State of Siege

THIRTEEN

Paul Hood did a quick, schizophrenic two-step.

Hood hadn’t breathed while he listened to the terrorists’ demands. The crisis manager in him hadn’t wanted to miss a word or inflection, anything that might tell him if they had any of that wiggle room Mike had spoken about. They did not. The demands were specific and time-sensitive. Now that the terrorists were finished addressing the guards, Hood couldn’t breathe. The crisis manager had been replaced by the father, one who had just learned the improbable price of his daughter’s freedom.

What was improbable was not the amount of the demand. Hood knew from his banking days that up to a billion dollars was liquid in banks and in the local federal reserve institutions in New York and Boston. Even the time frame was manageable if the United Nations and the federal government put their minds to it. But they wouldn’t. In order to get cooperation from local banks and the federal reserve, the United States government would have to guarantee the loan. The federal government might do that if the secretary-general asked and agreed to cover the loan with UN assets. However, the secretary-general might be afraid to do so for fear of offending nations that already resented American influence over the United Nations. And even if the United States wanted to pay the money as a means of settling part of its outstanding debt, Congress would be required to okay the expenditure. Even an emergency session could not be organized in time. And, of course, once the money was transferred, the terrorists would execute electronic transfers, scattering it in different accounts throughout the system and into linked accounts in other banks or investment groups. There would be no way to mark the funds or to stop the transfer. And there would be no way to stop the terrorists. They’d asked for a ten-seat helicopter because they intended to take hostages with them. One hostage per person, excluding the pilot. That meant there were probably four or five terrorists.

All of this shot through Hood’s mind in the time it took him to shut the door. He turned back into the room and managed to draw a low, shallow breath. The other parents had heard the demands and were still processing what had happened. Sharon was standing beside her husband. She was looking at him, tears trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly he was someone else: the husband. A husband who had to stay steady for his wife.

The door opened, and Hood turned. A guard leaned into the room while another guard covered the corridor.

“Come with me!” the young man barked. “Quickly and quietly,” he added as he waved them on.

Hood stepped aside as the parents filed by. Sharon stepped with him. He took her hand in his left hand and just now remembered the phone in his right. He put it to his mouth.

“Mike?” he said. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here, Paul,” Rodgers said. “We heard.”

“We’re being moved,” Hood said. “I’ll call back.”

“We’ll be here,” Rodgers assured him.

Hood closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. As the last parent left the room, Hood gave his wife’s hand a gentle tug. She went along, and he followed her out.

The parents were hurried past the Security Council chamber, back toward the escalators. There were a few sobs and shouted pleas for their children’s return, but the guards kept the group moving.

Hood was still holding Sharon’s hand. She was squeezing his fingers tightly, probably without being aware of how hard she was gripping them.

As they filed onto the escalators, Hood could see more guards coming up with six-foot-high, transparent blast shields, audio equipment, and what looked like fiber-optic gear. They were obviously going to try to get a look at how the hostages were being held and also listen for snippets of conversation that might tell them who the terrorists were. But Hood knew that this wasn’t going to get their kids back. The United Nations didn’t have the tactical know-how or the personnel to do that. They were an organization of consensus, not action.

“Tell me you have a plan,” Sharon said softly as they rode the escalators down. She was weeping openly. So were several other parents.

“We’re going to think of something,” Hood replied.

“I need more than that,” Sharon said. “Harleigh’s my girl, and I’m leaving her alone and scared up there. I have to know I’m doing the right thing.”

“You are,” Hood said. “We’ll get her out of there, I promise.”

As soon as the group reached the main lobby, they were taken downstairs. A temporary command center was being set up in the lobby outside the gift shops and restaurant. That made sense. If the terrorists had accomplices, it would be difficult for them to monitor activities down here. The press would also have trouble getting down here, which was probably good. Given the international scope of what was happening, press coverage was inevitable. Since the UN would want to keep the number of people down here to a minimum, they would probably select a small pool of journalists.

The parents were taken to the public cafeteria, where they were seated at tables far from the lobby. They were offered sandwiches, bottled water, and coffee. One of the fathers lit a cigarette. He was not asked to put it out. Moments later, senior security personnel arrived to debrief the parents about things they might have seen or heard while they were in the press room. A psychologist and doctor also came down to help them get through the crisis.

Hood did not need their assistance.

Catching the eye of the security head, Hood said that he was going out to the rest room. Rising, he managed to smile for Sharon and then walked around the tables into the lobby. He went to the rest room, entered the rearmost stall, and got Mike Rodgers back on the phone. He stood there, leaning against the tile wall. His shirt was cold with perspiration.

“Mike?” he said.

“Here.”

“The UN people are moving in with AV gear,” Hood said. “We’ve been relocated downstairs for debriefing and psych support.”

“Classic response,” Rodgers said. “They’re setting up for a siege.”

“That isn’t going to be an option,” Hood said. “The terrorists don’t want to negotiate, they don’t want anyone freed from prison. They want money. Doesn’t the UN have a special response unit?”

“Yes,” Rodgers said. “The UNS-Ops is a nine-person division of the security force. Established in 1977, trained by the NYPD in SWAT tactics and hostage situations, and never field-tested.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Rodgers said. “Why would anyone go after the United Nations? They’re harmless. We’ve got Darrell on another line. He says that NYPD policy is to contain and negotiate, to keep things from exploding. And if things do blow, to keep them localized. It sounds like the security team’s setting up to do that where you are.”

Hood felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. This was his daughter’s death they were talking about “localizing”!

“Darrell’s also in touch with a contact in the secretary-general’s office,” Rodgers went on. “Chatterjee is getting together with representatives of the affected nations.”

“To do what?” Hood asked.

“At the moment, nothing. There doesn’t appear to be any inclination to accommodate the terrorists’s demands. They’re still trying to figure out who these people are. They have the paper with the Swede’s script, but it was obviously dictated and written by the delegate. No help in tracing the terrorists.”

“So they just intend to sit this out.”

“For now,” Rodgers said. “That’s what the UN does.”

Hood’s sadness shaded to anger. He felt like going into the Security Council chamber himself and shooting the terrorists one after another. Instead, he turned and punched the bottom of his fist into the wall.

“Paul,” Rodgers said.

Hood had never felt so helpless in his life.

“Paul, I have Striker on yellow alert.”

Hood leaned the top of his head against the wall. “If you send them in here, the world — not just the federal government — the world is going to chew you up and crap you out.”

“I have one word for you,” Rodgers said. “Entebbe. Publicly, the world condemned Israeli commandos for going into Uganda and rescuing those Air France hostages from Palistinian terrorists. But privately, every right-thinking individual slept a little prouder that night. Paul, I don’t give a damn what China or Albania or the secretary-general or even the president of the United States thinks of me. I want to get those kids out.”

Hood didn’t know what to say. The jump from yellow to red alert wasn’t even his decision to make, yet Rodgers wanted his approval. Something about that touched him deeply.

“I’m with you, Mike,” Hood said. “I’m with you, and God bless.”

“Go back to Sharon and sit tight,” Rodgers said. “I promise, we’ll get Harleigh out of there.”

Hood thanked him, shut the phone, and slipped it into his pocket. Mike’s gesture triggered tears he’d been fighting since this whole thing started. He stood there sobbing with his cheek pressed against the cold tile. After a minute, the bathroom door opened. Hood sniffed back his tears, stood, and unspooled some bathroom tissue. He wiped his eyes.

It was odd. Hood had told Sharon what she’d wanted to hear, that they’d save Harleigh, even though he didn’t entirely believe it. Yet when Mike said the same thing, Hood believed him. He wondered if all faith was so easily manipulated. A need to believe given a firm push.

He blew his nose and flushed the tissue down the toilet. There was one difference, he thought as he left the stall. Faith was faith, but Mike Rodgers was Mike Rodgers. And one of them had never let him down.