SA Taylor then inquired as to whether the individual himself was Special Agent Banish, to which the individual replied: “We’re all special. The Bureau does not discriminate.” Special Agent JOHN BANISH then lowered his weapon and returned to the front room. SA Coyle and SA Taylor followed.
SA Banish positioned himself near the open front door of the premises. He appeared anxious and uncomfortable. He advised the agents that the Butte office’s cause for alarm was unfounded, and then invited both to leave. At no time did he offer any explanation for the disconnected telephone and teletype units, nor why he apparently had not heard the helicopter approach, nor why he had not originally answered the doorbell.
When informed that SA Coyle and SA Taylor carried orders to transport him for reassignment, SA Banish became agitated and noticeably confused. He immediately questioned the validity of the orders and disallowed their accuracy:
SA COYLE: Are you aware of the Paradise Ridge situation, sir?
SA BANISH: North of here. Local police shot at.
SA COYLE: A U.S. Marshal was murdered there in a gunfight this morning. Another marshal is still pinned down at this hour. Marshals Service Special Operations Group is attempting a rescue.
SA BANISH: How old was he?
SA COYLE: Sir?
SA BANISH: The dead marshal. How old was he?
SA COYLE: We don’t know that, sir.
After some moments of silence following this irregular preliminary questioning, SA Banish went on to inquire as to the relevance of the incident pertaining to himself:
SA COYLE: The suspect in question is a. federal fugitive. Further complicating matters are the other individuals barricaded in the cabin with him, sir. Five of them are juveniles, the suspect’s own children. The situation is being approached as a hostage-taking.
SA BANISH: This is some kind of mistake.
SA COYLE: No, sir. I have the reassignment orders right here. Skills bank matched you to the subject: age, geographical location, distinguished military service.
SA BANISH: It is a mistake.
SA COYLE: I do not believe so, sir. But mistake or not, the orders have been cut. The case has been upgraded to Special and you have been assigned. You are now the case agent.
SA TAYLOR: Sir, we can help you pack while you shave.
SA BANISH: You don’t understand. My work is here.
SA COYLE: Sir. You are a federal hostage negotiator with Special Operations and Research. Your work is in Montana now.
SA BANISH: Who is the current Section Chief?
SA COYLE: Which section, sir?
SA BANISH: Seven. Kidnapping.
SA COYLE: I do not know. But this is being handled by SOARs.
SA BANISH: Who is the current SOARs chief?
SA COYLE: Carlson, sir.
SA BANISH: Division head, then. GID. Is Richardsen still Assistant Director?
SA COYLE: I believe so, sir.
SA BANISH: I will call him.
SA COYLE: You can call from the helicopter, sir.
SA BANISH: You don’t understand. I am not boarding that helicopter.
SA Banish was becoming increasingly agitated in both tone and manner. SA Coyle’s determination at this point was that SA Banish had become irrational. He was contradicting and refusing reassignment and carrying on in an emotional state. He had since retreated near the unopened door behind him, and by his defensive posture appeared to be attempting to deflect attention and/or access to said room.
SA Coyle once again advised SA Banish that he could contact AD Richardsen in transit. When SA Banish refused, SA Coyle then insisted on packing for him and proceeded through the door in question.
In sharp contrast to the front room, SA Banish’s sleeping quarters were in absolute disarray. His bedsheets were tossed, wrinkled articles of clothing hung out of half-open dresser drawers, and an odor of heated staleness was pervasive.
A secretary desk sat under sagging bookshelves in one corner of the room, littered with torn-out sheets of writing paper crossed out and rewritten many times over. On the desk was an oversized dictionary of German-to-English translation and a faded wire-bound notebook filled with foreign verse. The purpose served by these articles remains unknown to this agent.
SA Banish quickly followed SA Coyle inside. He appeared furious and inappropriately secretive, but at once surrendered his opposition and agreed to begin packing, contingent solely upon his being allowed to do so in private.
SA Coyle agreed and withdrew. She and SA Taylor retrieved their service weapons and identification from the kitchen area, again observing the peculiar, detailed lists of food intake, exact length of sleep time, etc. They then returned to the front room to wait for SA Banish to emerge.
Washington, D.C
Salvatore Richardsen, Assistant Director of the General Investigative Division of the FBI, exited the elevator and was halfway to his car beneath the J. Edgar Hoover Building when a woman’s voice from an overhead speaker summoned him back to his office for an urgent call.
Upstairs, Richardsen set his briefcase down on the slate-colored carpet and stood in his unbuttoned London Fog and punched the flashing button on his speakerphone.
“Jack,” he said, fiddling with the secretary’s message note left on his desk. Very sexy handwriting. Wishful thinking at this point, but he was definitely interested. He admired her script, trying to imagine her upright loops and fine trailing swirls curled around the word cock. “Long time, Jack. Too long. Sounds like you’re airborne.”
Banish’s voice was low and remote over the squawk box. “Sal,” he said. “What are you doing to me here?”
“It’s bad business, Jack. We’ll need someone of your caliber out there.”
“Sal, I’m in a helicopter, I can’t talk. Listen. I don’t think I’m up to it.”
Richardsen licked his warm lips. He frowned. It was impossible to get an accurate emotional read over the connection, from a helicopter headset to a speakerphone all the way across the country. Like talking to someone on a car phone in the final lap of the Indy 500.
“Jack,” he said, “you have to be up to it. A quagmire up there, very important to this office, as well as SOARs. You know the bastard’s drawn federal blood.”
A pause. The whup-whup of rotor blades and the underlying whine.
“What about Raleigh?” he heard Banish say.
Richardsen shook his head mildly. In his distraction, he held the pink message slip up to the bright ceiling lights. “He’s tied up with that Port Authority thing in Los Angeles,” he said.
The way she made a capital B. Bold, broad, sweeping strokes. Tough, confident. Take-charge. On top of things, experienced but with a delicate flow of expression. The same way she moved when she walked down the hall ahead of him. That royal-blue sheath dress she had worn today. He had a brainstorm suddenly. Get something of hers down to Handwriting for a full analysis. To get the inside track on her personality. Something off the top of her desk, maybe.
Richardsen set the message note back down and paced a bit. “Look, Jack,” he said. “Everything you need. You call back with the specs. Hostage Rescue is yours if you want it. QB this thing, you know the drills. He’s on top of a frigging mountain, so you take your time, run your plays.”
“Sal, it’s been more than two years.”
“Everyone knows that, Jack. I don’t mean everyone. But you’re out there on the fringe, counting your fingers. Look, Jack. A man of your talents. I have absolute confidence in you here, absolutely. You are the best, I mean that. Now, there’s the kids involved, I don’t know if you know. That’s the other thing. They’re armed, all right? His kids carry, that’s the report we’re getting. He trained them — which is what I mean by a quagmire here. You see how it is? With the hostage scenario, SOARs takes full control. We can’t afford to ride along with the Marshals on this one, too much at stake. External Affairs knows it’s a nightmare going in. That’s the main thing. If there’s any shooting to be done, make sure it’s the Marshals doing it. We don’t want to get drawn into a gun battle with little kids. So — they’re hostages. All right? That’s priority one.”