State Of Siege (1999)

by Tom - Op Center 06 Clancy

  "You're inviting a siege," Mott declared.

  "I prefer that to a bloodbath," said Chatterjee. "Besides, we must secure one thing at a time. If we can achieve a postponement of the deadline, perhaps we will be able to find the means to defuse the situation."

  "May I remind you," said Takahara, "the killers indicated that no communication would be acknowledged other than word that the money and transportation were theirs."

  "It doesn't matter if they acknowledge," Chatterjee said. "Only that they listen."

  "Oh, they'll acknowledge, all right," Mott said. "With gunfire. These monsters shot their way into the Security Council. They've got nothing to lose by shooting a few people more."

  "Gentlemen," said Chatterjee, "we can't pay the ransom, and I will not permit an attack on the council chamber." It was obvious to Ani that the secretary-general was growing frustrated. "We are supposed to be the finest diplomats in the world and, at present, we have no options other than diplomacy. Colonel Mott, will you accompany me to the Security Council?"

  "Of course," the officer said.

  He sounded relieved. Chatterjee was smart going out with a soldier at her side. Speak softly, and carry a big stick.

  Ani heard coughs and the sound of chairs being moved. She glanced at her computer clock. The secretary-general had a little over seven minutes until the deadline. That was just enough time to get to the Security Council chamber. The bug would arrive shortly thereafter. Ani removed her headphones and turned to the phone to call David Battat. The line was secure, run through an advanced TAC-SAT 5 unit inside the desk.

  The phone beeped as she reached for it. She picked up the receiver. It was Battat.

  "You're there," Battat said.

  "I'm here," Ani said. "Canceled my hot date and came over as soon as this broke."

  "Good girl," the forty-two-year-old Atlanta native said.

  Ani's fingers went white around the phone. Battat wasn't as bad as some of the others, and she didn't think he meant to be demeaning. It was just something he'd gotten used to in the spy-club-for-men.

  "The attack just broke on the news here," Battat said. "God, I wish I were there. What's happening?"

  The young woman told her superior what Secretary-General Chatterjee was planning. After listening to the plan, Battat sighed.

  "The terrorists are gonna waste the Swede," he said.

  "Maybe not," Ani replied. "Chatterjee is pretty good at this."

  "Diplomacy was invented to powder tyrants' behinds, and I've never seen it work for very long," Battat said. "Which is one of the reasons I'm calling. A former Company man named Bob Herbert phoned about twenty minutes ago. He's with the National Crisis Management Center and needs a place for his SWAT team to crash. If they get a go-ahead from above, they may make a move to get the kids out. The boys up here have no problem with them using DSA as long as they keep our noses out of it. You should expect a General Mike Rodgers, Colonel Brett August, and party in about ninety minutes."

  "Yes sir," she said.

  Ani hung up and waited before returning to her headphones. The news about the NCMC team was a surprise, and it took her a moment to process it. She had been monitoring Secretary-General Chatterjee's conversations for three hours. No mention had been made of military action by the United States. She couldn't believe that the United States would ever become involved militarily in an action at the United Nations compound.

  But if it were true, at least she would be here to watch it unfold. Maybe she could have a hand in organizing the attack plan.

  Under ordinary circumstances, it was energizing to be at the center of what the CIA euphemistically called "an event," especially when there was a "counterevent" in the offing. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

  Ani looked at the computer monitor. There was a detailed blueprint of the United Nations along with icons representing the presence of all the bugs. She watched the progress of the bug following Chatterjee. It would catch up to her in less than a minute.

  She slipped the headphones back on. These were not ordinary circumstances because there was a group of people inside the United Nations--a group depending on her to monitor everything the secretary-general said and planned. A group that had nothing to do with the CIA. The group was led by a man she had met while she was looking for new recruits in Cambodia. A man who had been a CIA operative in Bulgaria and who, like her, had become disenchanted with the way the Company treated him. A man who had spent several years making international contacts of his own, though not to help him gather intelligence. A man who didn't care about a person's sex or nationality, only about his or her ability.

  That was why Ani had come to the office at seven o'clock. She had not come after the attack began, as she'd told Battat. She'd come here because she wanted to be in place before the attack. She would make sure that if Georgiev contacted her on his secure phone, she would be able to give him any intel he needed. She was also monitoring the account in Zurich. As soon as the money was there, she'd disburse it to a dozen other accounts internationally, then erase the trail. Investigators would never find it.

  Georgiev's success would be her success. And her success would be her parents' success. With her share of the two hundred and fifty million dollars, her parents would finally be able to realize the American Dream.

  The irony was, Battat had actually been wrong on two counts. Ani Hampton was not a girl. But even if she were, she would not be what he had called her: a "good girl."

  She was an exceptional one.

  EIGHTEEN

  New York, New York Saturday, 10:29 P.M.

  Mala Chatterjee stood just over five feet, two inches. She barely reached the chin of the silver-haired officer who walked slightly behind her. But the secretary-general's size was not a true measure of her stature. Her dark eyes were large and luminous, and her skin was swarthy and smooth. Her fine black hair was naturally streaked with white and reached to the middle of the shoulder of her sharply tailored black business suit. The only jewelry she wore was a watch and a pair of small pearl earrings.

  There had been some very vocal dissidents back home when she was named to this post and opted not to wear a traditional sari. Even her father was upset. But as Chatterjee had just said in an interview with Newsweek, she was here as a representative of all people and of all faiths, not just her native land and her fellow Hindus. Fortunately, the disarmament pact with Pakistan put the sari issue to rest. It also allayed the very vocal complaints some member nations had had, that the world body had opted to appoint a mediagenic secretary-general rather than an internationally renowned diplomat.

  Chatterjee hadn't doubted her ability to handle this job. She had never encountered any problem that couldn't be resolved by making the first conciliatory move. So many conflicts were caused by the need to save face; remove that element, and the disputes often solved themselves.

  Mala Chatterjee held tight to that belief as she and Colonel Mott rode the elevator down to the second floor. Selected reporters had been allowed into this section of the building, and she answered a few questions as she walked toward the Security Council chamber.

  "We hope the matter can be resolved peaceably . . . our priority is the security and preservation of human life . . . we pray for the families of the hostages and victims to be strong. . . ."

  Secretaries-general had said those exact words or words like those so many times, in so many places around the world, they had almost become a mantra. Yet they were very different here. This wasn't a situation where people had been fighting and hating and dying for years. The war was new, and the enemy was very determined. The words came from her soul, not from memory. Nor were they the only words that had come to mind. After leaving the reporters, she and the colonel walked past the sprawling Golden Rule, a large mosaic based on the painting by Norman Rockwell. It was a gift of the United States on the fortieth anniversary of the United Nations.

  "As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise
." Chatterjee prayed that that would be possible here.

  Representatives of Security Council nations were gathered to the north of the chambers of the Economic and Social Council. Between them and the adjoining Trusteeship Council chamber were twenty-seven guards, the entire force that Colonel Mott had under his command. There was also a team of emergency medical technicians from the NYU Medical Center, which was located ten blocks south of the United Nations. The technicians were all volunteers.

  Secretary-General Chatterjee and Colonel Mott neared the Security Council chamber double doors. They stepped a few yards away. The colonel removed the radio from the loop in his belt. It was preset to the correct frequency. He switched the unit on and handed it to the secretary-general. Chatterjee's hand was cold as she took it. She looked at her watch. It was ten-thirty.

  She'd gone over the words in her head as she walked here, made them as concise as she could. This is Secretary-General Chatterjee. Would it be all right if I came in?

  If the terrorists admitted her, if the deadline passed without a death, then there would be room for talk. For negotiation. Perhaps she could convince them to keep her there in exchange for the children. Chatterjee wasn't even thinking beyond that, to her own fate. For a negotiator, the goal was everything, the means secondary. Truth, deceit, risk, compassion, coldheartedness, resolve, seductiveness; everything was coin of the realm.

  Chatterjee's slender fingers held the radio tightly as she raised the mouthpiece toward her lips. She had to make sure she sounded strong but nonjudgmental. She swallowed to make sure the words didn't catch. Her voice had to be clear. She moistened her lips.

  "This is Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee," she said slowly. She'd decided to add her first name to deformalize the introduction. "Would it be all right if I came in?"

  There was nothing but silence on the radio. The terrorists had said they'd be listening to this channel; they had to have heard. Chatterjee could swear she heard Colonel Mott's heart throbbing in his chest. She could certainly hear her own, like sandpaper up around her ears.

  A moment later, there was a loud crack from behind the double doors of the Security Council chamber. It was followed by screams from deep within the chamber. An instant after that, the nearest of the two doors opened outward. The Swede fell out, except for the back of his head.

  That was on the wall inside the chamber.

  NINETEEN

  New York, New York Saturday, 10:30 P.M.

  Paul Hood had composed himself and returned to the cafeteria. He reached it just as representatives from Department of State security police arrived. Since the parents were all U.S. citizens, the American ambassador had requested that they be moved at once to DOS offices on the other side of First Avenue. The reason given was security, but Hood suspected that sovereignty was the real issue. The United States did not want American citizens interrogated by foreign nationals about a terrorist attack on international soil. It would set a dangerous precedent to allow any government or representatives thereof to hold Americans who were not charged with breaking foreign or international law.

  None of the parents liked the idea of moving from the building where their children were being held. But they went, accompanied by Deputy Chief of Security Bill Mohalley, DOS. Hood made Mohalley out to be about fifty. From the way he stood, with his big shoulders back, his manner clipped and commanding, he had probably come to DOS via the military. The dark-haired Mohalley reiterated that their own government could keep them better protected and better informed. Both statements were true, though Hood wondered how much the government would actually tell them. Armed terrorists had gotten through American security systems to reach the UN. If anything happened to the children, there would be unprecedented lawsuits.

  As they were leaving the cafeteria and starting up the central staircase, the gunshot from the Security Council chamber echoed through the building.

  Everything stopped. Then there were a few distant shouts among the otherwise awful silence.

  Mohalley asked everyone to continue quickly up the stairs. It took a long second before anyone moved. Some of the parents insisted that they go back to the correspondents' room to be close to their children. Mohalley told them that the area had been closed off by United Nations security personnel and it wouldn't be possible to get in. Mohalley urged them to go ahead so he could get them to safety and find out what had happened. They started moving, though several of the mothers and a few of the fathers began to weep.

  Hood put his arm around Sharon. Even though his own legs were weak, he helped her up the stairs. There had only been one shot, so he assumed a hostage had been killed. Hood had always felt that was the worst way to die, robbed of everything to help make someone else's point. A life used as a bloody, impersonal exclamation point, one's loves and dreams ended as though they didn't matter. There was nothing colder to contemplate than that.

  When they reached the lobby, Mohalley received a call on his radio. As he stepped aside to take it, the parents filed into the spotlit park situated between the General Assembly Building and 866 United Nations Plaza. They were met there by two of Mohalley's aides.

  The call was brief. When it was finished, Mohalley rejoined the group at the head. As they filed past, he asked Hood if he could talk to him for a moment.

  "Of course," Hood said. He felt his mouth grow very dry. "Was that a hostage?" he asked. "The gunshot?"

  "Yes, sir," Mohalley said. "One of the diplomats."

  Hood felt sick and relieved at the same time. His wife had stopped a few steps away. He motioned for her to go ahead, that everything was okay. At the moment, okay was a very relative term.

  "Mr. Hood," Mohalley said, "we did a quick background check on all the parents, and your Op-Center record came up--"

  "I've resigned," Hood said.

  "We know," Mohalley told him. "But your resignation doesn't become effective for another twelve days. In the meantime," he went on, "we have a potentially serious problem that you'll be able to help us with."

  Hood looked at him. "What kind of problem?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say," Mohalley told him.

  Hood hadn't really expected Mohalley to tell him. Not here. The State Department was paranoid about security outside its own offices, though here they had a right to be. Every diplomat, every consulate was here to help their country. That included being "on the line," using everything from eavesdropping to electronics to listen in on conversations.

  "I understand," Hood said. "But it's related to this?" he pressed.

  "Yes, sir. Will you follow me?" Mohalley said. It was less a question than a statement.

  Hood glanced toward the courtyard. "What about my wife--"

  "We'll tell her we needed your help," Mohalley informed him. "She'll understand. Please, sir, this is important."

  Hood looked into the man's steel-gray eyes. Part of Hood--the part that felt guilty about Sharon--wanted to tell Mohalley to go to hell. Lowell Coffey had once said, "The needs of a state come before the needs of estate." Hood had gotten out of government for that reason. A delegate had just been shot, and their daughter was being held by his killers--killers who had vowed to murder another person every hour. Hood should be with his wife.

  Yet there was also a part of him that didn't want to sit around and wait for others to act. If there was something Hood could do to help Harleigh, or if he could collect intel for Rodgers and Striker, he wanted to be in there doing it. He hoped Sharon would understand.

  "All right," Hood said to the security head.

  The men turned and walked briskly toward the courtyard. They headed toward First Avenue, which was blocked by police cars from Forty-second to Forty-seventh Streets. Beyond them was a wall of glare, the lights from TV cameras. Parked along the avenue were three NYPD Emergency Service Unit Radio Emergency Patrol trucks with FAT squads--Fugitive Apprehension Teams--just in case the terrorists were Americans. The bomb squad from the Seventeenth Precinct was also there, complete with their own v
an. Overhead was a pair of NYPD Aviation Unit blue and white Bell-412 helicopters, their powerful spotlights shining on the compound. Cleaning personnel and diplomatic aides were still being evacuated from the UN and from the towers across the avenue.

  In the glow of the white lights, Hood could see his ghostly white wife being led across the street with the other parents. She was looking back, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He waved, but they were immediately blocked by the REP trucks on the UN side of the street and the wall of police on the other.

  Hood followed Mohalley south toward Forty-second Street, where a black State Department sedan was waiting. Mohalley and Hood slipped into the backseat. Five minutes later, they were headed through the renovated Queens-Midtown Tunnel, out of Manhattan.

  Hood listened as Mohalley spoke. And what he heard made him feel as though he'd been sucker punched, pushed into taking a big step in the wrong direction.

  TWENTY

  New York, New York Saturday, 10:31 P.M.

  When the gun sounded inside the Security Council chamber, Colonel Mott immediately moved in front of the secretary-general. If there had been additional gunfire, he would have pushed her back to where his security personnel were standing. The officers had grabbed blast shields, which were stacked off to the side, and were standing behind them.

  But there was no more shooting. There was only the acrid smell of cordite, the cottony deafness caused by the gunshot, and the unthinkable coldness of the execution.

  Secretary-General Chatterjee stared ahead. The mantra had failed. A man had died, and so had hope.

  She had seen death re-created in her father's films. She had seen the aftermath of genocide in videos produced by human rights organizations. Neither of those came close to capturing the dehumanizing reality of murder. She looked at the body lying chest-down on the tile floor. The eyes and mouth were both open wide, and the dead face was like clay, flat on its cheek and turned toward her. Beneath it, blood was spreading evenly in all directions. The man's arms were twisted under his body, and his feet were turned in opposite directions. Where was the shadow of the Atman her faith talked about, the eternal soul of Hinduism? Where was the dignity we supposedly carried with us into the cycle of eternity?