State of Siege o-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Your daughter is still inside the Security Council.”

  “No, they’re out!” Sharon said, growing angry. “That man just said they’re out!”

  “Most of the children were evacuated through a broken window,” the woman said. “But your daughter was not with the group.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mrs. Hood, why don’t you sit down?” Lisa said. She urged her back toward the seat. “I’m going to stay with you.”

  “Why wasn’t my daughter with them?” Sharon demanded. “What’s happening in there? Is my husband with them?”

  “We don’t know everything about the situation,” Lisa said softly. “What we do know is that there are now three SWAT officers inside the Security Council chamber. Apparently, they were able to get all but one of the terrorists—”

  “And he has Harleigh!” Sharon screamed. She clawed at her temples. “Oh my God, he has my baby!”

  The woman grabbed Sharon’s wrists and held them gently but firmly. She moved her fingers into Sharon’s tightly curled fingers and squeezed them.

  “Where’s my husband!” Sharon cried.

  “Mrs. Hood, you’ve got to listen to me,” Lisa said.

  “You know they’re going to do everything they can to protect your daughter, but it may take a little time. You’re going to have to be strong.”

  “I want my husband!” Sharon sobbed.

  “Where did he go?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sharon said. “He — he said he had to do something about this. He has a cell phone. I have to call him!”

  “Why don’t you give me the number; I’ll do it,” the woman said.

  Sharon gave the woman Paul’s cell phone number.

  “Okay,” Lisa said. She released Sharon’s hands and pointed to one of the tables. “I’m just going over there to make the call. You sit here, and I’ll be right back.”

  Sharon nodded. Then she started to cry again.

  She sat there sobbing as Lisa Baroni walked over to the table with the telephones. She tried the number. Hood had shut off his phone.

  Sharon couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt such anger and despair. She didn’t need a State Department official holding her hand right now. She needed her husband. She needed to talk to him, not to feel so utterly alone. Whatever he was doing, wherever he was, at least he could have given her that. Just that.

  However this ended, Sharon knew one thing for certain.

  She could never forgive Paul for this.

  Never.

  FIFTY-ONE

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:16 A.M.

  Paul Hood was running through the park when he heard the explosion and saw the flash behind the UN. Since he didn’t see or hear shards of glass, he assumed that it was Mike Rodgers blowing the window in. Hood ran ahead hard, watching as the police who had been guarding the lobby entrance hurried around back. By the time Hood arrived, children and delegates were already running out through the shattered window.

  They did it, Hood thought proudly. He hoped that Rodgers and August were all right.

  Hood was out of breath by the time he reached the courtyard. One of the police officers had run ahead toward First Avenue. He had obviously radioed EMT personnel and wanted to show them where to set their stations up — in the parking lot, away from the building. Meanwhile, the other officers were ushering the young women and delegates through the courtyard toward the lot. Everyone was walking under their own power. They appeared relatively unhurt.

  Hood stopped and watched as they approached. He didn’t see Harleigh among them, but he recognized one of her friends, Laura Sabia. He went over to her.

  “Laura!” he cried.

  One of the police officers moved to intercept him. “Excuse me, sir, but you’ll have to wait for your daughter—”

  “She isn’t my daughter, officer. I’m Paul Hood of Op-Center in Washington. We organized this rescue.”

  “Congratulations,” said the officer, “but I still need you to get out of the area and let us—”

  “Mr. Hood!” Laura said, stepping out of the line.

  Hood slid around the police officer. He ran over and took the young girl’s hand. “Laura, thank God. Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “What about Harleigh?” he asked. “I don’t see her.”

  “She’s — she’s still inside.”

  Hood felt like he’d been punched hard in the gut. “In there?” he asked. “In the Security Council?”

  Laura nodded.

  Hood looked into the girl’s bloodshot eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. “Is she hurt?”

  “No,” Laura said as she shook her head and started to cry. “But he has her.”

  “Who does?”

  “The man who shot Barbara.”

  “One of the terrorists?” Hood asked.

  Laura nodded.

  Hood didn’t wait to hear any more. Releasing Laura’s hand and ignoring the officer’s shout to stop, he ran toward the terrace.

  FIFTY-TWO

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:18 A.M.

  Harleigh’s head rose above the back of the seats and stopped. Downer was below the seats, still holding her hair tightly. The girl’s face was pale and upturned, her eyes straining from the sides. The tip of the gun barrel was pressed to the back of her head.

  Mike Rodgers was at the foot of the gallery, in the center. Because of the steep slope of the rows and the intervening seats, the only target he had was the hostage-taker’s left hand. That was too close to Harleigh’s neck, and it still left his right hand free, holding the gun. He kept his gun trained on the hand, though he knew that they weren’t going to be able to let this go on for very long. The drape would only contain the poison gas for another few minutes. Even if he could get to a gas mask, that wouldn’t help Harleigh.

  August was crawling up the stairs on the north side of the chamber, to Rodgers’s right. Though hobbled by the gunshot wounds to his legs and clearly in pain, the colonel had no intention of sitting this out. Behind the terrorist, the UN security agent entered the room cautiously from the back door. That had to be Lieutenant Mailman, the one who briefed Chatterjee after the failed attack on the Security Council.

  Suddenly, Rodgers heard a sound behind him. He turned as Hood appeared in the frame of the shattered window. Rodgers motioned him back.

  Hood hesitated, but only for a moment. He stepped away, into the darkness of the terrace.

  Rodgers faced the gallery and turned his gun back to the terrorist.

  “Hey, hero!” the terrorist cried. “You see that I have her?”

  His voice was loud, challenging, uncompromising. They weren’t going to be able to bully this man. But Rodgers had another idea.

  “You see?” the terrorist asked again.

  “I see,” Rodgers said.

  “And I’ll kill the bloody girl if I have to!” Downer yelled. “I’ll put a hole in the back of her goddamned head!”

  “I saw you kill my partner,” Rodgers said. “I believe you.”

  August stopped and looked at Rodgers. Rodgers motioned for him to stay still. August did. He was supposed to be dead.

  “What do you want us to do?” Rodgers asked.

  “First, I want whoever’s creeping up behind me to get the hell out of here,” the terrorist said. “I can see his feet from here. I can also see the window, so if anyone tries to sneak in, I’ll know it.”

  “No tricks,” Rodgers said. “I hear you.”

  “I hope so,” Downer said. “When he’s gone, I want you to put your gun down and raise your hands straight up. When you’re both out of here, I want you to send that bitch secretary-general in with her hands on her head.”

  “You don’t have a lot of time,” Rodgers pointed out. “The gas will come through the—”

  “I know about the gas,” Downer cried. “I won’t need a lot of time if you shut up and move!”r />
  “All right,” Rodgers said. He looked up at the door. “Lieutenant — please make sure the secretary-general is outside and then stay out of the room. I’m coming up to join you.”

  Mailman hesitated.

  Rodgers moved the gun from the terrorist’s hand to Mailman’s forehead. “Lieutenant, I said I want you out of here.”

  Mailman scowled and backed from the Security Council.

  Rodgers squatted, put his gun on the floor, and lifted his hands high. Then he walked toward the staircase on the south side of the chamber. He quickly made his way up the stairs. He didn’t think the terrorist would bother firing at him. Until Secretary-General Chatterjee came in, Rodgers was his only means of communicating with the outside.

  Rodgers continued up the stairwell. He was nearly level with the fourth row from the top, where the terrorist was hiding. He was looking at Harleigh, whose back was toward him. The slender girl was locked in place, with her hair pulled tight. She wasn’t crying, but that didn’t surprise him. From talking to POWs, Rodgers knew that pain provided focus. It was often a mercy, a distraction from danger or a seemingly hopeless situation.

  He wanted to say something encouraging to Harleigh. At the same time, he didn’t want to do anything that might annoy the terrorist. Not when there was a gun barrel pressed against the girl’s skull.

  Rodgers backed out the door. That gave him one last chance to glance toward the north side of the chamber. He couldn’t see Brett August from where he was standing. Either the colonel had snuggled up close to the seats or else he’d lost so much blood from his wounds that he’d passed out.

  Rodgers hoped that wasn’t the case. This was going to be difficult enough as it was.

  Rodgers stepped into the hallway. Chatterjee was there. She looked at him for a moment, then put her hands on her head and started toward the door to the Security Council.

  Rodgers put his arm in front of her, barring her way.

  “You know about the poison gas?” he asked.

  “The lieutenant told me,” she replied.

  Rodgers stepped closer. “Did he also tell you that one of my men is still in there?” he whispered.

  She seemed surprised.

  “The terrorist thinks my man is dead,” Rodgers said. “If Colonel August can get a shot, he’s going to take it. I didn’t want you to be surprised and give him away.”

  Chatterjee’s expression darkened.

  Rodgers lowered his arm, and the secretary-general walked past him. As she entered the Security Council and shut the door behind her, Rodgers felt like running in after her and dragging her out. He had a sick feeling deep in his belly, the feeling that despite everything that had happened, Chatterjee still believed in an unwritten United Nations policy. A policy that the world organization had upheld repeatedly against the weight of common sense and fundamental morality.

  The idea that terrorists had rights.

  FIFTY-THREE

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:21 A.M.

  Mala Chatterjee’s mind and soul were tortured as she entered the Security Council chamber.

  The terrorist was lying on the floor. Chatterjee saw the head of his prisoner, and she saw the gun being held against it. She ached for the child and was revulsed by the act of terrorism. Chatterjee would do anything to save the girl.

  But the secretary-general was troubled by the idea of allowing a murder to take place when there might be another way. If she became like these people, if she killed without conscience, without the law, what kind of meaning would her life have? She didn’t even know whether this man had actually killed anyone, whether he could kill anyone.

  Chatterjee walked down the steps toward the row. “You asked to speak with me,” she said.

  “No, I asked you to come in,” Downer said. “I don’t want to talk. I want out of here. I also want what I came for.”

  “I want to help you,” Chatterjee said. She stopped at the foot of the aisle. “Let the girl go.”

  “I said no more talk!” Downer screamed. Harleigh shrieked as the Australian tugged harder on her hair. “There’s poison gas leaking up front. I need you to arrange a place where the lady and I can wait while you get my money and transportation. I want the six million dollars.”

  “All right,” she said.

  Chatterjee saw something move on the northern staircase. There were eyes peering over the armrest of the last seat. The man who had been left inside raised himself up slightly. He put his index finger to his lips.

  The secretary-general was torn. Was she about to be part of a rescue effort or an accomplice to a cold-blooded killing? This American soldier and his partner had rescued most of the hostages. Perhaps it had been necessary for them to kill, but that didn’t give them the right to continue killing. Chatterjee’s goal had always been to find a bloodless solution to conflict. She couldn’t give that up while there was still a chance. There was also the matter of trust. If she could convince the terrorist that she wanted to help him, perhaps she could convince him to surrender.

  “Colonel August,” she said, “there has been enough killing today.”

  August froze. For a moment, Chatterjee wondered if he were going to shoot her.

  “Who are you talking to?” Downer demanded. “Who’s here?”

  “Another soldier,” she told him.

  “Then he wasn’t killed, the bastard!” Downer cried.

  “Please put down your weapons and leave, Colonel,” Chatterjee said.

  “I can’t,” August replied bitterly. “I’ve been shot.”

  “You’ll be shot again if you don’t get the hell out of here!” Downer screamed.

  The Australian swung Harleigh around roughly. He pulled her up by her hair, knelt behind her, and aimed his automatic at August. He fired a burst as the Striker leader dropped back onto the stairwell. Wood from the armrests flew in every direction. The bursts echoed for a moment after he stopped firing.

  Snarling, Downer looked back at Chatterjee. He kept Harleigh between himself and August. At the bottom of the chamber, the secretary-general could see the poison gas beginning to creep around the edges of the drape.

  “Get him out!” Downer cried.

  “I’m trying to help you!” Chatterjee shouted at Downer. “Let me handle—”

  “Shut up and do what I said!” Downer screamed. He turned to face her as he did. For a moment his chest was facing the front of the chamber.

  A gunshot ripped through the chamber. The bullet punched a hole in the right side of Downer’s neck, away from Harleigh. He dropped the gun and released Harleigh as the impact sent his arms back.

  Paul Hood rose from the bottom of the Security Council chamber. He was holding the Beretta Mike Rodgers had left behind.

  “Get down, Harleigh!” he cried.

  She covered her head and dropped straight down. A moment later, a second gunshot cracked from the northside staircase. Colonel August put a shot cleanly through the terrorist’s left cheek. A second bullet drilled through Downer’s temple as he fell.

  Blood collected on the floor even before his body landed.

  Chatterjee screamed.

  Paul Hood dropped the gun and ran around to the north-side staircase. Waved on by August, Hood continued up to his daughter’s side.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:25 A.M.

  When he first left the Security Council chamber, Mike Rodgers notifed the NYPD’s hazardous materials squad to tell them about the poison gas leak. The team assembled in the north-side courtyard and was ready to move in as soon as everyone was out. The entire UN complex had been closed off; now it was quarantined, the doors and windows covered with plastic sheets, the edges of which were sealed with fast-drying foam. Because there was no one left to tell the police exactly what the poison gas was, an Emergency Service mobile laboratory had been driven to the scene for on-site analysis. New York Fire Department Emergency Medical Service Command crews were on h
and, setting up tents in the Robert Moses Playground just south of the United Nations. So was the FDNY’s Marine 1. The fire department presence was required by law in situations involving hazardous materials. Many terrorist groups follow a scorched-earth policy. If they can’t win, they’ll make sure that no one does. Since one of the terrorists had vanished from the United Nations infirmary, and the NYPD didn’t know if there were additional accomplices, they had to be prepared for anything. Including a final act of spite.

  Paul Hood and his daughter took a long moment to embrace. Hood was crying openly. Harleigh was shaking violently. Her head was on his chest and she was clutching his arms. One of the medical technicians threw a blanket over her shoulders before leading them out to the EMSC tents.

  “We’ve got to get word to your mother,” Hood said through his tears.

  Harleigh nodded.

  Mike Rodgers was standing behind them, watching as medics carried Brett August away. Rodgers said he’d take care of bringing Sharon over. He also told Hood that he was proud of him. Hood thanked him. But the truth was that when Rodgers left the Security Council and Hood snuck in, he knew that nothing — not his own safety, not national or international law — was going to keep him from trying to save Harleigh.

  Hood and his daughter headed toward the escalators along with delegates and security personnel. As they started downstairs, he couldn’t imagine what was going through Harleigh’s mind. She was still holding him tightly and staring ahead with glazed eyes. Harleigh wasn’t in shock; she hadn’t suffered any of the physical injuries that brought on hypovolemic, cardiogenic, neurogenic, septic, or anaphylactic conditions. But the young girl had spent about five hours in that room watching people being shot, including one of her best friends. She had nearly been executed herself. The post-traumatic stress would be intense.

  Hood knew from experience that what had happened today was going to be with his daughter every moment of every day for the rest of her life. Former hostages were never truly free. They were haunted by a sense of hopeless isolation, the humiliation of being treated as a thing and not as a human being. Dignity could be rebuilt, but in an unintegrated, patchwork fashion. The sum of the parts would never equal the shattered whole.