Born to Run

FBI contact.

Supervisory agent Glenn Perkins had told Harry to call whenever he wanted an update, and Harry was more than taking him at his word. Perkins was head of the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group in Quantico, and for this standoff, the Miami negotiators-including Andie-reported to him. No decision to pull the negotiators and send in the SWAT could be made without Perkins’s approval.

“What’s the latest?” said Harry.

“You saw the same thing I saw on the TV,” said Perkins. “It’s what I cautioned about before you boarded the plane: bringing you and the president down to Miami would only embolden him.”

“Andie should call him again.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re micromanaging.”

“That’s my son in that newsroom.”

“All the more reason not to micromanage.”

“I should give Andie a call.”

“Governor, I’m urging you not to do that. Agent Henning was not my first choice, not because she isn’t qualified, but for the same personal reasons I worry about you getting too close to this. I agreed to put her in as lead negotiator, but you promised to stand clear.”

“I have four voice mails from her on my cell. I should at least return the call and tell her I’m behind her.”

“I’m expecting an update from her in five minutes. I’d be happy to tell her for you. I hope I’m not being too blunt, but the last thing she needs is the pressure of you breathing directly down her neck.”

Harry grumbled into the phone, nervously picking at the Air Force One bar of bathroom soap with his fingernail. “I feel so useless.”

Perkins said, “There is one thing you can do to help.”

“Name it.”

“Ask the president to power up Air Force One and fly you right back to Washington.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Sir, we went over this before, but now that you’ve seen the gunman’s reaction on television, maybe you’ll understand my position. The next time Demetri makes a demand, Agent Henning needs to be able to buy time and tell him that she has to check with her superiors. If he knows that you’re in town with the president, he’s going to expect and demand immediate answers.”

Harry considered it, picking even more furiously at the bar of Air Force One soap.

“It’s basic negotiation 101,” Perkins continued. “In fact, I use Jimmy Carter as a case study for training here at Quantico. Back in the seventies, he offered to intervene in a hostage standoff and accede to a gunman’s demand to speak to the president. The bureau couldn’t have been any quicker or clearer in its response: ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. President.’”

“I understand your point,” said Harry.

“Good. Then you’ll do it?”

“Maybe I can disembark in secret, and I’ll get the president to fly back without me.”

“Not a good plan,” said Perkins. “It’s best that you stay with the president.”

“I need to stay near my son.”

“Sir, that is a totally understandable feeling, but there is nothing you can do to resolve this standoff. In fact, there is nothing President Keyes can do, either. My advice is to stay with the president and help him understand that. Most important of all, make sure he doesn’t pull a Jimmy Carter, try to intervene, and get somebody hurt.”

The bar of bathroom soap was almost entirely a pile of white flakes, and Harry was still a bundle of nerves.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay with the president. But I’m not leaving my son.”

Chapter 50

It was officially “last call” at Sparky’s Tavern, and Theo was wiping down the cracked linoleum bar top.

The band had packed up at 2:00 A.M., but the tavern was emptying out slowly. Theo had started the night at Cy’s Place, his jazz club where music was the priority. The typical crowd at Sparky’s would rather line-dance to “The Electric Slide” than listen to Duke Ellington reincarnated. It had been a good night, nonetheless, and it was winding down to the usual suspects: a handful of regulars and some Keys-bound college kids who’d challenged a couple of bikers to a game of eight ball. Not smart. They’d lost their shirts. Literally, they were stripped down to their waists. If it didn’t end soon, they’d be walking out stark naked.

“You’re cute,” said the leggy blonde on the bar stool.

Theo hadn’t arrived till 1:00 A.M., and by his count she was on her third martini. He had no intention of serving her a fourth.

“Cute?” said Theo as he rinsed another beer glass in the sink. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m Mia,” she said. “Mia from Miami.”

Theo smiled and shook her hand. “Now that’s cute.”

“My ex-husband’s name is Phil. He was from Philadelphia. Mia from Miami, and Phil from Philadelphia. Isn’t that too funny?”

“Funny, yeah,” said Theo.

“Where you from, hon?”

“Never-bed-the-last-chick-in-the-bar…berg.”

“What?” she said, smiling as if she wasn’t quite sure she should be.

“It’s a little town in Sweden near-ah, never mind.”

She tried to rest her elbow on the bar and missed. “Hey,” she said, regaining her balance. “Do you ever watch anything but ESPN here?”

Theo glanced up at the TV behind him. “Nope.”

“How many times do we have to see the same highlights?”

They were showing the Ohio State Buckeyes’ game-winning goal-line stand-for the fifth time of the night. Theo grabbed the remote and scrolled down quickly through the cable news channels. He soon realized that they all had the same coverage, and when he finally stopped surfing to check out the “breaking story,” his mouth fell open.

“Jack?” he said.

“You know that guy?”

Theo ignored her and turned up the volume to hear the live update from outside the studio.

“We are now well into our third hour of a tense hostage crisis here at Action News studio,” the reporter said.

Theo stepped closer to the television, not quite believing, as the report continued. Jack and another hostage, whom Theo recognized as the Action News anchor, were on the left side of the split screen, their hands tied behind their backs. On the right side, a camera outside the studio was zooming in on what appeared to be Jack’s demolished Mustang in the rubble.

“Not the ’stang,” said Theo.

“More on this story,” said the newscaster, “after this commercial break.”

Theo checked his cell. There was a call from Andie just before midnight that he’d missed. He speed-dialed a return call, but it went to her voice mail. He left a quick message, and the time flashed on his phone: 2:52 A.M. Not quite closing time, but close enough. He rounded people up, starting with Mia from Miami, and herded them toward the door.

“That’s it folks, we’re locking up.”

A few grumbled, but even first-timers at Sparky’s seemed to grasp that when Theo Knight said it was time to go, you went.

“Call me,” said Mia on her way out the door.