by Tom Clancy
He did.
Up until this afternoon, when Annabelle gave Georgiev the detailed timetable for tonight’s United Nations event, he wondered if she was going to back out. He was confident she wouldn’t betray him because he knew where her parents lived; he’d made a point of sending them flowers while Annabelle was visiting there for Christmas. Still, the final hours before any mission are what the great nineteenth-century Bulgarian General Grigor Halachev used to call “the times of gravest doubt.” That’s when the external plans are finally set, and soldiers had a chance to examine their internal condition.
Annabelle had not backed down. She had as much steel in her as any soldier in this room.
He picked up the phone. “Speak,” he said. That was the only word Annabelle had been told to respond to.
“The secretary-general is on her way again,” Ani informed him. “Only this time, she’s planning to come into the Security Council chamber. She hopes you’ll take her in.”
Georgiev smiled.
“Either that,” Ani said, “or she hopes you’ll target her instead of the Italian delegate.”
“Pacifists always hope you’ll target them until you really do,” Georgiev said. “Then they cry and beg. What are her advisers saying?”
“Colonel Mott and one of the undersecretary-generals are encouraging a strike as soon as they get video images of the chamber,” Ani said. “The other officials have been noncommittal.”
Georgiev glanced at Barone. The security unit wouldn’t be getting any images. When Annabelle had informed them of the plan, Georgiev had sent Barone to the spot where they were said to be drilling. As soon as the tiny camera came through, he would cover it.
“Was there any further discussion about paying the ransom?” Georgiev asked her.
“None,” Ani said.
“No matter,” Georgiev said. “No video images, more dead — they’ll turn to our needs soon.”
“There is one thing more,” Ani said. “I’ve just been informed by my superior that a SWAT team from the National Crisis Management Center is coming up from Washington.”
“The NCMC?” Georgiev said. “Sanctioned by whom?”
“No one,” Ani told him. “They’re going to use my office as their headquarters. If the UN gives them the go-ahead, they may come in.”
That was unexpected. Georgiev had heard that the NCMC staged a very creditable action in Russia during the coup attempt over a year before. Though he had poison gas and battle plans for the Security Council chamber, he didn’t want to have to use either. On the other hand, the UN would have to give the SWAT team permission to come in. And if he could get Chatterjee in here, she would give Georgiev the means of forestalling that.
Georgiev thanked Annabelle and hung up.
The secretary-general would be a welcome addition to the hostages. He had always counted on having her as an advocate for the children. Telling the nations of the world to cooperate for their release. Now she would also help him to keep the military out. And when it was time to go, she and the children would make ideal hostages.
Downer arrived. The only question was what to do about the Italian delegate. If they shot him, it would undermine the secretary-general’s credibility as a peacemaker. If they spared him, they’d seem weak.
Deciding that the secretary-general’s credibility was not his concern, Georgiev nodded to Downer. Then he watched as the Australian half-pushed, half-pulled the weeping delegate up the stairs.
TWENTY-FIVE
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:29 P.M.
“They’re going to do it again.”
Brown-haired Laura Sabia was sitting on Harleigh Hood’s left. She was staring ahead blankly and shaking worse than before. It was as if she were on a bad sugar high. Harleigh placed her fingertips back on the girl’s hand to try and calm her.
“They’re going to kill him,” Laura said.
“Shhhh,” Harleigh said.
Barbara Mathis, who was sitting on Harleigh’s right, was watching the terrorists. The raven-haired violinist was sitting up straight and seemed very intense. Harleigh knew the look. Barbara was the kind of musician who got irrationally angry if someone made a noise that caused her to break concentration. Barbara looked like she was getting to that point now. Harleigh hoped not.
The girls watched as the masked men led the delegate up the stairs. The victim fell to his hands and knees on one of the steps and was crying, saying something fast and high in Italian. The masked man, the Australian, grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked at him hard. The Italian’s arms crumpled and he fell forward. The masked man swore, crouched, and put his gun between the man’s legs. He said something to the Italian, who grabbed onto a chair and quickly struggled back to his feet. The men continued to the top of the stairs.
Near the young violinists, in the center of the circular table, a delegate’s wife was comforting another woman. She was holding her close and pressing her hand over her mouth. Harleigh guessed that this was the wife of the man who was about to die.
Laura was literally fluttering now, as though there were an electric current running through her. Harleigh had never seen anything like it. She closed her fingers around Laura’s hands and squeezed.
“You’ve got to calm down,” Harleigh said under her breath.
“I can’t,” Laura said. “I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.”
“Soon,” Harleigh said. “They’ll get us out. Just sit back and shut your eyes. Try and relax.”
Harleigh’s father had once told her and her brother that if they were ever in a situation like this, the important thing was to stay centered. Invisible. Count the seconds, he’d said, not the minutes or the hours. The longer a hostage crisis went on, the better the chance for a negotiated settlement. The better the chance for survival. If there were an opportunity to escape, she had to use common sense. The question she had to ask herself was not, Is there a chance I’ll make it? The question was, Is there a chance I won’t make it? If the answer was yes, it was better to stay where you were. He’d also told her to avoid eye contact wherever possible. That would humanize her to her captors. It would remind them that she was one of the people they hated. She should also say nothing, in case it was the wrong thing. Above all, she was supposed to relax. Think happy thoughts, just like they did in two of her favorite musicals, Peter Pan and The Sound of Music.
“Laura?” Harleigh said.
Laura didn’t seem to have heard.
“Laura, you have to listen to me.”
She wasn’t hearing anything. The young woman had slipped into some kind of weird state. Her eyes were staring and her lips were pressed tight.
The two men had reached the top of the stairs.
On Harleigh’s other side, Barbara Mathis was the opposite of Laura, taut as a violin string. She was sneering in a way that Harleigh knew well. Harleigh felt like the statue at the Justice Department. Only instead of the scales of justice she was between emotional extremes.
Suddenly, Laura shot from her seat. Harleigh was still holding the girl’s hand.
“Why are you doing this to us?” Laura shrieked as she stood there. “I want you to stop it now!”
Harleigh tugged gently on her hand. “Laura, don’t do this—”
The leader of the gang was standing halfway up the steps. He turned and glared at the girls.
Ms. Dorn was sitting three seats away. She rose slowly but remained behind her seat. “Laura, sit down,” she said firmly.
“No!” Laura pulled away from Harleigh. “I can’t stay here!” she screamed, and ran around the table. She was headed toward the door on the other side of the chamber, the door the leader had been guarding.
The leader started down the stairs as Laura ran across the carpeted floor. Ms. Dorn ran after Laura, shouting for her to come back. The man who’d been standing on the other side of the room, guarding the other door, left his post and ran after the teacher. The Australian man at the
top of the stairs had stopped and was looking down at them.
Everyone was watching Laura as the leader, Ms. Dorn, and the other man all reached the door. The other man grabbed Ms. Dorn around the waist, pulled her back, swung her around, and literally flung her on the floor. The leader reached the door as Laura was pulling it open. He threw his shoulder into it, closing it, and pushed Laura back. The girl stumbled, fell, got up, and rushed toward the stairs. She was still shrieking.
The door isn’t locked.
The thought hit Harleigh like a bright light. Of course it wasn’t locked. The men had opened the doors and they didn’t have the keys to lock them.
They’d opened the door Laura had run toward, and they’d opened the door behind Harleigh. Harleigh had watched them do it. They’d spent some time putting equipment into the hallway down here.
The door that was about twenty feet behind where Harleigh and Barbara were sitting. The door the man had just run from in order to catch Laura.
The door no one was guarding.
The leader was running after Laura. Ms. Dorn had had the wind knocked from her but was fighting with the man who’d thrown her down. The pressure must have gotten to her; the music teacher wasn’t thinking. But Harleigh was, clearly and confidently. She was thinking not only of getting out and saving herself, but of bringing what “Uncle” Bob Herbert called “intel” to the outside.
The teenager turned slowly and stole a sideways look at the door. She could run a dash like that easily. She’d blue-ribboned the fifty-yard dash in high school two out of four years. She could certainly get to the double doors before any of the men could stop her. And once she was out of here, there had to be a way to get into the Economic and Social Council chamber. She’d seen the double doors on that side during the tour they’d been given.
Harleigh used the toe of her right high-heeled shoe to slip off her left shoe. Then she slowly did the same with the right. Her fellow students were watching the struggle.
Harleigh eased the chair back. Slowly, without rising, she pivoted the chair on one leg so she could turn her body around slightly. Have a clear, straight run at the exit.
“Don’t do it,” Barbara said from the side of her mouth.
“What?” Harleigh said.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Barbara said, “because I’m thinking the same thing. Don’t go for it. I am.”
“No—”
“I’m faster than you,” Barbara murmured. “I beat you two years in a row.”
“I’m two steps closer,” Harleigh pointed out.
Barbara shook her head slowly. Her eyes were angry and her mind was made up. Harleigh didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to race Barbara for the door. They’d only trip each other up.
The girls looked over as the leader caught Laura midway up the stairs. He lifted her off the floor and threw her backward, down the stairs. Laura bounced and rolled and came to a stop at the bottom. She was moving her arms and head slowly, painfully. The leader hurried down to her.
Barbara took a few slow, shallow breaths. She put her hands on the edge of the wooden table. She waited until she was sure that no one was looking her way. Then she pushed off from the table, rose, and ran.
Her legs were hindered by the tight gown she was wearing. Harleigh heard a rip along the side, but Barbara kept running. Her arms churned, she kept her eyes on the doorknob, and she ignored whichever of the terrorists or delegates or whoever was shouting at her to stop.
Harleigh watched as she reached the door.
Go! Harleigh thought.
Barbara stopped to pull it open. She heard the latch click, the door came open, and then she heard a whip-loud crack. It stayed inside her ears, filling them, like the first blast of music when her Walkman was turned too high.
The next thing Harleigh knew, Barbara was no longer standing. She was still holding the doorknob, but she was on her knees. Her hand slipped from the knob, and her arm flopped to her side.
Barbara’s body remained upright, but only for a moment. Then she fell to the side.
She was no longer angry.
TWENTY-SIX
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:30 P.M.
Secretary-General Chatterjee stopped when she heard the muffled gunshot. It was followed by shrill cries, and then a few moments later there was a second gunshot, closer to the corridor than the first. Almost immediately after that, the door of the Security Council chamber opened. Ambassador Contini was thrown out, and the door was quickly shut.
Colonel Mott ran over to the body at once, his footsteps breaking the utter stillness of the corridor. He was followed by the emergency medical crew. The delegate’s well-dressed body was lying on its side, Contini’s dark face toward them. His expression was relaxed, his eyes shut, his lips slightly parted. The man didn’t look dead, not the way Ambassador Johanson had. Then the blood started to pool beneath his soft cheek.
Mott squatted beside the body. He looked behind the head. There was a single wound, just like before.
As the medical team placed the body on a stretcher, Chatterjee walked toward the doors of the Security Council chamber. She looked away from the body as she passed. Mott rose and intercepted her.
“Ma’am, there’s nothing you can gain by going in there now,” he said. “At least wait until we have the video.”
“Wait!” Chatterjee said. “I’ve already waited too long!”
Just then, one of the security force personnel came from the Economic and Social Council chamber. Lieutenant David Mailman was assigned to a makeshift, two-person reconnaissance team. He and his partner had pulled a fifteen-year-old Remote Infinity Eavesdropping Device out of storage. Designed to work over a telephone line, they rigged it to pick up voices through the headphones of the translating units at each seat in the Security Council chamber. Since the range was only twenty-five feet, they had to work from the adjoining room. They were situated in the small corridor that led to the second-floor media center and was common to both the Trusteeship Council and Security Council chambers.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Mailman said to the colonel, “we think someone just tried to get out of the Security Council. We saw the doorknob twist and heard that latch jiggle right before the first shot.”
“Was it a warning shot?” Mott asked.
“We don’t believe so,” Mailman replied. “Whoever was back there moaned after the report.” The lieutenant looked down. “It — it didn’t sound like a man, sir. It was a very soft voice.”
“One of the children,” Chatterjee said with horror.
“We don’t know that,” Mott said. “Is there anything else, lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” Mailman said.
The officer left. The colonel balled his fists, then looked at his watch. He was waiting for word about the video surveillance. Secure phones had been requested from the U.S. State Department Diplomatic Security forces; until they arrived, all communications had to be done person-to-person. Chatterjee had never seen a man look so helpless.
The secretary-general was still facing the door. Ambassador Contini’s death hadn’t hit her like the first one did, and that disturbed her. Or maybe her reaction had been blunted by the news Lieutenant Mailman brought.
A child may have been shot—
Chatterjee started toward the door.
Mott gently grabbed her arm. “Please don’t do this. Not yet.”
The secretary-general stopped.
“I know that there’s nothing I can do from the outside,” she said. “If it becomes necessary to take action, you won’t need me here. But inside, I may be able to make a difference.”
The colonel looked at the secretary-general for a long moment, then released her arm.
“You see?” she said with a soft smile. “Diplomacy. I didn’t have to pull my arm away.”
Mott seemed unconvinced as he watched her go.
TWENTY-SEVEN
New York, New York
Saturday, 11:31
P.M.
Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers sat in the backseat of the sedan while Mohalley sat up front with his driver. Manhattan seemed like a very different place as Hood returned to it.
The Secretariat Building stood out more than it had when he and his family first arrived — was it only a day before? The building was lit by spotlights that had been placed on the rooftops of adjoining skyscrapers. But the offices themselves were dark, making the structure seem cadaverous. The UN no longer reminded him of the proud and hale “bat symbol.” It wasn’t the living chest of the city but seemed like a thing already dead.
When they left the airport shortly after eleven P.M., Deputy Chief Mohalley called his office to find out if there were any new developments. His assistant informed him that as far as they knew, nothing had happened since the first execution. Meanwhile, Hood had brought Rodgers up to date. Characteristically, Rodgers listened and said nothing. The general didn’t like to reveal what he was thinking in public. To Rodgers, being with people who weren’t part of his trusted circle was “in public.”
Both men were silent as they crossed through the tunnel back into Manhattan. When they were through, Mohalley turned to them for the first time.
“Where will I be dropping you off, Mr. Hood, General Rodgers?” Mohalley asked.
“We’ll get out where you do,” Hood said.
“I’m getting off at the State Department.”
“That’ll be fine,” Hood said. He said nothing more. He still intended to go to the CIA shell at the United Nations Plaza, though he didn’t want Mohalley to know that.
Once again, Mohalley didn’t seem happy with that answer, but he didn’t press it.
The car emerged from the tunnel on Thirty-seventh Street. As the driver made his way up First Avenue, Mohalley looked at Mike Rodgers.
