State Of Siege (1999)

by Tom - Op Center 06 Clancy

  Secretary-General Chatterjee stopped when she heard the muffled gunshot. It was followed by shrill cries, and then a few moments later there was a second gunshot, closer to the corridor than the first. Almost immediately after that, the door of the Security Council chamber opened. Ambassador Contini was thrown out, and the door was quickly shut.

  Colonel Mott ran over to the body at once, his footsteps breaking the utter stillness of the corridor. He was followed by the emergency medical crew. The delegate's well-dressed body was lying on its side, Contini's dark face toward them. His expression was relaxed, his eyes shut, his lips slightly parted. The man didn't look dead, not the way Ambassador Johanson had. Then the blood started to pool beneath his soft cheek.

  Mott squatted beside the body. He looked behind the head. There was a single wound, just like before.

  As the medical team placed the body on a stretcher, Chatterjee walked toward the doors of the Security Council chamber. She looked away from the body as she passed. Mott rose and intercepted her.

  "Ma'am, there's nothing you can gain by going in there now," he said. "At least wait until we have the video."

  "Wait!" Chatterjee said. "I've already waited too long!"

  Just then, one of the security force personnel came from the Economic and Social Council chamber. Lieutenant David Mailman was assigned to a makeshift, two-person reconnaissance team. He and his partner had pulled a fifteen-year-old Remote Infinity Eavesdropping Device out of storage. Designed to work over a telephone line, they rigged it to pick up voices through the headphones of the translating units at each seat in the Security Council chamber. Since the range was only twenty-five feet, they had to work from the adjoining room. They were situated in the small corridor that led to the second-floor media center and was common to both the Trusteeship Council and Security Council chambers.

  "Sir," Lieutenant Mailman said to the colonel, "we think someone just tried to get out of the Security Council. We saw the doorknob twist and heard that latch jiggle right before the first shot."

  "Was it a warning shot?" Mott asked.

  "We don't believe so," Mailman replied. "Whoever was back there moaned after the report." The lieutenant looked down. "It--it didn't sound like a man, sir. It was a very soft voice."

  "One of the children," Chatterjee said with horror.

  "We don't know that," Mott said. "Is there anything else, lieutenant?"

  "No, sir," Mailman said.

  The officer left. The colonel balled his fists, then looked at his watch. He was waiting for word about the video surveillance. Secure phones had been requested from the U.S. State Department Diplomatic Security forces; until they arrived, all communications had to be done person-to-person. Chatterjee had never seen a man look so helpless.

  The secretary-general was still facing the door. Ambassador Contini's death hadn't hit her like the first one did, and that disturbed her. Or maybe her reaction had been blunted by the news Lieutenant Mailman brought.

  A child may have been shot--

  Chatterjee started toward the door.

  Mott gently grabbed her arm. "Please don't do this. Not yet."

  The secretary-general stopped.

  "I know that there's nothing I can do from the outside," she said. "If it becomes necessary to take action, you won't need me here. But inside, I may be able to make a difference."

  The colonel looked at the secretary-general for a long moment, then released her arm.

  "You see?" she said with a soft smile. "Diplomacy. I didn't have to pull my arm away."

  Mott seemed unconvinced as he watched her go.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  New York, New York Saturday, 11:31 P.M.

  Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers sat in the backseat of the sedan while Mohalley sat up front with his driver. Manhattan seemed like a very different place as Hood returned to it.

  The Secretariat Building stood out more than it had when he and his family first arrived--was it only a day before? The building was lit by spotlights that had been placed on the rooftops of adjoining skyscrapers. But the offices themselves were dark, making the structure seem cadaverous. The UN no longer reminded him of the proud and hale "bat symbol." It wasn't the living chest of the city but seemed like a thing already dead.

  When they left the airport shortly after eleven P.M., Deputy Chief Mohalley called his office to find out if there were any new developments. His assistant informed him that as far as they knew, nothing had happened since the first execution. Meanwhile, Hood had brought Rodgers up to date. Characteristically, Rodgers listened and said nothing. The general didn't like to reveal what he was thinking in public. To Rodgers, being with people who weren't part of his trusted circle was "in public."

  Both men were silent as they crossed through the tunnel back into Manhattan. When they were through, Mohalley turned to them for the first time.

  "Where will I be dropping you off, Mr. Hood, General Rodgers?" Mohalley asked.

  "We'll get out where you do," Hood said.

  "I'm getting off at the State Department."

  "That'll be fine," Hood said. He said nothing more. He still intended to go to the CIA shell at the United Nations Plaza, though he didn't want Mohalley to know that.

  Once again, Mohalley didn't seem happy with that answer, but he didn't press it.

  The car emerged from the tunnel on Thirty-seventh Street. As the driver made his way up First Avenue, Mohalley looked at Mike Rodgers.

  "I want you to know I hate what happened back there," the State Department officer said.

  Rodgers nodded once.

  "I've heard about Striker," Mohalley said. "They've got quite a rep. As far as I'm concerned, we couldn't do much better than to send your people in and get this thing over with."

  "It's sick," Hood said. "Everyone probably feels that way, but no one will authorize it."

  "This whole thing is a mess," Mohalley said as his car phone beeped. "Hundreds of heads and no brain. It's almost breathtaking, in a tragic sort of way."

  Mohalley answered the phone as the car stopped at the Forty-second Street barricade. A pair of police officers in riot gear walked over. While the driver showed them his State Department ID, Mohalley listened in silence.

  Hood watched the man's face under the glow of a streetlight. Curiosity gnawed at him. He looked over at the United Nations complex. From this angle, looking up, the Secretariat Building seemed large and imposing against the black sky. His baby seemed so small and vulnerable as he thought about her inside that blue white monstrosity.

  Mohalley hung up. He looked back.

  "What is it?" Hood asked.

  "Another delegate was shot," Mohalley told him. "And possibly," he said, "possibly one of the children."

  Hood stared at him. It took an instant for "one of the children" to translate as possibly Harleigh. When it did, life seemed to lose all forward momentum. Hood knew that he would never forget Mohalley's somber expression at that moment, the brilliant white glare on the windshield, and the looming Secretariat behind it. It was now and forever the picture of lost hope.

  "There was a gunshot prior to the one that killed the delegate," Mohalley went on. "One of the UN security people in the adjoining chamber heard someone trying to get out the side door there. There was a cry or a groan after that."

  "Is there any more information?" Rodgers asked as the police let the car through.

  "There's been no communication from the Security Council," Mohalley said, "but the secretary-general is going to try to get inside."

  The sedan pulled up to the curb. "Mike," Hood said. "I've got to go to Sharon."

  "I know," Rodgers said. He cracked the door and stepped out.

  "General, would you like to come with me?" Mohalley asked.

  Rodgers stepped aside as Hood climbed out. "No," he said, "but thanks."

  Mohalley handed Hood his business card. "Let me know if you need anything."

  "Thanks," Hood said. "I will."

  Mohalley once
again looked like he wanted to ask something but didn't. Rodgers shut the door. The car pulled from the curb and Rodgers stood facing Hood.

  Hood heard the distant sounds of traffic and the hum of the helicopters hovering over the river and the UN. He heard the shouts of police and the clump of sandbags being dropped behind wooden barricades along Forty-second and Forty-seventh Streets. Yet he didn't feel like he was there. He was still in the car, still staring at Mohalley.

  Still hearing him say, "And possibly one of the children."

  "Paul," Rodgers said.

  Hood was staring at the buildings as they shrank into the darkness of upper First Avenue. He had to force himself to breathe.

  "Don't go away on me," Rodgers said. "I'm going to need you later, and Sharon needs you now."

  Hood nodded. Rodgers was right. But he couldn't seem to get out of that damn car, away from Mohalley's sad face and the horror of that moment.

  "I'm going across the street," Rodgers went on. "Brett is going to meet me at the shell."

  That got Hood's attention. His eyes shifted to Rodgers. "Brett?"

  "We saw the MPs when we were taxiing to the terminal," Rodgers said. "We had a pretty good idea why they were there. Brett told me he'd get out somehow and meet me here." The general found a little smile. "You know Brett. No one tells him to run."

  Hood came back a little. Whoever the possible victim was, there were still lives at risk. He looked over at the State Department tower. "I've got to go."

  "I know," Rodgers said. "Take care of her."

  "You have my cell phone number--"

  "I do," Rodgers said. "When we find something out or have any ideas, I'll call."

  Hood thanked him and started toward the redbrick building.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  New York, New York Saturday, 11:32 P.M.

  Georgiev was carrying the panicked girl back to her seat when Barbara Mathis went down. Downer, who had fired the shot, was running from the top of the gallery. Barone was also running over. It was he who had shouted for Barbara to stop.

  Heedless of her own safety, one of the Asian delegates' wives had gotten up from the table and was walking over to Barbara. She was smart. She didn't run. She also stopped with her back to the door; she didn't intend to run. The Bulgarian didn't order the woman back. She set her purse down, knelt beside the girl, and carefully plucked the blood-soaked gown from around the wound. The bullet had struck the teenage girl in the left side. Blood was oozing from the small opening. The girl wasn't moving. The flesh of her slender arms was pale.

  Georgiev continued toward the circular table. He wondered if that whole thing had been planned: One girl runs screaming to get everyone's attention while another girl runs in the opposite direction and tries to get out. If so, it was a clever, dangerous maneuver. Georgiev admired courage. But just like some of the girls who used to work for him in Cambodia--some of whom were no older than this girl--she had acted disobediently. And she had been punished.

  Unfortunately, the lesson was probably lost on the other hostages. They were already getting surprisingly bold. Some were pushed by fear, others by outrage over what had happened to the girl and the delegates. A mob mentality, even among hostages, had a way of shutting down reason. If they turned on him, he'd have to shoot them. Shooting them would rob him of his leverage, and the sound of gunfire and cries would embolden security forces to move in.

  Of course, he would shoot them if he had to. All he really needed to get out of this were the children. Even one child would do, if it came to that.

  Suddenly, two other delegates stood up. That was the problem with giving one person some extra leash. Everyone assumed they had it, too. Georgiev dropped the stunned Laura into her seat, where she sat sobbing. He ordered the other delegates to sit down. He didn't want too many people on their feet or someone else might be tempted to run.

  "But that girl is hurt!" one of the delegates said. "She needs help."

  Georgiev raised his gun. "I haven't selected the next one to die. Don't make my choice easy."

  The men sat down. The one who'd spoken looked like he wanted to say something else; his wife urged him to be silent. The other one looked sadly toward Barbara.

  To their right, Contini's wife was sobbing hysterically. One of the other wives was hugging her tight to keep her from wailing.

  Vandal brought the music teacher back and ordered her to sit as well. Ms. Dorn said that she was responsible for Barbara and insisted that she be allowed to take care of her. Vandal pushed her back down. She started to get back up. Angrily, Georgiev swung toward the woman. He pointed his gun at her head and walked forward. Vandal backed away.

  "One more word from you or anyone else and they will die," he said through his teeth. "One more word."

  Georgiev watched as the woman's nose flared and eyes widened, just like the whores in Cambodia. But she was silent. Reluctantly, she sat down and turned her attention to the girl who'd tried to run.

  Vandal lingered a moment longer and then returned to his post. Downer reached Georgiev's side at the same time as Barone. Barone got very close to the Australian.

  "Are you insane?" Barone snarled.

  "I had to do it!" he snapped.

  "Had to?" he said, careful to keep his voice low. "We were going to try not to hurt the children."

  "The mission would have been in jeopardy if she'd gotten away," Downer said.

  "You heard me yelling, saw me running toward her," Barone said. "I would have gotten to her before she reached the outer door."

  "Maybe yes, maybe no," Georgiev said. "The important thing is, she didn't get away. Now, go back to your posts, both of you. We'll care for her here as best we can," Georgiev said.

  Barone glared at him. "She's a young girl."

  Georgiev glared back. "No one told her to run!"

  Barone was furiously silent.

  "Now we have a door unprotected, and you should be watching for the fiber-optic cable," Georgiev said, quietly. "Or would you rather see our planning and effort lost because of that!" He pointed toward Barbara.

  Downer grunted and returned to the top of the gallery. Barone huffed, shook his head in frustration, then went back to the front of the gallery.

  Georgiev watched them go. Whether he liked it or not, this had changed things. Crime is a mood-intensifying effort. Close quarters heightens emotions, and an unexpected drama makes things even worse.

  "You have to let me send her out of here."

  Georgiev turned. The Asian woman was standing beside him. He hadn't even heard her approach.

  "No," he said. He was distracted. He had to refocus, get his men back. Push the United Nations harder. And he thought he knew how.

  "But she's going to bleed to death," the woman said.

  Georgiev walked toward one of the duffel bags. He didn't want the girl to die because it might incite a rebellion. He pulled a small blue case from inside and came back. He handed her the box.

  "Use this," Georgiev said.

  "A first aid kit?" the woman said. "That isn't going to help."

  "That's all I can give you."

  "But there may be internal bleeding, organ damage--" the woman said.

  Downer waved and caught Georgiev's eye. The Australian was pointing toward the door.

  "You'll have to make do," the Bulgarian said to the woman and motioned Vandal over. When the Frenchman arrived, Georgiev told him to make sure the Asian woman didn't try to get out. Then Georgiev walked toward the stairs.

  He stepped up to Downer. "What is it?"

  "She's here," the Australian whispered thickly. "The secretary-general. She knocked on the bloody door and asked to come in."

  "Is that all she said?" Georgiev asked.

  "That's all," Downer told him.

  Georgiev looked past the Australian. Focus, he told himself. Things had changed. He had to think this through. If he let Chatterjee in, her efforts would become focused on getting the girl medical attention, not on getting them the
money. And if he did let the girl out, the press would find out that a child had been hurt, possibly killed. There would be increased pressure for military action, despite the risks for the hostages. There was also the chance that the girl might became conscious in the hospital. If she did, she could describe the distribution of the men and hostages to security personnel.

  Of course, Georgiev could let the secretary-general in and refuse to let the girl out. What would Chatterjee do, risk the lives of the other children by refusing to cooperate?

  She might, Georgiev thought. And just having her challenge his authority in here might embolden the captives or else weaken his influence among his own people.

  Georgiev looked back at the hostages. He had told the UN how to contact him and what to say when they did. His instincts told him to go downstairs, get another one, and have him make the same speech the last delegate had made. Why should he change his plan, let them think he lacked resolve?

  Because situations like these are fluid, he told himself.

  Then it came to him, suddenly, like his best ideas always did. A way to give Chatterjee what she wanted without compromising his demands. He would see her. Only not in the way she expected.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Washington, D.C. Saturday, 11:33 P.M.

  Most of the time, Bob Herbert was an easygoing man.

  Over a decade and a half before, his injuries and the loss of his wife had tossed him into a depression that lasted for nearly a year. But physical therapy helped him to overcome self-pity, and getting back to work at the CIA bolstered the sense of self-worth that had been destroyed in the Beirut embassy explosion. Since helping to organize and launch Op-Center nearly three years before, Herbert had enjoyed some of the greatest challenges and rewards of his career. His wife would have found it very amusing that the chronic grouch she had married, the man whose spirits she'd always tried to raise, was known around the National Crisis Mangement Center as Mr. Upbeat.

  Sitting alone in his dark office, which was lit only by the glow of the computer monitor, Herbert was neither easygoing nor upbeat. He wasn't only troubled by the fact that Paul Hood's daughter was one of the United Nations hostages. It wasn't only the knowledge that situations like this invariably ended in bloodshed. Sometimes it happened quickly, if the host nation or entity ousted the intruders before they could become entrenched. Sometimes it happened slowly, evolving from a standoff to a siege, which turned into an assault as soon as a plan could be formulated. On those rare occasions when a negotiated settlement could be reached, it was usually because the terrorists had only taken hostages to get attention for a cause. When they wanted money or the release of prisoners--which was most of the time--that was when things got messy.