What bothered him most were two things. First, the United Nations was the target. It had never been attacked in this way, and it did not have a record of taking a hard line with hostile agencies under any circumstances. Second, he was concerned about the E-mail he'd just received from Darrell McCaskey about the United Nations party roster. What the hell kind of an organization were those international innocents running?
McCaskey was at the Interpol office in Madrid. The former FBI agent had recently helped his friend Luis Garcia de la Vega break up the coup attempt and had stayed on to spend some time with his injured associate Maria Corneja. Security camera images of the United Nations assault had been sent to Interpol to see if any attacks in their files matched the modus operandi of this team. Interpol had also been sent a list of delegates and guests who attended the Security Council reception. A half hour before, McCaskey had forwarded that information to Herbert in Washington. All of the attendees were legitimate representatives of their nations though that did not, of course, make them diplomats. For over fifty years, innumerable spies, smugglers, assassins, and drug runners had been slipped in and out of the United States under the guise of being diplomats.
However, the United Nations had set a new personal worst for not running checks on two of the party guests. When they came to the UN just two days ago, they had listed biographical data that could not be corroborated in the files of any of the schools or businesses they cited. Either there hadn't been time for their government to hack those files and insert the data, or the two didn't expect to be in New York long enough to be found out. The question Herbert needed to answer was, who were they?
McCaskey had obtained their ID photos from the deputy secretary-general of Administration and Head of Personnel at the United Nations. When they were E-mailed over, the Op-Center intelligence chief ran the photographs through a database comprised of images of more than twenty thousand international terrorists, foreign agents, and smugglers.
The two attendees were in that file.
Herbert read what little personal history was available on the pair--their real history, not the fake ones they'd given the United Nations. He didn't know anything about the people who had taken over the Security Council chamber, but he did know this: However bad those five terrorists were, these two could very well be worse.
Herbert had been informed by Striker that they were returning to Washington without General Rodgers or Colonel August. He didn't know where August could have gone, but he knew that Rodgers was with Hood. With no time to waste, Herbert called Hood on his cell phone.
THIRTY
New York, New York Saturday, 11:34 P.M.
Not once in its long history has Cambodia known peace.
Prior to the fifteenth century, Cambodia was an expansive military power. Under the martial rule of the mighty Khmer emperors, the nation had conquered the entire Mekong River Valley, governing the lands that comprise modern-day Laos, the Malay Peninsula, and part of Siam. However, armies arose in unconquered sections of Siam and in the state of Annam in central Vietnam. Over the centuries that followed, these forces slowly pushed the Khmer armies back until the monarchy itself was threatened. In 1863, the desperate king of Cambodia agreed to the formation of a French protectorate over the country. A slow and steady arms buildup reclaimed lost lands, though the gains were forefeited when the Japanese occupied Indochina during World War II. Self-government was restored after the war, with Prince Norodom Sihanouk leading the country. Sihanouk was ousted in 1970 in a U.S.-backed military coup led by General Lon Nol. Sihanouk formed an exile government in Beijing while the Communist Khmer Rouge fought a civil war that overthrew Lon Nol in 1975. Sihanouk was restored to power as part of a shaky coalition government in what was now known as Democratic Kampuchea. Sihanouk's prime minister was the rabidly anti-Communist Son Sann. Sann was a cold bastard. But Sihanouk and his government were soon replaced by the more moderate and ineffective Khieu Samphan, who had as his prime minster the ruthless and ambitious Pol Pot. Pol Pot was a Maoist who believed that education was a curse and that returning to the land could transform Cambodia into a utopia. Instead, under his cruel hand, Cambodia became synonymous with "the killing fields" as torture, genocide, forced labor, and famine took the lives of over two million people--one of every five Cambodians. Pol Pot's rule lasted until 1979, when Vietnam invaded the nation. The Vietnamese seized control of Phnom Penh and established a Communist government led by Heng Samrin. But Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge still controlled vast areas of what was now called the People's Republic of Kampuchea, and war continued to ravage the land. The Vietnamese withdrew in 1989 after sustained guerrilla warfare took a heavy toll on the occupation forces. Their withdrawal left new Prime Minister Hun Sen to struggle with groups that included the leftist Khmer Rouge, the rightist Khmer Bleu, the Sihanouk National Army loyal to the deposed prince, Lon Nol's Khmer National Armed Forces, the Khmer Loeu, which was comprised of ethnic hill tribes, and Khmer Viet Minh, who were supported by Hanoi, and nearly a dozen others.
In 1991, with the nation's economy and agriculture a shambles, the warring groups finally signed an accord that agreed to a cease-fire, widescale disarmament, and the presence of UN peacekeeping forces as well as UN-SUPERVISED elections. A new coalition with Hun Sen's party was formed, which reestablished the monarchy and placed Sihanouk on the throne as king. Feeling that they were being forced to give up too much power, the Khmer Rouge resumed fighting. The battle lost some of its momentum in 1998 with the death of Pol Pot. However, other senior Khmer Rouge officers and cadres remained in the field and vowed to continue the war.
As a result of so many political and military entities vying for power, secret government police and rebel agents vied ferociously for intelligence and weapons. Their needs gave rise to an unprecedented underground network of spies, killers, and smugglers. Some of these worked for what they believed was the good of their homeland. Others worked only for themselves.
For nearly ten years, thirty-two-year-old Ty Sokha Sary and her thirty-nine-year-old husband Hang Sary had been counterterrorist operatives for the Khmer People's National Liberation Armed Forces, the military component of the Khmer People's National Liberation Front. The KPNLF had been formed in March 1979 by former prime minister Son Sann. Initially, their goal was to oust the Vietnamese from Cambodia. When that had been accomplished, the KPNLF turned to cleansing all foreign influence from the nation. Even though Son Sann was named to the Supreme National Council, which governed the nation under Sihanouk, the leader privately opposed the involvement of the United Nations. Sann was especially opposed to the involvement of Chinese, Japanese, and French soldiers. He did not believe there could be such a thing as a benevolent occupying army. Even if the soldiers were engaged in peacekeeping, their very presence corrupted the nation's character and strength.
Ty and Hang agreed with Son Sann. And in coming to Cambodia, one foreign officer had done more than pollute their culture. He destroyed something very personal to Hang.
Ty Sokha knelt over the body of the wounded American girl. She couldn't be older than fourteen or fifteen. The Cambodian woman had seen so many girls like her, wounded or dying. And the dead. She had once helped Amnesty International locate a mass grave outside of Kampong Cham where over two hundred decomposed bodies were buried, most of them old women and very young children. Some of them had antigovernment slogans painted or sometimes carved on their bodies. Ty had also caused at least three dozen deaths by leading Hang to enemy officers or undercover operatives so that he could strangle them or slip a stiletto into their hearts while they slept. Sometimes Ty didn't bother to lead Hang there. Sometimes she did the work herself.
Like most military operatives who worked alone or in pairs, Ty had been trained in field medicine and was experienced in wound debridement. Unfortunately, the first aid kit she'd been given was inadequate for the task. There was no exit wound, which meant the bullet was still inside. If the girl moved, she could cause further damage. Ty used the ant
iseptic to clean the small, round hole as best she could. Then she covered it with gauze and strips of tape. She worked carefully, efficiently, but less dispassionately than usual. Though Ty had long ago become desensitized to terrorism and murder, this girl and the circumstances of the attack were too painfully familiar.
It was about Phum, of course, Hang's dear young sister.
As she worked, Ty thought back to the event that had brought them to such an unlikely place. A place so far from where they'd started.
Ty had grown up in a tiny farming hamlet midway between Phnom Penh and Kampot on the Gulf of Thailand. Her parents died in a flood when she was six years old, and she went to live with second cousin Hang Sary and his family. Ty and Hang adored one another, and it was always a given that they would marry. Eventually, they did, right before leaving on a mission together in 1990. They were alone save for a priest and his son, in a thunderstorm that had blown away the priest's hut. It was the happiest time of Ty's life.
Hang's father had been a very vocal supporter of Prince Sihanouk, contributing articles to the local newspaper about how the prince's free market policies had helped farmers. On a dark, muggy summer night in 1982, while Ty and Hang were in the city, soldiers of Pol Pot's National Army of Democratic Kampuchea came and carried Hang's father, mother, and young sister off. Hang found his parents two days later. His father was lying in a gully beside a dirt road. His arms had been tied behind his back, dislocating his shoulders. His feet and knees had been broken so he couldn't walk or crawl. Then his mouth had been packed with dirt and his throat had been punctured so that he would slowly bleed to death. His mother had been strangled before his helpless father. Hang did not find his younger sister.
Ty and Hang's world changed. Hang contacted Son Sann's KPNLF, which supported the prince. Hang told them he wanted to continue writing the kinds of articles his father wrote, but not just to promote Sihanouk. He wanted to draw the NADK killers out and repay them for what they did to his family. Before allowing Hang and Ty to use themselves as bait, the KPNLF's chief intelligence officer trained them in the use of weapons. Two months later, the small band of Khmer Rouge terrorists came to their hut. Hang and Ty had planned well and cut them down even before the KPNLF guard could summon help.
After that, the two were taught surveillance techniques. Along the way, they also learned the art of assassination. A CIA manual that had been found in Laos taught them how to use hat pins, rock-filled stockings, even stolen charge cards to stab eyes, break necks, and slice throats. They learned these skills to serve their country and also in the hope that one day they would find the monster who had ordered Phum's death.
The monster who had eluded them because he was under the protection of the Khmer Rouge.
The monster who they had lost track of when he left Cambodia, and who they had found again only recently.
The monster who was somewhere in this room.
A monster named Ivan Georgiev.
THIRTY-ONE
New York, New York Saturday, 11:35 P.M.
Hood felt lonely and scared as he rode the elevator to the seventh-floor lounge of the State Department. That was where the other parents were waiting. There was no one else in the elevator; just his own sorry reflection, distorted and tinted by the highly polished gold-colored walls.
If he weren't certain that security cameras were watching him and that he'd end up getting hauled away as a menace, Hood would have screamed and thrown uppercuts at the air. He was deeply worried about the rumors of a shooting, and he was miserable being on the sidelines.
The elevator door opened, and as Hood stepped toward the security desk, his cell phone beeped. He stopped walking and turned his back on the guard before answering.
"Yes?" he said.
"Paul, it's Bob. Is Mike with you?"
Hood knew Herbert's voice very well. The intelligence chief was talking fast, which meant that he was worried about something. "Mike went to see that local office manager you told him about. Why?"
Hood knew that Herbert would have to speak obliquely, since this was a potentially open line.
"Because there are two people in the target zone that he needs to know about," Herbert said.
"What kind of people?" Hood pressed.
"Heavy-duty rappers," Herbert replied.
People with rap sheets, a long history of no good. This was maddening. He had to know more.
"Their presence and the timing could be a coincidence," Herbert said, "but I don't want to risk it. I'll call Mike at the other office."
Hood walked back to the elevator and pushed the button. "I'll be there when you do," he said. "What's the name?"
"Doyle Shipping."
"Thanks," Hood said as the elevator arrived. He folded up the phone and stepped inside.
Sharon would never forgive him for this. Never. And he wouldn't blame her. She was not only alone among strangers, but he was certain the State Department wasn't telling the parents anything. But if the terrorists had associates on the inside that no one else knew about, he wanted to be on hand to help Rodgers and August think things through.
On the way down, Hood pulled his Op-Center ID from his wallet. He hurried through the lobby back to First Avenue and ran across the street and up four blocks. He flashed the ID to an NYPD guard who had been posted outside the United Nations Plaza towers. Though the towers were not part of the UN complex per se, a lot of delegates maintained offices here. He went inside.
Hood was breathless as he signed the security register and went to the first bank of elevators that led to the lower floors. He still wanted to scream and punch the air. But at least he was going to get involved in what was going on. At least he would have something to focus on other than fear. Not hope, but something almost as good.
An offensive.
THIRTY-TWO
New York, New York Saturday, 11:36 P.M.
It was him.
The flat voice, the cruel eyes, the arrogant carriage--it was him, damn his soul. Ty Sokha couldn't believe that after nearly ten years they had found Ivan Georgiev. Now that she'd heard his voice beneath the mask, been close enough to smell his sweat, she knew which of these monsters it was.
Several months before, an arms dealer named Ustinoviks, who provided the Khmer Rouge with weapons, had been asked to talk to Georgiev about a buy. An informant with the Khmer Rouge knew that Ty and Sary Hang were looking for him. The informant sold them the name of the arms dealer. Though they had missed the Bulgarian when he came to New York to talk to Ustinoviks the first time, they managed to get to Ustinoviks after Georgiev had gone. The offer they made the Russian was simple: Let them know when he was coming to pick up his weapons or they would turn Ustinoviks over to the American FBI.
The Russian had let them know when Georgiev was scheduled to pick up his purchase with the provision that they didn't take him at that time. They agreed. As it happened, they didn't want him then. They wanted him doing whatever it was he'd come here for, when the rest of the world could see, when they could draw attention to their own people, put an end to the countless murders in which they'd taken part as they tried to stop the Khmer Rouge and undermine the pathetically weak government of Norodom Sihanouk.
They'd watched Georgiev's team make their buy from the roof of the club next door to the shop owned by Ustinoviks. Ty couldn't really see him clearly then. Not as clearly as she had when she'd been at the UN camp, working as a cook, watching for Khmer Rouge infiltrators and seeing the degrading things for which Georgiev was responsible. But the government couldn't do anything without proof of what was going on, and anyone who tried to get that proof--or who tried to get away, like poor Phum had--died.
After Georgiev and his people made their arms purchase, Ty and Hang followed them back to their hotel. The adjoining rooms had been booked, so they took the room beneath theirs. They ran a wire through the ceiling fixture to the floor of his room, attached a sound amplifier, and listened as Georgiev and his allies reviewed their plans.
Ty Sokha turned her large, dark eyes from the stricken young girl lying beside her. The one who was barely older than Phum had been when she'd been murdered by one of Georgiev's thugs. Ty looked over at Sary Hang, who was sitting on the floor, inside the circular table. The Cambodian operative had shifted his position slightly so that he could see Ty without seeming to watch her.
She nodded. He nodded back.
When Georgiev came back down the stairs, it would be time.
THIRTY-THREE
New York, New York Saturday, 11:37 P.M.
Georgiev stopped when he reached the double doors at the back of the Security Council chamber. He was holding his automatic, though he didn't think he would need it. Reynold Downer was standing to the right of the doors. He had a weapon in either hand.
"Are you going to let her in?" Downer whispered.
"No," Georgiev said. "I'm going out there."
Georgiev could see that Downer was surprised, even through his mask. "In God's name why?"
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