Chapter 14: Search and Rescue
Javits Center. October 16, 2004. Saturday afternoon.
Jones hadn't been exaggerating when he said the demo would be a mob scene.
As Peter surveyed the crowd entering the hall, he realized having Falco's photo for a reference wasn't as helpful as it should have been. With the costumes and headgear fans were wearing, figuring out what they looked like underneath was damned frustrating.
Over lunch, the agents had divided up coverage of the two main press events for Roman games that had been scheduled for the afternoon. While Tricia, Diana, and Neal attended the Spartan: Total Warrior press conference, Peter and Jones focused their efforts on Media Hall B on the opposite side of the expo hall where a demo of a gladiator combat game was scheduled.
Jones was positioned on the opposite side of the hall from Peter for better coverage. By the time the demo started, neither one of them had found any likely suspects, but about ten minutes into the demo, Jones's voice came through his earpiece. "Got a possible, fifth row from the front, eight seats in. Wearing an expensive centurion costume."
Peter moved to an area where he could see the suspect. "You're right, he could be our guy. Couldn't get a good view of his scabbard, but the one he's wearing could be a match. As soon as the demo ends, we'll make our approach."
Peter checked in with Tricia while waiting. So far they hadn't come up with any suspects, but were continuing to survey the crowd.
"Do you want us to join you?" Tricia asked.
"No, he's by himself. Jones and I have this covered. You three continue to work the press conference in case this doesn't pan out."
When the demo ended, fans scattered in all directions to attend other events. Their suspect exited into a corridor on the opposite end of the hall. Forcing their way through the throng, Peter and Jones took off after him. As they entered the corridor they met an onslaught of fans arriving for the next demo. This one was for the latest title in the Knights of the Old Republic series and stormtroopers, Wookiees, and Darth Vaders were filling the seats. As Peter and Jones made their way down the corridor, the crowd began to thin but Falco was nowhere to be seen. How had he disappeared so quickly? Peter thought in exasperation. A Roman should be easy to spot in this sea of Star Wars costumes and they'd only been a few steps behind.
As Peter and Jones rounded a bend in the hallway, they saw a small group of stormtroopers approaching them. One of them lurched into Peter as he passed and then grabbed his arm when Peter stumbled. Trying to disentangle himself, Peter felt a small prick near his elbow.
"Sorry, man," he heard dimly as the hallway started to spin. Clinging to the stormtrooper's arm, his surroundings blurred. Even the stormtrooper was dissolving into an out-of-focus jumble of colors. Jones! Did he say that or just think it? All he could hear was a roaring in his ears. As he sank to the floor, he felt arms around him, pulling him up. He tried to call out, but couldn't open his mouth, couldn't form the words. . . . The roaring increased then nothing. . . .
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The press conference had now ended in Media Hall G. Careful scans of the crowd had turned up no one matching Falco's description. Neal stopped to tighten the laces on his Roman sandals. Hopefully Peter and Jones had better results with their suspect.
Diana looked to be equally bummed. Blowing her hair out of her eyes, she muttered, "The next person who comes on to me is toast. Caffrey, this is the last time I'm ever letting you select my costume."
"I haven't heard anything from Peter in a while. Isn't he late to report? Tricia, have you heard anything?"
"No, I'll check with the van." Tricia called Travis on her communicator and spoke briefly with him. "Travis hasn't heard anything from either Peter or Jones for thirty minutes," she reported. "We better go check on them."
This wasn't like Peter. He wouldn't have gone off on his own and after all his lectures about keeping in contact, he wouldn't have forgotten to check in. Peter had cautioned him to be careful before they split up. Did he heed his own warning?
It took ten minutes to make their way through the packed expo hall, and by the time they arrived, the Knights of the Old Republic demo was in full swing. No Romans were in attendance.
"They must have already left the hall," Tricia said. "Start a search in the adjoining hallways. I want reports every ten minutes. Everyone stay sharp."
Neal headed off to the east. Walking down the corridor, he was relieved to spot a familiar face walking his way. "Hi, Dotty! How's my favorite toga girl?" He'd met her in the expo hall this morning. Dotty was a vivacious blonde whose skimpy toga left very little to the imagination.
"Mark Antony, what 'ya doing at a Stars Wars event? Did you get lost?"
"Not me, but a couple of friends did." Thanking all the Roman gods he could think of for bringing along several of the photos Janet had taken, Neal pulled out one of Peter and Jones. "Maybe you've seen them? I was supposed to meet them for a tournament, and they're late."
Dotty studied the photo carefully. "Oh yeah, I saw them. I remember admiring their costumes. A word of advice—you better round up some other gaming buddies for your tournament."
"Why? What happened?"
"I was going down the back corridor behind the stage and saw some stormtroopers helping them walk away. They were laughing and having a great time. Explained that your friends had been in a drinking competition and lost. They must have really tied one on, because from the looks of them they could barely stand up."
Neal laughed. "Some weekend gladiators! They'll live this one down. How many stormtroopers were with them?"
"There must have been at least six."
"Not a surprise. The Empire never plays fair. Thanks, Dotty."
"Anytime, Mark Antony." Dotty reached into a small bag attached to her belt and pulled out a card. "This is my phone number. Call me up sometime."
As soon as Dotty left, Neal called Travis to patch him through to Tricia. "Got a lead. A booth babe saw them being led off by at least six stormtroopers. Sounds like they were drugged. She thought they were drunk and on the verge of passing out." Repeating what Dotty had said, Neal could hear the note of panic creeping into his voice and fought to contain it.
No luck. Tricia had already noticed it. "Don't worry, Neal. We're going to find them. This gives us something to work with. Where did she see them?"
"Along the corridor that runs behind the stage of Media Hall B."
"Got it. I'll tell Diana. Meet us there."
Tricia, Diana, and Neal searched the corridor, but could find no trace of Peter and Jones. A few small offices opened into the corridor, but checking them out proved fruitless.
"It's now four o'clock," Tricia said. "We spend fifteen minutes trying to locate them or someone else who's seen them. If nothing turns up, we'll need to call for reinforcements."
"Won't that exacerbate the situation?" a worried Diana asked. "Seeing cops might send the kidnappers off the edge."
"We won't have a choice," Tricia replied grimly.
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Darkness . . . muffled sounds . . . Jones struggled to open his eyes, but couldn't. Nothing was working. He couldn't even move his hand. He could barely breathe. Fighting the paralysis gripping him, Jones willed his eyelids to open. It was like they'd been sealed with duct tape.
Open your eyes, dammit. . . . Finally he forced them open a crack. Squinting at the blurry shapes around him, he tried to remember what happened. That's right . . . stormtroopers. One of him shoved him then . . . nothing. Peter? Couldn't see him. Where was he? In front of him, fuzzy outlines of grandstands, towering shapes. Overhead . . . blackness.
Need to let 'em know . . . Gotta . . . At last forcing his thumb against his watch-communicator and praying he'd hit the on button, he mumbled "Arena" before all went black again.
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With every passing minute, Neal's anxiety mounted. He was the one who was supposed to be off the radar, not Peter. Running a hand through his hair, he forced himself to calm down, but it wasn't easy. He felt like running up to people and shaking them for information till someone coughed up something, anything. Was this what Peter went through when he went off script? No wonder he kept lecturing him. With all the masses of people here, surely someone else had seen something.
His earpiece crackled. "Travis here. I just got a message from Jones. One word: 'Arena'. I tried to call back, but no answer. Still nothing from Peter. I'm patching Tricia through now."
"Diana, Neal, meet me in the lounge area in the expo hall to the east of the arena."
When Neal arrived at the lounge, Tricia was already sitting down with the floor plan of the building spread out in front of her. Diana was walking back from the arena.
"It looks like the only entrance to the arena is on the front," Tricia said, "but I sent Diana to verify it."
"The entrance consists of three sets of double doors," Diana said as she took a seat. "They're all locked. I saw a man try to open them, but guards immediately came up and warned him away."
"I don't like this," said Tricia, chewing her lip. "We can't simply charge into the arena without knowing what we're going to find. We know there are at a minimum six men. With Falco that makes seven. But there may be many more inside. We could walk into a trap or cause a bloodbath."
Neal studied the building floor plan, searching for a way to access the interior. He forced himself not to think about Peter and Jones, but treat this as just another job. If this were a museum, how would he get in? As he analyzed options, that paralyzing sense of helplessness disappeared. And then it became clear.
Looking up at the others, he said, "There's always another way," and pointed to the expo hall ceiling high above them. "See how the ceiling is an open beam structure with lights suspended from the beams? According to the floor plan, there are four public floors to the building. Above the ceiling is a fifth floor maintenance level. The arena is also four-stories tall. That means the ceiling is right below the maintenance level just like the expo hall. Here in the hall, most of the walls are open with steel support columns and I bet the arena is the same way. It may be possible to gain access to the arena from the top level maintenance floor and then I could climb down one of the columns into the arena. The braces on the columns should give enough support for the climb."
Tricia shook her head. "I'm not happy with the thought of you pulling a Spiderman maneuver. You'd be on your own. What if you're spotted? We wouldn't be able to provide backup. What if you get stuck midway down? Then, there's the real possibility you might fall."
"Me, fall?" Neal stared at her, incredulous. "No need to insult a guy. Relax, Tricia, I know what I'm doing. In any case there's no assurance I'll be able to gain access to the beam structure from the maintenance level. But it's the only way I can think of to find out what's going on. Do you have another idea?"
"How would we play it if you do succeed?" Diana asked. "Suppose you manage to get down low enough that you can see what's going on. Assuming Peter and Jones are being held captive, how would you get us in there? If we broke through the doors, isn't that going to cause just as much disturbance as before?"
"What about if I'm able to distract them some way and you can sneak in for a surprise attack?"
"And how can you manage that?" Tricia asked.
"I'll know when I'm there," said Neal, confident he'd be able to devise a plan. "And as for you sneaking in, we can prepare for that in advance." Looking over at Diana, he quirked a smile. "For that I'll need an assistant."
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It had taken some persuading, okay, a lot of persuading, but Tricia had finally agreed to his proposal to snake his way down four floors of steel beams to run clandestine reconnaissance. She'd given him her final lecture on safety precautions and the need for frequent updates, and it was now time to set the stage.
Neal left the lounge with Diana. As the two strolled through the expo hall, he put an arm around her and played with her hair.
"You could look like you're enjoying it more," he whispered into her ear.
"You're just lucky I haven't broken your arm," Diana muttered back as she caressed his cheek.
"I'm certainly not enjoying this myself either; this is purely one of those miserable jobs the conscientious FBI professional is called upon to perform." Neal nuzzled her neck and gave her a squeeze. "Keep working on your dewy-eyed look of infatuation," he couldn't resist adding.
"Can't you walk faster? We need to get to the arena doors today."
"Gotta sell the con first."
When they arrived at the arena, Neal pushed her against one of the double doors and kissed her passionately. Diana put her hands to his face, drawing his head down, and returned the kiss. Turning him so his right side was next to the door handles, she whispered seductively into his ear, "You better be opening that lock."
"Got it." Neal smiled down at her.
"Get a room!" a passing space alien yelled at them. A guard looked on with an air of sentimental indulgence.
After sauntering away together, Neal lowered his arm from Diana's shoulders.
"Good luck, Caffrey. We'll be listening for your updates," Diana said as he took off for the nearest elevator bank.
The elevators to the fourth floor conference rooms and offices were on the south side of the expo hall. With all the action taking place on the main floor, there was minimal use of the elevators. Arriving on the fourth floor Neal scanned it for the emergency stairs. He didn't want to risk using the service elevator which contained a higher probability of being detected. The stairs were at the end of the hallway. The door was rigged with an alarm but it was a simple matter of using a credit card to silence it. Neal darted up the stairs to the maintenance level. Listening at the door, he couldn't hear any sounds, so he risked opening it a crack.
He was at the end of a long corridor. No workers around. He was in luck—on a late Saturday afternoon there must only be a skeleton shift operating. The quiet hum of machinery was constant, but no conversations could be heard.
Quickly getting his bearings, Neal headed for the section over the arena. Along the way were a couple of locker rooms and maintenance areas containing massive pieces of equipment. Slipping into a storeroom, he scanned it for supplies. He couldn't count on finding anything useful in the arena, and he had no equipment on him. Fortunately the storeroom was well-equipped. Monofilament, polyester rope, wire cutters, gloves, lubricant spray—all those had potential. But carrying them while climbing down a support beam was not going to be possible. As a last resort he could wrap them in his cape and make a makeshift bag of it, but the risk was high that something could fall out and alert the guards.
Neal rifled through the boxes lining the walls. In one of them he hit pay dirt—a stash of tool pouches. Grabbing one of them, he stuffed it with supplies and then used his cape as padding to keep the items from rattling. Slinging the pouch over his shoulder, Neal headed out. Spiderman was ready.
Access to the fourth floor ceiling beams apparently was achieved by means of large square panels which were located at various locations on the floor. Picking the one closest to the arena, Neal crouched to examine it. The panel was controlled by an electric motor. Once the safety lock was disengaged, the panel was opened by pressing a button.
Elated, Neal called in a report of his progress. "I'm over the arena now and preparing to open the ceiling panel. Will update after I'm in."
Before he pressed the button, Neal checked the wiring. These systems normally had a built-in alarm— a warning signal that sounded when the panel was opened. If he didn't find it in advance, his plan would end ignominiously before it even started. The blue wire appeared to trip the signal. Neal cut the wire and held his breath for any alarm.
All was quiet. If something went off in a control room, he'd have to deal with that later. Maybe they'd think it was a false alarm. Just for a second his mind wandered back to the Louvre. Dropping down into the Richelieu Wing … Only then he was after a painting. Big difference now. Lives were at stake. Any slipup and he wouldn't be the one paying the price, it'd be Peter and Jones.
Neal pressed the button and the panel slid open quietly. After a quick glance below he dropped through the opening, landing on a small ladder which took him down to the grid of structure beams overlaying the ceiling. A button next to the ladder closed the panel above him.
"I'm in," Neal whispered into his communicator. "Moving my way to a side beam. I'm over the arena, can see the grandstands below. Five men dressed as centurions moving around on the stage. No sign yet of Peter and Jones."
Neal's position when he dropped from the ladder was over the back part of the stage. Scanning the area below, he could see what must be a storage area or rooms behind the stage. The solid ceiling made it impossible to see inside. The grandstands formed a large horseshoe around the stage. If he climbed down the columns next to them, he could be spotted. But there appeared to be dark alcoves between the ends of the grandstands and the back area that would enable him to drop unnoticed.
Sprinting lightly across the beams to the southwest end of the arena, he prepared to start the descent. After he called in his update, Tricia was patched through. "Keep your communicator turned on so we can monitor what's happening as you go down."
"Will do." Neal performed a quick assessment of the beam structure. Maneuvering across the ceiling beams had not been an issue. They were designed for workmen larger than him to work comfortably, but the vertical columns were another matter. They had not been built to be climbed. But if he took advantage of the bolts and braces on the beams, it should be possible. Still even Houdini took precautions.
Neal put on the gloves he'd obtained in the storeroom and slung the rope around the column, tying it to his waist. He debated bothering with it. If it became snared on something, it'd ruin everything. But if he slipped… No latitude for mistakes—Peter and Jones were depending on him. Neal tightened the rope around his waist.
Fortunately his sandals had flexible soles so it wasn't necessary to remove them. If he tried to climb down the column with bare feet, he'd have a better grip but the sharp edges of the braces could slice his feet to ribbons. Would the soles last the beating they were going to get? He'd soon find out.
Swinging silently over the ceiling beam, Neal started his descent.
Gingerly reaching down with his feet, he slowly went down five feet and then paused to reassess. "It's working," he whispered into his communicator. It has to, he thought to himself.
Inching down another fifteen feet, he paused to wipe the sweat off his face. The heat at the top of the building was intense and appeared to be affecting his eyes. Must have gotten some sweat in them. Neal shook his head and blinked furiously, but it wasn't helping. Steadying himself on a brace, he rubbed his eyes. His eyes were clouding so badly, he was becoming dizzy.
This was bad.
Not just his vision was being affected. The roaring in his ears was blocking all other sounds.
Neal's heart stuck in his throat when the ceiling tilted and rotated over him. Swallowing down the nausea and the panic, he clung to the column. He tried looking down, but that only increased his nausea.
Breathe, just breathe, this will pass, he kept repeating to himself. Breathe, breathe.
But the more he tried to calm himself down, the worse it got.
Fixing his eyes on the ceiling which was now dissolved into a blurred grid of shadowy shapes, he slowly resumed his descent, and that's when he saw him. Looming out of the haze—Klaus.
Klaus screamed at him and climbed down the beam. He was only a few feet away. Neal involuntarily jumped back with a shocked cry. Losing his hold, he slid down some four feet before he could grab on to the column. His rope had gotten caught on a brace and acted as a brake, jerking him back painfully.
Gulping in air, he clung precariously to the column. His left thigh was throbbing painfully. The column must have cut into it when he tried to stop his slide. He gingerly felt down with one hand. Damn. It was bleeding. Did any drops fall below? Had they heard him?
Despairing, Neal scanned the area below. Tricia's voice came through his earpiece. "Neal, what's happening? I heard you cry out. What's going on? I can hear you panting. Talk to me, Neal."
Forcing himself to speak slowly, he whispered into the communicator, "I'm okay. Lost my grip for a moment. Must have been a rat. Don't worry. Continuing down."
The guards apparently hadn't noticed anything. It was fortunate he was still so high up. Gripping the column with his legs, Neal pulled out his cape and tore off a section off to wrap his thigh. Couldn't risk any blood falling below.
Neal inched his way down. By now his entire costume was coated in sweat. The cut on his leg didn't appear to be very deep but it continued to bleed, soaking through the fabric. Nothing more he could about that till he was on the ground. Every few feet Neal stopped to compress it next against the column, hoping to keep any blood from dripping on the ground.
When he was some twenty feet from the ground, he paused. His luck was holding—the corner he had chosen was still devoid of people. Four soldiers were talking among themselves in the grandstands. No sign of Peter or Jones. Whispering an update, he said, "I'll be on the ground shortly. Gonna check out the back area and then will report in. Stand by."
Mustering all his cat burglar expertise, Neal continued his stealthy descent, rotating his position on the column to be away from the grandstands for the last portion. Dropping lightly onto the floor, he sprinted behind a pair of large speakers. The makeshift bandage appeared to be holding but he tore off another section of his cape and wrapped another layer around as a precaution.
The stage had been converted into a battle arena with sand scattered on the floor. Several shields and assorted weapons were propped up around the perimeter. In the center two tall poles had been erected. Jones had mentioned gladiator combats were going to be staged there, but what were the poles for?
Neal darted around the corner to the back. The area behind the stage consisted of several small rooms. Stacks of equipment— fighting gear, shields, swords, javelins—were piled high among packing crates and sound equipment.
Voices could be heard coming from one of the rooms, and Neal crept over to investigate. The door was ajar and he was able to wedge himself into the opening to peer through the crack.
Peter and Jones were on the floor, propped up against a wall, hands bound behind their backs. They appeared to be drugged, their heads dropping listlessly onto their chests. No injuries that Neal could see. Four men were standing in front of them. They were all dressed in full Roman battle gear and bristled with armor. But their helmets were off and Falco was easy to recognize.
Falco was taunting his prisoners. "Not feeling so hot? Think you could fool me with those outfits? Hah! Do you take me for an idiot? I had Slattery's apartment bugged, and the camera picked up all your bungling attempts to discover me. I admit, I'm impressed you tracked me here. Didn't think you'd make that connection. Should have found that brochure. Lost points on that. But now I know you'll be worthy opponents for what's coming.
"It's a shame my soldiers never have the thrill of real gladiator combat. You're going to rectify that. In a few minutes you'll be brought to the arena. But you know I was thinking, it'd hardly be sporting if we didn't give my soldiers a break. After all, they've never been in a death match with real opponents. So we're not waiting for the drug to completely wear off. "
Taking an hourglass from a shelf, Falco put it on the table. "The sand runs out in fifteen minutes at which time you'll be brought to the arena. You'll probably still be paralyzed, but you may be able to plea for mercy. And who knows? If you impress me, I may grant clemency. But I advise you to not count on getting a thumbs up. For now, in the best gladiator tradition, I leave you in peace to order your affairs. Your doom awaits you in the arena."
Neal backed away silently into an adjoining room as Falco and one other soldier left. The others had remained behind.
The significance of the poles was now obvious. They were going to be used to secure the prisoners where they'd be slaughtered. The condition Peter and Jones were in, they wouldn't stand a chance. What kind of sadistic monster was Falco? And now it was up to Neal to come up with a plan to stop his nightmare scenario from becoming reality. It was so tempting to call in the cavalry. What had he been thinking? This was no snatch-and-grab from an art gallery.
Or was it?
If he could drill down on the diversion—provide the snatch—Tricia and Diana could manage the grab.
Neal sneaked back to assess the layout of the arena, taking note of the short hallway leading from the entrance doors to the grandstand. A viewing area had been set aside for dignitaries. That must be where Falco planned to watch the combat. Falco and four others were on the stage readying equipment. The sound system had been turned on and crowd noises were coming out of the speakers. The sound system was top quality. It was hard not to believe the stands were packed with an impatient horde of bloodthirsty fans. Neal eyed the enormous speakers speculatively. The outline of a plan was emerging.
He darted back to the storage area and quickly surveyed the contents of the other back rooms. Most of them contained costumes and spare office furniture, but one looked more promising. It was being used to store sound equipment and recordings, even a few stereo systems.
Confident he'd located what he needed, Neal reported in. "Found Peter and Jones. They've been drugged. Can't see any injuries but they appear paralyzed. Falco intends to make them gladiator victims during a combat he's staging. They won't stand a chance, Tricia. This isn't a game. It's a slaughter."
"I've called up reinforcements," Tricia said. "They're waiting for my signal just outside the expo hall. Should we move in now?"
"Too risky. The soldiers may be dressed as centurions, but they also have AK-47s slung over their shoulders. There are eight soldiers, including Falco. Two guards are in the room with Peter and Jones. There'd be no way to protect Peter and Jones if you charge in now. Falco's giving Peter and Jones fifteen minutes—supposedly enough time to be aware of what's happening, but not so much they'll be able to move around. I'm gonna take advantage of that to prepare a diversion which will take out at least some of the soldiers and will keep them from noticing you. There's a short hallway that leads from the doors to the grandstand. When I give you the signal, go ahead and move into the hallway. There'll be enough noise, no one will hear you. You'll be able to sneak up to the grandstands and disarm them. There are a couple of AK-47s on the grandstands near the door. Grab those on your way in."
"Wait, Neal, what are you pl—"
"Sorry, no time." Neal raced back to the storage room.
Notes: Major thanks are due to Penna Nomen for this chapter. Neal and I would still be struggling to climb down the beam if it weren't for her. Many thanks for your comments to the last chapter. They gave me lots of ideas for the future and are worth more than Roman gold coins!
If you want to meet Adrian Falco in his Roman regalia, head over to The Woman in Blue board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site.