by Tom Clancy
“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 h
ad 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.
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.