"Get him out of here," Colonel Mott said after what was probably just a second or two but seemed infinitely longer. "Are you all right?" he asked the secretary-general.
She nodded.
The emergency medical technicians came forward with a stretcher. They rolled the delegate's body on top of it. One of the medics placed a thick swatch of gauze against the gaping head wound. This was more for propriety than to help the delegate, who was beyond help.
Behind the guards, the representatives were still and silent. Chatterjee looked at them and they looked at her. Everyone was ashen. Diplomats dealt with horror every day, but they rarely got to experience it.
It was a long moment before Chatterjee remembered the radio in her hand. She quickly composed herself and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Why was that necessary?"
After a short silence, someone answered. "This is Sergio Contini."
Contini was the Italian delegate. His normally powerful voice was weak and breathy.
Colonel Mott turned toward Chatterjee. His jaw was tight, and there was anger in his dark eyes. He obviously knew what was coming.
"Go ahead, Signore Contini," Chatterjee said. Unlike Mott, she was holding on to hope.
"I have been asked to tell you that I will be the next victim," he said. The words came slowly, unsteadily. "I will be shot exactly one--" he stopped and cleared his throat "--exactly one hour from now. There will be no further communication."
"Please tell your captors that I wish to come inside," Chatterjee said. "Tell them I want to--"
"They've stopped listening," Mott informed her.
"Excuse me?" Chatterjee said.
The colonel pointed to the small red indicator light on top of the oblong unit. It was off.
Chatterjee lowered her arm slowly. The colonel was wrong. The terrorists never started listening. "How long until we have pictures from inside the chamber?" she asked.
"I'll send someone downstairs to find out," Mott said. "We're maintaining radio silence in case they're listening."
"I understand," Chatterjee said. She returned his radio to him.
Colonel Mott sent one of his security officers downstairs, then ordered two others to clean up the delegate's blood. If they had to move in, he didn't want anyone slipping on it.
As Mott spoke with his troops, several of the representatives tried to come forward. Mott ordered his guards to keep them back. He said that he didn't want anyone blocking the path to the Security Council chambers. If any of the hostages managed to get out, he wanted to be able to protect them.
While Mott kept the crowd orderly, Chatterjee turned her back on the group. She walked toward the picture window that overlooked the front courtyard. It was usually so active out there, even at night, with the fountain and the traffic, people jogging or walking their dogs, lights in the windows of the buildings across the street. Even helicopter traffic was being routed away from midtown--not just in case there was an explosion on the ground but in the event that the terrorists had accomplices. She imagined that barge and pleasure boat traffic was also being stopped along the East River.
The entire enclave was paralyzed. So was she.
Chatterjee took a tremulous breath. She told herself there was nothing they could have done to prevent the delegate's murder. They couldn't have put together the ransom, even if the nations had agreed to try. They couldn't have attacked the Security Council chamber without causing more death. They couldn't negotiate, though they tried.
And then suddenly it struck her: what she'd done wrong. One thing--one small but significant thing.
Walking over to the representatives, Chatterjee informed them that she was returning to the conference room to notify the delegate's family of the assassination. Then, she said, she was coming back.
"To do what?" demanded the delegate from the Republic of Fiji.
"To do what I should have done the first time," she replied, and then headed toward the elevator.
TWENTY-ONE
New York, New York Saturday, 10:39 P.M.
Reynold Downer went over to Georgiev after killing the Swedish delegate. Except for a few of the children who were crying and the Italian delegate who was praying, everyone in the room was silent and still. The other masked members of the group remained where they were.
Downer stood close enough so that Georgiev could feel the warmth of his breath through the mask. There were tiny spots of blood on the fibers.
"We need to talk," Downer said.
"About what?" Georgiev whispered angrily.
"About throwing more logs on the fire," Downer snarled.
"Go back to your post," Georgiev insisted.
"Listen to me. When I opened the door, I saw about twenty or twenty-five armed and shielded security guards in the corridor."
"Eunuchs," Georgiev said. "They won't risk an assault. We've talked about this. It will cost them everything."
"I know." Downer's eyes shifted to a secure phone sitting in a duffel bag on the floor. "But your intelligence source said that only France agreed to pay. We don't have the damned secretary-general as a hostage, the way we planned."
"That was unfortunate," Georgiev said, "but not catastrophic. We'll manage without an advocate."
"I don't see how," Downer said.
"By outwaiting them," Georgiev said. "When the United States starts to worry that the children are at risk, they will pay whatever the other nations do not. They'll charge it to their UN debt, find some face-saving way to give it to us. Now, go back and do what you're supposed to do."
"I don't agree with this," Downer insisted. "I think we need to turn up the heat."
"There's no need," Georgiev said. "We have time, food, and water--"
"That isn't what I mean!" Downer interrupted.
Georgiev fired him a look. The Australian was getting loud. This was exactly what he expected from Downer. A ritualistic, confrontational nay-saying, as predictable and extreme as a Japanese Kabuki. But it was going on a little too long and getting a little too loud. He was prepared to shoot Downer, to shoot any of his people if he had to. He hoped Downer could see that in his eyes.
Downer took a breath. He was calmer when he spoke. The message had been received.
"What I'm saying," Downer went on, "is these bastards don't seem to be getting the message that we want the money, that we're not going to talk. Chatterjaw tried to negotiate."
"We expected that, too," Georgiev said. "And we closed her down."
"For now," Downer grumbled. "She'll try again. Talk is all these bloody idiots ever do."
"And it never succeeds," Georgiev said. "We have contingencies for everything," the Bulgarian reminded him quietly. "They will comply."
The Australian was still holding the gun he'd used to kill the Swedish delegate. He shook it as he spoke. "I still think we ought to find out what they're planning and push the bastards," Downer said. "I say that after we put down the Italian delegate, we start serving up the kiddies. Maybe torture them first, let a few screams drift through the corridors. Like those Khmer Rouge guerrillas in Cambodia who caught the family dog and cut it up slowly to draw out the family. Put pressure on them to hurry things along."
"We knew that it would take several bullets to get their attention," Georgiev whispered back. "We knew that even if there is a willingness to sacrifice delegates, the United States won't allow the children to die. Not through an attack and not through inactivity. Now, for the last time, return to your post. We will follow our plan."
Downer left with a huff and an oath, and Georgiev turned his attention back to the hostages. The Bulgarian had also expected this. Reynold Downer was not a patient man. But resolve could be tested and teamwork strengthened by conflict and tension.
Except in the United Nations, Georgiev thought ironically. And the reason for that was simple. The United Nations promoted peace instead of gain. Peace instead of testing oneself. Peace instead of life.
Georgiev would fight it until he succumbed to the pea
ce there was no avoiding, the peace that eventually came to every man.
TWENTY-TWO
New York, New York Saturday, 11:08 P.M.
The large C-130 was parked and idling on the airstrip outside the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport. Originally called the Overseas Terminal when it opened in 1939, the Marine Air Terminal was the airport's main terminal building at the time. Constructed adjacent to blustery Jamaica Bay, the terminal was designed to accomodate passengers of "flying boats," the preferred mode of international air travel in the 1930s and 1940s.
Today, the Art Deco Marine Air Terminal is dwarfed by the Central Terminal Building and the buildings operated by individual airlines. In its heyday, however, the Marine Air Terminal had witnessed history. Though black, the so-called "silver tarmac" had welcomed politicians and world leaders, movie stars and celebrated artists, renowned inventors and world-famous explorers. Typically, the flashing bulbs of the press had been on hand to welcome them to New York. Limousines had been waiting to take them to the city.
Tonight, the Marine Air Terminal witnessed history of a different sort. Eleven Strikers and General Mike Rodgers stood on the dark landing strip surrounded by a dozen military police. Paul Hood was taut with rage when he saw them, literally digging his fingers into the seat cushion.
En route, Deputy Chief Mohalley had told Hood that the MPs had choppered in from Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, where they were attached to the Air Mobility Command.
"According to the information I was given," Mohalley had explained, "the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee refused to give your Strikers permission to become involved in the crisis. Apparently, the CIOC chairman was concerned about Striker's reputation for rule-bending, so he contacted the White House and spoke directly with the president."
Obviously, Hood thought bitterly, no one had bothered to consider Striker's reputation for success.
"When the president tried to phone Mike Rodgers," Mohalley went on, "he was furious to learn that Striker was already airborne. The president's next call was to Colonel Kenneth Morningside, Fort Monmouth post commander. I'm not surprised they're taking such a hard line," Mohalley added. "About fifteen minutes after the terrorists went into the United Nations, the State Department issued a general order that no units of the security police were to set foot in the United Nations complex. I understand the NYPD got a similar order. Any incursion had to be requested by the secretary-general in writing, and the parameters approved by the unit's commanding officer."
Hearing this, Hood was more afraid for Harleigh and the other children than he was before. If Striker wasn't allowed to save them, who could? But Hood's feelings of despair shaded to rage when he saw Mike Rodgers, Brett August, and the rest of the Strikers being detained. These men and women, these combat heroes, didn't deserve to be treated like thugs.
Hood got out of the car and jogged toward the group. Mohalley hurried after him. A stiff, salty wind blew in from the bay and Mohalley had to hold his cap to keep it from blowing off. Hood didn't feel it. The anger roiled inside, burning more intensely than his fear and frustration. His muscles were cable-taut and his mind was on fire. Yet his fury was not just directed at this outrage and at the continuing ineffectiveness of the UN. Like oil feeding deep-smoldering fires, his anger spilled everywhere. He actually found himself mad at Op-Center for having intruded so much on his life, at Sharon for not being more supportive, and at himself for having managed it all so badly.
Lieutenant Solo, the military police brigade commander, walked forward to meet them. The lieutenant was a short, beefy, balding man in his late thirties. He had unyielding eyes and a no-nonsense face.
Mohalley caught up to Hood and introduced himself to the colonel. Then he went to introduce Hood. But Hood had already walked past the officers toward the ring of MPs. Frowning, the colonel turned and strode after him. Mohalley followed the colonel.
Hood stopped just short of shouldering his way through the MPs--but it was a very short stop. Enough common sense remained to remind Hood that if he fought these people, he was going to lose.
The lieutenant eased in front of Hood. "Excuse me, sir--" he said.
Hood ignored him. "Mike, are you all right?"
"Been in worse spots," he said.
That was true, Hood had to admit. Perspective joined common sense and Hood relaxed slightly.
"Mr. Hood," the lieutenant said insistently.
Hood looked at him. "Lieutenant Solo, these servicemen report to me. What are your orders?"
"We've been instructed to make certain that all Striker personnel are put back on board the C-130 and to remain at our post until the aircraft returns to Andrews," Solo informed him.
"Fine," Hood said with open disgust. "Let Washington bench the only hope the UN's got--"
"This was not my decision, sir," Solo said.
"I know, Lieutenant," Hood said, "and I'm not angry at you." He wasn't. He was angry at everyone. "But I do have a situation that requires the presence of my second-in-command, General Rodgers. The general is not a member of the Striker unit."
Lieutenant Solo looked from Hood to Rodgers, then back to Hood. "If that's true, then my instructions do not pertain to the general."
Rodgers stepped away from the Strikers and moved through the tight circle of MPs.
Mohalley scowled. "Hold on," he said. "The general order I was given does pertain to all security and military personnel, including General Rodgers. Mr. Hood, I'd like to know what the situation is that requires the general's presence."
"It's personal," Hood replied.
"If it pertains to the situation at the United Nations--"
"It does," Hood said. "My daughter is being held hostage there. Mike Rodgers is her godfather."
Mohalley regarded Rodgers. "Her godfather."
"That's right," Rodgers said.
Hood said nothing. It didn't matter whether the DOS security officer believed him. All that mattered was that Rodgers be allowed to go with him.
Mohalley looked at Hood. "Only immediate family are allowed to go into the waiting room with you."
"Then I will not go to the waiting room," Hood said through his teeth. He'd had enough of this. He had never hit a man, but if this functionary didn't step aside, Hood was going to push him aside.
Rodgers was standing directly beside the shorter State Department officer. The general was watching Hood. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind. It seemed much louder now in the silence.
"All right, Mr. Hood," Mohalley said. "I'm not going to hold your feet to the fire on this one."
Hood exhaled.
Mohalley looked at Rodgers. "Would you like a ride, sir?"
"I would, thank you," Rodgers said.
Rodgers was still looking at Hood. And Hood suddenly felt like he did when they used to sit in his office at Op-Center. He felt reconnected, tapped into a network of devoted friends and coworkers.
God help him. In the midst of everything, he felt whole again.
Before leaving, Rodgers turned to the Strikers. They came to attention. Colonel August saluted him. Rodgers saluted back. Then, on August's command, the Strikers returned to the C-130. The circle of MPs parted to let them through. The police remained on the landing strip as Hood, Rodgers, and Mohalley returned to the car.
Paul Hood didn't have a plan. He didn't imagine that Mike Rodgers had one, either. Whatever Rodgers might have been thinking of doing would have involved Striker. But as the State Department sedan turned from the Marine Air Terminal and the towering C-130, Hood was slightly less anguished than he had been before. It wasn't entirely Rodgers's presence that comforted him. It was also a reminder of something he'd learned from running Op-Center: that plans made in moments of calm rarely worked in a crisis anyway.
There were only two of them, but they were backed by the strongest team in the world, and they'd think of something.
They had to.
TWENTY-THREE
New York, New York Saturd
ay, 11:11 P.M.
"I absolutely can't allow you to do this!" Colonel Mott was practically shouting at Secretary-General Chatterjee. "It's insanity. No, it's worse than insanity. It's suicide!"
The two were standing by the head of the table in the conference room. Deputy Secretary-General Takahara and Undersecretary-General Javier Olivo were standing several feet away beside the closed door. Chatterjee had just hung up with Gertrud Johanson, the wife of the Swedish delegate, who was at home in Stockholm. Her husband had attended the party with his young executive assistant, Liv, who was still in the Security Council chamber. Mrs. Johanson would be flying over as soon as possible.
It was both sad and ironic, Chatterjee thought, that so many political wives ended up with their husbands only after the men were dead. She wondered if she would be doing this if she were married.
Probably, she decided.
"Ma'am?" the Colonel said. "Please tell me you'll reconsider."
She couldn't. She believed that she was right. And believing that, she could do nothing else. That was her dharma, the sacred duty that came with the life she had chosen.
"I appreciate your fears," Secretary-General Chatterjee said, "but I believe that this is our best option."
"It is not," Mott said. "We should have video images of the Security Council in a few minutes. Give me a half hour to have a look at them, and then I'll take my team in."
"In the meantime," the secretary-general pointed out, "Ambassador Contini will die."
"The ambassador will die anyway," Mott said.
State Of Siege (1999) Page 14