State of Siege

TWELVE

Reynold Downer stood in one of the two Security Council chamber doorways that opened into the corridor. The double oak doors were in the far northern corner of the long, back wall of the council. Outside and just beyond the doors, a second wall jutted into the corridor perpendicular to the Security Council wall. Downer had opened only the far side door. The Australian was still wearing his ski mask.

In front of Downer was a slender, middle-aged man in a black suit. He was Swedish delegate Leif Johanson. There was a single sheet of legal-sized paper in his trembling hands. Downer was holding a handful of the man’s blond hair and pulling backward slightly. His automatic was pressed to the base of the man’s skull. The Australian turned the man so that he was facing away from the corner formed by the two walls.

Ahead of them were a dozen United Nations security guards. The men and women were wearing bulletproof vests and helmets with thick visors. Their guns were drawn. Several of the guards were shaking slightly. That wasn’t surprising. Though the bodies of their dead comrades had been removed, their blood was still on the floor.

“Speak,” Downer said into the captive’s ear.

The man looked down at the legal-sized paper. He was trembling hard as he read from it.

“I’ve been ordered to inform you of the following,” he said softly in a Swedish accent.

“Louder!” Downer hissed.

The man spoke up. “You have ninety minutes to deliver 250 million dollars U.S. to the Zurich Confederated Finance account VEB-9167681-EPB. The name on the account is false, and any attempts to access it will result in additional deaths. You will also deliver a helicopter with ten-person capacity, running and fully fueled, in the courtyard. We will be taking passengers with us to ensure your continued cooperation. You will notify us by radio on the regular United Nations security channel when both are there. No other communications will be acknowledged. If you fail, one hostage will be killed then and every hour thereafter starting with — with myself.” The man stopped. He had to wait until the paper stopped shaking before continuing. “Any attempt to liberate the hostages will result in the release of poison gas which will kill everyone in the room.”

Downer quickly pulled the man back toward the open door. He told him to drop the paper so the officials would have the bank number, then ordered him to shut the door as they stepped inside. When it closed, Downer released the man’s hair. The Swede stood there unsteadily.

“I–I should have tried to run,” the Swede muttered. He looked at the door. He was obviously weighing his chances of getting back outside.

“Hands on your head, and move,” Downer growled.

The Swede looked at Downer. “Why? You’re going to shoot me in an hour whether I cooperate or not!”

“Not if they deliver,” Downer said.

“They can’t!” he cried. “They won’t simply turn over a quarter of a billion dollars!”

Downer raised the gun. “It would be a shame if they do, and I’ve already killed you,” he said. “Or if I kill you and then have to shoot your companion ninety minutes from now.”

His defiance faded quickly. Reluctantly, the Swede put his hands on top of his head. He started down the staircase, which ran along the southern side of the gallery.

Downer walked several paces behind the delegate. To the left were green-velvet seats grouped in two tiers of five rows each. Before the era of heightened security, these seats were used by the public to watch the activities of the Security Council. A waist-high wooden wall separated the bottom row of seats from the main floor. There was a single row of chairs in front of that wall. These seats were reserved for delegates who were not members of the Security Council. Beyond the viewing area was the main section of the Security Council chamber. This section was dominated by a large table shaped like a rounded horseshoe. Inside this table was a narrow, rectangular table facing east and west. When the Security Council was in session, the delegates sat at the outer table and the translators sat at the center table. Tonight, the children were sitting at the far side of the circular table and the guests of the delegates were seated at the circular table and at the rectangular one in the center. The delegates themselves were sitting on the floor inside the circular table. As the Swede rejoined the other delegates, his companion, a striking young woman, looked at him from where she was seated at the table. He nodded that he was all right.

Beyond the table, on either end of the chamber, two tall floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the members of the Security Council to look out on the East River. The glass was bulletproof, and the green drapes were drawn now. Between them was a large painting that depicted the phoenix soaring from the ashes, the world symbolically rising from the destruction of World War II. On either side of the room, one floor up, were the glass-enclosed media rooms, which had replaced the correspondents’ room.

Barone and Vandal were standing in either corner of the chamber, by the windows. Sazanka was positioned by the north side door, and Georgiev was a floater, moving around and keeping an eye on the five additional doors on the main floor. Right now, he was standing in the opening of the horseshoe table. Like Downer, the men were all still wearing their ski masks.

As soon as the Swede was seated, Downer walked over to Georgiev.

“Who was out there?” Georgiev asked.

“They had about a dozen ladies in the corridor,” Downer said.

The ladies were the general-purpose UN security guards, so-called because they usually stood around talking. The guards they had shot on the way in were all ladies.

“There were no special forces personnel,” Downer said. “They can’t even act decisively when their own bacon is burning.”

“That is something they will learn to do this evening,” Georgiev said.

Georgiev nodded toward the Swede. “He delivered the message exactly as I wrote it?”

Downer nodded.

The Bulgarian looked at his watch. “Then they have eighty-four minutes left before we start sending out bodies.”

“You really think they’ll comply?” Downer asked quietly.

“Not at first,” Georgiev said. “I’ve said that all along.” He glanced over at the tables. His voice was matter-of-fact as he said, “But they will. When the bodies pile up and we come closer and closer to the children, they will.”