Now, as he steered the chopper off into the controlled airspace just north of the helipad, he heard, “Helicopter three two one three, you’re north of your prescribed route. State your intentions.”

Hammond hit the talk switch. “I’ve-I’ve got problems-” he started to say, which was the beginning of his prepared line.

But the ATC interrupted: “Uh, helicopter three two one three, we’ve got a NOTAM posted for the area you’ve just entered.” A NOTAM is a Notice to Aviators and Mariners which declares a certain area off-limits.

A NOTAM? For what? Now, Hammond was momentarily confused. Who the hell would have expected this? What was the NOTAM all about?

He hit his talk switch again to ask.

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

She raced up the stairwell to the twentieth floor of the building, up a narrow set of iron stairs that led up to the roof, and stepped out of the roof exit into the dank gray late-afternoon air. She gasped for breath. Behind her in the stairwell waited several police backups. Several much taller buildings loomed on two sides. Shouts and sirens and the honking of car horns rose from below.

Two shapes were silhouetted against the glare. She couldn’t see their faces, but she recognized them at once.

Jared. He was gagged and handcuffed. One heavy steel handcuff tightly encircled both of his tiny wrists. The other end of the cuff was attached to the plastic handle of a rectangular object, a box of some kind, which Sarah at once realized was a child’s plastic lunchbox. She looked again, not comprehending. Could she be seeing right?

His silken voice filled her with horror.

“Sarah,” Baumann said with repellent gentleness, “I don’t want to hurt Jared, but I will if I absolutely must. It’s up to you to see that doesn’t happen.”

“Your bomb’s dead,” she said, short of breath, gasping. “It’s pointless now for you to keep going.” She moved closer so that her walkie-talkie, locked in transmit mode, could pick up their conversation for the benefit of the listeners down below.

“No closer, please. Now, I’d rather get out of here than stay. So now you and I will make a deal.” It was strange: he was speaking in a South African accent and sounded like a different person.

“What do you want?” Sarah said, queasy with disgust at negotiating with this monster.

“In just a few minutes, I will be leaving the building. I’m taking Jared with me.”

“What do you mean, taking him with you?” She was exhausted, bone-tired, and couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Now she could see Jared’s face. His eyes were wide with fright; he appeared frozen.

“Only for the first part of my journey. Just far enough to guarantee safe passage. Traveler’s insurance. I promise you Jared will not be hurt as long as you cooperate.”

“You promise-!”

“There’s no reason for me to hurt your son. I’m quite fond of him.”

Something was gradually coming over her now, an iciness, a fusion of hatred and determination and fierce protectiveness that made her less afraid. “Take me instead,” she said, and took another step forward.

“Please, Sarah,” Baumann said. “For Jared’s sake, stay where you are. Listen carefully, please. I don’t want you or your people to make any mistakes. First I must make a phone call.” Baumann pulled from a pocket a cellular phone and punched a few numbers. He listened for a couple of seconds, then punched a few more. “There,” he said. “Thank you, Jared, for the use of your phone. Now the bomb is armed.” He put away the cell phone and held up a small object Sarah couldn’t quite make out. “This is a dead-man switch, Sarah. You know how it works, I assume. This button is connected to a small radio transmitter, and to a signal generator that produces a continuous tone. It’s transmitting that tone now. A one-milliwatt transmitter-very low-powered. Good only for line-of-sight. As long as I keep the button depressed, the signal is transmitted. But if I let go of the button, my transmitter stops sending the signal.”

“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.”