by Tom Clancy
THIRTY-SEVEN
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:49 P.M.
Ty Sokha continued to squat beside the girl on the floor. There was nothing more she could do for her, but then she hadn’t come here to save lives. Taking care of the girl had done one thing and one thing only: It had enabled her to establish which of these men was Ivan Georgiev. Which of them owned the voice she had heard in the UN camp as it ushered customers in and out of tents. Which of them had ordered his aide to pursue and shoot Phum when she tried to escape. In case Ty and Hang could not get all the terrorists, they wanted to make sure they got him.
Ty had a compact 9mm Browning High Power handgun in her purse. Hang had one in a holster hooked to the back of his belt. The weapons had been smuggled past UN security in diplomatic pouches. Between the two of them, they’d get the bastard in a cross fire and then take down the rest of the terrorists. Not only would they have their revenge, not only would they be seen as heroes for rescuing the hostages, but their cause — a strong, right-wing Cambodia under Son Sann — would acquire worldwide attention. Injustice would end. The Khmer Rouge would finally be hunted down and destroyed. Cambodia would be free to become an Asian political and financial power.
But all of that depended on what happened next. Ty was sorry she’d let Georgiev go, but she hadn’t expected him to leave. And she didn’t want to fire on her own without identifying him to Hang, in case the other terrorists managed to bring her down.
Ty opened her purse and removed a silk handkerchief. She left her purse open on the floor as she dabbed the forehead of the wounded girl. The butt of the Browning was pointing toward her. When she replaced the handkerchief, she took the opportunity to unlock the safety. She was getting anxious. She hoped the miserable creature didn’t negotiate a deal with Secretary-General Chatterjee. Ty grew quietly furious with herself for not having taken him out when she had the chance. He had been standing right next to her. She might have died, but she would have died knowing how proud Hang and the spirits of his family were of her.
Suddenly, one of the double doors flew open at the top of the stairs on the opposite side of the chamber. The terrorist who had been standing behind it jumped to the side as Georgiev stormed back in. The Bulgarian was holding the lower part of his mask. He slammed the door shut, drew his pistol, and shook it angrily at the door. Then he turned and stalked past his associate. When the other man tried to follow, Georgiev motioned for him to remain where he was. Then he half-walked, half-stumbled down the stairs. He seemed a little groggy, as though he’d been struck. He did not look happy.
That was good. According to the doctrine of the elders in the Theravada Buddhist faith, a man who died unhappy remained so in the next life. Ty felt that Georgiev deserved no less.
The Bulgarian was holding his gun. He stopped midway down the stairs and rubbed his chin. He seemed to waver.
The man at the top of the steps came toward him. So did one of the men at the bottom of the steps.
Damn, Ty thought. It had to be now. Soon there would be three of them in one place; she might not have a clear shot.
She looked at Hang. He was obviously thinking the same thing. She reached into her purse as Hang rose. He drew his weapon from the holster and turned toward his target. Ty slipped her own handgun free and followed his lead. Hang fired first, putting three shots into Georgiev before the others arrived. One bullet missed, but two red blotches popped from his forehead, and the Bulgarian was flung back-first against the wall. He slid straight to the ground, dragging three long red smears down the green and gold wallpaper.
The couple began running foward, seeking cover on the stairwell. The two other men on the stairs stopped, ducked behind the chairs, and swung their guns toward the shootists. The two terrorists on the other side of the chamber also ducked and aimed at the attackers. As they did, the door that led to the Trusteeship Council chamber opened. Four members of the United Nations security force rushed in. There was a heart-stopping moment when the only sounds were the sobbing of children. The two Cambodians turned to see who was behind them, and the terrorists paused to aim at the nearest targets.
The distraction enabled the terrorists beside Georgiev along the south wall to fire at Ty and Hang. The Cambodians were crouched near the wall at the foot of the gallery and went down. Hang took a bullet in the shoulder, Ty in the thigh. Ty twisted and fell silently onto her back; Hang went to his hands and knees and screamed, though his cry was cut short by a head shot. The bullet came in at an angle from the front and dropped him flat on the floor.
Ty had lost her handgun when she fell and was reaching for it when a second shot caught her in the upper arm and a third struck her in the belly. She reached for her abdomen, stopping suddenly when a fourth shot cracked through the top of her skull.
It took slightly more than a second for the Cambodians to fall and die. But their presence had confused the UN police, who weren’t sure whether to fire at them or not. The delay enabled the terrorists on the north side of the chamber to turn, aim, and fire straight down the stairs, at the door. One security officer went down, shot through the leg, and had to be pulled out. The other three who had entered squatted and returned fire to cover the withdrawal. Noticing the wounded girl, one of the men grabbed her under the arms and dragged her back.
One of the terrorists on the southern side of the chamber went down. He rolled down several steps before his head struck one of the chairs. One of the UN officers was shot in the face and simply fell over. The room was an echo chamber of thundercrack shots and screams as the terrorists battled the UN police and the hostages cried out. Many of those who were screaming were trying to duck and at the same time attempting to keep other panicked hostages from running madly into the line of fire.
The firefight ended when the UN forces withdrew and the door to the Trusteeship Council chamber crashed shut. The gunshots stopped but not the screaming. Nor the sense of madness that, for a few deadly seconds, seemed to infect everyone in the chamber.
THIRTY-EIGHT
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:50 P.M.
Reynold Downer lay Georgiev’s bloody body down while Etienne Vandal knelt over him.
“You better go back to the door,” Vandal said. “They may try to come in again.”
“I will,” Downer said. He pulled his bloodred gloves from under Georgiev and looked across the room. The smaller of the two terrorists was running down the stairs. That meant Sazanka had taken the hit. Downer watched as Barone bent over him. The Uruguyan stood and dragged a finger across his throat. Their pilot was dead.
Downer swore. So did Vandal. Downer looked down.
Vandal had removed Georgiev’s mask. Only it wasn’t Georgiev who was lying on the landing.
“Then they’ve got him,” Downer said. “I thought I heard noise out there. The bastards have got him.” He spit on the American-looking face that lay lifeless on the carpet.
Vandal pulled back the man’s glove and felt for a pulse. He dropped the man’s wrist. “He’s dead.” Vandal looked down at the bodies lying near the gallery. “Those were UN security police who came in, and I’ll bet this man was with them. But who were those other two?”
“Probably undercover police,” Downer said. “Working security for the party.”
“Then why didn’t they move sooner?” Vandal wondered aloud. “Try and save the delegates?”
“Maybe they sent some kind of silent signal for reinforcements,” Downer said. “They were just waiting.”
“I don’t think so,” Vandal said. “They almost seemed surprised when they saw the United Nations team come in.”
Downer went back up the stairs, and Vandal turned and hurried down the steps. He was worried about the doors, though he didn’t really think there would be another attack now. The UN forces had gotten hurt. They took away the wounded girl, but he didn’t think that was their objective. They came in looking like they wanted to establish a beachhead. Four in with rei
nforcements waiting to move through the center. Why didn’t the reinforcements pull the girl out?
The firefight had put the hostages low on the floor or sent them ducking under the table. Vandal would leave them where they were for now. There was a lot of sobbing and whimpering, but everyone had been rattled by the attack. No one was going anywhere.
Vandal reached the two people who had been killed at the foot of the gallery. They were Asian. He squatted and checked the pockets of the man’s jacket. He had a Cambodian passport. There was a connection, at least. Georgiev was into a number of unsavory businesses during the UNTAC operation, from spying to prostitution. Maybe this was supposed to be some kind of payback. But how did they know he was here?
Barone had come over. Vandal dropped the passport and rose.
“Is he dead?” Barone asked, nodding toward Georgiev.
“It isn’t him,” Vandal said.
“What?”
“They got him when he went out,” Vandal said. “Made a switch.”
“Who would have thought they had the cajones?” Barone said. “That could be why the security team came in. They were following their man’s lead.”
“Very possibly,” Vandal said.
Barone shook his head. “If he gives them information about the bank accounts, then even if we get out of here with the money, they’ll take it right back.”
“Agreed,” Vandal said.
“So what do we do?” Barone asked.
“We still have what they want,” Vandal said, thinking aloud. “And we still have the means to kill the hostages if the security forces come in again. So I suggest we stick to our plan with two differences.”
“What?” Barone asked.
Vandal turned toward the conference table. “We tell them we want cash,” he said as he walked forward, “and we speed up the clock.”
His eyes moved from the empty seat where the girl who ran had been sitting. They settled on Harleigh Hood. There was something about her, something defiant, that hit him wrong.
He told Barone to get her.
THIRTY-NINE
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:51 P.M.
The audio bug in the corridor picked up the shots from the Security Council chamber. The reports were muffled, as were the shouts in the corridor, but it was clear to Paul Hood and the others that one side or the other had made a move. The shouts continued after the gunfire had stopped.
Hood was standing behind Ani. Except for swinging over to a laptop on another desk — to try and boost the audio quality, she said — the young agent had stayed at her post. She was calm and very focused.
August was standing to Hood’s left. Rodgers had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and had pulled a chair from the other desk. He had asked for, and was given, a book of blueprints of the United Nations. Hood had a look at the book over Rodgers’s shoulder. The FBI had obviously assembled the blueprints in order to plant primitive eavesdropping devices in structural materials back in the 1940s. Updated notations on the pages suggested that the CIA also used the blueprints to program routes for their mobile bugs.
On the floor near where Rodgers had pulled his chair was an upright canvas case. The zippered bag was open on top, and Hood could see a TAC-SAT phone inside.
As Hood stood there listening, he heard his cell phone beep. He assumed it was Bob Herbert or Ann Farris with information. Hood slipped the phone from his pocket. Mike Rodgers rose and came over.
“Hello?” Hood said.
“Paul, it’s me.”
“Sharon,” Hood said. Christ, not now, he thought.
Rodgers stopped. Hood turned his back to the room.
“I’m sorry, hon,” Hood said quietly. “I was on my way up to see you when something happened. Something that had to do with Mike.”
“He’s here?”
“Yes,” Hood said. He wasn’t really listening to the phone. He was trying to hear what was happening in the Secretariat Building. “Are you holding up okay?” he asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “Paul, I need you.”
“I know,” he said. “Look, we’re in the middle of something here. We’re trying to get Harleigh and the others out. Can I call you back?”
“Sure, Paul. Just like always.” Sharon hung up.
Hood felt like he’d been slapped. How could two people be so close one night, then be totally unconnected the next day? But he didn’t feel guilty. He felt angry. He was doing this to try and save Harleigh. Sharon wasn’t happy being alone, but that wasn’t what the hang-up was about. It was about the fact that Op-Center had separated them again.
Hood folded his phone and put it away. Mike placed a hand on Hood’s shoulder.
Suddenly, they heard Chatterjee’s voice clearly. “Lieutenant Mailman, what happened?” the secretary-general asked.
“Someone shot Colonel Mott before the rest of the team went in,” he said breathlessly. “He may be dead.”
“No,” Chatterjee said while he was still speaking. “God, no.”
“They killed one of my people and then we got one of the terrorists before withdrawing,” the lieutenant went on. “We also pulled a girl out. She’d been shot. There was no way we could get in without taking a lot of casualties.”
Hood felt his knees weaken.
“I’ll find out who it is,” Rodgers said. “Don’t call Sharon. You may worry her for nothing.”
“Thanks,” Hood said.
Rodgers went to the office phone and called Bob Herbert. In order to keep track of known terrorists and underworld figures — many of whom were regularly hurt in explosions, car accidents, or gunfights — Op-Center had a program that was connected with all the big-city hospitals and interfaced with the Social Security Administration. Whenever a social security number was entered on a hospital computer, it was checked against Op-Center’s database to make sure that the person wasn’t someone the FBI or police were looking for. In this case, Herbert would have Matt Stoll check on everyone who was admitted to a UN-area New York hospital in the last half hour.
The conversation continued in the Secretariat.
“You did the right thing pulling out,” Chatterjee said.
“There’s something else,” the lieutenant said. “Two of the delegates were armed and firing.”
“Which two?” Chatterjee said.
“I don’t know,” the lieutenant replied. “One of the team members who got a good look said it was an Asian man and woman.”
“It could be Japan, South Korea, or Cambodia,” Chatterjee said.
“Both of the delegates were killed by the terrorists.”
“Who were the delegates shooting at?” Chatterjee asked.
“Believe it or not, they were firing at Colonel Mott,” he replied.
“At the colonel?” she said. “They must have mistaken him for—”
“The terrorist he replaced,” the lieutenant said.
A radio beeped as the lieutenant was speaking. Chatterjee answered it. “This is Secretary-General Chatterjee.”
“That was stupid and reckless,” said the voice on the other end. The man’s voice was scratchy and faint and spoken with an accent, but Hood was able to make out most of what was being said. Concentrating on that was a welcome distraction from thinking about the wounded girl.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” Chatterjee said. “We tried to reason with your partner—”
“Don’t try and make this our fault!” the caller snapped.
“No, it was all mine—”
“You knew the rules, and you ignored them,” he said. “Now we have new instructions for you.”
“First tell me,” Chatterjee said. “What is the condition of our officer?”
“He’s dead.”
“Are you sure?” Chatterjee implored.
There was a shot. “Now I am,” the caller replied. “Do you have any other questions?” he asked.
“No,” Chatterjee said.
“You can come and get him when we’re gone,” said the terrorist. “How soon that happens is up to you.”
There was a short, painful silence. “Go ahead,” Chatterjee said. “I’m listening.”
“We want the helicopter with six million American dollars,” he said. “We want cash, not transfers. You have our man; he may tell you our names. I don’t want our accounts frozen. Let us know when the helicopter is here. We will resume the killing in eight minutes and again every half hour. Only this time we won’t be killing delegates. We’ll continue on the young ladies.”
Hood realized he had never known hate until that instant.
“Oh please, no!” Chatterjee cried.
“You made this happen,” the caller said.
“Listen to me,” Chatterjee said. “We’ll get what you want but there must be no more killing. There has been too much already.”
“You have eight minutes.”
“No! Give us a few hours!” Chatterjee implored. “We’ll cooperate with you. Hello? Hello!”
All was quiet. Hood could imagine the depth of the secretary-general’s frustration.
August shook his head. “The troops ought to go back in now, hit them fast when they don’t expect it.”
“We ought to go in,” Hood said.
“They said they’ll release poison gas,” Ani told them.
“But they didn’t during the first assault,” August said. “Hostage-takers want to live. That’s why they’ve got hostages. They won’t give up that advantage.”
Rodgers turned from the phone. “It wasn’t Harleigh who was shot,” he said. “The girl’s name is Barbara Mathis.”
Everything was relative. Harleigh was still a prisoner, and one of her ensemble mates was injured. Yet relief washed over Hood from the inside out.
Despite the fact that Harleigh was still in there, Hood had to agree with August. The men in the Security Council chambers were not suicide bombers or political terrorists. They were pirates, here for plunder. They wanted to get out alive.