by Tom Clancy
Downer took a breath. He was calmer when he spoke. The message had been received.
“What I’m saying,” Downer went on, “is these bastards don’t seem to be getting the message that we want the money, that we’re not going to talk. Chatterjaw tried to negotiate.”
“We expected that, too,” Georgiev said. “And we closed her down.”
“For now,” Downer grumbled. “She’ll try again. Talk is all these bloody idiots ever do.”
“And it never succeeds,” Georgiev said. “We have contingencies for everything,” the Bulgarian reminded him quietly. “They will comply.”
The Australian was still holding the gun he’d used to kill the Swedish delegate. He shook it as he spoke. “I still think we ought to find out what they’re planning and push the bastards,” Downer said. “I say that after we put down the Italian delegate, we start serving up the kiddies. Maybe torture them first, let a few screams drift through the corridors. Like those Khmer Rouge guerrillas in Cambodia who caught the family dog and cut it up slowly to draw out the family. Put pressure on them to hurry things along.”
“We knew that it would take several bullets to get their attention,” Georgiev whispered back. “We knew that even if there is a willingness to sacrifice delegates, the United States won’t allow the children to die. Not through an attack and not through inactivity. Now, for the last time, return to your post. We will follow our plan.”
Downer left with a huff and an oath, and Georgiev turned his attention back to the hostages. The Bulgarian had also expected this. Reynold Downer was not a patient man. But resolve could be tested and teamwork strengthened by conflict and tension.
Except in the United Nations, Georgiev thought ironically. And the reason for that was simple. The United Nations promoted peace instead of gain. Peace instead of testing oneself. Peace instead of life.
Georgiev would fight it until he succumbed to the peace there was no avoiding, the peace that eventually came to every man.
TWENTY-TWO
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:08 P.M.
The large C-130 was parked and idling on the airstrip outside the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport. Originally called the Overseas Terminal when it opened in 1939, the Marine Air Terminal was the airport’s main terminal building at the time. Constructed adjacent to blustery Jamaica Bay, the terminal was designed to accomodate passengers of “flying boats,” the preferred mode of international air travel in the 1930s and 1940s.
Today, the Art Deco Marine Air Terminal is dwarfed by the Central Terminal Building and the buildings operated by individual airlines. In its heyday, however, the Marine Air Terminal had witnessed history. Though black, the so-called “silver tarmac” had welcomed politicians and world leaders, movie stars and celebrated artists, renowned inventors and world-famous explorers. Typically, the flashing bulbs of the press had been on hand to welcome them to New York. Limousines had been waiting to take them to the city.
Tonight, the Marine Air Terminal witnessed history of a different sort. Eleven Strikers and General Mike Rodgers stood on the dark landing strip surrounded by a dozen military police. Paul Hood was taut with rage when he saw them, literally digging his fingers into the seat cushion.
En route, Deputy Chief Mohalley had told Hood that the MPs had choppered in from Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, where they were attached to the Air Mobility Command.
“According to the information I was given,” Mohalley had explained, “the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee refused to give your Strikers permission to become involved in the crisis. Apparently, the CIOC chairman was concerned about Striker’s reputation for rule-bending, so he contacted the White House and spoke directly with the president.”
Obviously, Hood thought bitterly, no one had bothered to consider Striker’s reputation for success.
“When the president tried to phone Mike Rodgers,” Mohalley went on, “he was furious to learn that Striker was already airborne. The president’s next call was to Colonel Kenneth Morningside, Fort Monmouth post commander. I’m not surprised they’re taking such a hard line,” Mohalley added. “About fifteen minutes after the terrorists went into the United Nations, the State Department issued a general order that no units of the security police were to set foot in the United Nations complex. I understand the NYPD got a similar order. Any incursion had to be requested by the secretary-general in writing, and the parameters approved by the unit’s commanding officer.”
Hearing this, Hood was more afraid for Harleigh and the other children than he was before. If Striker wasn’t allowed to save them, who could? But Hood’s feelings of despair shaded to rage when he saw Mike Rodgers, Brett August, and the rest of the Strikers being detained. These men and women, these combat heroes, didn’t deserve to be treated like thugs.
Hood got out of the car and jogged toward the group. Mohalley hurried after him. A stiff, salty wind blew in from the bay and Mohalley had to hold his cap to keep it from blowing off. Hood didn’t feel it. The anger roiled inside, burning more intensely than his fear and frustration. His muscles were cable-taut and his mind was on fire. Yet his fury was not just directed at this outrage and at the continuing ineffectiveness of the UN. Like oil feeding deep-smoldering fires, his anger spilled everywhere. He actually found himself mad at Op-Center for having intruded so much on his life, at Sharon for not being more supportive, and at himself for having managed it all so badly.
Lieutenant Solo, the military police brigade commander, walked forward to meet them. The lieutenant was a short, beefy, balding man in his late thirties. He had unyielding eyes and a no-nonsense face.
Mohalley caught up to Hood and introduced himself to the colonel. Then he went to introduce Hood. But Hood had already walked past the officers toward the ring of MPs. Frowning, the colonel turned and strode after him. Mohalley followed the colonel.
Hood stopped just short of shouldering his way through the MPs — but it was a very short stop. Enough common sense remained to remind Hood that if he fought these people, he was going to lose.
The lieutenant eased in front of Hood. “Excuse me, sir—” he said.
Hood ignored him. “Mike, are you all right?”
“Been in worse spots,” he said.
That was true, Hood had to admit. Perspective joined common sense and Hood relaxed slightly.
“Mr. Hood,” the lieutenant said insistently.
Hood looked at him. “Lieutenant Solo, these servicemen report to me. What are your orders?”
“We’ve been instructed to make certain that all Striker personnel are put back on board the C-130 and to remain at our post until the aircraft returns to Andrews,” Solo informed him.
“Fine,” Hood said with open disgust. “Let Washington bench the only hope the UN’s got—”
“This was not my decision, sir,” Solo said.
“I know, Lieutenant,” Hood said, “and I’m not angry at you.” He wasn’t. He was angry at everyone. “But I do have a situation that requires the presence of my second-in-command, General Rodgers. The general is not a member of the Striker unit.”
Lieutenant Solo looked from Hood to Rodgers, then back to Hood. “If that’s true, then my instructions do not pertain to the general.”
Rodgers stepped away from the Strikers and moved through the tight circle of MPs.
Mohalley scowled. “Hold on,” he said. “The general order I was given does pertain to all security and military personnel, including General Rodgers. Mr. Hood, I’d like to know what the situation is that requires the general’s presence.”
“It’s personal,” Hood replied.
“If it pertains to the situation at the United Nations—”
“It does,” Hood said. “My daughter is being held hostage there. Mike Rodgers is her godfather.”
Mohalley regarded Rodgers. “Her godfather.”
“That’s right,” Rodgers said.
Hood said nothing. It didn’t matter whether the
DOS security officer believed him. All that mattered was that Rodgers be allowed to go with him.
Mohalley looked at Hood. “Only immediate family are allowed to go into the waiting room with you.”
“Then I will not go to the waiting room,” Hood said through his teeth. He’d had enough of this. He had never hit a man, but if this functionary didn’t step aside, Hood was going to push him aside.
Rodgers was standing directly beside the shorter State Department officer. The general was watching Hood. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind. It seemed much louder now in the silence.
“All right, Mr. Hood,” Mohalley said. “I’m not going to hold your feet to the fire on this one.”
Hood exhaled.
Mohalley looked at Rodgers. “Would you like a ride, sir?”
“I would, thank you,” Rodgers said.
Rodgers was still looking at Hood. And Hood suddenly felt like he did when they used to sit in his office at Op-Center. He felt reconnected, tapped into a network of devoted friends and coworkers.
God help him. In the midst of everything, he felt whole again.
Before leaving, Rodgers turned to the Strikers. They came to attention. Colonel August saluted him. Rodgers saluted back. Then, on August’s command, the Strikers returned to the C-130. The circle of MPs parted to let them through. The police remained on the landing strip as Hood, Rodgers, and Mohalley returned to the car.
Paul Hood didn’t have a plan. He didn’t imagine that Mike Rodgers had one, either. Whatever Rodgers might have been thinking of doing would have involved Striker. But as the State Department sedan turned from the Marine Air Terminal and the towering C-130, Hood was slightly less anguished than he had been before. It wasn’t entirely Rodgers’s presence that comforted him. It was also a reminder of something he’d learned from running Op-Center: that plans made in moments of calm rarely worked in a crisis anyway.
There were only two of them, but they were backed by the strongest team in the world, and they’d think of something.
They had to.
TWENTY-THREE
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:11 P.M.
“I absolutely can’t allow you to do this!” Colonel Mott was practically shouting at Secretary-General Chatterjee. “It’s insanity. No, it’s worse than insanity. It’s suicide!”
The two were standing by the head of the table in the conference room. Deputy Secretary-General Takahara and Undersecretary-General Javier Olivo were standing several feet away beside the closed door. Chatterjee had just hung up with Gertrud Johanson, the wife of the Swedish delegate, who was at home in Stockholm. Her husband had attended the party with his young executive assistant, Liv, who was still in the Security Council chamber. Mrs. Johanson would be flying over as soon as possible.
It was both sad and ironic, Chatterjee thought, that so many political wives ended up with their husbands only after the men were dead. She wondered if she would be doing this if she were married.
Probably, she decided.
“Ma’am?” the Colonel said. “Please tell me you’ll reconsider.”
She couldn’t. She believed that she was right. And believing that, she could do nothing else. That was her dharma, the sacred duty that came with the life she had chosen.
“I appreciate your fears,” Secretary-General Chatterjee said, “but I believe that this is our best option.”
“It is not,” Mott said. “We should have video images of the Security Council in a few minutes. Give me a half hour to have a look at them, and then I’ll take my team in.”
“In the meantime,” the secretary-general pointed out, “Ambassador Contini will die.”
“The ambassador will die anyway,” Mott said.
“I don’t accept that,” Chatterjee said.
“That’s because you’re a diplomat and not a soldier,” Mott said. “The ambassador is what we call an operative loss. That’s a soldier or unit you can’t get to in time unless you risk the security of the rest of the company. So you don’t try. You can’t.”
“A company is not at risk, Colonel Mott,” Chatterjee said. “Only me. I’m going to the Security Council and going inside.”
Mott shook his head angrily. “I think you’re doing this to punish yourself, Madam Secretary-General, and you have no reason to. You did the right thing trying to radio the terrorists.”
“No,” Chatterjee said. “I did the shortsighted thing. I didn’t think to the next step.”
“That’s easy to say now,” Deputy Secretary-General Takahara suggested. “No one here had a better idea. And if we had thought of this option, I would have argued against it.”
Chatterjee looked at her watch. They only had nineteen minutes before the next deadline. “Gentlemen, I’m going ahead with this,” she said.
“They’ll cut you down,” Mott warned. “They’ve probably got someone stationed at the door to shoot anyone who tries to come in.”
“If they do, then perhaps my death will count as their murder of the hour,” Chatterjee said. “Maybe they’ll spare Ambassador Contini. Then you, Mr. Takahara, will have to decide what to do next.”
“What to do next,” Mott muttered. “What else is there to do but move in on these monsters? And there’s something else you haven’t considered. The terrorists told us that any attempt to liberate the hostages would result in the release of poison gas. We’re dealing with a hair-trigger situation. There’s a good chance they may interpret your attempt to enter the room as an attack by my security forces or perhaps as a diversion for an attack.”
“I’ll talk to them through the door,” Chatterjee said. “I’ll make it clear that I’m coming in unarmed.”
“Which is exactly what we’d say if we wanted to deceive them,” Mott told her.
“Colonel, in this instance I agree with the secretary-general,” Deputy Secretary-General Takahara said. “Remember, it’s not just Ambassador Contini’s life that’s in danger. If you enter the Security Council with an armed security force, there will absolutely be extensive casualties among the hostages and possibly your own personnel, not to mention the risk of the poison gas.”
Chatterjee looked at her watch again. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to discuss this further.”
“Ma’am,” Mott said, “will you at least put on a bulletproof vest?”
“No,” Chatterjee replied. “I must go into that room with hope and also with trust.”
The secretary-general opened the door. She walked into the corridor followed closely by Colonel Mott.
Despite the hopes she’d expressed in the conference room, Chatterjee knew she might be walking to her death. The awareness that she might have just a few minutes left to live made her senses hyperalert and changed the otherwise familiar complexion of the corridor. The sights and smells, even the sound of the tile under her shoes, were vivid. And for the first time in her brief career here, she wasn’t distracted by talk or debate, by pressing issues of war, peace, sanctions, and resolutions. That made the experience even more surreal.
She and Mott entered the elevator. There were five minutes left before the deadline.
Only now did it occur to her how wickedly final that word sounded.
TWENTY-FOUR
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:28 P.M.
Georgiev was standing near the opening of the circular table in the Security Council chamber. He had been keeping an eye on the delegates and also on his watch. The other men were still guarding the doors, except for Barone. The Uruguayan was kneeling in the center of the room, just before the gallery, looking down. When two minutes remained until the next deadline, the Bulgarian turned and nodded at Downer.
The Australian had been pacing slowly by the northern door of the upper gallery. He had been watching Georgiev. When he got the signal, he started down the stairs.
Several of the men and women sitting on the floor inside the table began to whimper. Georgiev hated weakness. So he raised his au
tomatic and pointed it at one of the women. He used to do that with his girls in Cambodia. Whenever one or more of them came and threatened to expose him because she was being treated poorly or was being paid less than he’d promised, Georgiev wouldn’t say a word. He’d simply point a gun at her head. It never failed: Every opening in her face — her eyes, nose, and mouth — would gape and freeze there. Then Georgiev would speak: “If you complain to me again, I will kill you,” he’d say. “If you try to leave, I will kill you and your family.” They never complained after that. Out of the more than one hundred girls who had worked for him during the year his ring operated, he’d only had to shoot two of them.
Everyone on the floor stopped sobbing. Georgiev lowered the gun. There were still tears but no more sounds.
Downer was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when Georgiev saw the light on the TAC-SAT flash. He was surprised. He had spoken to Annabelle Hampton an hour ago, when she let him know that the secretary-general intended to try to negotiate. For a moment, Georgiev wondered if Downer’s fears were going to be realized and security forces would try to move in. But that wasn’t possible. The UN wouldn’t risk it. He walked to the phone.
Annabelle Hampton had been Georgiev’s riskiest but most important acquisition. From the time they had first met in Cambodia, Annabelle had impressed him as a determined and independent woman. She was in Phnom Penh recruiting HUMINT and personnel for the CIA. Georgiev provided her with intelligence his girls obtained from their customers. He also gave her intel he picked up from his own Khmer Rouge contacts. Though he was paying the rebels and getting paid to spy on them, he actually made a small personal profit on the arrangement.
When the UNTAC operation ended in 1993, Georgiev sought Annabelle out in order to sell her the names of the girls he’d been using. Learning she’d been transferred to Seoul, he contacted her there. Annabelle seemed more angry than ambitious by then. When he mentioned that he was leaving the army to go into business, she half-joked that he should keep her in mind if he heard of any interesting opportunities.
