by Tom Clancy
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 Nations 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 laminate
d 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.
The young guide introduced herself as Kako Nogami. As the visting parents followed her, the young lady went into an abbreviated version of her tour-guide speech.
“How many of you have been to the United Nations before?” she asked, walking backward.
Several parents raised their hands. Hood didn’t. He was afraid Kako would ask what he remembered about it, and he’d have to tell her about James LaVigne and Batman.
“To refresh your memories,” she went on, “and for the benefit of our new guests, I’d like to tell you a little about the area of the United Nations we’ll be visiting.”
The guide explained that the Security Council is the United Nations’s most powerful body, primarily responsible for maintaining international peace and security.
“Five influential countries including the United States sit as permanent members,” she said, “along with ten others, elected for two-year terms. Tonight, your children will be playing for the ambassadors of these nations along with their executive staffs.
“The Economic and Social Council, as the name implies, serves as a forum for the discussion of international economic and social issues,” the young woman went on. “The council also promotes human rights and basic freedoms. The Trusteeship Council, which suspended operations in 1994, helped territories around the world attain self-government or independence, either as sovereign states or as part of other nations.”
For just a moment, Hood thought it would be fascinating to run this place. Keeping the peace inside, among the delegates, had to be as challenging as keeping the peace outside. As though sensing his thoughts, Sharon slipped her fingers between his and squeezed tightly. He let the idea go.
The group passed a large, ground-floor window that looked out onto the main plaza. Outside was the Shinto-style shrine that housed the Japanese Peace Bell. It was cast from coins and metal donated by people from sixty nations. Just past the window, the lobby fed into a wide corridor. Straight ahead were elevators used by UN delegates and their staff. To the right was a series of display cases. The guide led them over. The cases contained relics of the atom bomb blast that razed Hiroshima: fused cans, charred school clothes and roof tiles, melted bottles, and a pocked stone statue of Saint Agnes. The Japanese guide described the destructive force and intensity of the blast.
The exhibit wasn’t moving Hood or Barbara’s father Hal Mathis, whose father had died on Okinawa. Hood wished that Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers were here. Rodgers would have asked the guide to show them the Pearl Harbor exhibit next. The one about the attack that happened when the two nations weren’t at war. At twenty-two or twenty-three years old, Hood wondered if the young woman would have understood the context of the question. Herbert would have raised a stink even before they got this far. The intelligence chief had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the terrorist bombing of the United States embassy in Beirut in 1983. He had gotten on with his life, but he did not forgive easily. In this case, Hood wouldn’t have blamed him. One of the UN publications Hood had browsed through at the gift shop described Pearl Harbor as “the Hirohito attack,” tacitly absolving the Japanese people of guilt in the crime. Even the more politically correct Hood found the revisionist history disturbing.
After finishing at the Hiroshima exhibit, the group went up two flights of escalators to the upstairs lobby. To their left were the three auditoriums with the Security Council chambers located on the far end. The parents were led to the old press bull pen across the hall. There was a guard outside, a member of the United Nations Security Forces. The African-American man was dressed in a powder blue short-sleeve shirt, blue gray trousers with a black stripe down each leg, and a navy blue cap. His name tag read Dillon. When they arrived, Mr. Dillon unlocked the bull pen door and let them in.
Today, reporters generally work in the high-tech television press rooms situated in long, glass booths on either side of the Security Council auditorium. These booths are accessible by a common corridor between the Security Council and the Economic and Social Council. But in the 1940s, this spacious, windowless L-shaped room was the heart of the United Nations’s media center. The first part of the room was lined with old desks, telephones, a few banged-up computer terminals, and hand-me-down fax machines. In the larger second half of the room — the base of the L — were vinyl couches, a rest room, a supply closet, and four TV monitors mounted on the wall. Ordinarily, the monitors displayed whatever discussion was going on in the Security Council or Economic and Social Council. By putting on head-sets and switching channels, observers could listen in whatever language they wished. Tonight they’d be watching Ms. Chatterjee’s speech followed by the recital. A pair of card tables at the end of the room held sandwiches and a coffeemaker. There were soft drinks in a small refrigerator.
After thanking the parents for their cooperation, Kako very politely reminded them what they’d been told by letter and by the United Nations representative who had met them at the hotel the night before. For security reasons, they must remain in this room for the duration of the event. She said she would be returning with their children at eight-thirty. Hood wondered if the guard had been posted to keep tourists out of the press room or to keep them in.
Hood and Sharon walked over to the sandwich table.
One of the men pointed to the plastic plates and utensils. “See what happens when the U.S. doesn’t pay its dues?” he cracked.
The veteran Washington police officer was referring to the nation’s billion-dollar debt, a result of the Senate’s unhappiness with what it characterized as chronic waste, fraud, and financial abuses at the United Nations. Key among these charges was that money allocated for UN peacekeeping forces was being used to bolster the military resources of participating nations.
Hood smiled politely. He didn’t want to think about big budgets and big government and greenback diplomacy. He and his wife had had a good day today. After their tense first night in New York, Sharon tried to relax. She savored the pleasant fall sunshine at Liberty Island and didn’t let the crowds get to her. She enjoyed Alexander’s excitement at learning all the technical facts about the statue and at being left alone with his video games and less-than-nutritious takeout from a salad bar on Seventh Avenue. Hood wasn’t going to let imprisonment or America-bashing or cheap utensils ruin that.
Harleigh may have been the catalyst for all these good feelings, but neither their daughter nor Alexander was the glue.
There’s something here, Hood told himself as they filled their plates and then sat on one of the old vinyl couches to await their daughter’s New York City debut. He wanted to hold onto that feeling in the same way that he had held Sharon’s hand.
Tightly.
SEVEN
New York, New York
Saturday, 7:27 P.M.
Traffic in Times Square is extremely dense after seven P.M. on Saturday night as theatergoers arrive from out of town. Limousines clog the side streets, garages have cars lined up waiting to get in, and cabs and buses inch through the center of the theater district.
Georgiev had allowed for the delay when he planned this part of the operation. When he finally turned east on Forty-second Street and rolled toward Bryant Park, he was relaxed and confident. So were the other members of the team. But then, if he hadn’t served with them, seen that they were cool
under pressure, he never would have recruited them for this mission.
Apart from Reynold Downer, the forty-eight-year-old former colonel of the Bulgarian People’s Army was the only truly mercenary man on the team. Barone wanted money to help his people back home. Sazanka and Vandal had issues of honor dating back to World War II. Issues that money would clear away. Georgiev had a different problem. He’d spent nearly ten years as part of the CIA-financed underground in Bulgaria. He’d fought the Communists for so long that he couldn’t adapt to an era that had no enemy. He had no trade apart from soldiering, the army was not paying its people with regularity, and he was much poorer now than he’d been taking American dollars and living under the shadow of the Soviet empire. He wanted to open a new business: financing petroleum and natural gas exploitation. He would do that with his share of the take from today’s mission.
Because of Georgiev’s familiarity with CIA tactics and his fluency in American English, the others had no trouble with him leading this half of the operation. Besides, as he’d proven when he organized the prostitution ring in Cambodia, he was a natural leader.
Georgiev drove slowly, carefully. He watched out for jaywalking pedestrians. He didn’t tailgate. He didn’t shout at taxi drivers who cut him off. He didn’t do anything that would cause him to be stopped by the police. It was ironic. He was about to commit an act of destruction and murder that the world would not soon forget. Yet here he was, the model of tranquil, lawful motoring. There was a time, growing up, when Georgiev wanted to be a philosopher. Maybe when all of this was over, he would finally get to take that up. Contrasts fascinated him.
