by Tom Clancy
After a moment, Chatterjee informed the lieutenant that she was going to the infirmary. She wanted to talk to the captured terrorist. There was no further audio after the secretary-general left.
“She’s out of range of the bug,” Ani said.
Rodgers looked at his watch. “We’ve got less than seven minutes,” he said sharply. “What can we do to stop them?”
“There isn’t enough time to go to the Security Council and get inside,” August said.
“You’ve been listening to this for nearly five hours,” Rodgers said to Ani. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Guess,” Rodgers pressed.
“They’re leaderless,” she said. “There’s no telling what they might do now.”
“How do you know that?” Hood asked.
She looked at him.
“That they’re leaderless?” he said.
“Who else would have gone out to talk for them?” she asked.
The phone rang, and Ani picked up. It was Darrell McCaskey for Rodgers. Ani passed him the phone. Something else passed between Rodgers and the woman as well. A disapproving look. Or was it doubt?
The conversation was short. Rodgers stood there saying very little as Darrell McCaskey briefed him. When he was finished, he handed the receiver back to Ani. She turned and lay it in the cradle.
“UN Security fingerprinted the captured terrorist,” Rodgers said. “Darrell just got the intel.” Rodgers looked back at Ani. He leaned over her chair, his hands on the armrests. “Talk to me, Ms. Hampton.”
“What?” she said.
“Mike, what is it?” Hood asked.
“The terrorist’s name is Colonel Ivan Georgiev,” Rodgers said. He was still looking down at Ani. “He served with UNTAC in Cambodia. He also worked with the CIA in Bulgaria. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Me?” Ani asked.
“You.”
“No,” she said.
“But you know something about this that we don’t,” Rodgers said.
“No—”
“You’re lying,” Rodgers said.
“Mike, what’s going on?” Hood asked.
“She came to the office before the attack,” Rodgers said. He moved closer to Ani. “To work, you said.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re not dressed for work,” Rodgers said.
“I was stood up,” she said. “That’s why I came here. I had reservations at Chez Eugenie, you can check. Hey, I don’t know why I have to defend myself to—”
“Because you’re lying,” Rodgers said. “Did you know this was going to happen?”
“Of course not!” she said.
“But you knew something was going to happen,” Rodgers said. “You served in Cambodia. Colonel Mott was killed by a pair of Cambodians posing as delegates to the United Nations. Did they think they were shooting Ivan Georgiev?”
“How the hell should I know?” Ani cried.
Rodgers shoved the chair back. It rolled across the tile floor and slammed into a filing cabinet. Ani started to rise, and Rodgers pushed her back down.
“Mike!” Hood shouted.
“We don’t have time for this bullshit, Paul,” Rodgers said. “Your daughter could be the next one they kill!” He glared down at Ani. “Your TAC-SAT is on. Who were you calling?”
“My superior in Moscow—”
“Call him now,” Rodgers said.
She hesitated.
“Call him now!” Rodgers yelled.
Ani didn’t move.
“Who’s on the other end of that line?” Rodgers demanded. “Was it the Cambodians, or is it the terrorists?”
Ani said nothing. Her hands were on the armrests. Rodgers slapped one of his hands on top of hers. She couldn’t move it. He pushed a thumb under her index finger and bent it back. She screamed and reached over with her other hand to try and pry him off. He used his free hand to shove her hand back to the armrest and kept up his pressure on the other.
“Who’s on the other end of the goddamn phone?” Rodgers yelled.
“I told you!”
Rodgers bent the finger back until the nail was nearly touching the wrist. Ani screamed.
“Who’s on the other end?” Rodgers pressed.
“The terrorists!” Ani cried. “It’s the terrorists!”
Hood felt sick.
“Are there any other outside units besides you?” Rodgers demanded.
“No!”
“What are you supposed to do next?” Rodgers asked.
“Tell them if the money’s really being delivered,” she said.
Rodgers released her hand. He rose.
Hood was staring at the young woman. “How could you help them? How?”
“We don’t have time for that now,” Rodgers said. “They’re going to kill someone else in three minutes. The question is how do we stop them?”
“By paying them,” August said.
Rodgers looked at him. “Explain.”
“We get Chatterjee’s number from Op-Center,” August said. “We ask her to get on the radio to tell the terrorists she has the money. Then our lady here corroborates that. We contact the NYPD, get a chopper over there like they asked for, and have a SWAT unit take them when they come out.”
“They’ll come out, but with hostages,” Hood said.
“We’re going to have to risk the hostages at some point,” August said. “At least this way we’ll save more than we could in the Security Council — and one of them for sure.”
“Do it,” Hood said, glancing at his watch. “Fast.”
FORTY
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:55 P.M.
Secretary-General Chatterjee raced down the escalator to the infirmary, which was located on the first floor not far from the visitor’s lobby. An aide had joined her at the foot of the escalator and was walking with her. Enzo Donati was a young graduate student from Rome who was earning credits for his degree in international relations. He had her cell phone and he was in touch with the New York office of Interpol. They had learned that the prisoner’s name was Ivan Georgiev, a former officer in the Bulgarian army. The Bulgarian ambassador had not been at the soiree and had been notified.
Chatterjee passed through the Delegates Only doorway near the Hiroshima exhibit and made her way along the brightly lighted corridors. She tried not to think of the loss of Colonel Mott or the other security personnel, or of the deaths of the delegates. She focused on the approach of midnight, on the impending death of one of the young violinists, and how to avoid it. Chatterjee had it in mind to offer Georgiev a deal. If he would urge his accomplice to postpone the shooting, and help to defuse the situation, she would do what she could to get him clemency.
Chatterjee assumed, of course, that Georgiev was even awake. She hadn’t spoken to the emergency medical people since they’d brought him down here. If not, she didn’t know what she was going to do. They had less than five minutes. Mott’s military approach had been repulsed, and her own diplomatic efforts had failed. Cooperation was an option, but the six million dollars they asked for would take time to put together. She had called Deputy Secretary-General Takahara and asked him to sit down with the other members of the emergency team to figure out how to do that. She knew that even if they paid, there would still be further bloodshed. The NYPD or the FBI would move in as soon as the terrorists tried to leave. But at least there was a chance that they could still get some of the delegates and young violinists away safely.
Why did international crises seem so much more manageable than this? Because the ramifications were so severe? Because there were two or more sides where no one really wanted to pull the trigger? If that were true, then she really wasn’t a peacemaker. She was simply a medium, like a telephone or even one of her father’s movies. She may have come from the land of Gandhi but was nothing like him. Nothing.
They turned a corner and approached the door to the infirmary. Enz
o slipped ahead of the secretary-general and opened it for her. Chatterjee walked in. She stopped abruptly.
Two EMTs were lying on the floor in the reception area. The attending nurse was also lying on the floor, in the doctor’s office. So were a pair of security guards.
Enzo ran to the nearest bodies. There were spots of blood on the tile. The technicians were alive but unconscious, evidently from blows to the head. The nurse was also unconscious.
There were no tears in their clothes, no indication that there had been a struggle.
There was no trace of the handcuffs and no sign of Georgiev.
As Chatterjee took a moment to process what had happened, there was only one conclusion to be drawn: that someone had been here waiting.
FORTY-ONE
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:57 P.M.
Hood called Bob Herbert and told him to get them Chatterjee’s mobile phone number. While Hood held the line, Rodgers bound Ani Hampton to her chair. He used black electrical tape he’d found in the supply closet to tie her left wrist to the armrest. There had been packaging twine on the shelf, but using tape was a habit from field interrogations: it didn’t leave marks or tear the skin, and it was tougher to work lose. Rodgers had also found several handguns and other CIA field gear in the closet. The guns were locked in a metal gun rack. After binding Ani, Rodgers took the key case from her blazer, which was hanging in the closet. CIA regulations required that whoever was in charge of a shell have access to the “self-defense matériel.” Rodgers found the key that unlocked the rack and took a pair of Berettas for himself and another pair for August. Each handgun held a clip with a fifteen-shell capacity. He also grabbed a pair of point-to-point radios along with a brick of C-4 and detonators. He put the explosives in a foam-lined backpack and slung it over one shoulder. It wasn’t the usual Striker kit — night vision glasses and Uzis would be ideal — but it would have to do. He hoped he didn’t need any of these, but he wanted to be prepared for the worst.
Upon returning to the office, Rodgers looked down at Ani. “If you cooperate, I’ll help you when we get out of here.”
She didn’t respond.
“Do you understand?” Rodgers pressed.
“I understand,” she said without looking up.
After handing August his guns, Rodgers took the colonel’s arm. He led him to where Hood was standing, still holding the phone.
“What’s wrong?” August asked.
“I don’t have a good feeling about our prisoner,” Rodgers said quietly.
“Why?” Hood asked.
“In a few minutes, she’s going to have us by the short hairs,” Rodgers said. “Suppose Chatterjee calls the terrorists for us. Then this woman refuses to back up the lie. Where are we then?”
“I’d say pretty much where we are now,” August told him.
“Not exactly,” Rodgers said. “The terrorists will have been attacked and then lied to. They’re going to want to hit back. Shoot a hostage as scheduled and add another as payback.”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t do this?” Hood asked.
“No, I don’t think we have a choice,” Rodgers said. “Because, if nothing else, we can buy ourselves a few extra minutes.”
“For what?” Hood asked.
“To take control of this situation,” Rodgers said. “To launch a bottleneck operation.”
August seemed pleased.
Hood shook his head. “With what kind of force?” he asked. “The pair of you?”
“It can work,” Rodgers told him.
“I repeat — with just two soldiers?” Hood asked.
“In theory, yes,” Rodgers said.
Hood didn’t seem happy with that answer.
“We’ve run simulations,” Rodgers went on. “Brett has drilled for this.”
“Mike,” Hood said, “even if you can get in there, the hostages are going to be extremely vulnerable.”
“Like I said, what do you think is going to happen if our lady friend here turns on us?” Rodgers asked. “We’ve got human gunpowder in a keg, and we’re applying a match. The terrorists are going to blow.”
Hood had to admit that Rodgers had a point. He looked at his watch. “Bob?” he said into the phone.
“I’m here,” said Herbert.
“What’s happening with the phone number?”
“The State Department still only has the number for Secretary-General Manni, if you can believe it. I’ve got Darrell working on getting the number through Interpol and Matt trying to hack it,” Herbert said. “I’m betting on Matt getting it first at this point. Another minute or two.”
“Bob, we’re measuring time in seconds,” Hood said.
“Understood,” Herbert replied.
Hood looked at Rodgers. “How do you both get inside?”
“Only Colonel August has to go in,” Rodgers continued. “I’ll take the base position, which will be outside the Security Council.” He looked at August. “The entrance to the UN garage is located on the northeast side of the compound, down a flight of stairs that are on a direct line from the front door of this building. That’s where you get in.”
“How do you know the garage will be open?” Hood asked.
“It was open when I came here,” Rodgers said, “and they’re obviously keeping it that way in case they want to move personnel or equipment in. The terrorists might hear the sound of a big door like that shutting and then opening. It could tip them off, if something were up.”
That was a good point, Hood thought.
“There probably won’t be any security personnel in the rose garden leading to the garage,” Rodgers said to August. “They’ll keep the perimeter itself guarded to maximize manpower. If there are choppers, you’ll have sufficient cover under the bushes or statues. Once you get through the park and into the garage, your only problem will be the corridor between the elevator and the Security Council. According to the blueprints, the elevator shaft lets off about fifty feet down the main corridor from the Security Council.”
“Isn’t that a big problem?” Hood asked.
“Not really,” August said. “I can cover fifty feet pretty quick. I’ll bowl people down if I have to. Surprise works against your own people, too.”
“What if the security personnel fire at you?” Hood asked.
“I heard foreign accents on our little bug,” August said. “I’m sure there are UN personnel I can use as a shield. Once I get inside the Security Council, it doesn’t matter what they do.”
“It’s still an extra impediment,” Hood said.
“Maybe we can convince Chatterjee to help us, if it comes to that,” August suggested.
“If the lie about the ransom doesn’t work, I doubt she’ll go with a second lie,” Hood said. “Diplomats who were never soldiers don’t understand the quicksilver nature of warfare.”
“She may not have a choice by that time,” Rodgers said. “Colonel August will be inside.”
“Who do you think will be watching the garage door?” August asked Rodgers.
“They’re probably letting the NYPD take charge of that,” Rodgers said. “Most of the UN police are probably upstairs.”
Bob Herbert came back on then. Op-Center’s computer genius Matt Stoll had managed to pull it from the restricted on-line United Nations directory before Darrell McCaskey was able to get the number from his Interpol people. Hood wrote it down. The phone line wouldn’t be secure, but Hood would have to risk it. There wasn’t much time left.
He would have to risk a number of things, he decided. He okayed Rodgers’s plan and August left at once.
Hood punched in the number.
A man with an Italian accent answered. “This is the secretary-general’s line.”
“This is Paul Hood, the Director of Op-Center in Washington,” Hood said. “I need to speak with the secretary-general.”
“Mr. Hood, we have a situ—”
“I know!” Hood snapped. “And we can save the ne
xt victim if we act quickly! Put her on.”
“Just a moment,” the man told him.
Hood glanced at his watch. Assuming the terrorists didn’t rush the deadline, there was just over a minute left.
A woman came on the line. “This is Mala Chatterjee.”
“Madam Secretary-General, this is Paul Hood,” he said. “I’m the director of a crisis management team in Washington. One of the hostages is my daughter.” Hood’s voice was quaking. He realized that what he said now could save or doom Harleigh.
“Yes, Mr. Hood?”
“I need your help,” Hood went on. “I need you to radio the terrorists and tell them that you have the money and the helicopter they’ve asked for. If you do that, we can make sure they believe you.”
“But we don’t have those things,” Chatterjee told him. “Nor are we likely to.”
“By the time the terrorists figure that out, they’ll be outside the building,” Hood said. “I’ll have the NYPD ready to get them there.”
“We’ve already tried one very costly attack,” Chatterjee said. “I won’t authorize another.”
Hood didn’t want her to know that he knew that. “This will be different,” Hood said. “If the terrorists are outside, they can’t control all the hostages. We can get some of them away. And if they use poison gas, we’ll be in a better position to help the victims. But you’ve got to call the terrorists now. You’ve also got to tell them that the offer is only good if they don’t kill any more hostages.”
Chatterjee hesitated. Hood couldn’t understand what she was hesitating about. After the hit the security forces had just taken, there was only one answer: I’ll do it. I’ll help save a life and smoke the bastards out. Or did she still think she could open a dialogue, talk the terrorists into surrendering? If he had the time to finesse the situation, he would point out that Colonel Georgiev had apparently helped to turn the UNTAC operation into a sham. He would ask how she could still believe her own propaganda, that peacekeeping and negotiation were somehow the high road and force was the low road.