State of Siege o-6

by Tom Clancy

“You will get it for me anyway,” he said.

  Chatterjee looked at him. She seemed to be searching for something else to say, but it had all been said.

  Georgiev turned toward the door.

  “Don’t do this,” Chatterjee said.

  He continued walking. He reached for the doorknob.

  Chatterjee moved after him. “Don’t you understand? No one will benefit from this,” she said. She grabbed his arm in desperation.

  Georgiev stopped and wrenched his arm toward him. The woman held on.

  “Listen to me!” she implored.

  So the peacemaker had claws. The big man threw his arm back. Chatterjee fell against the wall that stood out beyond the door. Georgiev turned back toward the door.

  There were footsteps behind him. Georgiev reached for his automatic and turned just as an elbow came swinging across his line of vision.

  His vision swirled red, the bridge of his nose and his forehead were numb, and he was light-headed. He was fighting to stay alert when a second blow turned everything black.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  New York, New York

  Saturday, 11:42 P.M.

  “Something just happened,” Mike Rodgers said to Paul Hood.

  Rodgers was sitting at the computer with Ani Hampton. Hood had arrived moments before, still breathing hard from the run. Ani had checked him on the video surveillance camera at the door and then buzzed him in. Rodgers wanted to know what had brought Hood here, but what was happening with Mala Chatterjee was what the military called “breaking news.” Ani had put the bug’s audio on the computer speakers. Even though the sound was being recorded, he didn’t want to miss a word of the very faint conversation between the secretary-general and the terrorist.

  “Paul Hood, Annabelle Hampton,” Rodgers said, introducing them now that he found it difficult to hear anything at all.

  Ani acknowledged Hood with a quick look and a nod. She seemed extremely intent on what was happening.

  “We think something just happened outside the Security Council,” Rodgers told Hood. “One of the terrorists came out to talk with the secretary-general. From the sound of things, she shouted and then someone — probably Colonel Mott of the UN security team, who we believe was closest to her — apparently attacked the terrorist. It sounds like they have him, but we can’t be certain. Everyone is being very quiet.”

  They listened silently for a moment more. Then Hood spoke.

  “This may not have anything to do with what’s going on,” he said, “but I just got a call from Bob. There are two people inside the Security Council who’ve spent at least eight years with the Cambodian Khmer People’s National Liberation Armed Forces. They started as counterterrorists fighting the Khmer Rouge and then became assassins working for Son Sann.”

  Ani fired him a look.

  “They came into the country two days ago with the permission of someone in their government, though their backgrounds were intentionally obscured,” Hood continued. “The question is, are they there by chance, are they working with the terrorists, or is something else going on that we don’t know about?”

  Rodgers shook his head as there was another buzz at the door. Ani put the surveillance image on the computer; it was Brett August. Rodgers okayed him and Ani reached under the table to buzz him in. Rodgers excused himself to greet the Striker leader.

  As Rodgers hurried to the office reception area, he reflected on the fact that this was the kind of situation that hostage negotiators in every country encountered every day. Some of the crises were large-scale political events that made the news; others were small and involved no more than one or two people in an apartment or convenience store. But all of them, wherever they were and whoever was involved, had one thing in common: volatility. In his experience, battles could change quickly, but they tended to change en masse. They’d pick up inertia and continue in one direction as the participating armies surged and flowed.

  Hostage situations were different. They were subject to hair-trigger fluidity. They lurched, stalled, jerked, turned, and then ran in unpredictable ways. And the more people that were involved, the more likely that things would change dramatically at any given moment. Especially if those people were a mixture of frightened kids, fanatical terrorists, single-minded assassins, and diplomats whose only weapon was talk.

  Colonel August was sweaty and grease-stained when he arrived. He saluted Rodgers, then explained that he’d done a pencil roll from the C-130’s hydraulically operated cargo ramp while it was being raised. Since it was dark, no one saw him as he rolled tight and low down the ramp. There was a four-foot drop from the lip to the tarmac, and apart from a few bruises, the colonel was okay. He was wearing a Kevlar bulletproof vest under his sweatshirt and that had taken some of the impact. Because August was a fully equipped tourist, he’d had his wallet with him and enough cash for the cab ride to Manhattan.

  Rodgers brought him up to date as they walked to Ani’s office. As they neared, August stopped suddenly.

  “Hold on,” August said quietly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve got a pair of Cambodian assassins in the Security Council?” August asked.

  “That’s right.”

  August thought for a moment, then nodded toward the offices in back. “Did you know that your lady here worked for the CIA in Cambodia?”

  “No,” Rodgers said. He was openly surprised. “Tell me about it.”

  “I downloaded her file on the flight over,” August said. “She recruited operatives in Cambodia for nearly a year.”

  Rodgers let his mind run through possible scenarios, looking for possible connections. “She signed in downstairs about fifteen minutes before the attack began. She said she’d come here to catch up on some work.”

  “That could very well be true,” August said.

  “It could,” Rodgers agreed. “But she got here early and she has the ability to eavesdrop on the secretary-general. She also has a TAC-SAT in the office.”

  “Not standard CIA office issue,” August said.

  “No,” Rodgers agreed. “Sounds like a nice setup if you want to pass intel to people who are involved in this takeover.”

  “But which side of the takeover?” August asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rodgers said.

  “Is the TAC-SAT turned on?” August asked.

  “Can’t tell. It’s in a sack.”

  August snickered. “You spend too much time behind a desk. Roll up your sleeves.”

  “What do you mean?” Rodgers asked.

  “Get the back of your arm near the unit,” August said.

  “I still don’t follow.”

  “The hair. Static electricity,” August told him.

  “Shit,” Rodgers said. “You’re right.”

  An insulated piece of equipment, when active, would generate an electric discharge — static electricity. That would cause the hairs on his arm to stand up when he got close.

  Rodgers nodded, and they continued toward the office.

  Neither man was an alarmist. But from the start of their careers, with anywhere from one life to thousands of lives hanging on any decision they made, neither man had ever been complacent. And as Rodgers turned into the office, he reminded himself of something that the CIA had learned the hard way. That volatility didn’t always come from the outside.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  New York, New York

  Saturday, 11:43 P.M.

  For a moment, the silence in the corridor outside the Security Council was absolute. Then Secretary-General Chatterjee pushed herself off the wall where she’d been flung. She looked from the prone terrorist to Colonel Mott.

  “You had no right to do that!” she whispered harshly.

  “You were attacked,” he whispered back. “It’s my job to protect you.”

  “I grabbed him—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mott said. He pointed to two of the men on the security line and motioned them forward. Then he tu
rned back to Chatterjee. “We’re in this now.”

  “Against my wishes!” she shot back.

  “Ma’am, we can discuss this later,” Mott said. “We don’t have much time.”

  “For what?” she demanded.

  The two men arrived. “Strip him,” Mott said quietly, pointing to the terrorist. “Fast.”

  They got to work.

  “What are you doing?” Chatterjee said.

  The colonel began unbuttoning his own shirt. “Going in there,” he said. “As him.”

  Chatterjee seemed stunned. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “I can pull this off,” he said. “We’re about the same size.”

  “Not without my authority,” she said.

  “I don’t need your authority,” he replied as he removed his shirt and took off his shoes. “Section 13C, subsection 4, of the security regulations. In the event of a direct threat against the secretary-general, all appropriate precautions must be taken. He struck you. I saw it. Now the fiber-optic camera is not getting through for some reason. We’re coming up on another hour, and a child may be hurt in there. Help me end this situation, ma’am. Did he have an accent?”

  “They’re going to find you out.”

  “Not soon enough,” Mott said. He was aware of every second passing, wondering how long the terrorists inside were going to wait for their man to return. Fearing what they might do to get him back. “Now please,” Mott pressed. “Did he have an accent?”

  “Eastern European, I believe,” Chatterjee said. She seemed dazed.

  Mott looked down as one of his men removed Georgiev’s mask. “Do you recognize him?”

  Chatterjee looked at the beefy, unshaven face. There was blood on the thick bridge of the nose. “No,” she said softly. “Do you?”

  Mott looked from the fallen man to the Security Council door. “No.” Whether it was his own anxiety or the instincts of an old undercover cop, he felt tension from inside the chamber. He had to defuse it before it exploded. The colonel motioned for his man to give him the mask. He pulled it over his head, then stooped and wiped some of the blood from Georgiev’s nose onto the mouth of the mask. “Now I don’t have to do any accent,” he said.

  Chatterjee watched as he quickly finished pulling on the man’s sweater, trousers, and shoes.

  “Get everyone into the Trusteeship Council chambers,” the colonel said to his second-in-command, Lieutenant Mailman. “I want you at the adjoining doors, fast but stealthy. Form two groups: a defensive perimeter and a team to get the hostages out. Go in when you hear gunfire.” Mott picked up Georgiev’s automatic and checked the clip. It was nearly full. “I won’t fire until I’m in position to take out one or more of the terrorists. I’ll try and stay on the north side to draw their fire away from you. You know how they’re dressed; take them out. Just make sure you don’t shoot the guy who’s shooting at them.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

  “Ma’am, I’d get Interpol in here to find out who this individual is.” Mott practically spit out the word. “If something goes wrong, the information may help you stop them.”

  “Colonel, I’m against this,” Chatterjee said. The secretary-general had collected herself and was growing angry. “You’re risking the lives of everyone in the room.”

  “Everyone in there is going to die unless we get them out,” he replied. “Isn’t that what this person told you?” He indicated Georgiev with his foot. “Isn’t that why you tried to stop him from going back?”

  “I wanted to stop the killing—”

  “And he didn’t give a damn what you wanted,” Colonel Mott said in a raspy whisper.

  “No, he didn’t,” she agreed. “But I can still go in there, try to talk to the others.”

  “Not after this,” Mott said. “They’ll want to know where their man is. What will you tell them?”

  “The truth,” she said. “It might persuade them to cooperate. Perhaps we can even give him back in exchange for hostages.”

  “We can’t,” Mott said. “We may need him for information. And whatever else happens, this bastard’s got to stand trial.” Mott had always admired Chatterjee’s persistence. Right now, though, it seemed more naive than visionary.

  While the lieutenant formed his two teams, the colonel signaled over the emergency medical team. They placed the fallen terrorist on a stretcher and used handcuffs from one of the security officers to keep him there.

  “Take him over to the infirmary, and keep him hand-cuffed to the cot,” Mott told the head emergency medical technician.

  The lieutenant signaled Mott that he was ready to go. Colonel Mott signaled back thirty with his fingers. He looked at his watch as Lieutenant Mailman’s two teams headed into the Trusteeship Council chamber. Then he started marking off thirty seconds.

  “Colonel, please,” Chatterjee said. “I can’t go in if you do.”

  “I know,” he said. Twenty-five seconds to go.

  “But this is a mistake!” she said, raising her voice for the first time.

  There was a creak at the Security Council door, as though someone had leaned against it. Chatterjee immediately fell silent. Mott looked from the door to Chatterjee to his watch. Twenty seconds remained.

  “It’s only a mistake if it fails,” Colonel Mott said quietly. “Now, please, Madam Secretary-General. There’s no time to debate this. Just step back so you won’t be hurt.”

  “Colonel—” she started, then stopped. “God be with you,” she said. “God be with you all.”

  “Thank you,” Mott replied. There were fifteen seconds to go.

  Reluctantly, Chatterjee backed away.

  Colonel Mott turned his attention to what he was about to do. He could taste the terrorist’s blood through the mask. There was something appropriately barbaric, Viking about it. He stuck the terrorist’s gun in his belt, where it had been when he came out. Then he flexed and unflexed his gloved fingers, anxious to get in there and do his job.

  Ten seconds.

  Twenty-odd years ago, when he was an NYPD cadet at the academy on Twentieth Street and Second Avenue, a strategy and tactics instructor told him that the job really came down to dice. Every police officer, every soldier, had a die with six pips. The pips were resolve, skill, ruthlessness, ingenuity, courage, and strength. Most of the time, you practice-rolled. You trained, you walked a beat, you patrolled the street, trying to get the wrist action right, the finesse, the feel. Because when it came time to roll for real, you had to come up with more of those qualities than the other guy, sometimes in an instant. Mott remembered that during his twenty years in Midtown South. He remembered it each time he went to an apartment with no idea what was on the other side of the door, or stopped a car without knowing what was hidden under the newspaper lying next to the driver. He remembered it now. He brought up every reflex that was stored in his memory, in his bones, in his soul. And for good measure, he threw in the words of one of the original Mercury astronauts, he forgot which one, who said, as he waited to be launched into space: “Dear God. Please don’t let me screw this up.”

  Five seconds.

  Alert and ready, Mott walked toward the door of the Security Council. He moaned, as though he’d been hit and was hurting.

  He yanked open the door and stepped inside.

  THIRTY-SIX

  New York, New York

  Saturday, 11:48 P.M.

  Telephones were put at the disposal of the parents when they arrived at the State Department lounge. Selecting an armchair in the corner of the brightly lighted lounge, Sharon’s first call had been to Alexander back at the hotel. She wanted to make sure he was all right. He was fine, though she suspected he’d stopped playing video games and had accessed the room’s SpectraVision channel. Alexander always sounded edgy when he was playing video games, as though the fate of the galaxy rested on his shoulders. When she called around eleven o’clock he sounded awestruck and humbled. Like Charlton Heston when he saw the burning bush in The Ten Co
mmandments.

  Sharon let him be. She didn’t even tell him what was going on. She had a feeling that Alexander would be sleeping very well tonight. Hopefully, it would all be over in the morning before he woke. Then she called her home answering machine. She wasn’t going to call her parents unless they’d seen the news report and left a message. They were not in the best of health, and they were worriers. She didn’t want to burden them.

  But her mother had phoned. She had seen the news flash, so Sharon called her back. She told her mother what she’d been told, that officials were trying to negotiate a solution and that there was no other news.

  “What does Paul think?” her mother asked.

  “I don’t know, Mom,” Sharon replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He went off with one of the military people from the UN and hasn’t come back yet,” Sharon said.

  “He’s probably trying to help,” her mother said.

  Sharon wanted to say, He’s always trying to help — them. Instead, she said, “I’m sure that’s what he’s doing.”

  Her mother asked how she was doing. Sharon said that she and the other parents were holding tight to hope, and that was all they could do. She promised to call if anything else happened.

  Thinking of Paul and his devotion to them upset her. She wanted her daughter back and was willing to make any sacrifice to save her. But she knew that Paul would be doing this even if Harleigh weren’t inside. Sharon hadn’t cried very much since this began, but that pushed her over the rim.

  She turned from the other parents and wiped tears away as they formed. She tried to convince herself that Paul was doing this for Harleigh. And even if he weren’t, whatever he did would help her.

  But she felt so alone now. And not knowing what was happening, how her baby was, made her angry again. The least Paul could do was call her. Tell her what was happening.

  Then she thought of something. Taking a tissue from her purse, Sharon blew her nose and picked up the phone. Paul still had his cell phone with him. She punched in his number, finding strength in anger that had not come in reflection.