“What are you saying?” she said, although she knew. Her voice shook.
“In Jared’s lunchbox is a small explosive device-half a block of C-4 connected to a blasting cap, which is connected in series with a paging device that has been modified. I’ve just called the pager, which caused the relay to close. Now there’s only one thing that’s keeping the bomb from detonating: the signal that my transmitter is generating. The normally closed relay is connected to a radio receiver-a scanner programmed for a specific frequency. As long as the receiver hears a signal-a continuously transmitted signal-it keeps the switch open, and he’s safe. But if the signal stops, or is interrupted, the relay closes, closing the circuit between battery and blasting cap, initiating the C-4. The bomb detonates. And Jared is gone. Just half a pound of C-4, no more, but quite enough to turn him into mist.” Jared’s eyes closed.
“You’re sick,” Sarah murmured. “You’re sick. He’s a child.”
“So, if anything happens to me-if, let’s say, you or any of your people are so impulsive as to shoot me-I release pressure on the switch, and the bomb blows up. If you try to jam the signal, the receiver will no longer see a clear signal, and Jared will die. If you attempt to grab Jared, you will take him out of the line of sight of my transmitter, and he will die. And don’t even think of trying the standard FBI negotiation tactic of waiting me out, because if the battery in either my transmitter or Jared’s receiver runs down, the bomb will go off.”
“And how do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked hollowly. She knew that NEST, as well as members of her own team, were listening to this exchange over her walkie-talkie, and she was terrified that some hothead might make the mistake of trying to rush Baumann somehow.
“I suppose you don’t, do you? But do you want to take that chance?”
Sarah stared at Baumann, then at Jared, and said with a sudden passion: “How can you do this? Don’t you care for Jared, even a little?”
Baumann smiled cynically. “Don’t bother, Sarah.”
“I understand who you are, what kind of thing you are. I just thought you had some feelings for Jared. Would you really do this to Jared? I don’t believe you would.”
Baumann’s smile faded. She was right; he did feel almost tender toward the child, but such feelings were treacherous, and his escape was paramount. He knew Sarah would never allow her son to be harmed, and that was the point, after all.
“Don’t test me, Sarah,” he snapped. “Please don’t test me. Now, Jared is going to accompany me to a nearby airport. When I’m safely aboard a plane, he’ll be returned to you. Understand, Sarah, that if anyone makes an error, or is too aggressive, and Jared is killed, his blood will be on your hands.”
Sarah heard a faint noise in the distance, and she looked up. Gradually the noise grew louder, a noise she recognized. She looked up at the sky, startled at first by the whump-whump-whump noise. It was a helicopter, black and sleek, with tinted windows.
In the NEST command post, Dr. Richard Payne turned away from the walkie-talkie. “Suarez,” he barked, “get over here. I need some equipment.”
The whump-whump-whump of the helicopter rotor blades was now deafeningly loud and directly overhead.
Baumann shouted: “Are we clear? Are we in agreement?”
Sarah looked at Jared. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Yes,” she shouted back. The decision was not difficult. But could she trust him to release Jared once the helicopter landed? What choice did she really have?
The chopper blades whumped and thundered.
Baumann walked to the helicopter, clutching Jared. The fuselage of the helicopter hovered above the roof of the building, then softly landed. From below, through the racket, he could hear sirens, saw the reflection of red and blue lights against the surrounding buildings.
He jumped through the open helicopter door and shoved Jared onto the seat next to the pilot’s. With a quick, unseen motion, he clicked off the bomb inside the Power Rangers lunchbox, then switched off his transmitter.
The helicopter idled in place. Baumann barked to Dan Hammond: “You, out of the chopper. We’re not going to Teterboro.” Hammond, frightened but at the same time clearly relieved, climbed out of his seat and slipped past Baumann to the door of the helicopter, then stepped onto the roof. Baumann slid over and took the controls.
“You’re damn right we’re not,” came a voice from immediately behind him. Baumann felt the cool steel of a gun against his temple.
The voice came from Lieutenant George Roth, who emerged from a crouch from behind the high-backed front seats where he had waited unseen, concealed behind a tall red first-aid chest.
“You’re making quite a mistake,” Baumann told Roth, taking his hand off the collective. “The child is wearing a bomb.”
“I know about the bomb,” Roth said. “Otherwise I’d have nailed you already.”
Baumann smiled, but his smile was ice. He reached down and swiftly retrieved a pistol from a concealed ankle holster, leaped from the seat, and spun around to face Roth, pointing his gun at the cop. Audacity, Baumann thought, was the hallmark of a commando, not a cop. “Would you like to get out of this helicopter, or would you like to die?”
The two men eyed each other tensely. “Looks like a standoff to me,” Roth said. “I got a better idea. Better for both of us. You let the kid go. I’ll take his place. Sarah gets her kid back, and you get a hostage.”
“And if I don’t agree to that?” Baumann asked.
“Then I guess we all blow up. I don’t care. I’ve been feeling a little suicidal these days anyway.”
“And if it becomes known that a member of the New York Police Department killed a child?”
Roth shrugged. “Who’s going to know anything? You’re the guy made the bomb. Let the kid go.”
“Thanks, but no,” Baumann said. “The child is a better hostage, to be quite honest. And in any case, I’d rather not find out what you have up your sleeve.”
“Look,” Roth said. “This isn’t just some hostage we’re talking about. This is a kid I thought you liked. You don’t want this on your conscience.”
“Believe me,” Baumann said, “I don’t want to hurt a hair on the child’s head. If anything happens to him, it will be because of your carelessness.”
Roth considered his next statement for a few seconds, though it seemed an eternity. “All right,” he said. “Let me tell you what we’ve done in the last couple of minutes. You know that we’ve got a bunch of guys down there from the Nuclear Emergency Search Team, and if you know shit, you know these guys are the best in the business. While you and Sarah were talking, her walkie-talkie stayed open and broadcast to the NEST guys. So they heard everything you said. They heard your description of the bomb you set up. And so these guys have been using one of their toys called a spectrum analyzer to figure out what kind of tone you’re broadcasting, and the frequency you’re using, and all that shit. Simple thing to duplicate the tone, and then set a transmitter to broadcast that exact tone on the same frequency. Easy stuff. Amateur hour. Took those geniuses five minutes. Meanwhile, I haul ass over to the heliport, couple blocks away, and jump on the chopper. They’re bombarding the air with that exact tone, transmitted on just the right frequency. So Jared’s bomb isn’t going off. You can toss the button out the window. Go ahead. It’s not going to blow.”
“That’s very good,” Baumann said. “I could almost believe that.”