Blackout

CHAPTER 2

Kat Bronsky stood behind the ornate rosewood podium in the cavernous auditorium and mentally counted to five, milking the dramatic pause. The audience was virtually silent now, hanging on her words and waiting, all 1,600 of them, their minds whirling with the graphic images she’d painted of the well-known international hijacking that had terminated in New York.

“Eighteen hours we held off a final assault with the SWAT teams,” she continued, speaking the words with deliberate care, giving the various translators working in carrels behind the curtain time to do their job.

“Eighteen hours of continuous demands, continuous threats, countered by the only humane weapon we ever really have: the fine art of negotiator delay. But in that eighteenth hour…”

Again she paused, relishing the sight of the huge chandeliers above the audience and memorizing all of it — even the slight aroma of cigarette smoke supposedly banned from the hall. They all knew the conclusion, but they were caught up in the art of her storytelling.

“… suddenly the left forward door of the seven-forty-seven opened, and instead of a firestorm and dead bodies, three weary, defeated hijackers emerged, hands in the air, leaving two hundred eighty-seven passengers alive and uninjured and free to go home to their families. That, you see, is the point. We’re human. Even the worst among us. Not every hostage situation can be ended this successfully, of course, but the reactions of even the most hysterical and maniacal humans can be manipulated to some degree for the greater good, if we refuse to be stampeded. Thank you very much!”

Kat stepped back slightly and nodded to the audience, wondering what to expect. The conference had been fruitful, but she was the last act and most of the delegates were tired and ready to leave. Yet they were getting to their feet, clapping heartily for her. Some of the Asian delegates even bowed in her direction.

Good grief, a standing ovation! The noise was sustained and tumultuous. Kat was stunned. She was losing the effort to control her broad smile.

The host of the conference materialized beside her as the applause subsided, announcing that they had ten minutes for questions. A hand went up too far back to make out the owner and someone with a portable microphone moved toward the man.

Kat fielded questions about the AirBridge 737 hijacking that had made her famous in the Bureau, then answered several about tactics. Glowing with success and trying to hide it, she almost missed the name and position of the last questioner.

“Robert MacCabe, Agent Bronsky, from The Washington Post. We’re all aware of the MD-eleven crash just inside Cuban waters several months ago. So far, no cause has been clearly indicated and Cuba claims they’re not responsible. What is the likelihood that the flight was brought down not by the Cubans, but by an act of terrorism? And, if there is a possibility, what weapon could have been used?”

Robert MacCabe? she thought, trying not to look startled. Jake was right! What’s one of the Post’s star investigative reporters doing in Hong Kong?

Kat cleared her throat. “Are you asking for my personal opinion, Mr. MacCabe, or the Bureau’s official reaction?”

“I’ll take whatever I can get,” he quipped, sending a ripple of laughter through the hall. “Please just give us your best assessment on cause.”

“I can’t speak for the Bureau on an active investigation,” she replied with a forced smile, wishing he’d sit down and stop deflating the bubble of goodwill now threatening to drain away from the auditorium. “As you know, the FBI is deeply involved, which means it’s out of bounds for me to talk about. Are there any other questions?” Kat asked, looking pointedly away from MacCabe.

“Yes,” Robert MacCabe said into the microphone.

Kat’s eyes shifted back to him.

“We’re here,” he continued, “for one of the most important conferences on terrorist hijackings in history, and you’re here, Agent Bronsky, because, as a hostage negotiator, you’re one of the FBI’s experts in an area that has caused the FBI to project itself into worldwide involvement against airborne terrorist acts.”

“And your question, Mr. MacCabe?” Kat interjected.

“I’m coming to it. On top of that, your excellent speech shows there probably isn’t a delegate in this room who knows more about the subject than you. Yet, even though it didn’t involve hostages, you want us to believe that you’re not aware of the details of the Cuban crash investigation as a potential terrorist act?”

A murmur of voices rippled across the audience as the translation was finished.

“Oh, I’m very aware of the details, Mr. MacCabe, but I’m also well aware that our time is up.” Somewhere overhead a jet was passing, and she found herself concentrating on the subtle vibrations coursing through the hall.

“I’m wondering,” MacCabe went on, “why no one seems to be openly talking about the possibility that a terrorist act is involved? The FBI certainly wasn’t slow to come to that conclusion with the TWA crash off Long Island in 1996.”

“And we were dead wrong, weren’t we!” Kat snapped, cautioning herself too late to keep irritation out of her voice. “Look. This isn’t the appropriate forum for your questions, Sir. And we’re out of time. Thank you again,” she said to the audience, nodding as she stepped away from the podium. She let her eyes roam around the hall, aware that the spell her speech had cast had been broken.

Damn him! she thought, as the host moved to the podium to thank her once again before closing the conference.

Kat was engulfed at the foot of the stage by delegates wanting to talk, offering business cards and congratulations for a good speech.

So the damage wasn’t total! she told herself, but the smoldering desire to find Robert MacCabe and snap his head off was leading her to short responses and a continuous push toward the exit. With her purse slung over her shoulder and a leather folder held tightly against her chest, she paused for a second outside the door, her eyes sweeping left and right before coming to rest on a figure almost directly in front of her.

Robert MacCabe was waiting ten feet away. His large hazel eyes watched her as he leaned uneasily against a huge concrete post with both hands shoved into the pockets of his suit coat. A case that probably held a computer was at his feet.

Kat strode the few feet to him with her jaw set, ignoring the mingling aromas of rich coffee from an espresso cart and suppressing her desire for some.

“So, Mr. MacCabe, to what do I owe the honor of that attack? That little sabotage-the-speaker routine?”

He smiled nervously, a disarming, toothy, Kennedy-esque smile, his tanned face framed by a full and slightly tousled head of dark hair. Five foot ten, late thirties, and probably an Ivy Leaguer, Kat decided. He was very young to have won a Pulitzer, but a lot better-looking in person than in the newspaper picture she remembered.

Robert MacCabe straightened up and took his hands from his pockets, raising them in a gesture of capitulation. “Agent Bronsky, honestly, I wasn’t trying to sabotage you.”

She fixed him with a steely glare. “That’s pretty hard to believe!”

He stared back, his eyes penetrating hers with equal intensity. “Look…” he began.

“No, you look, Mr. MacCabe! What I want to know is precisely what…”

She paused as he put his index finger to his lips and inclined his head toward several delegates standing nearby, talking in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The gesture instantly irritated her. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper, angry with herself for having lost control and ignoring the pleasant hint of a woody aftershave.

“I want to know what you were trying to accomplish in there, needling me about that MD-eleven crash and terrorism.”

“We have to talk,” he said simply.

Kat straightened up, her eyebrows raised. “I was under the impression that we were doing precisely that. Talk about what?”

His eyes had shifted to another group of delegates talking in the distance, audible above the background din of distant traffic and closer voices, and he continued to watch them as he answered. “About that crash. About the reason for my questions in there.” He wasn’t smiling now, she noticed.

Kat shook her head in disgust. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you are not going to trick me into a statement!”

Robert MacCabe’s hand was up in a “stop” gesture. “No! I’m trying to give you something, not get an interview. I remember you from the Colorado hijacking. I’ve been following you.”

Kat tried not to look stunned. “You followed me here?”

His eyes snapped back to hers. “No, I mean I’ve followed your career. I was assigned to cover this convention for the Post. That’s why I’m here.”

Kat stood in silence for a few moments, trying to read his expression. He shook his head and rolled his eyes before filling the silence. “Look, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not making myself clear. I bored into you back there because I had to know if you were the right one to talk to.” MacCabe looked around quickly. “And you are. Can we, maybe, go somewhere private?”

“Why?” Kat asked, aware that one of the delegates was waiting patiently at a respectful distance to talk with her. She smiled at the man and gestured “just a moment” before turning back to MacCabe.

“Because…” He stopped and sighed, shaking his head as he momentarily dropped his gaze to the floor, licked his lips, and struggled with a decision. Once again he glanced around, taking inventory of the man waiting and various stragglers nearby before nodding and leaning toward her.

“Okay. Look. Something’s happened. I’ve ended up as the recipient of some very frightening information… maybe I should say allegations. From a very, very reliable source. I wasn’t sure what to make of them at the time, but now…”

“Allegations about what?” A second delegate was waiting for her, she noticed.

“The MD-eleven crash and what might have caused it.”

“I told you in there, Mr. MacCabe, I am not on that investigation.”

His hand was up again. “Hear me out. Please! Something happened this morning that I don’t want to talk about here, something that makes me think the information I was given is dead-on correct.” He waited for a response, smiling nervously while running a free hand through his hair.

She sighed and shook her head. “So, why come to me? I’m not on duty here in Hong Kong. Well, I am, but only as a delegate.”

“You’re FBI, Agent Bronsky. Even when you’re taking a shower or sleeping, you’re FBI. I remember you said those words yourself in an interview after the Colorado hijacking. I’m coming to you because you know a lot about international terrorism. And I’m asking you to listen because I’ve changed my reservation and am flying back to Los Angeles in a few hours, around midnight, and it frankly scares me to death that I’m the only one who knows what I now think I know.”

Kat could see genuine worry in his eyes. “So,” she began, “this information is something you picked up here in Hong Kong?”

“No. Back in D.C. But I really don’t want to discuss it here, okay?”

“You said you’re leaving around midnight. Is that on Meridian Airlines?” Kat asked, her voice still cool, her thinking cautious.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then we’re on the same flight.”

A look of surprise crossed his face. “Really? Tell you what. I’m staying in a hotel down the street and I have to go check out and get my stuff. Let me get a cab and come by here to pick you up early, say in about forty-five minutes. If you’ll let my newspaper buy you dinner, I’ll lay this all out for you.”

Kat shook her head no, then shot another “please wait” smile at the gathering fan club ten feet away. There were four men now waiting for her.

“Please!” Robert MacCabe added, keeping his voice low.

“I’ve got a better idea, Mr. MacCabe. Let’s just talk on the plane.”

“No. Please! I hate to make this sound like cloak-and-dagger stuff, but what I have to tell you is too sensitive to throw around on a crowded airplane.” He reached out and carefully touched her arm. “Look. I’m not kidding. This may be very serious and I don’t know whom else to talk to.”

Kat studied him carefully for a few seconds, wondering what sort of ploy could possibly spawn such a request.

None, she decided. She sighed and nodded.

“All right, Mr. MacCabe. Forty-five minutes. As much as I hate to admit it, you’ve tweaked my curiosity.”

“Great!” he said, turning to go.

She watched him walk off, reminding herself suddenly that people were waiting to talk to her.