Jeffery Deaver - A Maiden's Grave

Budd was smiling in relief. He said, " Wichita 's the aviation capital of the Midwest. Hell, we can get a chopper here in a half-hour."

"We aren't getting him one," Potter said. He gestured to the "Promises/ Deceptions" chart. LeBow wrote, Helicopter seating eight, due on hourly deadlines. Commencing at 5 p.m .

"You're not going to give it to him?" Budd whispered.

"Of course not."

"But you lied."

"That's why it's on the 'Deceptions' side of the board."

Typing again, LeBow said, "We can't let him go mobile. Especially in a chopper."

"But he's going to kill another one at five."

"So he says."

"But -"

"That's my job , Charlie," Potter said, finding patience somewhere. "It's what I'm doing here, to talk him out of it."

And poured himself a cup of extremely bad coffee from a stainless steel pot.

Potter slipped a cellular phone into his pocket and stepped outside, crouching until he was in the gully, which protected him from the slaughterhouse.

Budd accompanied him part of the way. The young captain had found out that the Hutchinson police were in charge of stopping the river traffic and had ordered them to do so, incurring the wrath of several charterers of container barges bound for Wichita, whose meters were running to the tune of two thousand dollars an hour.

"Can't please everybody," the negotiator observed, distracted.

It was growing even colder – an odd July indeed with temperatures in the mid-fifties – and there was a rich metallic taste to the air, perhaps from the diesel exhaust of the nearby threshers or harvesters or combines, whatever they were. Potter waved at Stillwell, who was walking back and forth among the troopers, grinning laconically, and ordering troops into position.

Leaving Budd, Potter climbed into a bureau car and drove to the rear staging area. Already, all the networks and local stations from a three-state area were here, as were reporters or stringers from the big-city papers and the wire services.

He had a brief word with Peter Henderson, who – whatever his other failings and motives – had quickly put together an efficient transport pool, supply staging area, and press tent.

Potter was known to the press and they descended on him frantically as he walked from the car. They were as he expected them to be: aggressive, humorless, smart, blindered. They'd never changed in all the years Potter had been doing this. His first reaction, as always, was how he would hate to be married to one of them.

He climbed to the podium that Henderson had installed, and looked into the mass of white video lights. "At about eight-thirty this morning three escaped felons kidnaped and took hostage two teachers and eight students from the Laurent Clerc School for the Deaf in Hebron, Kansas. The felons had earlier in the day escaped from the Callana Federal Penitentiary.

"They're presently holed up in an abandoned factory along the Arkansas River about a mile and a half from here, on the border of the town of Crow Ridge. They are being contained by several hundred state, local, and federal law enforcers."

More like a hundred, but Potter would rather bend the truth to the fourth estate than risk nurturing overconfidence on the part of the takers – just in case they happened to catch a news report. "There has been one fatality among the hostages…" The reporters gasped and bristled at this and their hands shot up. They barked questions but Potter said only, "The identity of the victim and those of the rest of the hostages will not be disclosed until all family members have been notified of the incident. We are in the midst of negotiations with the felons, who've been identified as Louis Handy, Shepard Wilcox, and Ray 'Sonny' Bonner. During the course of the negotiations there will be no press access to the barricade site. You'll be receiving updates as we get new information. That's all I have to say at this time."

"Agent Potter -"

"I'm not answering any questions now."

"Agent Potter -"

"Agent Potter, please -"

"Could you compare this situation to the Koresh situation in Waco?"

"We need the press copters released. Our lawyers have already contacted the director -"

"Is this like the Weaver situation a few years -" Potter walked out of the press tent amid the silent flashes of still cameras and the blaring of videocam lights. He was almost to the car when he heard a voice. "Agent Potter, can I have a minute?"

Potter turned to see a man approaching. He had a limp. He didn't look like a typical newsman. He wasn't a pretty boy and while he seemed aggressive and sullen he was not indignant, which raised him – slightly – in Potter's estimation. Older than his colleagues, he was dark-complected, had a deeply lined face. At least he looked like a real journalist. Edward R. Murrow.

The negotiator said, "No individual statements."

"I'm not asking for one. I'm Joe Silbert with KFAL in Kansas City."

"Yessir, if you'll excuse me -"

"You're a prick, Potter," Silbert said with more exhaustion than anger. "Nobody's ever grounded press choppers before."

Extreme stakes, the agent thought. "You'll get the news as soon as anybody."

"Hold up. I know you guys could care less about us. We're a pain in the ass. But we've got our job to do too. This is big news. And you know it. We're going to need fucking more than just press releases and non-briefings like the one we just had. The Admiral's going to be on your ass so fast you'll wish you were back in Waco."

Something about the way he uttered the rank suggested that Silbert knew the FBI director personally.

"There's nothing I can do. Security at the barricade site has to be perfect."

"I have to tell you that if you suppress too much, those youngsters're going to try some pretty desperate things to get inside your perimeter. They're going to be using descrambling scanners to intercept transmissions, they're going to be impersonating officers -"

"All of which is illegal."

"I'm just telling you what some of them have been talking about. There are rumblings out there. And I sure as hell don't want to lose an exclusive to some little asshole law-breaking journalism school graduate."

"I've given orders to arrest any non-law-enforcement personnel within sight of the plant. Reporters included."

Silbert rolled his eyes. "Arnett had it easier in Baghdad. Jesus Christ. You're a negotiator, I thought. Why won't you negotiate?"

"I should be getting back."

"Please! Just listen to my proposal. I want to start a press pool. You allow one or two journalists at a time up near the front. No cameras, radios, recorders. Just typewriters or laptops. Or pen and pencil."

"Joe, we can't risk the takers' getting any information about what we're doing. You know that. They might have a radio inside."

An ominous tone slipped into his voice. "Look, you start suppressing, we'll start speculating."

A barricade in Miami several years ago went hot when the takers heard on their portable radio a newscaster describing an HRT assault on the barricade site. It turned out the reporter was merely speculating as to what might happen but the takers thought it was real and began firing at the hostages.

"That's a threat, I assume," Potter said evenly.

"Tornadoes are threats," Silbert responded. "They're also facts of life. Look, Potter, what can I do to convince you?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

Potter turned toward the car. Silbert sighed. "Fuck. How's this? You can read the stories before we file them. You can censor them."

This was a first. Of the hundreds of barricades Potter had negotiated, he'd had good and bad relationships with the press as he tried to balance the First Amendment versus the safety of hostages and cops. But he'd never met a journalist who agreed to let him preview stories.