State Of Siege (1999)

by Tom - Op Center 06 Clancy

  But Harleigh could smell the tartness of the gunpowder--or whatever the smell was--wafting from the man's gun. And she thought she saw blood spots on his glove. Fear froze her throat and loosened her insides. Her legs really did go weak, though at the thighs, not the knees. She didn't say anything and then got angry at herself for having been afraid. Talking could have gotten her shot, but it also might have made the intruders sympathetic toward her. Or maybe they would have made her a spokesperson or a group leader or something that would have taken her mind off her fear. And what if they all got shot later? Not necessarily by these people but by whoever came to save them. Her dying thought would be that she should have said something before. As she watched him go, she almost said something again, but her mouth wouldn't let her.

  Shortly thereafter one of the men--again speaking very quietly, with an accent that sounded Australian--began collecting people around the table. The children were first. He told them to leave their instruments where they were, on the floor, and come over.

  Harleigh's violin case was already open, and she took the time to lay the instrument inside. It wasn't a small, belated act of defiance. She wasn't even testing the man to see what she could get away with. Her parents had given the violin to her, and she wasn't going to let anything happen to it. Fortunately, the man either didn't notice or decided to let it go.

  As Harleigh sat at the circular table, she felt very exposed. She'd liked it better by the drapes, in the corner.

  The fear, which had been liquid, began to solidify. Harleigh began trembling as she sat there and was almost glad when one of the girls beside her began to shake. Poor Laura Sabia. Laura was her best friend, but she was a skittish girl to begin with. She looked like she wanted to scream.

  Harleigh touched her hand and caught her eye and smiled at her. It's going to be okay, her smile said.

  The girl didn't respond to that. She did respond when the masked man began walking toward them. He didn't have to say a thing, didn't even have to walk all the way over. Just coming over scared her to silence.

  Harleigh patted the girl's fingers and then withdrew her hand. She folded her hands in front of her. Harleigh drew a deep breath through her nose and stopped herself from trembling. A girl across the table saw her and did likewise. After a moment, the girl smiled. Harleigh smiled back. She discovered that fear was like being cold. If you relaxed, it wasn't as bad.

  The cavernous room became quiet. There was a feeling of tense resignation at the table, an awareness that the quiet was thin and could be broken at any moment. Inside the table, the diplomats seemed a little more restless than the musicians, probably because they were the most vulnerable. The intruders seemed very angry about somebody not being there, but Harleigh didn't know who. Perhaps the secretary-general, who had been late.

  Ms. Dorn was sitting at the head of the table. She made eye contact with each of her violinists, making sure they were all right. Each girl responded in turn with a little nod. It was all bravery, Harleigh knew; no one was really okay. But in the absence of anything else, the sense of we're all in this together was something to hold onto.

  Harleigh thought she heard footsteps outside the door. Security people were bound to show up. She looked around for places to hide if something did happen, if people began shooting. Behind the horseshoe table looked like the safest spot. She could run over, slide across, and be on the other side in a matter of moments. She lifted her knees very slowly against the bottom of this table, like she did to her desk at school when she was bored--make it seem to float. The table rose slightly, which meant it wasn't bolted to the floor. They could turn it over and duck behind it if they had to.

  As Harleigh thought about defending themselves, she experienced a flash of terror. She wondered if this might have something to do with her father and Op-Center. He had never talked about work at home, not even when he and her mother had argued. Could it be that Op-Center had wronged these people in some way? She had learned in civics class that except for Israel, the United States was the largest target of terrorism in the world. The violinists were the only Americans here. Were they after her? What if they didn't know her father had resigned? What if they wanted to control her to control him?

  The flesh of her neck and shoulders grew warm. Harleigh began to perspire along her sides. The gown that had felt so new, so elegant, clung to her like a bathing suit.

  This isn't happening, she thought. It was the kind of thing you saw on the news happening to other people. There were supposed to be safeguards here, weren't there? Metal detectors, guards at the doors, security cameras.

  Suddenly, the man who'd been talking to the delegate from Sweden called the Australian man over. After a short discussion, the Australian man grabbed the delegate by the collar, hoisted him up and, at gunpoint, walked him up the stairs toward the door.

  Harleigh wished she had her violin to hug close. She wished she could be held by her mother. Her mom was probably frantic--unless she was trying to be Ms. Calm to other frantic mothers. She probably was. That had to be where Harleigh got it from. Then she thought of her father. When Harleigh's mother had taken her and Alexander to visit their grandparents and figure out their future, her father decided to give up his career rather than lose them. She wondered if he'd be able to look at this as another crisis and think calmly, even though his daughter was involved.

  The Australian man returned. After exchanging a few rough words with the delegate, he took the paper from him and shoved the man along the stairs. Harleigh assumed that their captors had just given someone a list of demands. She no longer thought that she might be the target. She felt her neck cool. They were going to get through this.

  The Swedish delegate was seated with the other delegates, back on the floor with his hands on his head. Harleigh assumed it was time to wait. That would be all right. Her father had once said that as long as people were talking, they weren't shooting. She hoped so.

  She decided not to think about it. Instead, quietly, very quietly, she did what she came here for.

  She hummed "A Song of Peace."

  SIXTEEN

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland Saturday, 10:09 P.M.

  After hanging up with Colonel August, Mike Rodgers looked at the clock on his computer screen. The LongRanger would be at Andrews in about twenty-five minutes. The C-130 would be ready to go by then.

  Bob Herbert looked over at the general. The intelligence chief scowled. "Mike? Are you listening?"

  "Yes," Rodgers said. "You've got a team working on Mala Chatterjee's past to see who might want to humiliate the new secretary-general. Possibly fellow Hindus who oppose her public stand on behalf of women's rights. You're also checking the whereabouts of the people Paul helped to stop in Russia and Spain, in case this is about him."

  "Right," Herbert said.

  Rodgers nodded and rose slowly; the damn bandages were constricting. "Bob, I'm going to need you to run the show here for a while."

  Herbert seemed surprised. "Why? Aren't you feeling okay?"

  "I'm feeling fine," Rodgers said. "I'll be going to New York with Striker. I'm also going to need a base of operations once we get there. Something near the United Nations that could also serve as a staging area. The CIA must have a shell in that neighborhood."

  "There's one right across the street, I believe," Herbert said. "Eastern tower of the twin skyscrapers, UN Plaza. The Doyle Shipping Agency, I think it's called. They keep an eye on the comings and goings of spooks pretending to be diplomats, probably gather ELINT as well."

  "Can you get us in?"

  "Probably." Herbert's mouth twisted unhappily. He glanced across the table at Lowell Coffey.

  Rodgers caught the look. "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Mike," Herbert said, "we're on pretty shaky ground as far as Striker is concerned."

  "Shaky in what way?" Rodgers asked.

  Herbert raised and lowered a shoulder. "In a lot of ways--"

  "Spell them out. Morally? Legally? Logis
tically?"

  "All of the above," Herbert said.

  "Maybe I'm being a little naive here," Rodgers said, "but what I see is a strike force with extensive antiterrorist training moving into position to deal with terrorists. Where's the moral, legal, or logistical shakiness?"

  Attorney Coffey spoke up. "For one thing, Mike, we haven't been asked to help the United Nations with this situation. That in itself weighs pretty heavily against you."

  "Granted," Rodgers said. "Hopefully, I can arrange that when I get there, especially if the terrorists start sending bodies out. Darrell McCaskey's communicating with Chatterjee's security staff through Interpol--"

  "At a very low level," Herbert reminded him. "The UN security commander isn't going to put a lot of stock in what an aide tells him secondhand through an Interpol guy in Madrid."

  "We don't know that," Rodgers said. "Hell, we don't know anything about the commander, do we?"

  "My staff is reviewing his file," Herbert said. "He's not someone we've had any dealings with."

  "Regardless," Rodgers said. "He's in a situation where he's probably going to have to look outside for help. For real, solid, immediate help, wherever it's coming from."

  "But Mike, that's not the only problem," Coffey said.

  Rodgers looked down at the computer clock. The chopper would be here in less than twenty minutes. He didn't have time for this.

  "Countries that have no interest in the outcome of this situation will absolutely not want a covert team of elite, United States forces moving through the Secretariat building."

  "Since when are we worried about hurting the feelings of Iraqis and the French?" Rodgers asked.

  "It isn't a matter of feelings," Coffey pointed out. "It's a question of international law."

  "Christ, Lowell--the terrorists broke that law!" Rodgers said.

  "That doesn't mean we can, too," Coffey said. "Even if we're willing to break international law, every Striker action to date has been executed according to Op-Center's charter--U.S. law. Specifically, we've gotten the permission of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee--"

  "I'm not worried about a goddamn court-martial, Lowell," Rodgers interrupted sharply.

  "This isn't about personal culpability," Coffey said. "It's about Op-Center's survival."

  "I agree," Rodgers said. "Its about our survival as an effective, counterterrorist force--"

  "No," Coffey said, "as a division of the United States government. We were chartered to act, and I quote, 'when the threat to federal institutions or any constituents thereof, or to American lives in the service of those institutions, is clear-cut and immediate.' I don't see that here. What I do see is that if you go in, whether you succeed or fail is irrelevant--"

  "Not to Paul and the other parents."

  "This isn't about them!" Coffey snapped. "It's about the larger picture. The American public will applaud. Hell, I'll applaud. But France or Iraq or some member nation will pressure the administration to take us to task for overstepping our mandate."

  "Especially if the terrorists turn out to be foreigners and any of them are killed," Herbert said. "American soldiers effectively executing foreign nationals on international territory with every media outlet in the world covering the event will destroy us."

  "And they'll do it with American law, not international law," Coffey added. "Congress will have no choice but to pull everyone in this room in front of the CIOC. Never mind our careers. If they vote to dissolve Op-Center or even just Striker, how many future lives will be lost? How many battles won't we be able to fight that have a direct influence on the security of the United States?"

  "I can't believe this," Rodgers said. "We're talking about children being held hostage!"

  "Unfortunately," Herbert said, "as angry as it makes us all, the threat to the delegates and to Paul's daughter doesn't fall under those parameters. Saving her is a luxury we may not be able to afford."

  "A luxury?" Rodgers said. "Jesus, Bob, you're talking like a goddamned Camp Fire girl!"

  Herbert glared at Rodgers. "That was my late wife. She was the Camp Fire girl."

  Rodgers looked at Herbert and then looked down. The ventilators in the ceiling sounded very loud.

  "Since the subject has been raised," Herbert continued, "my wife was also a victim of terrorists. I know what you're feeling, Mike. The frustration. I know what Paul and Sharon are feeling. And I also know that Lowell is right. The place for Op-Center in this fight is on the sidelines."

  "Doing nothing."

  "Surveillance, tactical assistance, moral support--if we can contribute those, they aren't nothing," Herbert said.

  " 'They also serve who only stand and wait,' " Rodgers said solemnly.

  "Sometimes, yes." Herbert patted the arms of his wheelchair. "Otherwise, you could end up sitting and waiting. Or worse."

  Rodgers glanced at his watch. Lowell Coffey had made valid legal points. And Rodgers's stumble about Yvonne Herbert had given her husband the right to sermonize. But that didn't make either man right.

  "I've got about fifteen minutes to meet the plane," Rodgers said quietly. "Bob, I've already put you in charge. If you want to stop me, you can." He looked at Liz Gordon. "Liz, you can have me declared mentally unfit, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever the hell you want. If you do, I won't fight either of you. But barring that, I won't stand and wait. I can't. Not while a band of murderers is holding kids hostage."

  Herbert shook his head slowly. "This one's not that black and white, Mike."

  "That's no longer the issue," Rodgers said to him. "Are you going to stop me?"

  Herbert stopped shaking his head. "No," he said. "I'm not."

  "May I ask why?" Coffey asked indignantly.

  Herbert sighed. "Yeah. In the CIA, we used to call it respect."

  Coffey made a face.

  "If a superior wanted to bend the rules, you bent them," Herbert went on. "All you could do was try not to bend 'em so far that they came around and bit you in the ass."

  Coffey sat back. "I expect that from the Cosa Nostra, not the lawful government of the United States," he said unhappily.

  "If we were all so damn virtuous, lawful government wouldn't be necessary," Herbert said.

  Rodgers looked at Liz. She was not happy either.

  "Well?" Rodgers said.

  "Well what?" Liz said. "I'm not a brick in Bob's wall of silence, but I'm not going to stop you. Right now, you're being headstrong, impatient, and you're probably acting out, looking to hit someone hard for what your captors did in the Bekaa Valley. But unfit? From a psychological standpoint, not a legal one, I can't say you're unfit."

  Rodgers looked back at Herbert. "Bob, will you try to get me into the CIA shell?"

  Herbert nodded.

  Rodgers looked at Coffey. "Lowell, will you go to the CIOC? See if they'll call an emergency meeting?"

  Coffey's thin mouth was tight, and his polished fingernails were tapping the table. But above all, the attorney was a professional. He hooked back his sleeve and looked at his watch.

  "I'll call Senator Warren on his mobile phone," Coffey said. "He's our most sympathetic ear over there. But those people are tough enough to reach on a weekday. On a weekend, at night--"

  "I understand," Rodgers said. "Thanks. You, too, Bob."

  "Sure thing," Herbert replied.

  Coffey was already looking up the phone number on his electronic pocket directory as Rodgers looked over at Matt Stoll and Ann Farris. The technical genius was staring intently at his folded hands, and the press liaison was quiet, her expression noncommittal. He thought he might get her approval since he was trying to help Paul Hood, but he wasn't going to ask. He turned toward the door.

  "Mike?" Herbert said.

  Rodgers looked back at him. "Yes?"

  "Whatever you need, you know you've got our support back here," Herbert said.

  "I know."

  "Just try not to destroy the Secretariat Building, okay?" He
rbert said. "And one more thing."

  "What's that?" Rodgers asked.

  "I don't want to find myself running this goddamned place," Herbert said with the hint of a smile. "So make sure you get your headstrong, impatient, acting-out self back here."

  "I'll try," Rodgers said, smiling slightly himself as he opened the door.

  It wasn't exactly the endorsement Rodgers had hoped for but, as he hurried through the cubicles toward the elevator, at least he didn't feel like Gary Cooper in High Noon--alone. And right now, that was something.

  SEVENTEEN

  New York, New York Saturday, 10:11 P.M.

  The short-lived but legendary Office of Strategic Services was formed in June of 1942. Under the leadership of World War I hero William Joseph "Wild Bill" Donovan, the OSS was responsible for collecting military intelligence. After the war, in 1946, President Truman established the Central Intelligence Group, which was chartered to gather foreign intelligence pertaining to national security. A year later, the National Security Act renamed the CIG the Central Intelligence Agency. The act also broadened the scope of the CIA charter to allow it to conduct counterintelligence activities.

  Thirty-two-year-old Annabelle "Ani" Hampton had always enjoyed being a spy. There were so many mental and emotional levels to it, so many sensations. There was danger and there was reward proportionate to the danger. There was a sense of being invisible or, if you were caught, of being more naked than naked. There was a feeling of having power over others, of risking punishment and death. There was also a great deal of planning involved, of positioning yourself just so, of patience, of catching someone in the right frame of mind, of seducing emotionally and sometimes physically.

  It was, in fact, a lot like sex only better, she thought. In spying, if you grew tired of someone you could have them killed. Not that she ever had. Not yet, anyway.

  Ani had enjoyed being a spy because she'd always been a loner. Other children had no curiosity. She did. As a child, she liked to find out where squirrels made their homes or watch birds as they laid their eggs or, depending on her mood, help wild rabbits escape from red foxes or help red foxes snare the hares. She liked to eavesdrop on her father's pinochle games or on her grandmother's teas or on her older brother's dates. She even made a journal of the news she picked up while spying on her family. Which neighbor was "a prick." Which aunt was "a bitch on wheels." Which mother-in-law "should learn to keep her mouth shut." Ani's mother once found the journal and took it away, but that was all right. Ani had been smart enough to keep a duplicate book.