Rodgers parked and jogged as quickly as his tight bandages would allow. He passed through the keypad entry on the ground floor of Op-Center. After greeting the armed guards seated behind the bulletproof Lexan, Rodgers hurried through the first-floor administrative level. The real activity of Op-Center took place in the secure, below-ground facility.
Emerging in the heart of Op-Center, known as the bullpen, Rodgers moved quickly through the checkerboard of cubicles to the executive wing. The offices were arrayed in a semicircle on the north side of the facility. He bypassed his own office and went directly to the conference room, which attorney Lowell Coffey III had dubbed "the Tank."
The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with sound-absorbing strips of mottled gray and black Acoustix; behind the strips were several layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and more Acoustix. In the midst of the concrete, on all six sides of the room, was a pair of wire grids that generated vacillating audio waves. Electronically, nothing could enter or leave the room. In order to receive calls from his cell phone, Rodgers had to stop and program the phone to forward calls to his office and then to here.
Bob Herbert was already there, along with Coffey, Ann Farris, Liz Gordon, and Matt Stoll. All had been off duty but came in so that the weekend night crew could continue to attend to regular Op-Center business. The concern everyone felt was palpable.
"Thanks for coming," Rodgers said as he swung into the room. He shut the door behind him and took his seat at the head of the oblong mahogany table. There were computer stations at either end of the table and telephones at each of the twelve chairs.
"Mike, you spoke with Paul?" Ann asked.
"Yes."
"How is he?" she asked.
"Paul and Sharon are both worried," Rodgers said curtly.
The general kept his conversations with Ann as short as possible with as little eye contact as possible. He didn't care for the press, and he didn't like spinning it. His idea of press relations was to tell the truth or to say nothing. But above all, he didn't approve of Ann's fascination with Paul Hood. It was partly a moral issue--Hood was married--and partly a practical one. They all had to work together. Sexual chemistry was unavoidable, but "Dr." Farris never took off her lab coat when she was around Hood.
If Ann noticed, she didn't react.
"I told Paul we'd let him know when we have something," Rodgers said. "But I don't want to call unless it's absolutely necessary. If Paul doesn't get evacuated, he may try to get closer to the situation. I don't want the phone beeping while he's got his ear to a closed door."
"Besides which," Stoll said, "that line's not exactly secure."
Rodgers nodded. He looked over at Herbert. "I phoned Colonel August on the way over. He's got Striker on yellow alert and is checking the DOD database for everything they've got on the United Nations complex."
"The CIA did a pretty thorough job of mapping the place while it was going up," Herbert said. "I'm sure there'll be a lot on file."
Well-dressed attorney Lowell Coffey III was seated to Rodgers's left. "You understand, Mike, that the United States has absolutely no jurisdiction anywhere on the grounds of the United Nations," he pointed out. "Not even the NYPD can go in there without being asked."
"I understand," Rodgers said.
"Do you care?" Liz Gordon asked.
Rodgers looked at the husky staff psychologist who was seated next to Coffey. "Only about Harleigh Hood and the other kids in the Security Council chamber," he replied.
Liz looked like she wanted to say something. She didn't. She didn't have to. Rodgers could see the disapproval in her expression. When he came back from the Middle East, she'd talked to him about not taking out his anger and despair on other targets. He didn't think he was. These people, whoever they were, had earned his anger on their own.
Rodgers turned to Herbert, who was sitting to his right. "Is there any intel on whoever did this?"
Herbert sat forward in his wheelchair. "Nothing," said the balding intelligence chief. "The perps came in with a van. We got the license number off the TV and chased it down to the rental car agency. The guy it was rented to, Ilya Gaft, is a fake."
"He had to show a driver's license to the clerk," Rodgers said.
Herbert nodded. "And it checked out with the Department of Motor Vehicles until we asked for his file. There wasn't one. A counterfeit license is pretty easy to get."
Rodgers nodded.
"There was triple security on board for this soiree," Herbert said. "I had a look at the comparable figures from last year's bash. The problem is, they were all concentrated pretty much at the three drive-through checkpoints and in the square north of the United Nations. These perps apparently blew their way through the concrete barrier using a rocket launcher, then drove across the countyard and right into the damned building. Shot everyone they came up against before holing up inside the Security Council."
"And there's been no word from them?" Rodgers asked.
"Not a whisper," Herbert said. "I called Darrell over in Spain. He called someone at Interpol in Madrid who is close to people at UN security. They got in touch immediately. As soon as they hear anything about what's inside the van or the kind of weapons these guys used, we'll know."
"What about the UN? Have they said anything about this publicly?" Rodgers asked Ann.
"Nothing," she told him. "No spokesperson has come out."
"No statement to the press?"
Ann shook her head. "The UN Information Service is not a rapid-response force."
"The United Nations's not a rapid-response anything," Herbert said disgustedly. "The guy Darrell's friend at Interpol called--he's a personal aide to a Colonel Rick Mott, who's the head of United Nations security. The aide said that they hadn't even collected the spent shells from outside the Security Council chamber yet, let alone checked them for fingerprints or provenance. And that was about thirty-five minutes after this whole thing started. They were just getting themselves organized to look at tapes from the security cameras and then go into a meeting with the secretary-general."
"They're good at meetings," Rodgers said. "What about other tapes?" he asked Ann. "The news services must've gone after every tourist on the street, trying to get video of the attack."
"Good idea," she said. "I'll have Mary make some calls, though at that hour, there probably weren't very many tourists out."
Ann picked up the phone and asked her assistant to run a check of what the networks and cable news services might have collected.
"You know," Coffey said, "I'm pretty sure the police have surveillance cameras on some streets in New York. I'll call the city's district attorney and find out." The attorney reached inside his blue blazer and slipped out his digital pocket address book.
Rodgers was staring at the table. Both Ann and Coffey were on the phone. But not enough was happening. They needed to do more.
"Matt," Rodgers said, "the attackers had to have accessed the DMV computer at some point to put the fake license in."
"That's a pretty easy hack," Stoll said.
"Fine. But is there any way we can track the hack backward to whoever did it?" Rodgers asked.
"No," said the portly Stoll. "A trace like that is something you have to set up. You wait until they strike and then follow the signal back. Even then, a good hacker can run the signal through terminals in other cities. Hell, he can bounce it off a couple of satellites if he wants. Besides, for all we know, these people had someone on the inside."
"That's true," Herbert said.
Rodgers continued to stare. He needed a history, a pattern, anything they could use to start building a profile. And he needed it fast.
"They've held these parties every year for five years," Herbert said. "Maybe someone cased the thing last year. We should probably have a look at the guest list, see if anyone--"
Just then Rodgers's phone beeped. He grabbed it, wincing as he strained the bandages around his right side. "Rodgers here."
> "It's Paul," said the caller.
Rodgers motioned for everyone to be quiet, then punched the speaker button. "We're here," he said. "In the Tank."
"What are you hearing?"
"Nothing," Rodgers told him. "No statements, no demands. How are you doing?"
"The phone rang a minute ago," Hood said. "They're sending up an evac team. Before they do, I want to try and see what's going on."
Rodgers didn't like the idea of Paul moving around unannounced. Skittish security forces just arriving on the scene could mistake him for a terrorist. But Paul knew that. Paul also knew that if Striker were going to do anything to help get Harleigh and the other kids out, they needed intel.
"I'm at the door," he said. "I hear footsteps outside. Opening--"
There was a long silence. Rodgers looked at the faces of the other people in the room. Everyone was somber and staring down; Ann was flushed. She had to know everyone was thinking about how she was reacting to all this. Everyone but Rodgers. He was wishing that he were there with Hood, in the thick of this. How did the world turn upside down like this? The manager was in the field, and the soldier was at a desk.
"Hold on," Hood said quietly. "Something's happening."
There was another silence, this one short.
"Mike, there's someone coming out of the Security Council chamber," Hood said. "Oh, Christ," he said a moment later. "Christ."
TWELVE
New York, New York Saturday, 9:01 P.M.
Reynold Downer stood in one of the two Security Council chamber doorways that opened into the corridor. The double oak doors were in the far northern corner of the long, back wall of the council. Outside and just beyond the doors, a second wall jutted into the corridor perpendicular to the Security Council wall. Downer had opened only the far side door. The Australian was still wearing his ski mask.
In front of Downer was a slender, middle-aged man in a black suit. He was Swedish delegate Leif Johanson. There was a single sheet of legal-sized paper in his trembling hands. Downer was holding a handful of the man's blond hair and pulling backward slightly. His automatic was pressed to the base of the man's skull. The Australian turned the man so that he was facing away from the corner formed by the two walls.
Ahead of them were a dozen United Nations security guards. The men and women were wearing bulletproof vests and helmets with thick visors. Their guns were drawn. Several of the guards were shaking slightly. That wasn't surprising. Though the bodies of their dead comrades had been removed, their blood was still on the floor.
"Speak," Downer said into the captive's ear.
The man looked down at the legal-sized paper. He was trembling hard as he read from it.
"I've been ordered to inform you of the following," he said softly in a Swedish accent.
"Louder!" Downer hissed.
The man spoke up. "You have ninety minutes to deliver 250 million dollars U.S. to the Zurich Confederated Finance account VEB-9167681-EPB. The name on the account is false, and any attempts to access it will result in additional deaths. You will also deliver a helicopter with ten-person capacity, running and fully fueled, in the courtyard. We will be taking passengers with us to ensure your continued cooperation. You will notify us by radio on the regular United Nations security channel when both are there. No other communications will be acknowledged. If you fail, one hostage will be killed then and every hour thereafter starting with--with myself." The man stopped. He had to wait until the paper stopped shaking before continuing. "Any attempt to liberate the hostages will result in the release of poison gas which will kill everyone in the room."
Downer quickly pulled the man back toward the open door. He told him to drop the paper so the officials would have the bank number, then ordered him to shut the door as they stepped inside. When it closed, Downer released the man's hair. The Swede stood there unsteadily.
"I--I should have tried to run," the Swede muttered. He looked at the door. He was obviously weighing his chances of getting back outside.
"Hands on your head, and move," Downer growled.
The Swede looked at Downer. "Why? You're going to shoot me in an hour whether I cooperate or not!"
"Not if they deliver," Downer said.
"They can't!" he cried. "They won't simply turn over a quarter of a billion dollars!"
Downer raised the gun. "It would be a shame if they do, and I've already killed you," he said. "Or if I kill you and then have to shoot your companion ninety minutes from now."
His defiance faded quickly. Reluctantly, the Swede put his hands on top of his head. He started down the staircase, which ran along the southern side of the gallery.
Downer walked several paces behind the delegate. To the left were green-velvet seats grouped in two tiers of five rows each. Before the era of heightened security, these seats were used by the public to watch the activities of the Security Council. A waist-high wooden wall separated the bottom row of seats from the main floor. There was a single row of chairs in front of that wall. These seats were reserved for delegates who were not members of the Security Council. Beyond the viewing area was the main section of the Security Council chamber. This section was dominated by a large table shaped like a rounded horseshoe. Inside this table was a narrow, rectangular table facing east and west. When the Security Council was in session, the delegates sat at the outer table and the translators sat at the center table. Tonight, the children were sitting at the far side of the circular table and the guests of the delegates were seated at the circular table and at the rectangular one in the center. The delegates themselves were sitting on the floor inside the circular table. As the Swede rejoined the other delegates, his companion, a striking young woman, looked at him from where she was seated at the table. He nodded that he was all right.
Beyond the table, on either end of the chamber, two tall floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the members of the Security Council to look out on the East River. The glass was bulletproof, and the green drapes were drawn now. Between them was a large painting that depicted the phoenix soaring from the ashes, the world symbolically rising from the destruction of World War II. On either side of the room, one floor up, were the glass-enclosed media rooms, which had replaced the correspondents' room.
Barone and Vandal were standing in either corner of the chamber, by the windows. Sazanka was positioned by the north side door, and Georgiev was a floater, moving around and keeping an eye on the five additional doors on the main floor. Right now, he was standing in the opening of the horseshoe table. Like Downer, the men were all still wearing their ski masks.
As soon as the Swede was seated, Downer walked over to Georgiev.
"Who was out there?" Georgiev asked.
"They had about a dozen ladies in the corridor," Downer said.
The ladies were the general-purpose UN security guards, so-called because they usually stood around talking. The guards they had shot on the way in were all ladies.
"There were no special forces personnel," Downer said. "They can't even act decisively when their own bacon is burning."
"That is something they will learn to do this evening," Georgiev said.
Georgiev nodded toward the Swede. "He delivered the message exactly as I wrote it?"
Downer nodded.
The Bulgarian looked at his watch. "Then they have eighty-four minutes left before we start sending out bodies."
"You really think they'll comply?" Downer asked quietly.
"Not at first," Georgiev said. "I've said that all along." He glanced over at the tables. His voice was matter-of-fact as he said, "But they will. When the bodies pile up and we come closer and closer to the children, they will."
THIRTEEN
New York, New York Saturday, 9:33 P.M.
Paul Hood did a quick, schizophrenic two-step.
Hood hadn't breathed while he listened to the terrorists' demands. The crisis manager in him hadn't wanted to miss a word or inflection, anything that might tell him if they had any of that wiggl
e room Mike had spoken about. They did not. The demands were specific and time-sensitive. Now that the terrorists were finished addressing the guards, Hood couldn't breathe. The crisis manager had been replaced by the father, one who had just learned the improbable price of his daughter's freedom.
What was improbable was not the amount of the demand. Hood knew from his banking days that up to a billion dollars was liquid in banks and in the local federal reserve institutions in New York and Boston. Even the time frame was manageable if the United Nations and the federal government put their minds to it. But they wouldn't. In order to get cooperation from local banks and the federal reserve, the United States government would have to guarantee the loan. The federal government might do that if the secretary-general asked and agreed to cover the loan with UN assets. However, the secretary-general might be afraid to do so for fear of offending nations that already resented American influence over the United Nations. And even if the United States wanted to pay the money as a means of settling part of its outstanding debt, Congress would be required to okay the expenditure. Even an emergency session could not be organized in time. And, of course, once the money was transferred, the terrorists would execute electronic transfers, scattering it in different accounts throughout the system and into linked accounts in other banks or investment groups. There would be no way to mark the funds or to stop the transfer. And there would be no way to stop the terrorists. They'd asked for a ten-seat helicopter because they intended to take hostages with them. One hostage per person, excluding the pilot. That meant there were probably four or five terrorists.
All of this shot through Hood's mind in the time it took him to shut the door. He turned back into the room and managed to draw a low, shallow breath. The other parents had heard the demands and were still processing what had happened. Sharon was standing beside her husband. She was looking at him, tears trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly he was someone else: the husband. A husband who had to stay steady for his wife.
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