State of Siege o-6

by Tom Clancy

  What life puts us through, Hood thought.

  But his daughter was safe in his arms. As they reached the bottom of the second elevator, Hood saw Sharon running across the lobby. If anyone had tried to keep her out, obviously they’d failed. A woman from the State Department was behind her, desperately trying to keep up.

  “My baby!” Sharon was screaming. “My girl!”

  Harleigh broke away from Hood and ran to her mother. They clutched each other and wept convulsively, Sharon threatening to engulf the girl with her arms. Hood stood back.

  Rodgers walked in, accompanied by Bill Mohalley. Beyond them, in the courtyard, Secretary-General Chatterjee was talking to reporters. She was gesturing angrily.

  “I want to shake your hand,” Deputy Chief Mohalley said. He offered Hood a powerful handclasp. “You three rewrote the crisis management book today. I’m honored to have been here to see it.”

  “Thanks,” Hood said. “How’s Brett?”

  “He’ll be okay,” Rodgers told him. “The bullets missed the femoral artery. The wounds caused more pain than damage.”

  Hood nodded. He was still looking at Chatterjee. There were spots of the terrorist’s blood on her outfit, hands, and face.

  “She doesn’t seem very happy,” Hood said.

  Mohalley shrugged. “We’re going to hear a lot of shit about what you did here,” he said. “But the hostages are safe, four of the terrorists are taking a dirt nap, and one thing is certain.”

  “What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

  “It’ll be a blustery day in hell before anyone tries something like this again,” Mohalley said.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 12:51 A.M.

  Alexander was asleep when Hood walked into the hotel room.

  Sharon had gone to the NYU Medical Center with Harleigh. In addition to a physical checkup, it was important that she talk to a psychologist as soon as possible. Harleigh had to understand that she did nothing to bring this on herself and shouldn’t feel guilty about having survived it. Before any of the other damage could be attended to, she had to understand that.

  Hood stood by the side of the king-size bed and looked down at his son. The boy’s life had changed, his sister’s needs would be different, and he didn’t even know it. The innocence of sleep.

  Hood turned and went into the bathroom. He filled the sink and washed his face. His life had changed, too. He’d killed a man. And whether the man deserved to die or not, Hood had killed him on international territory. There would probably be a trial, and it might not be in the United States. The process could take years, and it might very well compromise the security of Op-Center.

  How did they know certain things? To what extent were the CIA and the State Department involved? What was the connection between the U.S. government and the missing Bulgarian Georgiev? The government agencies had no authority in any of these areas.

  The irony was that the United Nations might come out of this looking like the wounded party, the victim of a United States conspiracy. From withholding dues to bugging the secretary-general, we’d broken many of the rules that States Members of the United Nations promised to uphold. Nations that sponsored terrorism, trafficked in narcotics, and crushed human rights would be able to wag their fingers indignantly at the United States.

  And we would take it. We would take it because the media would be watching. Hood had always felt that television and the United Nations were made for each other. In their eyes, everyone was the same size.

  Hood toweled off and looked at himself in the mirror. Sadly, he didn’t think the most difficult fight would be with his enemies. That would come when he and Sharon tried to talk. Not just about his behavior tonight but about a future that suddenly looked very different from what they’d been planning.

  “Enough,” he said quietly.

  Hood dropped the towel on the counter and took a drink of tap water. He walked slowly back to the bedroom. The night was starting to catch up with him. His legs were weak from all the running, and he’d strained his lower back when he’d run crouching into the Security Council chamber. He eased himself down beside Alexander. He kissed the boy lightly behind the ear. He hadn’t done that in years and was surprised. He could still smell the remnants of little boyhood there.

  The peace of the child gave comfort to the man. And as he slipped into sleep, Hood’s last thought was how strange it all was. He had helped to make these two children. Yet by their needs and by their love, the reverse was also true.

  These children had created a father.

  FIFTY-SIX

  New York, New York

  Sunday, 7:00 A.M.

  A call from Bill Mohalley startled Hood awake at seven A.M.

  The State Department official was calling to inform Hood that his wife, daughter, and the other families were being brought to La Guardia Airport for a flight to Washington. Mohalley said that his wife had been notified at the hospital and that the NYPD would arrive at the hotel in an hour to escort him and his son to the airport.

  “Why the quick evac?” Hood asked. He was sore and groggy, and the bright, white sunshine was like an acid bath in his skull.

  “It’s mostly for you,” Mohalley said, “though we don’t want it to seem like we’re hustling you out.”

  “I don’t follow,” Hood said. “And why is the NYPD handling this instead of the State Department?”

  “Because the police are used to protecting news makers,” he said. “And like it or not, you just became one.”

  Hood’s cell phone beeped. It was Ann Farris. Hood thanked Mohalley and got out of bed. He walked toward the door where he wouldn’t wake Alexander and it was mercifully much darker.

  “Good morning,” Hood said.

  “Good morning,” Ann said. “How are you?”

  “Surprisingly well,” he said.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you—”

  “No,” Hood said, “the State Department did.”

  “Anything important?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “They want me up and out of here.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “You’re pretty exposed right now.”

  “And obviously out of the loop,” he said. “What the hell’s been happening, Ann?”

  “It’s what we press professionals call a shitstorm,” she said. “Since no one has the names of what they’re calling the two ‘SWAT men’ who went in before you, this whole thing has become the Paul Hood Show.”

  “Courtesy of Mala Chatterjee,” Hood said.

  “She’s not very happy with you,” Ann said. “She says you risked your daughter’s life needlessly for a speedy and criminal resolution to the crisis.”

  “Up hers,” Hood replied.

  “Can I quote you on that?” Ann quipped.

  “Banner headline,” Hood replied. “What’s the fallout so far?”

  “Security-wise, Bob Herbert’s on top of that,” she said. “You’re the only face on a team that helped kill terrorists from three different countries. Bob’s just starting to sift through the possible links they had with other terrorist groups or the sicko nationalists who may want to avenge them.”

  “Yeah, well, forgive me for not having worried about that,” Hood said bitterly.

  “This isn’t a question of blame or forgiveness,” the press liaison said. “It’s about special interests. It’s what I’ve been telling all of you for years. Spin control isn’t a luxury anymore. The way every system in the world is interconnected, it’s a necessity.”

  That symbiosis was true, Hood had to admit. And it was sometimes true in unexpected ways. Fifteen years before, intelligence collected by Bob Herbert’s CIA team was routinely made available to other American intelligence groups, including Naval intelligence. When Naval analyst Jonathan Pollard turned over U.S. intelligence secrets to the Israelis in the 1980s, several of those secrets were subsequently given to Moscow in exchange for the release of Jewish refugees. Hard-lin
e Communists in Moscow used that intelligence to plot against the Russian government. Years later, when Op-Center became embroiled in thwarting the coup attempt, Herbert’s own data was used against him.

  “How is this playing in the press?” Hood asked.

  “On the national op-ed pages it’s playing very well,” Ann said. “For the first time in history, the liberal and conservative press are united. They’re portraying you as a ‘hero-dad.’ ”

  “And on the international op-ed pages?” he asked.

  “You could run for Prime Minister in Great Britain and Israel and probably win,” she said. “Other than that, the news isn’t good. The secretary-general described you as ‘just another impatient American with a gun.’ She’s demanding an investigation and house arrest. The rest of the world press I’ve seen so far has picked up that mantra.”

  “Bottom line?” Hood asked.

  “Just what you said,” she told him. “You’re being evacuated. No one in the State Department or the White House has decided how to play any of this yet. I guess they want you here to help figure it out. Though I will tell you that Bob has taken the precaution of contacting the Chevy Chase police and ordering up some security for your home. They’re there now. Just in case.”

  Hood thanked her, then woke Alexander to get him ready. Hood had always been very open with his kids, and as they dressed, he told the boy exactly what had happened the night before. Alexander was dubious until the NYPD showed up to escort Hood and his son from the hotel. The six officers treated Hood as one of their own, commending him as they led the two through the basement to the garage and a waiting motorcade of three squad cars. The rock-star exit impressed Alexander more than anything he’d experienced in New York.

  The Hoods and the other families flew back to Washington, D.C., on an Air Force 737. Sharon had been very quiet during the hour flight. She sat with Harleigh beside her, the young girl’s head on her shoulder. Hood had sat across the aisle, watching. Like most of the young musicians, Harleigh had been given a mild sedative to help her sleep. Unlike most of the girls, however, her sleep was punctuated by tiny whines, shouts, and spasms. Maybe the greatest tragedy of all, Hood realized, was that he hadn’t saved Harleigh from that damn room. The poor girl was still there in spirit if not in body.

  The aircraft landed at Andrews Air Force Base, ostensibly so the military could assure the privacy of the children. But Hood knew better. Andrews was where Op-Center was based. After they taxied, Hood saw Op-Center’s white van waiting for him on the tarmac. Lowell Coffey and Bob Herbert were both visible in the open side door.

  Sharon didn’t see the men until she was on her way down the steps. Hood acknowledged them with a nod. They remained in the van.

  The State Department had provided wheelchairs for anyone who wanted them. They also provided a bus to bring everyone home. An official told the parents that their cars would be collected from the airport later that day.

  Sharon and Hood both helped Harleigh into a wheelchair. Alexander manfully took his place behind the chair as Sharon turned to her husband.

  “You’re not coming with us, are you?” Sharon asked. Her voice was flat and withdrawn, her eyes distant.

  “I honestly didn’t know they’d be here,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the van.

  “But you’re not surprised.”

  “No,” he admitted. “I did kill someone on foreign soil. There’s going to be fallout from that. But you’ll be okay. Bob’s arranged for round-the-clock police protection at the house.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Sharon said and turned toward the chair. Hood took her hand in his. She stopped.

  “Sharon, don’t do this.”

  “Do what?” she asked. “Go home with our children?”

  “Don’t shut me out,” he said.

  “I’m not shutting you out, Paul,” Sharon said. “Just like you, I’m trying to stay calm and deal with things. What we decide over the next few days is going to affect our daughter for the rest of her life. I want to be emotionally ready to make those decisions.”

  “We have to be ready to make those decisions,” Hood said. “That’s our job.”

  “I hope so,” Sharon said. “But you’ve got two families again. I’m not going to waste any more energy fighting for equal time.”

  “Two families?” Hood said. “Sharon, I didn’t ask for this to happen. I was out of Op-Center! If I’m back, it’s because I’m in the middle of an international incident. I—we—won’t be able to handle this alone.”

  Just then, the State Department official came over. He told them the bus was loaded and waiting. Sharon told Alexander to go ahead. She said she’d be there in a moment. Hood gave his son a wink and told him to keep a careful eye on his sister. Alexander said he would.

  Hood looked back at his wife. Sharon was looking up at him. There were tears in her eyes.

  “And when this international incident is finished?” Sharon asked. “Will we have you then? Do you really think you’ll be happy helping to manage a household instead of running a city or a government agency?”

  “I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “Give me a chance to find out.”

  “A chance?” Sharon smiled. “Paul, this may not make any sense to you, but last night, when I heard what you did for Harleigh, I was angry at you.”

  “Angry? Why?”

  “Because you risked your life, your reputation, your career, your freedom, to save our daughter,” she said.

  “And that made you angry?” Hood said. “I can’t believe that—”

  “It did,” she said. “All I ever wanted from you were little bits of your life. Time for a violin recital, a soccer game, a vacation once in a while. Dinner as a family. Holidays with my parents. I rarely got any of that. I couldn’t even get you to sit with me last night while our baby was in danger.”

  “I was too busy trying to get her out—”

  “I know,” she said. “And you did. You showed me what you can do when you want to. When you want to.”

  “Are you saying I didn’t want to be with my family?” Hood said. “Sharon, you’re stressed out—”

  “I said you wouldn’t understand,” she told him. The tears trickled down her cheeks. “I’d better go.”

  “No, wait,” Hood said. “Not like this—”

  “Please, they’re waiting,” Sharon said. She withdrew her hand and ran toward the bus.

  Hood watched his wife go. After the accordion door was shut and the bus growled to life, Hood started walking toward Coffey and Herbert.

  Now Hood was angry.

  He couldn’t believe it. Even his wife had found fault with what he’d done in the Security Council chamber. Maybe she and Chatterjee should hold a press conference.

  But the anger began to pass as Hood walked toward the van. And just as suddenly, something else began to eat at him. It was a mixture of guilt and doubt, and it started bubbling up the moment Hood saw Bob Herbert stretch out his big, welcoming hand.

  The moment Hood realized that he no longer felt so alone.

  The moment Paul Hood had to ask himself the honest and very painful question:

  What if Sharon was right?

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, 10:00 A.M.

  The greetings were warm, and the good wishes were sincere as Hood entered the van. There was no driver. After Herbert shut the door and Hood had settled into the passenger’s seat, Coffey drove the short distance to Op-Center. The attorney informed Hood that they’d only be at Op-Center long enough for him to shower, shave, and put on a clean suit Herbert had brought from the house.

  “Why?” Hood asked. “Where are we going?”

  “To the White House,” Coffey said.

  “What’s waiting for me there, Lowell?” Hood asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Coffey admitted. “Secretary-General Chatterjee is flying down with Ambassador Meriwether to see President Lawrence. They’re meeting at noon. The
president is the one who wants you there.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “I can’t imagine the president wants a he-said, she-said thing,” Coffey replied. “Anything else I can think of is not good.”

  “Meaning?” Hood asked.

  “Meaning he may want to send you back to New York in the custody of the American ambassador,” Coffey said. “To make sure you’re around to answer any questions the secretary-general and her associates may have. A gesture of our concern.”

  Herbert’s wheelchair was parked behind and between the seats. “A gesture,” he snorted. “Paul saved the friggin’ place. What he did took as much guts as I’ve ever seen. Mike and Brett were also great. But Paul — when I heard that you were the one who took the last guy out, I was never prouder of anyone. Never.”

  “Unfortunately,” Coffey said, “international law does not provide for ‘proud’ as a defense.”

  “And I’m telling you, Lowell, if Paul is sent to New York or the goddamned Hague and the International Court of Supposed Justice,” Herbert said, “or some other half-assed place where they serve up scapegoat on hot coals, I’m gonna take hostages.”

  The debate was typical Herbert-Coffey and, as usual, the real world was somewhere between the two extremes. There were legal issues, to be sure, but courts also took emotional exigencies into consideration. Hood wasn’t as concerned about that as he was about the near future. He wanted to be with his family, helping Harleigh through her recovery. He couldn’t do that if he were defending himself in some other country.

  Hood also wanted to stay with Op-Center. Maybe resignation had been an overreaction. Maybe he should have taken a leave of absence.

  And maybe that’s all academic now, he reminded himself. A few days ago, his future was still in his own hands. Now it was in the hands of the president of the United States.