Bernardo was nine.
During his travels with their father, Eduardo had learned other things, as well. Quite by chance, in a small tavern in San Javier, he discovered the Marxist Movimiento de Liberacion Nacional-Tupamaros. The guerrilla group had been founded in 1962 by Raul Antonaccio Sendic, leader of the sugarcane workers of northern Uruguay. The government had been unable to control inflation, which went as high as 35 percent, and laborers were particularly hard hit. In the aggressive Sendic movement, Eduardo saw a means by which he could help others like his father who had lost the love of their life and the will to dream. In Eduardo, the group saw someone who could fight and administer medical treatment. It was a good fit. With his father's blessings, Eduardo joined the MLN-T.
In 1972, the despotic Juan Maria Bordaberry Arocena was elected president. Bordaberry had the backing of the well-trained, well-armed military. And one of the first orders of business was to crush the opposition, including the MLN-T, which Eduardo had recently joined. There was a bloody shoot-out in April; by year's end, members were in jail or in exile. Eduardo had ended up in prison, where he died of "unknown" causes. Bernardo's father died less than two years later. He had taken a severe beating in the ring and never recovered. Bernardo always felt that his father wanted to die. He had never been the same after the loss of those who had been so precious to him.
The death of his family turned Bernardo into an angry young firebrand who hated the government of President Bordaberry. Ironically, the military also became disenchanted with the new president and staged its own coup in February 1973. They established the Consejo de Seguridad Nacional. Bernardo enlisted in 1979, hoping to become part of a new order in Uruguay.
But after twelve years of being unable to deal with economic hardship, the military simply returned rule to the people and literally faded from the political scene. The economic situation hadn't changed markedly.
Once again, Bernardo felt betrayed by a cause. The young man remained in the military. As a tribute to his father, he had become skilled in all forms of hand-to-hand combat; he was suited for nothing else. But he never stopped hoping that he would find a way to rekindle the spirit of the MLN-T. To work for the people of Uruguay, not the leaders. Serving with the United Nations in Cambodia, Barone found a way to do just that. To raise money and get attention from the world press, all at the same time.
Barone finished his cigarette. He crushed it on the sidewalk and stood looking at the traffic on the West Side Highway. That was one difference between Montevideo and New York City. In Montevideo, except for the tourist hotels and the bars, everything shut down at sunset. Here, the roads were busy even at this hour. It had to be impossible for authorities to monitor all of it, to keep track of who was coming and going, of what was in the trucks and vans.
Lucky for us, he thought.
It was also impossible for the police to watch every plane that came into the small airstrips that surrounded the city. Airports and even open fields in upstate New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania were perfect for small planes to slip in and out unnoticed. Waterways in those states were also ideal spots. A deserted bay or riverbank in the small hours of the morning. Crates quickly and quietly loaded from boat or seaplane to truck. Easy entry, and so close to New York. That, too, was lucky for the team.
An hour passed, then another. Barone had known this was going to take a while, since Downer needed time to examine each of the weapons. Though arms dealers could usually get a client what he wanted, that didn't necessarily mean the weapons would be in perfect working order. Like refugees, a hot weapon never got to travel first class. The wait didn't bother the Uruguayan. What mattered was that the weapon work when he aimed and fired.
Something to the left caught his eye. He turned. Near the mouth of the river, the Statue of Liberty was just catching the first rays of dawn. Barone hadn't realized the monument was out there, and seeing it at first surprised and then angered him. He had no gripe with the United States and her cherished notions of freedom and equality. But there, in the harbor, was a giant idol celebrating a spiritual concept. It seemed sacrilegious. The way he was raised, these things were very personal. They were celebrated in the heart, not in the harbor.
Finally, shortly before seven A.M., the door behind him opened. Downer leaned out.
"You're to come around back," the Australian said, then shut the door.
Barone didn't feel like making fun of Downer's accent. Since the incident in the helicopter over Paris, he hadn't felt like talking to the unrepentent mercenary Downer at all.
Barone turned to his left and walked around the side of the building. His new boots had deeply treaded rubber soles that squeaked on the asphalt as he made his way along the driveway. To his right was a tire shop surrounded by a high chain-link fence. A guard dog slept in the shadows. Earlier in the evening, the soldier had tossed him some of his hamburger--American meat tasted funny to the Uruguayan--and the animal became his best friend.
Barone walked past a pair of green trash bins to where the rented van was parked. There were seventeen weapons--three guns for each man and a pair of rocket launchers--plus ammunition and bulletproof vests. Each weapon was swaddled in bubble wrap. Sazanka and Vandal were already carrying them from the body shop as Barone hopped into the open side door of the van. As the men handed the weapons up, Barone carefully placed them in six plain cardboard boxes. Downer watched from the back door of the body shop, making sure none of the weapons were dropped. It was the first time Barone had ever seen the Australian so quiet and professional.
As he worked, the sense of loneliness left the Uruguayan. Not because he was with his teammates but because he was moving again. They were close to their goal now. Barone had always believed in the plan, but now he believed they might actually pull this off. Just a few small steps remained.
Months before, Georgiev had obtained a counterfeit New York State driver's license. Since rental car companies routinely checked police records before letting cars off the lot, the Bulgarian had to pay extra to have it entered into the motor vehicle department computer system. He even gave himself a traffic ticket a year before, not just to show residency but because people who drove in big cities usually got one. A clean record might arouse suspicions.
All the team had to do now was make certain they didn't run any lights or have an accident before reaching the hotel. They'd drawn straws earlier, and Vandal would be sleeping in the van while the others went up to the room to rest. Georgiev didn't want to risk the van being stolen by Ustinoviks.
Then, at seven P.M., they'd leave the hotel garage and head to Forty-second Street. They'd drive east, across town, and at First Avenue they'd turn north. Once again, Georgiev would drive carefully.
Then, suddenly, he would speed up. He would approach the target at between sixty and seventy miles an hour, and in less than ten minutes, the target would fall.
The United Nations would be theirs. And then the third and final part of their plan could commence.
SIX
New York, New York Saturday, 6:45 P.M.
The League of Nations was formed after World War I, conceived, in the words of its covenant, "to promote international cooperation and to achieve international peace and security." Though President Woodrow Wilson was a fierce advocate of the League, the American Senate wanted no part of it. Their key objections involved the potential use of United States troops to help preserve the territorial integrity or political independence of other countries, and acknowledging the jurisdiction of the League in matters pertaining to North, Central, or South America. President Wilson collapsed and suffered a stroke as a result of his ceaseless efforts to promote American acceptance of the League and its mandate.
Housed in a spectacular, six-million-dollar palace built for it in Geneva, the League and its noble intentions proved ineffectual. They were unable to prevent the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in 1931, Italy's taking of Ethiopia in 1935, and the German conquest of Austria in 1938. It
was also notably ineffective in preventing World War II. It's a matter of ongoing debate whether an American presence in the League would have changed the unfolding of any of these events.
The United Nations was formed in 1945 to try to accomplish what the League of Nations had failed to do. This time, however, things were different. The United States had a reason to be actively involved with the sovereignty of other nations. Communism was perceived as the greatest threat to the American way of life, and each nation that fell gave the enemy another foothold.
The United Nations chose the United States as the home of its international headquarters. Not only had the United States emerged from World War II as the world's dominant military and economic force, but it had agreed to provide one-quarter of the United Nations's annual operating budget. Moreover, because of the despotic tradition of many European nations, the Old World was deemed unacceptable as a site for a world body promoting a new era of peace and understanding. New York was selected because it had become the hub of international communications and finance and was also the traditional link between the Old World and the New. Two other potential sites in America were rejected for very different reasons. San Francisco, which was favored by the Australians and Asians, was vetoed because the Soviet Union did not want to make travel more convenient for the hated Chinese or Japanese. And rustic Fairfield County, on the Long Island Sound in Connecticut, was disqualified when New Englanders, opposed to what they perceived as the onset of "world government," stoned United Nations prospectors who were looking at possible locations.
A large parcel of land for the new United Nations headquarters--the site of an abattoir on the East River--was bought with $8.5 million donated by the Rockefellers. The family was granted a tax exemption for their gift. The Rockefellers also benefited from the development of land they still owned all around the new complex. Offices, housing, restaurants, shopping, and entertainment came to the once-dilapidated neighborhood in order to service the thousands of delegates and workers who staffed the United Nations.
The limited acreage made available for the project caused two things to happen. First, the headquarters had to be designed in skyscraper form. The skyscraper was a uniquely American invention created to maximize space on the small island of Manhattan, and the look of the complex would make the United Nations even more American. However, this limitation suited the founders of the United Nations. It gave them an excuse to decentralize key functions of the organization, from the World Court to the International Labor Organization. These were located in other world capitals. The UN's principal ancillary headquarters was established at the old League of Nations palace in Geneva. This was a pointed reminder to the United States that a world peace group had been tried once before and failed because not every nation was committed.
Paul Hood remembered some of that from junior high school. He also remembered something else from junior high school. Something that had permanently shaped his view of the building itself. He had come to New York from Los Angeles for a week during the Christmas vacation with other honor students. As they drove to the city from Kennedy International Airport, he looked across the East River and saw the United Nations at dusk. All the other skyscrapers he saw were facing north and south: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Pan Am Building. But the thirty-nine-story glass-and-marble United Nations Secretariat Building was facing east and west. He happened to mention that to James LaVigne who was in the seat next to him.
The thin, bespectacled, very intense LaVigne looked up from The Mighty Thor comic book he was reading. The magazine was hidden inside a copy of Scientific American.
"You know what that reminds me of?" LaVigne said.
Hood said he had no idea.
"It's like the symbol on Batman's chest."
"What do you mean?" Hood asked. He had never read a Batman comic book and had only seen the popular TV show once, just to see what everyone was talking about.
"Batman wears a bright gold-and-black bat symbol on his chest," LaVigne said. "Do you know why?"
Hood said that he did not.
"Because Batman wears a bulletproof vest under his costume," LaVigne said. "If a criminal starts shooting at him, that's where Batman wants him to aim. At his chest."
LaVigne returned to his comic book. The twelve-year-old Hood turned back to the United Nations building. LaVigne often made bizarre observations, his favorite being that Superman was a retelling of the New Testament. But this one made sense. Hood wondered if New York had built it that way on purpose. If someone wanted to attack the United Nations from the river or airport, it was a big, fat target for a Cuban or Chinese secret agent.
Because of that vivid childhood impression, Paul Hood always thought of the United Nations as New York's bull's-eye. And now that he was here, he felt surprisingly vulnerable. Intellectually, he knew that made no sense. The United Nations was on international territory. If terrorists wanted to strike at America, they would attack the infrastructure--the railroads, bridges, or tunnels--like the terrorists who blew up the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and forced Op-Center to work with its Russian counterpart. Or monuments like the Statue of Liberty. When he was on Liberty Island that morning, Hood was surprised how accessible the island was from the air and sea. Coming over on the ferry, he was disturbed to see how easy it would be for a pair of suicide pilots in planes loaded with explosives to reduce the statue to slag. There was a radar system located in the administration complex, but Hood knew that the NYPD harbor patrol had only one gunship stationed on nearby Governor's Island. Two planes coming from opposite directions, with the statue itself blocking the gunship's fire, would enable at least one terrorist to reach the target.
You stayed at Op-Center too long, he told himself. Here he was on vacation, running crisis scenarios.
He shook his head and looked around. He and Sharon had arrived early and gone down to the gift shop to get Alexander a T-shirt. Then they went up to the vast public lobby of the General Assembly Building, near the bronze statue of Zeus, to wait for the UN Youth Arts representative. The lobby had been closed to the public since four o'clock so employees could set up for the annual peace reception. Because it was a clear, beautiful night, guests would be able to eat inside and chat outside. They could roam the north-side courtyard, admiring the sculptures and gardens, or walk along the East River promenade. At 7:30, the new Indian United Nations Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee would go to the Security Council chambers with representatives of member nations of the Security Council. There, Ms. Chatterjee and the Spanish ambassador would congratulate the members for the massive United Nations peacekeeping effort being mounted to prevent further ethnic unrest in Spain. Then Harleigh and her fellow violinists would play "A Song of Peace." The composition had been written by a Spanish composer to honor those who died over sixty years before in the Spanish Civil War. Musicians from Washington had been selected to perform, which turned out to be fitting because an American, Op-Center's Martha Mackall, had been the first victim of the recent unrest. It was a coincidence that Paul Hood's daughter was among the eight violinists chosen.
The twelve other parents had all arrived, and Sharon had scooted off downstairs to find the rest room. The musicians had come down to say a brief hello a few minutes before she left. Harleigh had looked so mature in her white satin gown and pearls. Young Barbara Mathis, who was standing beside Harleigh, was also calm and poised, a diva in the making. Hood knew that Harleigh's appearance was the reason Sharon excused herself. She didn't like to cry in public. Harleigh had been studying violin since she was four and wearing overalls. He was used to seeing her that way, or in her track and field clothes when she was earning all her ribbons. To see her walk upstairs from the dressing room, an accomplished musician and a woman, was overwhelming. Hood had asked his daughter if she were nervous. She said no. The composer had done the hard part. Harleigh was poised and she was smart, too.
Now that Hood thought about it, the old bull's-eye image of the United N
ations probably wasn't what made him feel vulnerable. It was now. This moment, this point in his life.
Standing in the open four-story-tall lobby, Hood felt very much alone. He felt detached from so many things. His kids were growing, he'd ended a career, he felt estranged from his wife in so many ways, and Hood would no longer be seeing the people he'd worked with so closely for over two years. Is that what he was supposed to feel halfway through his life? Vulnerable and adrift?
He didn't know. Everyone he'd associated with at Op-Center--Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers, Darrell McCaskey, computer genius Matt Stoll, and even the late Martha Mackall--were single. Their job was their life. The same was true of Colonel Brett August, head of the Striker team. Had being with them made him like this? Or was he drawn to them because he wanted that life?
If the latter were true, he was going to have a very difficult time making his new life work. Maybe he should talk to psychologist Liz Gordon about this while he was still eligible for office perks. Although she was single, too, and worked about sixty hours a week.
Hood saw Sharon come up the winding staircase on the other side of the lobby. She was dressed in a smart beige pantsuit and she looked terrific. He'd told her so back at the hotel, and that had put a little bounce in her step. The bounce was still there. She smiled at him, and he smiled back as she approached. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so alone.
A young Japanese woman walked toward them. She was wearing a navy blue blazer, a laminated ID badge on her breast pocket, and a big, welcoming smile. She came from a small lobby located on the eastern side of the General Assembly Building. Unlike the main lobby, which was located on the far northern end of the building, the smaller lobby adjoined the main plaza in front of the towering Secretariat Building. In addition to the offices of the member nations, the Secretariat Building housed the halls of the Security Council, the Economic and Social Council, and the Trusteeship Council. That was where they were headed. The three magnificent auditoriums were situated side by side, overlooking the East River. The United Nations Correspondents Club, which was where the parents would be taken, was located across the hall from the Security Council.
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