Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Harper sat with his back against the wooden door to the exhibition room. Inside, he’d seen Jack Carney clutching a Luger and pointing it at a group of hostages. He counted twelve: one of them was half-wrapped in barbed wire.
Harper looked through the big keyhole again. Carney was armed. His face and clothes were coated in a film of soot from the incendiary device. Harper watched in silence as Carney taped an explosive device around one of the hostages. Harper felt his breath shorten as he listened to the hostages pleading. They were terrified. Carney would be in no mood for negotiation. Harper could sense the tension in his voice. It was a bad sign. Carney clearly had a plan and he was going to stick to it.
Harper spoke low into his shortwave. ‘How long till SWAT get here?’
‘Three to four minutes. Keep it nice and quiet up there.’
‘I don’t think this guy intends to live. That makes him very dangerous.’
‘I’ll pass it on, Harper. Just sit tight.’
Harper tried to breathe deeply. Three to four minutes to get to the location. A minute to get out of the SWAT truck and a minute to get up to the second floor. Inside, a couple of the younger hostages were sobbing. In the background, further off, was the sound of crying and shouting. A scuffle, then silence. There was too much silence.
Harper looked again. Right in front of him was a man. He was about forty years old; three sticks of dynamite were now taped around his waist beside the detonation device. His face was blank. He had goose bumps all over his body.
Harper heard the killer walk up and down the room.
‘I just want the world to see you as you are. Rich bastard, aren’t you? I want you to crawl out of this place. I want to hear you bleat like a goat.’
Then what? Harper considered the plan. He looked at his watch. Time was too tight to call. If he waited for the SWAT team to get there, something might have happened, but if the killer was planning on getting his hostage to crawl out of the museum, he’d have a chance. Harper heard Carney’s voice barking commands.
‘Okay, all of you now get down on all fours.’
Harper leaned in and watched the killer orchestrating his delusions. Then he called into Command.
‘We’ve got a situation developing. He’s wiring the main hostage with explosive devices.’
‘They want to know the exact layout of the rooms, you got that information?’
‘Sure. But how long till we got some backup here?’
‘They’re caught in the fucking chaos. They’ve left the truck but they’ll be maybe another five minutes.’
‘I could take a shot.’
‘This is an order, Detective. Do not, I repeat,
‘Okay. I’ll hold off.’
Inside the room, the terrified hostages were on their hands and knees. When the device blew, the explosion would savage them all.
Harper watched Carney stand back.
‘Look at you go. Terrified to die, my little goats?’ Carney wiped his mouth. Spit was forming on his lips. He looked tired. The adrenalin must have hit him in fits and starts — rising up and then falling like a wave.
Carney approached Jeb Rosenbaum.
‘You want to know what’s going to happen? You’re going to crawl out into the street.’
Carney laughed.
Jeb dared not look up. Carney took out a small black device that looked like a cell phone. He held it up.
‘You know what? I’m going to see how far you all get to. I shall let you go, just so long as you don’t squeal. But if they touch you, I press this number; it dials, connects to the little receiver next to that dynamite and what it will do, Jeb, what it will do… is explode.’
Jeb started to shake.
‘The idea is that it will rip your head clean off. Your head will go flying into the crowds. It’s up to you. You keep them off you, you’ll live. For a time. I want the TV crews to see you Jews as you should be seen.’
Harper listened and turned to the security guard. ‘If he gets that hostage into the street, that fucks up the whole idea of a rescue. Any other way into that room?’
The security guard pointed to the stairs. ‘You can get into it from the other side.’
Harper nodded. ‘Keep watching through the keyhole. Soon as you see me on the far side, knock three times on the door. He’ll look up and I’ll… well, I’ll do something.’ Harper stood and shot up the stairs.
The security guard waited in terrified silence. He didn’t hear someone coming up the stairs until she was right there. He turned and saw a blond-haired woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘Denise Levene. I’m with Harper. Where’s Dr Goldenberg?’
The security guard shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Harper’s gone round the other side.’
‘What’s his plan?’ asked Denise.
‘I don’t think he has one.’
Inside the foyer of the museum, Aaron Goldenberg stared down at the dead and injured. The cops had taken the worst to the ambulances. He saw one of his security guards lying on his back, a bloody bandage pressed to his shoulder. He approached the man and knelt at his side.
‘What happened, Bill?’ he said.
‘Dr Goldenberg. God, Dr Goldenberg. A bomb, that’s what happened.’
‘I know there was a bomb. The alarm went off in here. Why?’
‘They think he’s in here, the 88 Killer. The cops just went up. I’d like to go up with them. Some lady is looking for you, too. I sent her up to the exhibition room.’
‘The 88 Killer?’ said Dr Goldenberg.
‘Detective took the other guard. They went upstairs. Exhibition Room.’
Aaron Goldenberg let the pain emerge. He could think of just one thing. He reached down to the security guard’s side and opened the plastic holster.
‘What are you doing, sir?’
‘Shh,’ said Aaron. ‘He’s got my daughter.’ He pulled the gun out and held it in his hand. He looked at it. ‘How do I work it?’
‘You can’t do it, Dr Goldenberg. You got to leave it to the police.’
‘I have — for seventeen days. Now
The guard nodded to the side of the gun. Aaron pushed down the small button. ‘This ready now?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the guard.
Aaron touched his cheek. ‘I took it without your knowledge. And thank you, Bill.’
Aaron Goldenberg stood, held the handgun by his side and walked across to the stairs.
Two floors up, Carney circled his hostages and continued to speak in a slow drawl. ‘The problem with you guys is that you think you have a right to own the fucking world. Everyone’s got to feel sorry for you. Who feels sorry for guys like me? Guys who want the world back, guys getting destroyed by your conspiracies.’
‘I don’t understand what that has to do with me.’
Carney looked up. ‘It’s because…’
Carney stopped a moment, the little black phone in his hand. His mind seemed to miss a beat, as if the usual connection wasn’t available and he didn’t know what else to say.
The hostage went on: ‘You know no one’s to blame here. We’re all just trying to make a living like you.’
The words dragged Carney back to life.
‘Like me? You don’t fucking know what being like me
‘I’m American.’
‘That right? You can be American when it suits but you only care about your own kind.’
