“You think there’s a chance he’s got explosives rigged in there?”
“He may have worked with nuclear weapons, but a firecracker would’ve freaked him out. As for explosives—I sincerely doubt it.”
Fordyce stared at him, went on. “He thinks everyone here is a government agent.”
“He’s probably right.”
“We’re hoping he’ll trust someone out of his past. You.”
Gideon could hear in the background more megaphoned words, then a distorted, screamed reply, too far away to make out. He turned toward the sound. “Is that him?” he asked in disbelief.
“Unfortunately.”
“Why the megaphone?”
“He won’t talk on a cell or landline, says we’re using it to beam more rays into his head. So it’s megaphone only. He shouts his replies out the door.”
Gideon turned again in the direction of the sound. “I guess I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Let me give you a crash course in hostage negotiation,” said Fordyce. “The whole idea is to create a feeling of normalcy, lower the temperature, engage the hostage taker, prolong the negotiations. Stimulate his humanity. Okay? Our number one goal is to get him to release the kids. Try to dig out something he wants and trade the kids for it. You following me so far?” He seemed doubtful Gideon was capable of basic reasoning.
Gideon nodded, keeping his face neutral.
“You have no authority to grant anything. You can’t make promises. Get that? Everything has to be checked with the commander. Anything he asks for, be sympathetic, but say you’ve got to check with the commander. This is a crucial part of the process. It slows things down. And if he wants something and the answer’s a no, you don’t get blamed. The point is to wear him out, stop the momentum.”
Gideon was surprised to find himself in general agreement with the approach.
A cop appeared with a bulletproof vest. “We’re going to suit you up,” said Fordyce. “In any case, there shouldn’t be any risk—we’re putting you behind bulletproof Plexiglas.”
They helped him strip off his shirt and put on the vest, tucking the extensions into his upper pants, then fitted him out with an invisible earpiece and remote mike. As he dressed, he could hear more megaphoned conversation in the background, interspersed with hysterical, incoherent responses.
Fordyce consulted his watch, winced. “Any new developments?” he asked the cop.
“The guy’s getting worse. The commander thinks we may need to move into the termination phase soon.”
“Damn.” Fordyce shook his head and turned back to Gideon. “Another thing: you’ll be working from a script.”
“A script?”
“Our psychologists have worked it up. We’ll give you each question through the earpiece. You ask it, then wait a moment after he replies to get the response from us.”
“So you really don’t need me at all. Except as a front.”
“You got it. You’re a rented body.”
“Then why the lecture on hostage communication?”
“So you’ll understand what’s going on and why. And if the conversation gets personal, you might have to ad lib a little. But don’t go shooting your mouth off or making promises. Gain his sympathy, remind him of your friendship, reassure him everything’s going to be fine, that his concerns will be taken seriously. Be calm. And for God’s sake, don’t argue with him about his delusions.”
“Makes sense.”
Fordyce gave him a long, appraising look, his hostility softening somewhat. “We’ve been doing this a long time.” A beat. “You ready?”
Gideon nodded.
“Let’s go.”