Terminal Rage (5 page)

FIVE

Saturday, November 5, 2011—12:56 p.m.
Somewhere over the Caribbean Sea

B
lackwell gazed down from the Seahawk at the cobalt-blue canvas of the Caribbean Sea. As far as his eyes could perceive, the water was speckled with white strokes of surf trails painted by speed boats and yachts crisscrossing one another. This was the first time in four years he was leaving Anguilla for anything other than his kids.

The magic potion disguised as a power drink one of the marines had handed him nipped his migraine in the bud. He was feeling energized now and his concentration level had rebounded. Blackwell was as ready as he could be for Carter
’
s briefing.

The first order of business was Julia Price
’
s proof-of-life video. Watching it stirred something in Blackwell. Regardless of how corrupt her father and uncle may have been, Julia didn
’
t deserve this. No one did.

She was naked and tied to a chair as she pleaded for whoever was listening to save her. Her lips were bleeding, her face bruised, and her neck and body riddled with unsubtle signs of what her captors were doing to her.

He thought of the hostages in Manhattan and the perpetrator
’
s ambiguous threat to “kill children”—whatever that meant. Carter had only given him enough bait to drag him into the Seahawk, but he was knee-deep now and needed to know more.

Blackwell couldn
’
t get his mind off the architect behind these events. How large do your balls have to be to hold the staff of a defense and security company hostage, armed with nothing more than the promise of violence?

In his shimmering career as a hostage negotiator, he had come across all shades of criminals and terrorist masterminds, but there was one type that fazed him the most—the sort who thought and planned big, and accounted for every possible outcome, methodically, even scientifically.

This guy had asked for him by name, and made all the right threats to ensure that not only would the FBI deliver Blackwell to him, but that Blackwell himself would agree to come. He
’
d been handpicked by the perpetrator for a reason.
Why? And who the hell is this guy?

Blackwell had signed up for the FBI right out of college when he was twenty-three. He had studied history and graduated having learned one cardinal truth: It
’
s always the innocent and the vulnerable who are sacrificed and trampled on for history to move forward. He joined the Bureau to change that. To stand up for the victims of crime, hostages specifically, who would otherwise be slain to settle larger scores.

After completing the new agent
’
s training at the academy, he paid his dues for five years as a lowly field agent in Baltimore. But he always saw his freshman gig as a stepping-stone to his real ambitions. A year after he had joined the service, the Bureau merged its crisis management, rapid deployment, hostage negotiation, and profiling units under a ubiquitous entity called the Critical Incident Response Group. When the time was right, Blackwell raised his hand as high as the heavens to join the group. He had made a name for himself on the ground, and the CIRG was looking to attract the Bureau
’
s best.

After two years at the bottom of the food chain, he applied for the grueling four-and-a-half month selection and training to qualify as an operator in the CIRG
’
s now-legendary Hostage Rescue Team. Few men survive this course, even fewer who don
’
t have some form of military or law enforcement background. It
’
s a brutal elimination process, at the end of which the Hostage Rescue Team gains an elite counter-terrorism force of physically superior agents who can run, swim, scuba dive, fast-rope and fly under any conditions.

But Blackwell made it in, and for half a decade was on the frontline of penetrating dangerous armed situations to pluck out hostages, with the Hostage Rescue Team
’
s gold squad. During those years he witnessed the darkest shades of the human soul. But it only served to strengthen his resolve, and keep his hands firmly on the deck and his eyes on target.

Five years later, that perpetually expanding urge within him to do more to affect the outcome of violent hostage situations was no longer timid or containable. Pointing a lethal Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine gun at dreadful human beings to stand them down had become a stagnant, inconsequential part of the case spectrum. What he really wanted to do was dive in to the minds of criminals and terrorists and manipulate them out of whatever horrendous things they were intent on doing, well before the only option was to put a bullet in their heads and risk the lives of innocent bystanders. Hostage negotiation was his ultimate calling, he concluded with unshakable certainty.

He performed the requisite initial training before he came under the wings of none other than Jerry Nester, the God of critical incidents at the Bureau who saw in Blackwell a hungry heir to the throne. By the time Nester had laid down his headset and retired, Blackwell was ready to take his own show on the road. And his instincts were right all along—he was a natural hostage negotiator. In the few short years after Nester
’
s reign, Blackwell etched his name in gold at the Hoover building as the FBI
’
s most revered critical incident negotiator, and a worthy successor to Nester.

Many years had elapsed since he
’
d played this game of trying to decipher the mind of a hostage-taker based on their actions. The negotiations hadn
’
t even started, but Blackwell already felt at a disadvantage. He had a lot of catching up to do and would spend the remaining part of the flight siphoning as much information as he could from his former colleague. Blackwell moved his head away from the Seahawk window and focused on Carter
’
s eyes.

“Help me out here, Carter. Exertify is a security company, right?”

Carter nodded.

“So why didn
’
t they do a background check on this prince character before they decided to do business with him or let him in their office?”

“They did, Alex, and he checked out.”

“What do you mean he checked out?”

Carter took a deep breath. “There
is
a real Prince Omar Al Seraj.”

“So he stole his identity?”

“That
’
s about the size of it. The hostage-taker had been impersonating the real prince for at least six months prior. Silky-smooth operation. Staying in his London penthouse. Using his expense accounts.”

Blackwell considered that maybe having been away for so long had somehow deformed his own sense of plausible explanations.

“And the real guy—where was he during all of this?”

Carter grinned but without expelling any noise. “Back in his country with a litter of kids and a few wives. And more money to his name than what
’
s in the coffers of the proud states of Maryland and Virginia combined.”

“He didn
’
t realize someone was staying in his London pad?
Now, is it just me who finds that a little odd?”

“He hasn
’
t been back to London in at least four years.”

“Why not?”

“Nasty neurological condition struck him young.”

“But, he
’
s a prince though. Someone had to notice in London that our perp was fake. Right?”

“Theoretically. But Omar Al Seraj was what you would call a
‘
nobody
’
prince.”

“Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he
’
s just one of hundreds of royal offspring who have never been in the public eye or in line to rule anything. Technically, he
’
s a prince, but he
’
s also unimportant in the larger scheme of the universe.”

Blackwell pondered the implication of the distinction that Carter had made.

“Think of it this way. No one in London cared to notice the perpetrator was an impostor.”

“Let alone Mark Price and his people, is what you
’
re trying to say.”

Carter nodded.

Now
that
made sense. Whoever picked this prince as their ticket into Exertify chose well. He was a blank canvass with little prior public history, and could be shaped according to whatever narrative they wanted to peddle.

Carter rolled up his sleeves, and although Blackwell couldn
’
t be sure, it seemed his former colleague had worn his shirt inside out. “Wanna know something even crazier?”

“What?”

“The guy didn
’
t even initiate contact with Exertify in the first place.”

“Who did?”

“Their rep in London, Jennifer Willis. She approached the
‘
prince
’
at a US Defense attaché event and then hounded him for months to get his business.”

This was beginning to sound like classic entrapment.

“Carter.”

“Yeah?”

“I
’
m betting my money he fished them out first.”

On the surface, it seemed like an ingenious ploy to get into the building. But there were craters of missing details that needed to be filled to explain how some unknown guy was able to impersonate foreign royalty without being caught. Regardless of where this particular prince lay on the periodic chart, you can
’
t just invade a swanky penthouse and pretend you
’
re the royalty who owned it without some sort of consequence. Whoever this guy was, he was either familiar with the real prince and the well-oiled machinery of his life, or someone from the royal circle had tipped him off.

“Have we contacted the real prince or his government?”

“We don
’
t have a Legat in-country.”

“So?”

“A team from our Baghdad office is heading there to speak to him.”

“And how about prints from the penthouse?”

“Our guys in London are working with the MET for prints and DNA. But access to the penthouse is not a given.”

“Why? Are the Brits playing hardball?”

“Not at all. But the real prince has paradiplomatic status in the UK, which complicates things a shade or two.”

A criminal takes over the residence of a prince for months while he
’
s spending his money and transacting on his behalf, and no one lifts an eyebrow. But the FBI has to submit to procedures to get in? Blackwell
’
s ears felt a few degrees hotter. Whatever the FBI could dig up at the prince
’
s London home could potentially save the lives of hostages in an active crime. Something was terribly rotten with this picture.

Blackwell raised his empty bottle to the marine, asking for another one of that concoction they had given him.

“How about security footage or photos from Exertify in New York and London?”

“A few PR shots from the cocktail party in London. Nothing exciting.”

“And New York?”

“Plenty of footage. Exertify has a Brooklyn operation and all security data is mirrored in real time.”

“And what did we see?”

Carter shrugged. “We have him on camera from the moment he entered the building until the end of his meeting.”

“That
’
s when he revealed to Mark Price what he had done to his niece, Julia, right?”

Carter nodded. “He gave them the proof of life video you just saw, and told them he was wearing that vest thing. From that point no one could touch him. He had the upper hand. If there was any way to stick it to a security company, that was probably it.”

“What happened to the cameras after that?”

“He ordered them to disable all surveillance equipment, and then released the security personnel along with the admin staff.”

“Did we debrief the security personnel after they were released?”

“Sure did. They said this dude totally knew his shit.”

“And there was no way they could
’
ve left a running camera or an open mic to give us eyes and ears inside?”

Carter did one of his silent grins. “That would
’
ve been handy.”

“What does he look like?”

“Just like any other Arab man from the Gulf—a goatee, huge sunglasses, and covered from head to toe in a bed sheet. Forget his face. He masked it well.”

“Voice recognition?”

“Jack shit. Nothing came up. This guy is a cleanskin, Alex.”

Blackwell allowed this information to sink in. “Build?”