State of Siege o-6

by Tom Clancy

  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 antiseptic 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.

  Then they’d gone to the Permanent Mission of the Kingdom of Cambodia across the street and waited.

  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?”

  “They need a lesson in futility,” Georgiev explained.

  “Futility? They’ll take you hostage!” Downer said.

  The secretary-general spoke again. She asked to be admitted.

  “They wouldn’t take the chance,” Georgiev told Downer. “This will convince them they have no choice but to cooperate, and quickly.”

  “You’re sounding like a bloody diplomat now. What about them recognizing your accent?”

  “I’ll speak softly and deeply,” Georgiev said. “They’ll probably assume I’m Russian.” Now that he thought of it, he would enjoy it if this entire takeover were blamed on Moscow or the Russian Mafia.

  “I don’t agree with this,” Downer said. “I bloody don’t.”

  You wouldn’t, Georgiev thought. Downer only knew how to bully, not how to finesse.

  “I’ll be all right,” Georgiev said. Slowly, he reached for the knob on the left-side door. He turned and pushed the door open a crack.

  Mala Chatterjee was standing there, her arms straight at her sides, her shoulders and head back. Behind her several paces was her head of security. Beyond him, Georgiev could see a few of the security guards with their blast shields.

  Chatterjee’s face was calm but resolute; the officer looked as though he wanted to snort fire. Georgiev liked that in an adversary. It kept one from becoming complacent.

  “I’d like to speak with you,” Chatterjee said.

  “Tell everyone to step back, past the council chambers,” Georgiev said. He didn’t feel it was necessary to add that if anything happened to him, the hostages would suffer.

  Chatterjee turned and nodded to Colonel Mott. Mott motioned for the rest of the security team to step away. They did. Mott remained where he was.

  “Everyone,” Georgiev said.

  “It’s all right, Colonel,” Chatterjee said without turning.

  “Madam Secretary—”

  “Go, please,” she said firmly.

  Mott exhaled through his nose, then turned and joined his security team. He stood nearly thirty feet away, glaring at Georgiev.

  That was good, Georgiev thought. She had just emasculated her chief of security. The colonel now looked like he wanted to draw his gun and put a bullet in Georgiev.

  Chatterjee continued to stare at the Bulgarian.

  “Now, you step back,” Georgiev said.

  She seemed surprised. “You want me to step back?”

  He nodded. She took three steps back, then stopped. Georgiev opened the door farther. Shields rose slightly as arms tensed behind them. He could see a ripple of anxiety roll across the security team. He hoped the secretary-general could see, could feel how impossible her position was. Talkers and poor, untested schoolboys were all she had in her corner.

  Georgiev holstered his weapon and stepped through the open door. Facing the security team, he shut the door behind him. Slowly, fearlessly. He was tempted to scratch his head or his side and watch them jump. But he didn’t. Just knowing they would was enough. And more importantly, they knew it, too. They knew who had more courage and who was more at ease. Coming out here was the right thing to do. He looked at Chatterjee.

  “What do you want?” he asked her.

  “I want to resolve this situation without further bloodshed,” she told him.

  “You can,” he replied. “Give us what we asked.”

  “I’m trying,” she said. “But the nations have refused to pay.”

  He had expected that. “Then someone else must pay,” he told her. “Let the United States rescue the world again.”

  “I can talk to them,” she said, “but it will take time.”

  “You can have it,” he said. “The price is one life eve
ry hour.”

  “No, please,” Chatterjee said. “I would like to suggest something. A moratorium. I’ll have a better chance of getting what you ask if I can tell them you’re cooperating.”

  “Cooperating?” he said. “You’re the one who’s wasting time.”

  “But it will take hours, maybe days,” she said.

  Georgiev shrugged a shoulder. “Then the blood is on your hands, not on mine.”

  The secretary-general continued to look at him, though she was less composed than before. Her breathing was faster, her eyes more restless. That was good. He wanted compliance, not a negotiation. Behind her, Georgiev noticed the security chief shifting uneasily. He must not have come from the UN command ranks. He had the bearing of a tethered bull.

  Chatterjee looked down. She shook her head slowly. She’d never had to deal with anything like this before. He almost felt sorry for her. What does a diplomat do when you keep saying no?

  “I give you my word,” she said. “Stop the killing. I will get you everything you want.”