She picked up a piece of aged Brie and sipped a wineglass of mineral water, trying not to look at the digital clock that nagged her from the bedside table. There was an incredible sunset of deep reds and oranges gathering beyond the balcony like a living palette, filling the harbor with reflected color. It was too much to ignore — like the sunsets her father used to point out at unexpected times and places, even in the middle of an angry lecture once when she was eight.
Or was it nine?
She smiled at the memory of how he could be so firm and forbidding one second — the epitome of untethered authority — and a wide-eyed, wondering disciple of nature’s beauty the next. An iron-hard senior FBI agent with the soul of a poet.
She leaned over to the bedside controls to raise the volume of the concerto playing on the built-in audio system. The lyricism of Vivaldi had heralded her entry into the room two days ago, heightening the feeling of unbridled elegance with each sunrise and sunset in the exotic port whose very name evoked images of intrigue.
Kat slid the door open and stepped onto the balcony, hugging herself absently as she drank in the exotic beauty before her.
Here I am, Dad, a full-fledged FBI agent on assignment in paradise! she thought, the small wave of pride and delight metered by the reality that she could no longer pick up the phone and share moments like this with him.
Her smile faded as she studied the glow to the west.
I miss you, Daddy. But I’m making it.
CHAPTER 2
Kat Bronsky stood behind the ornate rosewood podium in the cavernous auditorium and mentally counted to five, milking the dramatic pause. The audience was virtually silent now, hanging on her words and waiting, all 1,600 of them, their minds whirling with the graphic images she’d painted of the well-known international hijacking that had terminated in New York.
“Eighteen hours we held off a final assault with the SWAT teams,” she continued, speaking the words with deliberate care, giving the various translators working in carrels behind the curtain time to do their job.
“Eighteen hours of continuous demands, continuous threats, countered by the only humane weapon we ever really have: the fine art of negotiator delay. But in that eighteenth hour…”
Again she paused, relishing the sight of the huge chandeliers above the audience and memorizing all of it — even the slight aroma of cigarette smoke supposedly banned from the hall. They all knew the conclusion, but they were caught up in the art of her storytelling.
“… suddenly the left forward door of the seven-forty-seven opened, and instead of a firestorm and dead bodies, three weary, defeated hijackers emerged, hands in the air, leaving two hundred eighty-seven passengers alive and uninjured and free to go home to their families. That, you see, is the point. We’re human. Even the worst among us. Not every hostage situation can be ended this successfully, of course, but the reactions of even the most hysterical and maniacal humans can be manipulated to some degree for the greater good, if we refuse to be stampeded. Thank you very much!”
Kat stepped back slightly and nodded to the audience, wondering what to expect. The conference had been fruitful, but she was the last act and most of the delegates were tired and ready to leave. Yet they were getting to their feet, clapping heartily for her. Some of the Asian delegates even bowed in her direction.
Good grief, a standing ovation! The noise was sustained and tumultuous. Kat was stunned. She was losing the effort to control her broad smile.
The host of the conference materialized beside her as the applause subsided, announcing that they had ten minutes for questions. A hand went up too far back to make out the owner and someone with a portable microphone moved toward the man.
Kat fielded questions about the AirBridge 737 hijacking that had made her famous in the Bureau, then answered several about tactics. Glowing with success and trying to hide it, she almost missed the name and position of the last questioner.
“Robert MacCabe, Agent Bronsky, from The Washington Post. We’re all aware of the MD-eleven crash just inside Cuban waters several months ago. So far, no cause has been clearly indicated and Cuba claims they’re not responsible. What is the likelihood that the flight was brought down not by the Cubans, but by an act of terrorism? And, if there is a possibility, what weapon could have been used?”
Robert MacCabe? she thought, trying not to look startled. Jake was right! What’s one of the Post’s star investigative reporters doing in Hong Kong?
Kat cleared her throat. “Are you asking for my personal opinion, Mr. MacCabe, or the Bureau’s official reaction?”
“I’ll take whatever I can get,” he quipped, sending a ripple of laughter through the hall. “Please just give us your best assessment on cause.”
“I can’t speak for the Bureau on an active investigation,” she replied with a forced smile, wishing he’d sit down and stop deflating the bubble of goodwill now threatening to drain away from the auditorium. “As you know, the FBI is deeply involved, which means it’s out of bounds for me to talk about. Are there any other questions?” Kat asked, looking pointedly away from MacCabe.
“Yes,” Robert MacCabe said into the microphone.
Kat’s eyes shifted back to him.
“We’re here,” he continued, “for one of the most important conferences on terrorist hijackings in history, and you’re here, Agent Bronsky, because, as a hostage negotiator, you’re one of the FBI’s experts in an area that has caused the FBI to project itself into worldwide involvement against airborne terrorist acts.”
“And your question, Mr. MacCabe?” Kat interjected.
“I’m coming to it. On top of that, your excellent speech shows there probably isn’t a delegate in this room who knows more about the subject than you. Yet, even though it didn’t involve hostages, you want us to believe that you’re not aware of the details of the Cuban crash investigation as a potential terrorist act?”
A murmur of voices rippled across the audience as the translation was finished.
“Oh, I’m very aware of the details, Mr. MacCabe, but I’m also well aware that our time is up.” Somewhere overhead a jet was passing, and she found herself concentrating on the subtle vibrations coursing through the hall.
“I’m wondering,” MacCabe went on, “why no one seems to be openly talking about the possibility that a terrorist act is involved? The FBI certainly wasn’t slow to come to that conclusion with the TWA crash off Long Island in 1996.”
“And we were dead wrong, weren’t we!” Kat snapped, cautioning herself too late to keep irritation out of her voice. “Look. This isn’t the appropriate forum for your questions, Sir. And we’re out of time. Thank you again,” she said to the audience, nodding as she stepped away from the podium. She let her eyes roam around the hall, aware that the spell her speech had cast had been broken.
Damn him! she thought, as the host moved to the podium to thank her once again before closing the conference.
Kat was engulfed at the foot of the stage by delegates wanting to talk, offering business cards and congratulations for a good speech.