by Tom Clancy
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,” Moh
alley 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 van. 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?
“Get him out of here,” Colonel Mott said after what was probably just a second or two but seemed infinitely longer. “Are you all right?” he asked the secretary-general.
She nodded.
The emergency medical technicians came forward with a stretcher. They rolled the delegate’s body on top of it. One of the medics placed a thick swatch of gauze against the gaping head wound. This was more for propriety than to help the delegate, who was beyond help.
Behind the guards, the representatives were still and silent. Chatterjee looked at them and they looked at her. Everyone was ashen. Diplomats dealt with horror every day, but they rarely got to experience it.
It was a long moment before Chatterjee remembered the radio in her hand. She quickly composed herself and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Why was that necessary?”
After a short silence, someone answered. “This is Sergio Contini.”
Contini was the Italian delegate. His normally powerful voice was weak and breathy.
Colonel Mott turned toward Chatterjee. His jaw was tight, and there was anger in his dark eyes. He obviously knew what was coming.
“Go ahead, Signore Contini,” Chatterjee said. Unlike Mott, she was holding on to hope.
“I have been asked to tell you that I will be the next victim,” he said. The words came slowly, unsteadily. “I will be shot exactly one—” he stopped and cleared his throat “—exactly one hour from now. There will be no further communication.”
“Please tell your captors that I wish to come inside,” Chatterjee said. “Tell them I want to—”
“They’ve stopped listening,” Mott informed her.
“Excuse me?” Chatterjee said.
The colonel pointed to the small red indicator light on top of the oblong unit. It was off.
Chatterjee lowered her arm slowly. The colonel was wrong. The terrorists never started listening. “How long until we have pictures from inside the chamber?” she asked.
“I’ll send someone downstairs to find out,” Mott said. “We’re maintaining radio silence in case they’re listening.”
“I understand,” Chatterjee said. She returned his radio to him.
Colonel Mott sent one of his security officers downstairs, then ordered two others to clean up the delegate’s blood. If they had to move in, he didn’t want anyone slipping on it.
As Mott spoke with his troops, several of the representatives tried to come forward. Mott ordered his guards to keep them back. He said that he didn’t want anyone blocking the path to the Security Council chambers. If any of the hostages managed to get out, he wanted to be able to protect them.
While Mott kept the crowd orderly, Chatterjee turned her back on the group. She walked toward the picture window that overlooked the front courtyard. It was usually so active out there, even at night, with the fountain and the traffic, people jogging or walking their dogs, lights in the windows of the buildings across the street. Even helicopter traffic was being routed away from midtown — not just in case there was an explosion on the ground but in the event that the terrorists had accomplices. She imagined that barge and pleasure boat traffic was also being stopped along the East River.
The entire enclave was paralyzed. So was she.
Chatterjee took a tremulous breath. She told herself there was nothing they could have done to prevent the delegate’s murder. They couldn’t have put together the ransom, even if the nations had agreed to try. They couldn’t have attacked the Security Council chamber without causing more death. They couldn’t negotiate, though they tried.
And then suddenly it struck her: what she’d done wrong. One thing — one small but significant thing.
Walking over to the representatives, Chatterjee informed them that she was returning to the conference room to notify the delegate’s family of the assassination. Then, she said, she was coming back.
“To do what?” demanded the delegate from the Republic of Fiji.
“To do what I should have done the first time,” she replied, and then headed toward the elevator.
TWENTY-ONE
New York, New York
Saturday, 10:39 P.M.
Reynold Downer went over to Georgiev after killing the Swedish delegate. Except for a few of the children who were crying and the Italian delegate who was praying, everyone in the room was silent and still. The other masked members of the group remained where they were.
Downer stood close enough so that Georgiev could feel th
e warmth of his breath through the mask. There were tiny spots of blood on the fibers.
“We need to talk,” Downer said.
“About what?” Georgiev whispered angrily.
“About throwing more logs on the fire,” Downer snarled.
“Go back to your post,” Georgiev insisted.
“Listen to me. When I opened the door, I saw about twenty or twenty-five armed and shielded security guards in the corridor.”
“Eunuchs,” Georgiev said. “They won’t risk an assault. We’ve talked about this. It will cost them everything.”
“I know.” Downer’s eyes shifted to a secure phone sitting in a duffel bag on the floor. “But your intelligence source said that only France agreed to pay. We don’t have the damned secretary-general as a hostage, the way we planned.”
“That was unfortunate,” Georgiev said, “but not catastrophic. We’ll manage without an advocate.”
“I don’t see how,” Downer said.
“By outwaiting them,” Georgiev said. “When the United States starts to worry that the children are at risk, they will pay whatever the other nations do not. They’ll charge it to their UN debt, find some face-saving way to give it to us. Now, go back and do what you’re supposed to do.”
“I don’t agree with this,” Downer insisted. “I think we need to turn up the heat.”
“There’s no need,” Georgiev said. “We have time, food, and water—”
“That isn’t what I mean!” Downer interrupted.
Georgiev fired him a look. The Australian was getting loud. This was exactly what he expected from Downer. A ritualistic, confrontational nay-saying, as predictable and extreme as a Japanese Kabuki. But it was going on a little too long and getting a little too loud. He was prepared to shoot Downer, to shoot any of his people if he had to. He hoped Downer could see that in his eyes.
