How could this be happening at Caroline Hopkins’s funeral?

THOUGH ONLY FIVE SEVEN, with his broken nose and violently frank way of looking at everybody, except maybe his mother, borough commander Will Matthews was about as pugnacious-looking an Irish cop as you could still find on the force. He looked like he’d just gone fourteen and a half bare-knuckle rounds when I found him standing on the sidewalk smack in front of the command center bus.

“Glad you could join us, Bennett,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “I hadn’t had a chance to see the tree yet anyway.”

Instead of chuckling, Matthews looked like he wanted to hit me with a billy club. So much for trying to lighten things up.

“I’m in no mood for stand-up, Bennett,” he said. “The mayor, the former president, the cardinal, several movie, music, and sports stars… who else? Eugena Humphrey, and about three thousand other VIPs are being held hostage inside by a dozen or more heavily armed, masked men. You follow me so far?”

It was hard to register what Will Matthews had just said to me. The mayor and the former president alone would have been mind-boggling, but all the rest?

The borough commander stared at me belligerently, waiting for me to pick my jaw up off the sidewalk before he continued his rant.

“We don’t know if the gunmen are terrorists. Preliminary reports from the law enforcement personnel who were just released from inside the church indicate that the lead hijacker, at least, is non-Arab. He spoke to the crowd, and I quote, ‘sounds white,’ unquote.

“These unidentified masked men took out thirty-one cops and about two dozen federal agents, including the former president’s Secret Service detail, with nonlethal weapons. Tear gas and rubber bullets and Tasers.

“There’s more. Twenty minutes ago, they opened the Fiftieth Street entrance doors and bum-rushed all of the cops and security personnel. There were a lot of broken noses and black eyes, but they could have gunned them down just as easy as let them go. So I guess we can be grateful for small mercies.”

I struggled to keep the shock and confusion off my face. It wasn’t that easy. The security must have been incredible, and it was taken out? Using nonlethal weapons?

“How can I help?” I asked.

“Excellent first question. Ned Mason, our top negotiator, is on his way. But he has a place upstate, in Orange County or some other ridiculous place. Newburgh, I think. I know you’re not in Hostage Negotiation anymore, but I needed our best option in case these guys call before he gets here.

“Also, as I recall, you’ve got a lot of media airtime under your belt. So I might need you to run interference with the locust swarm of press this thing is bringing. Steve Reno’s got the tactical lead. You can consult with him when he comes down off that bird, okay? Sit tight. Think about what to say to the press.”

I was following orders, “sitting tight,” staring across at the huge, stately church, beginning to try to figure out what kind of person or persons would pull this-when I heard a terrible commotion by the 50th Street barricade. Something bad was happening. Now!

Instinctually, I went for my gun as a shirtless blond man and a heavily made-up redheaded woman sprinted out from behind the barricade. What the hell? They made it across cleared-out Fifth Avenue and were running up the cathedral’s stairs when three ESU officers came out from behind the hearse-and tackled them.

The redhead’s wig flew off, revealing a crew cut. The blond kid was still smiling, and I saw that his drug-addled pupils were as big as dinner plates.

“One love! Transgender love!” the blond yelled as the cops carried him and the kicking transvestite right past the press at 51st Street.

I released a tense breath. Nothing to worry about. No suicide bombers. Just another performance of bizarre street theater, courtesy of New York City.

I saw Commander Will Matthews staring open-mouthed on the sidewalk beside me as I holstered my Glock. He took off his hat and rubbed at his stubbled head.

“You wouldn’t have a cigarette on you by any chance?” he said.

I shook my head. “Don’t smoke,” I said.

“Neither do I,” Will Matthews said, stepping away. “I thought I’d start.”

THE FBI ARRIVED in style about ten minutes later.

Four black-on-black Chevy Suburbans were let through the 49th Street barricade, and a fully armed tactical team poured out of the vehicles. Tall and gracefully quick, the black-uniformed commandos resembled a team of professional athletes. I wondered if they were part of the FBI’s famed Hostage Rescue Team. The current situation certainly called for it.

A middle-aged man with hair the color of his charcoal suit came up and shook my hand.

“Mike Bennett?” he said amicably. “Paul Martelli. Crisis Negotiation Unit. The special agent in charge sent us up from Twenty-six Fed to give you guys a hand if we can.”

The FBI’s CNU was at the cutting edge in hostage negotiation. Martelli, its head, was famous in negotiation circles. A book he’d written was pretty much the bible on the subject.

I usually bristle at the presence of Feds, but I had to admit, I was relieved that Martelli was here. I’d done some stand-offs in my three years in Hostage Negotiation, but nothing like this. Especially right now, given the sad state of my own emotions over Maeve and the kids. This situation was obviously off the chart in terms of importance and profile. Hell, I’d take all the help I could get.

“I see you guys got the communication and press angles taken care of,” Martelli said, looking around casually at the command center and the barricades. “Mike, who’s the primary negotiator?”

Even talking about trivial stuff, Martelli exuded tranquil confidence that was contagious. I could see why he was at the top of the game.

“Me for now,” I said. “They have me holding the fort until our top guy gets here. Then I switch to secondary. ESU lieutenant Steve Reno has the tactical lead. Commander Will Matthews, our team commander, has the final word.”

All crisis incidents required a strict chain of command. The negotiator can’t make decisions. He has to ask higher authorities before acting on hostage-taker’s demands. This buys time as well as engenders a bond between the hostage-taker and the negotiator. Also, there has to be someone there to make the final decision-to keep negotiating or to go tactical. Negotiators tended to want to keep talking. Tactical guys, to start shooting.

“Most important thing now, ” Martelli said with a half smile, “is to show patience. We have to burn some time. Time for us to set up. Let SWAT gather tactical intelligence. And time for whoever’s inside to cool off. Time dissipates pressure.”

I think I read that in a book, actually-Paul Martelli’s book.