Figueroa chuckled. "I don't mean no disrespect, but I saw the gunman on television. He looks like a sixtysomething-year-old mobster. Do you really think a guy like that is going to negotiate with a woman half his age?"
More helicopters buzzed overhead. The fleet of television helicopters had grown from one to three, and Andie could see that they were media choppers. One of them cruised by so low that it stirred the cool night air around them. Andie shot a look at her boss, as if to say that it was time to end this squabble or take it inside.
"Here's the deal," said Schwartz. "The FBI makes the first contact with the gunman. If he won't speak to Andie, you're in charge."
Figueroa gave Andie an assessing look. He seemed reluctant to take Schwartz's challenge at first, sensing that Andie might be a ringer of some sort. Soon enough, however, the testosterone came bubbling back up to the top.
"All right," said Figueroa. "You make that first call, Henning. And a hundred bucks says I'll be taking it from there."
Chapter
43
Jack was counting bullets.
The warning shot and the security guard made two.
Mika was three. That was the sum total, as best Jack could recall. Could Demetri really have come this far on just three spent rounds? On the other side of the balance sheet, he'd picked up the security guard's gun, Mika's pistol on the nightstand, and the .22-caliber, pizza-boy special from Mika's pants. At this rate, the chances of this guy running out of ammunition before killing a hostage were not good.
"Are you packing?" Shannon whispered.
Jack and the Action News anchor were sitting on the floor in front of the news desk.
"Packing what?" said Jack.
"Do you have a gun?"
"If I did, do you think my hands would be tied behind my back?"
"Good point," she whispered. "Pedro's our only hope."
Pedro was the cameraman. Demetri needed him to operate the equipment, so he was the only hostage with free hands. Demetri had also used him to move furniture and barricade the entrance to the newsroom, turning the place into a windowless fortress.
Jack looked up at the ceiling. It was about twenty feet high. Scores of stage lights hung down in rows over the set, leaving about six feet of inky black crawl space between the suspended lights and the ceiling. The entire newsroom was built that way, though the suspended fixtures over the work cubicles were far fewer in number and not nearly as bright as the set lighting. Jack liked the idea of SWAT moving in like Spider-Man above the lights a whole lot better than Pedro the cameraman playing hero.
"It's getting miserably hot here under these lights," said Jack, speaking loud enough for Demetri to hear.
"Must be male menopause," he said. "Deal with it."
Does the whole freakin} world know I'm forty?
"Smart ass," said Shannon.
She'd muttered it beneath her breath, but the acoustics on the set were state of the art. Demetri threw her a deadly glare.
"Did you say something?" he said. He was seated on the couch that was part of the morning talk show set, just away from the news desk.
"Me?" she said. "No."
Demetri rose, then pointed his pistol at Pedro and said, "Keep the camera right on me."
The camera followed his slow walk across the set. Jack had noticed Demetri stretching his legs and massaging his hip as the night wore on, the way back-pain sufferers did, and the flare
-
up seemed to make him more ornery. Demetri stopped right in front of Shannon, showing the television audience his profile. A wireless microphone was clipped to his shirt, and he reached for the control pack on his belt and switched it off. Then he lowered himself onto one knee and pressed his gun between Shannon's breasts.
"I don't like a woman with a mouth," he said.
She seemed on the verge of telling him where to go, which impressed Jack, but she held her tongue.
"We have two choices," said Demetri. "You can behave yourself. Or," he said, glancing toward the camera, "we can have ourselves a public execution. What's it going to be, sweety?"
Switty. His accent seemed to creep in with fatigue.
A phone rang in the newsroom. It was in one of the cubicles nearest to the news set.
"Gee, who could that be?" said Demetri.
"You pressed your gun to her chest on live television," said Jack. "You're lucky the cops didn't come busting through the door. That's the way it works, pal."
It rang for the second time, and then a third.
"Aren't you going to answer it?" said Jack.
Demetri switched on his wireless microphone. The speakers whined with a bit of feedback, but a quick adjustment cleared it.
The phone continued to ring.
"You should talk to them," said Jack. "What can it hurt?"
Demetri stepped down from the set and walked to the phone. For a moment, Jack thought he might answer it. Then he yanked the wire out of the wall and threw the phone across the newsroom.
The ringing stopped.
Demetri faced the camera and said, "As the saying goes, folks: 'Don't call us, we'll call you.' "
Then he walked back toward the news desk, pacing back and forth in front of his hostages as he spoke to his television audience. His movements were fluid now, as if his anger had a way of cutting through any amount of pain.
"Let me make something real clear," he said. "This is not a negotiation. There will be no private conversations, no side deals here. Everything I have to say will be said on the air. There is only one reason for anyone to call this newsroom--and that's to tell me when my demands have been met. So let's get the ball rolling. Demand number one. Money." He stopped pacing and looked at Jack. "How much do you think I want, big mouth?"
Jack didn't like playing his games, but he'd seen Demetri's temper. The guy had even lost it with his beloved Sofia.
"I have no idea," said Jack.
"Come on, you can do better than that. You met one of my Russian friends tonight. He must have told you how much I owed them."
"He wasn't much of a talker," said Jack.
"Even less now," said Demetri.
"Like Chloe and Paulette Sparks."
Demetri stopped pacing, his expression sour. "Now why'd you have to go and mention them already? That's like killing off Jack Bauer in the second episode of the season. You gotta build up to these things. Where the fuck is--oops, sorry. Network television. Where the hell is your sense of drama, Swyteck?"
"The whole world knows what you did," said Jack. "You're just kidding yourself here. I have it figured out, the FBI has it figured out. I bet if you turn on CNN, they've even got the scoop. It's all on the table. You don't have any secrets left."
Demetri fell silent, but that ember of anger that seemed to burn continuously inside him was about to burst into flames. He took a deep breath and swallowed his rage.
"That's where you're wrong. I got one left. The big one."
Demetri turned away from Jack and spoke to the camera.
"I'm talking to you, big man. That's right. You. I know you're watching, so here's the deal. I want five hundred thousand dollars in cash. Hundred-dollar bills will be fine. Old bills, not new ones. For you novices out there who've never worked as a bagman, that's five thousand bills, which comes out to about ten pounds of money. And I want it delivered here to the newsroom by . . . let's see."
He checked the clock on the wall.
"It's going on one o'clock. I'll give you till seven A
. M
. That's more than enough time. Don't you think, Swyteck?"
Jack didn't answer.
"You're right," said Demetri, again making that extra effort to speak clearly for his American audience. "Were dealing with a very powerful man here. He can make things happen fast. Five hundred thousand in cash delivered right here to the studio by six A . M
., not a minute later. Stay glued to those television sets, folks. I'm going to count it live and on the air. And if it's not here by six," he said, taking a step closer to his hostages, "then one of our lucky guests here will take a bullet to the head. I might even let you call in and vote on which one should get it. The pretty blond anchor woman, or the greedy lawyer whose father is a slick politician? Hmmm. Tough choice. But if I'm a betting man, Swyteck, I'd say you're toast."
He stepped even closer to the camera, his face filling the screen.
"I told you it was gonna get good."
Chapter
44
Action News was playing in real time on the Air Force One television.
Harry Swyteck had been sound asleep in his Washington hotel room when the president called. He'd switched on the television to see the Miami broadcast of the hostage standoff, which had been picked up nationally. A split second was all it had taken for Harry to realize that he needed to be back in Miami. It took even less time for him to accept the president's offer to take him there ASAP. By 1:00 A . M
. they were in the executive suite of Air Force One, just forty minutes away from Miami. The president sat behind his desk, and Harry was in a leather chair facing the flat-screen TV.
"More coffee, sir?" the flight attendant asked.
"None for me, thank you," said Harry.
"You have to try this one," said the president. "I have these beans shipped to me every day from a little coffee shop called the Flying Goat in Healdsburg, north of San Francisco. I drank it every day I campaigned in California, and it definitely brought me luck."
"We could all use some luck," said Harry.
The flight attendant filled his mug, and then she put down the pot and cupped her hands. It confused Harry at first, but then he noticed the remnants of a napkin that he'd nervously and methodically torn to shreds. He gathered up the mess and gave it to her.
"Sorry," said Harry, as he glanced toward the television screen. "This is a really stressful time for me."
"I understand, sir."
Harry had missed not a single frame of the live broadcast since boarding the plane, but absolutely nothing had happened since Demetri's on-the-air demand for $500,000. The camera was locked onto Jack and the anchor woman seated side by side on the floor in front of the news desk, their hands tied behind their backs. Stress had a way of playing with the mind, and staring at an image that virtually never changed had Harry thinking all the way back to Jack's college graduation, when Harry had rested the old VHS recorder on the floor and forgot to switch off the RECORD button. Ninety minutes of Agnes's shoes on videotape.
"You all right?" said the president.
"I'm not sure."
"I feel for you. It's every politician's worst nightmare. Just the thought of something like this happening to one of your children is terrifying. It doesn't seem to make much difference that they're not kids anymore."
Harry looked at him. On some level, he appreciated the words. But he didn't have time for this.
"I need to ask you a question, Mr. President."
Sensing the gravity in Harry's tone, Keyes stepped out from behind his desk and sat in the chair facing Harry.
"Sure," said the president, "what is it that you want to know?"
"Who was he talking to?"
"What?"
"This Demetri character. When he demanded the half million dollars, he was obviously speaking directly to someone he chose not to name on television--someone he couldn't just pick up the telephone and call, so he chose to speak to him over the television airwaves. Who is it?"
"What makes you think I would know?"
Harry drilled him with his stare. "Is it you?"
Keyes stared right back.
Harry said, "Am i to take silence as a 'yes'?"
The president rose and walked to the window. He was staring into a vast blackness above the clouds, millions of stars in the distance. Worry was staring right back at him in his reflection in the glass. The president seemed oddly fixated on his receding hairline, checking it with his fingers.
"I'm getting old, Harry."
"We all are, sir."
The president turned away from the oval window and placed his hand atop his head, slicking his hair back to show Harry just how far it had receded. The large and distinctive birthmark on his scalp, normally hidden in part by his comb-over, was fully exposed.
"I look more and more like Mikhail Gorbachev every day, dont I?"
Harry wasn't sure how to answer.
The president lowered his hand and let his hair fall back into place. He returned to the chair facing Harry.
"My question," said Harry. "I'd like an answer."
The president drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I suppose you have a right to know."
"My son is being held hostage in a newsroom with a gun to his head. I have every right to know."
The president nodded, then took another deep breath, as if not sure where to begin. "The answer to your question is yes," said the president. "Demetri was indeed talking to me when he demanded that half million dollars."