by Tom Clancy
Since no one else knew that Hood was being brought here, none of the primary weekday staff was present. The weekend team congratulated Hood for his heroism and Harleigh’s rescue. They wished him luck and support with whatever came next.
The hot shower felt good on Hood’s sore muscles, and the fresh clothes felt even better. Forty-five minutes after arriving at Andrews, Hood was back in the van with Herbert handling security and Coffey at the wheel.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 11:45 A.M.
Sitting in the limousine that was taking her to the White House, Mala Chatterjee felt unclean.
It had nothing to do with her physical state, though she could have used a long rest and a bath. She had settled, instead, for a shower in her office and a nap on the flight down.
The feeling she had was the result of watching diplomacy die in a slaughterhouse. Though she hadn’t been able to control the bloodshed, she was determined to control the cleanup. And it would be thorough.
Mala Chatterjee had not spoken much with Ambassador Flora Meriwether during the ride up. As cohostess of the Saturday-night event, the fifty-seven-year-old ambassador had been late going to the Security Council, just as Chatterjee had been. Thus, the ambassador and her husband had not been among the hostages. However, the ambassador had not remained with the other delegates after the takeover. She had gone to her office, claiming that this was a matter for Chatterjee and her advisers to handle. That was true, although Meriwether could not have put more distance between herself and the takeover.
The ambassador didn’t want to appear to pressure the UN into allowing American negotiators or SWAT personnel to become involved, Chatterjee knew. Which was ironic, given how the siege turned out.
Mala Chatterjee did not know how the ambassador felt now. Or what the president was thinking. Not that it mattered. The secretary-general had insisted on this meeting because she needed to immediately reestablish the right of the United Nations to settle its own disputes and discipline those nations that broke international law. The United Nations had been quick to condemn Iraq for invading Kuwait. They could be no less quick to bring the United States to justice for interfering in the hostage crisis.
The international press was waiting en masse for the limousine when it passed through the southwest appointment gate. Ambassador Meriwether declined to speak but waited while Chatterjee spoke to the group.
“The events of the past eighteen hours have been difficult ones for the United Nations and its family,” she said, “and we mourn the loss of so many of our valued coworkers. While we are gratified that the former hostages have been reunited with their families, we cannot condone the methods that were used to end the crisis. The success of the United Nations and its operations depends upon the forbearance of the host nations. I’ve asked for this meeting with the president and Ambassador Meriwether so that we can begin to accomplish two very important goals. First, to reconstruct the events that undermined the sovereignty of the United Nations, its charter, and its commitment to diplomacy. And second, to make absolutely certain that its sovereignty is not violated in the future.”
Chatterjee thanked the group, ignoring shouted questions and promising she’d have more to say after meeting with the president. She hoped that she conveyed the feeling that she’d felt violated by members of the American military.
The route to the Oval Office is a zigzag that takes a visitor past the office of the press secretary and the Cabinet Room. Beyond the Cabinet Room is the office of the president’s executive secretary. This is the only entrance to the Oval Office, and a member of the Secret Service is stationed there at all times.
The president was ready promptly at noon. He personally came out to welcome Mala Chatterjee. Michael Lawrence stood six-foot-four, with a close-cropped head of silvery gray hair and dark, sun-weathered skin. His smile was wide and genuine, his handshake was strong, and his deep voice resonated from somewhere around his knees.
“It’s good to see you again, Madam Secretary-General,” he said.
“Likewise, Mr. President, though I wish the circumstances were different,” she replied.
The president’s blue gray eyes shifted to Ambassador Meriwether. He had known her for nearly thirty years. She had been a fellow poly-sci student at NYU, and the president had pulled her from academia to serve in the UN.
“Flora,” he said, “would you mind giving us a few minutes?”
“Not at all,” she said.
While the president’s executive secretary shut the door, the president showed Secretary-General Chatterjee to a seat. Chatterjee’s shoulders were straight, her neck tall and stiff. Dressed in a gray suit, no tie, the president was more at ease as he used a remote to click off the TV. The set had been tuned to CNN.
“I heard your remarks to the press,” the president said. “When you talked about the events that undermined the sovereignty of the United Nations, were you referring to the terrorist attack?”
Chatterjee sat in a yellow armchair. She folded her hands on her lap and crossed her legs.
“No, Mr. President,” the secretary-general said. “That is very much a separate issue. I was referring to the uninvited attack by Mr. Paul Hood of your National Crisis Management Center and two as yet unidentified members of the United States military.”
“You’re referring to the attack that ended the hostage crisis,” he said pleasantly.
“The result is not the issue,” Chatterjee countered firmly. “At the moment, I am deeply concerned with the means.”
“I see,” he said. The president sat behind his desk. “And what would you like to do about it?”
“I would like for Mr. Hood to return to New York and answer questions pertaining to the attack,” she said.
“You want him to go right now?” the president asked. “While his daughter’s recovering from the attack?”
“He doesn’t have to return immediately,” she replied. “The middle of the week would be acceptable.”
“I see. And these questions,” the president said. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I need to formally ascertain whether laws were broken and whether boundaries were overstepped,” she replied.
“Madam Secretary-General,” the president said, “if I may, you’re failing to see the larger picture here.”
“And that is?”
“I believe that the New York Police Department, the State Department, the FBI, and U.S. military units in the region acted with extraordinary restraint and respect, given how many young Americans were at risk. When the situation deteriorated and your own security forces were repulsed — yes, three of our people did go into the Security Council. But they did it selflessly and effectively, like U.S. soldiers have always done.”
“Their courage is not being questioned,” Chatterjee said. “But the law-abiding nature of the many does not outweigh the heroic lawlessness of the few. If laws were broken, then legal remedies may be required. This is not whim on my part, Mr. President. This is our charter. This is our law. And there have already been demands that those laws be upheld.”
“Demands made by whom?” the president asked. “By nations whose terrorists were killed in the attack?”
“By the civilized nations of the world,” she replied.
“And to satisfy their civilized bloodlust, you’ll want to put Paul Hood on trial,” the president said.
“Sarcasm noted,” Chatterjee said. “And yes, a trial is a possibility. Mr. Hood’s actions demand it.”
The president sat back. “Madam Secretary-General, last night Paul Hood became a hero to me and about two hundred and fifty million other Americans. We had a few villains in this, including a rogue CIA agent who will probably spend the rest of her life in prison. But there’s no way on earth that man is going to stand trial for saving his daughter from a terrorist.”
Chatterjee regarded the president for a moment. “You will not turn him over for questioning?”
“I think that pretty much sums up this administration’s position,” the president said.
“The United States will defy the will of the international community?” she asked.
“Openly and enthusiastically,” the president replied. “And frankly, Madam Secretary-General, I don’t think the delegates to the United Nations will care for very long.”
“We are not the Congress, Mr. President,” she said. “Don’t misjudge our ability to remain focused.”
“Never,” the president said. “I’m sure the delegates will be very focused trying to find suitable schools and apartments when this administration supports removing the United Nations from New York to another world capital, say Khartoum or Rangoon.”
Chatterjee felt herself flush. The bastard. The bullying bastard. “Mr. President, I do not respond to threats.”
“But you do,” the president said. “You responded to that one, quickly and openly.”
It took her a moment to realize that he was right.
“No one likes to be pushed,” the president said, “and that’s all we’re doing here. What we need to do is to find a nonconfrontational, nonthreatening solution to this problem. One that’s going to work better for everyone.”
“Such as?” she asked. As frustrated as Chatterjee was, she was still a diplomat. She would listen.
“A more productive way of appeasing those irate delegates might be if the United States were to begin paying all of its two billion dollar debt,” the president said. “The delegates would have more money for UN programs back home, such as the World Food Council, the Children’s Fund, the Institute for Training and Research. And if we work this right, they’ll feel as though they’ve won something. They will have won American capitulation on the debt issue. Your own status will not suffer,” he pointed out.
Chatterjee looked at him coldly. “Mr. President, I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this. But there are legal issues that cannot be dismissed.”
The president smiled. “Madam Secretary-General, almost twenty-five years ago, a Russian — Alexander Solzhenitsyn — said something at a commencement address that this lawyer never forgot. ‘I have spent all my life under a Communist regime,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you that a society without any objective legal scale is a terrible one indeed. But a society with no other scale but the legal one is not quite worthy of man either.’ ”
Chatterjee regarded the president carefully. This was the first time since she’d entered the Oval Office that she saw anything in his eyes, in his expression, that approached sincerity.
“Madam Secretary-General,” the president said, “you’re exhausted. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please,” she said.
“Why don’t you go back to New York, rest, and think about what I’ve said,” the president told her. “Think about how we can work together to establish new moral objectives.”
“Instead of deciding old ones?” she asked.
“Instead of rehashing divisive ones,” he replied. “We need to heal the divide, not make it wider.”
Chaterjee sighed and rose. “I believe I can agree to at least that, Mr. President,” she said.
“I’m glad,” he replied. “I’m sure the rest will fall into place.”
The president came from behind his desk. He shook her hand and walked her toward the door.
The secretary-general hadn’t expected the meeting to unfold like this. She had known the president would resist her demand but thought that she’d be able to use the press to sway him. Now, what could she tell reporters? That the president had been a bastard. Instead of turning over an American father, he’d offered to put the UN back on sturdy financial footing and help thousands of fathers in underdeveloped countries worldwide.
As they crossed the thick blue carpet with the gold presidential seal, Chatterjee thought how ironic it was. Coming to the White House, she’d felt unclean because diplomacy had died. Yet here, in this room, it had just been practiced with skill and intelligence.
Why, then, did she feel even dirtier than before?
FIFTY-NINE
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 12:08 P.M.
Paul Hood had been in enough politically and emotionally charged situations, both in government and on Wall Street, to know that the outcome of important meetings was often decided before the meetings were called. Key people, often no more than two, spoke or got together beforehand. By the time everyone else arrived, the talk was mostly for show.
This time, there wasn’t even a show. Not inside the office, anyway.
Hood had waved to the press on his way in but declined to answer any questions. When he entered the Oval Office, Ambassador Meriwether was chatting with the president’s executive secretary, forty-two-year-old Elizabeth Lopez. The two were comparing perspectives on the previous day’s activities. They stopped when Hood arrived.
Hood had always found Lopez to be polite but formal. Today she was warm and welcoming. She offered him coffee from the president’s private pot of Kona, which he accepted. The usually poker-faced ambassador was also unusually outgoing. Hood thought it was ironic that the only mother who seemed to disapprove of him today was the mother of his own children.
The ambassador told Hood that Mala Chatterjee was inside.
“Let me guess,” Hood said. “She’s demanding that I appear in front of some ad hoc committee comprised of people who hate the United States.”
“You’re jaded,” the ambassador smiled.
“But not wrong,” Hood said.
“The secretary-general is not an unreasonable woman,” Ambassador Meriwether said, “just idealistic and still a little green. However, early this morning, the president and I discussed a possible solution to the problem. One which we believe the secretary-general will find acceptable.”
Hood sipped his black coffee and was about to sit down when the door to the Oval Office opened. Mala Chatterjee walked out, followed by the president. The secretary-general did not look happy.
Hood put his mug aside as the president offered Ambassador Meriwether his hand.
“Madam Ambassador, thank you for coming down,” the president said. “I’m glad to see you’re all right.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Ambassador Meriwether,” the president said, “the secretary-general and I just had a very productive exchange of ideas. Perhaps we can fill you in while we walk you back to the southwest appointment gate.”
“Very good,” she said.
The president’s eyes shifted to Hood. “Paul, it’s good to see you,” he said, offering his hand. “How’s your daughter today?”
“Pretty shaken up,” Hood admitted.
“Understandably,” said the president. “Our prayers will be with you. If there’s anything we can do, please ask.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“In fact, I think we’ve got things pretty well under control here,” the president said. “Why don’t you go home to your daughter?”
“Thank you, sir,” Hood said.
“We’ll let you know if there’s anything else,” the president said, “though it would be a good idea if you stayed away from reporters for a few days, let Op-Center’s press rep handle this. At least until the secretary-general has had a chance to talk to her people in New York.”
“Of course,” Hood said.
Hood shook the hands of the president and the ambassador. Then he shook the hand of the secretary-general. It was the first time she looked at him since the night before. Her eyes were dark and tired, her mouth was downturned, and there was gray in her hair he hadn’t noticed before. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. She hadn’t won this battle either.
A security area sat between the end of the main corridor and the west-wing entrance. Lowell Coffey and Bob Herbert were there, chatting with a pair of secret service agents. They had not been invited to the meeting but wanted to be nearby in case Hood needed moral or tactical support or even
a lift, depending on where he had to go after the meeting.
They approached Hood as the president, secretary-general, and ambassador went out to meet reporters.
“That was quick,” Herbert said.
“What happened?” Coffey asked.
“I don’t know,” Hood said. “Ambassador Meriwether and I were not in the meeting.”
“Did the president say anything to you?” Coffey asked.
Hood smiled weakly. He put a hand on the attorney’s shoulder. “He told me to go home to my daughter, which is exactly what I intend to do.”
The three of them left the White House. They avoided reporters by heading toward West Executive Avenue and then making their way south toward the Ellipse, where they’d parked.
As they left, Hood couldn’t help but feel bad for Chatterjee. She wasn’t a bad person. She wasn’t even the wrong person for this job. The problem was the institution itself. Nations invaded other nations or committed genocide. Then the United Nations gave them a forum to explain their acts. Just allowing them to be heard had the effect of legitimizing the immoral.
It occurred to Hood then that there might be a way for Op-Center to help rectify those abuses. A way he could use the team’s resources to identify international criminals and bring them to justice. Not to trial — to justice. Before they struck, if possible.
It was something to think about. For though he owed his daughter a father, a family, he owed her something else as well. Something very few people could hope to deliver.
A saner world in which she could raise her own family.
SIXTY
Los Angeles, California
Sunday, 3:11 P.M.
He had been to many places in the world. The Arctic. The tropics. Each had their individual charms and beauty. But he had never been anywhere as instantly appealing as this place.
He walked out of the terminal and sucked down the breezy-warm air. The late afternoon sky was clear blue, and he swore he could taste the ocean in it.
