“So what now?” Paul, who had returned with Jimbo in tow, asked in a hushed voice. I grinned and clapped his healthy shoulder. Good old Paul. You could count on him to swing the bat. Behind him Jimbo’s face was the color of his once-starched shirt.
I didn’t immediately answer, because the immediate answer “Now we have to get out somehow” wasn’t what Paul wanted to hear. He knew we needed to get out, thank you very much. His question was about how we were going to do it, and I presently had no idea.
But then my wandering gaze stumbled on Tiffany’s cherubic face, and one idea occurred to me. Hell, I thought, it worked once.
“Mr. Cornwell! Jim! Let me borrow your phone for a second, old sport!” Everyone jumped and stiffened at the sound of my voice. Jim pulled out his cell and hesitantly handed it over.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’ll be brief.” He nodded. I dialed 911.
It took a little while to get through the human robot operator, but finally there was a click and a vaguely familiar voice reverberated in my ear.
“This is Special Agent Brighton, FBI. What do we have, Mr. Whales?”
“How are you, Special Agent Brighton. What we have is a little over two dozen hostages held by an unknown number of gunmen on the seventy-seventh floor of the CBN building. What we need is to resolve this without anyone getting hurt.”
“That seems easy. Since you obviously had nothing to do with the act of terror at the Freedom Corp. facility, the only crime you are presently known to have committed is illegal broadcasting. Something that someone with your means should be able to if not shake off, then receive light sentence for. Now, taking hostages is a lot more serious. Frankly, I don’t understand the point. Surrender immediately and no one will get hurt.”
“I wish it were that easy, Special Agent Brighton.”
“It is.”
“I am not going to argue with you. Here are my terms. Hear them without interrupting, if you will. I will surrender, but not to the police or the FBI. Don’t ask me why. I have my reasons. I want a Secret Service helicopter on the roof of this building in thirty minutes. When they—”
“Secret Service? Why in the name of—”
“Shut up and listen, Brighton. When they arrive, I want a camera up there, which will broadcast them displaying proper identification to this studio here. When I confirm it, I will send the people down in elevators immediately, excluding only my friend James Cornwell. He will accompany us to the roof, where we will surrender him and ourselves to the Secret Service custody. Now, questions?”
“Why Secret Service?”
“I don’t trust the local authorities, Agent Brighton. Some strange things have been happening to me; let’s leave it at that for now. Secret Service protects the president. I think it’s adequate for them to protect me.”
“We can’t get them here in thirty minutes. Secret Service is stationed in D.C.”
“I’m sure there’s a safe house of some sort in Chicago. You have thirty minutes. My gunmen and I are tired, nervous and scared. I don’t know if we could keep ourselves under control for longer than that.”
“Fine. Let me talk to Brome.”
“Don’t waste your time, Agent. Find my president’s men.” I hung up and handed the phone back to Jimbo. He took it absently, staring at me.
“Luke, why me?”
“It’ll be fine,” I told him. The crowd looked livelier now. Things were clearer. They’d already forgotten my monologue. This was more exciting.
Iris and Brome stood together in the rear, watching me. They heard the conversation too; I’d spoken loudly enough to make sure of that. I gave them a thumb up and scanned the crowd until my eyes located Tiffany. Wearing my most charming smile, I motioned for her to come closer.
Chapter Forty-Five
Special Agent Brighton spent forty-two minutes following his conversation with Whales on the ninetieth floor, pacing and giving orders. Now he returned to the roof, where the FBI helicopter had dropped him off earlier, to meet the Secret Service.
They had just landed their fancy black civilian DFC-4300, and two of the four agents disembarked. The only difference between them and the FBI, as far as the attire went, were the silly shades. True, FBI agents favored sunglasses also, but they occasionally took them off. These guys likely slept in them, if they slept at all.
The pair who got out of the chopper stood twisting their necks and holding their chins so high, you’d think they couldn’t see through the lenses, but only from under them. As one of the lesser agents went to greet them, dragging a parka-clad cameraman along, Brighton couldn’t help but think about his idea to simply put shades on a few feds and fetch fake IDs for them. The only reason he hadn’t gone through with it was Brome. Whales was a fool — this notion of surrendering to Secret Service, as if that would make any difference, was a good indication enough of that — but Brome would know if there was a ruse. He also knew Brighton well enough to expect something of the sort. Besides, there was really no point in taking chances. Bringing a few bored SS agents from their Chicago branch hadn’t been hard. A single phone call.
The IDs were shown to the camera.
Brighton dialed the number.
“Hello,” Whales answered.
“The Secret Service are on the roof. Release the hostages and come out.”
“All right, Brighton. The hostages are on their way down. Clear the Eastern Stairwell. I don’t want to see anybody in there. I will come out in exactly fifteen minutes. Tell the Secret Service to keep the engines running.” He hung up. Brighton grimaced.
No matter, he thought. This was the last time Whales told him what to do. He would soon learn how Secret Service protects.
But another unpleasant thought suddenly entered his mind. Whales was a fool, but if Brome was on his side he would see that this idea of extraction by Secret Service was stupid. So why didn’t he…? Was Brome on Whales’s side? Or did he see the situation for what it was and decided that anything Whales came up with was fine, as long as he would surrender without getting himself or anybody else killed? That sounded like Brome, yet Brighton was not convinced. He wished he had surveillance, but all the cameras on the seventy-seventh floor were out of commission. He had watched Brome and Whales smash every single one. He still had the infrared scanners from across the street, but those weren’t too helpful.
There was an audible click in his ear and Dietrich’s voice. He had send Agent Dietrich down to the foyer to take charge of the cops there.
“Agent Brighton? We have three elevators on the move. I think it’s the hostages.”
“A fine observation, Dietrich. Tell the local police to escort them to safety and wait for further instruction.”
“Yes, sir.” Dietrich signed off. Brighton switched to SWAT team in the Eastern stairwell.
“Sergeant Rose here.”
“Sergeant, move your men down to the seventy-sixth floor and stay alert and quiet. Do not engage anyone going up, but I don’t want a soul to descend. Is that understood?”
“It’s done. Rose, out.”
Brighton nodded. He liked SWAT. They didn’t talk much and they didn’t talk back.
Soon, Dietrich reported twenty hostages evacuated. The next ten minutes went by very slowly. Super slowly, if one took into the account the below-freezing wind chill on the roof of a Chicago skyscraper in November. Secret Service retired back to the helicopter to escape it. Brighton stubbornly watched the western vista.
Finally, it was time. Then it was one minute, then two minutes past time. Brighton dialed SWAT.
“Rose,” a whisper came.