"What's the plan, Commander?"
"We can surround the place or we can storm it right away. It's your call."
"What do you recommend?" asked the FBI director.
"I don't know yet."
"Come on, Watts, give it to me. What's your gut telling you?"
Watts exhaled. He honestly didn't know. He always preferred taking his time, gaining as much intel as possible, and planning a raid in precise detail. But this was different. If they were really dealing with suicide bombers, negotiations weren't going to work. The minute the bad guys knew they were surrounded, anyone in the apartment — including the hostage, if there was a hostage — was as good as dead. Storming now would give Hostage Rescue Team maximum tactical surprise. But there were no guarantees.
Another radio crackled to life.
"Tactical is on the scene, sir. Permission to set up?"
"Do it — just be careful," said Watts, straining to see the building through high-powered binoculars from a half mile away — any closer and the roar of the choppers would give them away.
"Come on, Watts, give me your best call," ordered Harris.
"I don't know, sir, I…"
"Watts, I've got the president on the other line."
Watts couldn't see the building clearly enough. He'd be getting a live audio and video feed momentarily from agents sneaking up the stairwells. But they had fifteen flights to climb and that still might not give him enough information. He was out of time.
" Storm it," Watts said, finally.
He just hoped to God he was right.
"Fine. Put your men on notice. I'll talk to the president."
Every minute that ticked by felt like an hour. But it also brought more data. The first audio probe agents attached to the front door indicated a television was on somewhere in the penthouse suite. No voices. No footsteps. And still no outbound calls had been made. Snipers took up positions on the roofs of four adjacent buildings as plainclothes agents began evacuating lower floors of the Regency Towers, as quickly and carefully as possible.
The president didn't agonize over the choice. If the on-scene commander wanted to go in, he wouldn't second-guess him. Everyone knew the stakes. Everyone had trained for this moment. And everyone knew the president would have to call Jon Bennett the minute the operation was over, regardless of how it turned out.
Harris relayed the message to Watts. Watts passed it on to his men. It was a go.
"OK, guys, on my mark."
Twenty-four commandos rechecked their weapons. The Blackhawks gained altitude — a thousand feet, two thousand, three thousand and climbing. When they reached five thousand feet, the lead pilot guided the rest of the choppers over the strike zone, then gave Watts the thumbs-up. Watts sucked in some air and clicked on his radio.
"'Fox Five, Fox Five — go, go, go!
The Blackhawks dived for the roof. Coming in fast and high would minimize the chance of being heard. But it was still a risk. Snipers readied their weapons. SWAT Team One waited outside the penthouse doors. Medical teams huddled in the lobby, ready to triage any casualties. Each Blackhawk now leveled off, each on its own predesignated side of the building. Watts gave the signal.
"Fire, fire, let's go, let's go."
Suddenly, all power in the building went down. FBI snipers unleashed a fusillade of tear gas and flash bombs. The night erupted with explosions. Windows shattered. The penthouse filled with smoke. The Hostage Rescue Team and SWAT Team Two fast roped from the Blackhawks. They burst in through the windows. SWAT Team One blew off the front door and stormed in from the hall. Thin red beams from laser sights crisscrossed through the noxious fog as the commandos hunted their prey.
More agents rushed up the stairwells and elevators. Watts could hear the chaos from his command chopper, hovering over the roof. Harris demanded answers, but there were none to give. Not yet. The drama inside was still unfolding.
Watts ordered the search lights on. Each chopper lit up the tower and trained their video cameras on the scene. Harris could now see what was happening — outside at least — and immediately ordered the images cross-linked via secure fiber-optic trunk lines to Langley and the White House Situation Room, where the president and his senior advisors were huddled and waiting.
And then, suddenly, all went silent.
Watts waited, his heart pounding. Harris held his breath. The silence was eerie. Then a radio crackled back to life.
"Chopper One, this is Black Leader, over."
"Black Leader, go ahead." "It's done, sir — we've got her." "You've got her?" "Affirmative." "You surei"
"Yes, sir — same as her picture." "Is she alive?"
"Yes, sir — unconscious — knocked out by the gas — but she should be OK."
"Oh my God." Yes, sir.
"And the others? How many were there?" A flash of static garbled the transmission. "How's that, sir?"
"I said the others — the terrorists — how many were there?" "None, sir."
"What's that? Say again." "None, sir — the place is empty — it's just her.".
Bennett hung up the phone.
It was three minutes after six Monday morning, Gibraltar time. He'd been up since just after four, and he still couldn't believe it.
She was safe — in stable condition at an undisclosed hospital. Under the watchful eye of a dozen FBI agents. The lead story on every TV network. Front-page news around the world again. But she was safe, and he'd just talked to her, and that was all that really mattered to him now.
Bennett turned off the lamp beside the bed and closed his eyes. The whole thing was unbelievable. There'd been no kidnapping. No Al-Nakbah terror cell. His mom hadn't even known the world was looking for her. She'd just wanted to get away for a while. Far away. Someplace where no one would call her. Where no one would bring over flowers. Where no one would stop by to "see how she was doing."
Ruth Bennett simply wanted to be alone. Where it was snowing and the trees glittered with Christmas lights and she could lock herself away and hide. Where she could ignore the news and turn off the phones and watch Miracle on 34th Street and It's a Wonderful Life and get lost in a sweet and simple — albeit imaginary — world of good friends and happy endings. So she'd hopped on a train — she'd always hated to fly, despite her late husband's jet-setting — and headed to the Big Apple to spend a week at her son's place.
She had his spare key. He was out of the country. What harm could it do?
The ATM card? Of course she'd used it. Back in Florida, she'd used most of the cash she had on her to pay for the train ticket to New York. She always paid cash. Once she got to Manhattan, she'd needed some cash to buy some milk and bread and few groceries. With Jon in Israel and Germany and Washington and back to Israel, the place had been empty for a month, after all. The cell phone? Yes, that was her. She'd found it on Christmas Day as she did some housecleaning and tried to keep her mind off being all alone. But Jon had given her his voice-mail number and password in case she found it. So she'd taken it with her, just in case. The two calls to her sister — why hadn't she left messages? "Jon," she'd said, "you know me. I hate answering machines. They're so impersonal. I just figured I'd call back."
Why hadn 't she kept the cell phone on all the time? Just trying to conserve the battery. She didn't have the charger. Hadn't she gone out? Too cold. Hadn't she read a paper or watched the news? Of course not. That's exactly what she was trying to avoid. Hadn't anyone seen her? She had no idea. "You know New Yorkers, Jon. I was one of them for twenty-five years. Nobody makes eye contact with strangers. And certainly not all bundled up in weather like that."