The technician didn't have a clue, but did have the good sense not to dispute the matter with a man carrying a gun.
"Anybody at the other one-on the other side of town?" Noonan asked.
"No, that would be me if there's a problem-but there isn't."
"Keys." Noonan held his hand out.
"I can't do that. I mean, I do not have authorization to-"
"Call your boss right now," the FBI agent suggested, handing him the land-line receiver.
Covington jumped out of the truck near where some commercial trucks were parked. The police had established a perimeter to keep the curious at bay. He trotted over to what appeared to be the senior cop at the site.
"There they are," Sean Grady said over his phone to Timmy O'Neil. "Sure, and they responded quickly. Ever so formidable they look," he added. "How are things inside?"
"Too many people for us to control properly, Sean. I have the twins in the main lobby, Jimmy here with me, and Daniel is patrolling upstairs."
"What of your hostages?"
"The women, you mean? They're sitting on the floor. The young one is very pregnant, Sean. She could have it today, looks like."
"Try to avoid that, lad," Grady advised, with a smile. Things were going according to his plan, and the clock was running. The bloody soldiers had even parked their trucks within twenty meters of his own. It could scarcely have been better.
Houston's first name wasn't really Sam-his mother had named him Mortimer, after a favored uncle-but the current moniker had been laid on him during boot camp at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, eleven years before, and he hadn't objected. His sniper rifle was still in its boxy carrying case to safeguard it from shock, and he was looking around for a good perch. Where he was standing wasn't bad, the sergeant thought. He was ready for whatever the day offered. His rifle was a virtual twin to that used by his friend Homer Johnston, and his marksmanship was just as good, too-a little better, he'd quickly tell anyone who asked. The same was true of Rifle One-Two, Sergeant First Class Fred Franklin, formerly an instructor at the Army's marksmanship training unit at Fort Benning and a deadly shot out to a mile with his huge MacMillan.50 bolt-action rifle.
"What d'ya think, Sam?"
"I like it here, Freddy. How about you go to that knoll past the helo pad?"
"Looks good to me. Later." Franklin hoisted the case onto his shoulder and headed off that way.
"Those people scare me," Roddy Sands admitted over the phone.
"I know, but one of them is close enough to take out:t c once, Roddy. You take that job, lad."
"I will, Sean," Sands agreed from inside the cargo area of the big Volvo truck.
Noonan, now with the keys to the other site, was back in leis car and heading that way. The drive would take twenty minutes-no, more, he realized. Traffic was backing up on this "A"-class road, and though he had a gun on his hip, and even police identification, his car didn't have a siren and gumball machine-an oversight he himself had never considered, to his sudden and immediate rage. How the fuck had they forgotten that? He was a cop, wasn't he? He pulled to the shoulder, turned on his emergency flashers, and started leaning on the horn as he sped past the stopped cars.
Chavez didn't react much. Instead of looking angry or fearful, he just turned inward on himself. A small man, his body seemed to shrink even further before Clark's eyes. "Okay," he said finally, his mouth dry. "What are we doing about it?"
"Team-1 is there now, or should be. Al is running the operation. We're spectators."
"Head over?"
Clark wavered, which was unusual for him. The best thing to do, one part of his mind told him quietly, was to sit still, stay in his office and wait, rather than drive over and torture himself with knowledge that he couldn't do anything about. His decision to let Stanley run the operation was the correct one. He couldn't allow his actions to be affected by personal emotions. There were more lives at stake than his wife's and daughter's, and Stanley was a pro who'd do the right thing without being told. On the other hand, to stay here and simply listen to a phone or radio account was far worse. So he walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out his Beretta.45 automatic. This he clipped to his belt at his right hip. Chavez, he saw, had his side arm as well.
"Let's go."
"Wait." Chavez lifted Clark's desk phone and called the Team-2 building.
"Sergeant Major Price," the voice answered.
"Eddie, this is Ding. John and I are going to drive over there. You're in command of Team-2."
"Yes, sir, I understand. Major Covington and his lads are as good as we are, sir, and Team-2 is suited up and ready to deploy."
"Okay, I have my radio with me."
"Good luck, sir."
"Thanks, Eddie." Chavez hung up. "Let's get going, John."
For this ride, Clark had a driver, but he had the same problem with traffic that Noonan was having, and adopted the same solution, speeding down the hard shoulder with his horn blowing and lights blinking. What should have been a ten-minute drive turned into double that.
"Who is this?"
"This is Superintendent Fergus Macleash," the cop on the other end of the phone circuit responded. "And you are?"
"Patrick Casey will do for now," Grady answered smugly. "Have you spoken with the Home Office yet?"
"Yes, Mr. Casey, I have." Macleash looked at Stanley and Bellow, as he stood at his command post, half a mile from the hospital, and listened to the speaker phone.
"When will they release the prisoners, as we demanded?"
"Mr. Casey, most of the senior people are out of the office having lunch at the moment. Mainly, the chaps in London I spoke to are trying to track them down and get them into the office. I haven't spoken with anyone in a position of authority yet, you see."
"I suggest that you tell London to get them in quickly. I am not by nature a patient man."
"I need your assurance that no one has been hurt," Macleash tried next.
"Except for one of your constables, no,no one has been hurt yet. That will change if you take action against us, and it will also change if you and your friends in London make us wait too long. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir, I do understand what you just said."
"You have two hours until we begin eliminating hostages. We have a goodly supply, you know."
"You understand, if you injure a hostage, that will change matters greatly, Mr. Casey. My ability to negotiate on your behalf will be greatly reduced if you cross that line."
"That is your problem, not mine" was the cold reply. "I have over a hundred people here, including the wife and daughter of your chief counterterrorist official. They will be the first to suffer for your inaction. You now have one hour and fifty-eight minutes to begin the release of every political prisoner in Albany and Parkhurst prisons. I suggest you get moving on that immediately. Good-bye." And the line went dead.
"He's talking tough," Dr. Bellow observed. "Sounds like a mature voice, in his forties, and he's confirmed that he knows who Mrs. Clark and Dr. Chavez are. We're up against a professional, and one with unusually good intelligence. Where could he have gotten it?"
Bill Tawney looked down at the ground. "Unknown, Doctor. We had indications that people were looking into our existence, but this is disquieting."
"Okay, next time he calls, I talk to him," Bellow said. "I'll see if I can calm him down some."
"Peter, this is Stanley," Rainbow Five called over his tactical radio.
"Covington here."
"What have you done to this point?"
"I have both riflemen deployed for overwatch and intelligence gathering, but I'm keeping the rest close. I'm waiting now for a building diagram. We have as yet no firm estimate of the number of subjects or hostages inside." The voice hesitated before going on. "I recommend that we consider bringing Team-2 in. This is a large building to cover with only eight men, should we have to move in."