by Tom Clancy
“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 wiggle 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.
The door opened, and Hood turned. A guard leaned into the room while another guard covered the corridor.
“Come with me!” the young man barked. “Quickly and quietly,” he added as he waved them on.
Hood stepped aside as the parents filed by. Sharon stepped with him. He took her hand in his left hand and just now remembered the phone in his right. He put it to his mouth.
“Mike?” he said. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here, Paul,” Rodgers said. “We heard.”
“We’re being moved,” Hood said. “I’ll call back.”
“We’ll be here,” Rodgers assured him.
Hood closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. As the last parent left the room, Hood gave his wife’s hand a gentle tug. She went along, and he followed her out.
The parents were hurried past the Security Council chamber, back toward the escalators. There were a few sobs and shouted pleas for their children’s return, but the guards kept the group moving.
Hood was still holding Sharon’s hand. She was squeezing his fingers tightly, probably without being aware of how hard she was gripping them.
As they filed onto the escalators, Hood could see more guards coming up with six-foot-high, transparent blast shields, audio equipment, and what looked like fiber-optic gear. They were obviously going to try to get a look at how the hostages were being held and also listen for snippets of conversation that might tell them who the terrorists were. But Hood knew that this wasn’t going to get their kids back. The United Nations didn’t have the tactical know-how or the personnel to do that. They were an organization of consensus, not action.
“Tell me you have a plan,” Sharon said softly as they rode the escalators down. She was weeping openly. So were several other parents.
“We’re going to think of something,” Hood replied.
“I need more than that,” Sharon said. “Harleigh’s my girl, and I’m leaving her alone and scared up there. I have to know I’m doing the right thing.”
“You are,” Hood said. “We’ll get her out of there, I promise.”
As soon as the group reached the main lobby, they were taken downstairs. A temporary command center was being set up in the lobby outside the gift shops and restaurant. That made sense. If the terrorists had accomplices, it would be difficult for them to monitor activities down here. The press would also have trouble getting down here, which was probably good. Given the international scope of what was happening, press coverage was inevitable. Since the UN would want to keep the number of people down here to a minimum, they would probably select a small pool of journalists.
The parents were taken to the public cafeteria, where they were seated at tables far from the lobby. They were offered sandwiches, bottled water, and coffee. One of the fathers lit a cigarette. He was not asked to put it out. Moments later, senior security personnel arrived to debrief the parents about things they might have seen or heard while they were in the press room. A psychologist and doctor also came down to help them get through the crisis.
Hood did not need their assistance.
Catching the eye of the security head, Hood said that he was going out to the rest room. Rising, he managed to smile for Sharon and then walked around the tables into the lobby. He went to the rest room, entered the rearmost stall, and got Mike Rodgers back on the phone. He stood there, leaning against the tile wall. His shirt was cold with perspiration.
“Mike?” he said.
“Here.”
“The UN people are moving in with AV gear,” Hood said. “We’ve been relocated downstairs for debriefing and psych support.”
“Classic response,” Rodgers said. “They’re setting up for a siege.”
“That isn’t going to be an option,” Hood said. “The terrorists don’t want to negotiate, they don’t want anyone freed from prison. They want money. Doesn’t the UN have a special response unit?”
“Yes,” Rodgers said. “The UNS-Ops is a nine-person division of the security force. Established in 1977, trained by the NYPD in SWAT tactics and hostage situations, and never field-tested.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Rodgers said. “Why would anyone go after the United Nations? They’re harmless. We’ve got Darrell on another line. He says that NYPD policy is to contain and negotiate, to keep things from exploding. And if things do blow, to keep them localized. It sounds like the security team’s setting up to do that where you are.”
Hood felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. This was his daughter’s death they were talking about “localizing”!
“Darrell’s also in touch with a contact in the secretary-general’s office,” Rodgers went on. “Chatterjee is getting together with representatives of the affected nations.”
“To do what?” Hood asked.
“At the moment, nothing. There doesn’t appear to be any inclination to accommodate the terrorists’s demands. They’re still trying to figure out who these people are. They have the paper with the Swede’s script, but it was obviously dictated and written by the delegate. No help in tracing the terrorists.”
“So they just intend to sit this out.”
“For now,” Rodgers said. “That’s what the UN does.”
Hood’s sadness shaded to anger. He felt like going into the Security Council chamber himself and shooting the terrorists one after another. Instead, he turned and punched the bottom of his fist into the wall.
“Paul,” Rodgers said.
Hood had never felt so helpless in his life.
“Paul, I have Striker on yellow alert.”
Hood leaned the top of his head against the wall. “If you send them in here, the world — not just the federal government — the world is going to chew you up and crap you out.”
“I have one word for you,” Rodgers said. “Entebbe. Publicly, the world condemned Israeli commandos for going into Uganda and rescuing those Air France hostages from Palistinian terrorists. But privately, every right-thinking individual slept a little prouder that night. Paul, I don’t give a damn what China or Albania or the secretary-general or even the president of the United States thinks of me. I want to get those kids out.”
Hood didn’t know what to say. The jump from yellow to red alert wasn’t even his decision to make, yet Rodgers wanted his approval. Something about that touched him deeply.
“I’m with you, Mike,” Hood said. “I’m with you, and God bless.”
“Go back to Sharon and sit tight,” Rodgers said.
“I promise, we’ll get Harleigh out of there.”
Hood thanked him, shut the phone, and slipped it into his pocket. Mike’s gesture triggered tears he’d been fighting since this whole thing started. He stood there sobbing with his cheek pressed against the cold tile. After a minute, the bathroom door opened. Hood sniffed back his tears, stood, and unspooled some bathroom tissue. He wiped his eyes.
It was odd. Hood had told Sharon what she’d wanted to hear, that they’d save Harleigh, even though he didn’t entirely believe it. Yet when Mike said the same thing, Hood believed him. He wondered if all faith was so easily manipulated. A need to believe given a firm push.
He blew his nose and flushed the tissue down the toilet. There was one difference, he thought as he left the stall. Faith was faith, but Mike Rodgers was Mike Rodgers. And one of them had never let him down.
FOURTEEN
Quantico, Virginia
Saturday, 9:57 P.M.
The Marine Corps base at Quantico is a sprawling, rustic facility that is the home to diverse military units. These range from the MarCorSysCom — Marine Corps Systems Command — to the secretive Commandant’s Warfighting Laboratory, a military think tank. Quantico is regarded as the intellectual crossroads of the Marine Corps, where teams of neologistic “warfighters” are able to devise and study tactics and then put them into operation in realistic combat simulations. Quantico also boasts some of the finest small-caliber weapons and grenade ranges, ground maneuver sites, light armor assault facilities, and physical challenge courses in the United States military.
Many of the base’s key functions actually take place at Camp Upshur, a training encampment located twenty-five miles northwest of the base inside Training Area 17. There, Delta Company, 4th Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion, 4th Marine Division, Op-Center’s Striker division, and the Marine Reserve Support Units refine the techniques they learned when they were recruits. Comprised of twenty-one buildings that range from classrooms to Quonset hut-style squad bays, Camp Upshur can billet up to 500 troops.