The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [139]
“Gotta go. Hey, talk to Hester, will you?” I handed Hester the phone, and headed for the elevator.
When Adams and I got to the van, the young male I’d talked to was standing in the middle of the street, with his coat still on and his hands in his pockets. He was making everybody very nervous.
Adams and I approached him, and stopped when we got to the curb on our side of the street. “Put your hands where we can see them, would you?” I shouted. “We’ll keep ours out in plain view, too.”
That seemed to work. He took his hands out of his pockets, and kept standing there. We approached.
“What do you want to tell us?” Adams was a lot better trained than I.
“We been talking. We don’t think you can do this, but we … we know we have rights under your laws. Right?”
“Sure. Same as anybody else. Isn’t that right, Deputy?”
“Absolutely.”
He nodded. “Okay, then. Then we want to surrender under the Geneva convention.”
He sounded so damned sincere, and so scared …
“Just tell me your name, and I’ll accept your surrender,” said Adams. “I’m authorized to do so.”
“Oh, good … Timothy Frederick Olson.”
“Maybe you better tell your friends that we can accept your surrender. But only if you lay down your arms.”
“Oh, oh, sure. Oh. Be right back, okay?”
“Okay.”
“This is Alpha Lead,” said Adams. “It looks like they might come out. If they do, get a team here to secure them.”
Neither of us looked at the other. We didn’t want to take our eyes off the van. “Are we going to be this lucky?”
“Well,” he said, “if the kid is any indication, we sure are.”
“I agree. And why else send him? Just to blow away two older cops?”
“Speak for yourself.”
About ten seconds later, they began to emerge from the van. Seven men, still with their ski masks on, but without any visible weapons. They were all dressed in olive green trousers, boots, and patterned rust-brown, gray, black, and green rain smocks. They sure hadn’t all been dressed like that when I’d seen them on the dock. They must have put them on while they were waiting. Solidarity?
As they walked toward us, Adams barked, “Hands on your heads, gentlemen, and please roll the ski masks off your faces.”
They did. I didn’t recognize any of them. As the kid I’d talked to went by, I stopped him for a second.
“Why did you all put on the same clothes?”
“If you catch us out of uniform, you can have us executed as spies,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “It’s in the Geneva convention.”
I shook my head. “Go on with the others.”
“Did I hear him right?”
“Afraid so.”
“Boy. Twenty-two years in the FBI, and I never heard that one before.”
But, now, regardless of anything else, our most direct path to the boat was cleared. The odds were getting better all the time.
Twenty-eight
Sunday, January 18, 1998, 1506
We reassessed, as they say. It was decided to begin to bring rescue equipment toward the boat, since the threat in the stretch van had been neutralized, and we could begin to bring people in a bit closer. We called the main office, and asked for Captain Olinger to come back up to the DCI office. We needed to plan.
Sometimes it’s hard to see any real progress in a given situation. I mean, here things were, with better access to a boat we still couldn’t get to, which was still occupied by several hundred gamers as hostage, held by a few armed individuals who were not about to let us get much closer than we were. A small increment, at best. But, I thought, progress, nonetheless.
Until I talked with George.
“You know, what we’ve done is eliminate the only suspects we could hold hostage …” He looked at me, startled at his own thoughts. “If Gabriel ordered them to surrender, he just saved their lives, eliminated the threat that they could be killed or injured, and has kept the ante the same.”
“Smoothed out the lines,” said Adams. He shivered in the cold, damp air. “Looks like we just rescued some of his people for him.”
Art had come up while we were talking. “Well, that means we got some people to charge if things go to