State of Siege

EIGHTEEN

Mala Chatterjee stood just over five feet, two inches. She barely reached the chin of the silver-haired officer who walked slightly behind her. But the secretary-general’s size was not a true measure of her stature. Her dark eyes were large and luminous, and her skin was swarthy and smooth. Her fine black hair was naturally streaked with white and reached to the middle of the shoulder of her sharply tailored black business suit. The only jewelry she wore was a watch and a pair of small pearl earrings.

There had been some very vocal dissidents back home when she was named to this post and opted not to wear a traditional sari. Even her father was upset. But as Chatterjee had just said in an interview with Newsweek, she was here as a representative of all people and of all faiths, not just her native land and her fellow Hindus. Fortunately, the disarmament pact with Pakistan put the sari issue to rest. It also allayed the very vocal complaints some member nations had had, that the world body had opted to appoint a mediagenic secretary-general rather than an internationally renowned diplomat.

Chatterjee hadn’t doubted her ability to handle this job. She had never encountered any problem that couldn’t be resolved by making the first conciliatory move. So many conflicts were caused by the need to save face; remove that element, and the disputes often solved themselves.

Mala Chatterjee held tight to that belief as she and Colonel Mott rode the elevator down to the second floor. Selected reporters had been allowed into this section of the building, and she answered a few questions as she walked toward the Security Council chamber.

“We hope the matter can be resolved peaceably… our priority is the security and preservation of human life… we pray for the families of the hostages and victims to be strong… ”

Secretaries-general had said those exact words or words like those so many times, in so many places around the world, they had almost become a mantra. Yet they were very different here. This wasn’t a situation where people had been fighting and hating and dying for years. The war was new, and the enemy was very determined. The words came from her soul, not from memory. Nor were they the only words that had come to mind. After leaving the reporters, she and the colonel walked past the sprawling Golden Rule, a large mosaic based on the painting by Norman Rockwell. It was a gift of the United States on the fortieth anniversary of the United Nations.

“As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.” Chatterjee prayed that that would be possible here.

Representatives of Security Council nations were gathered to the north of the chambers of the Economic and Social Council. Between them and the adjoining Trusteeship Council chamber were twenty-seven guards, the entire force that Colonel Mott had under his command. There was also a team of emergency medical technicians from the NYU Medical Center, which was located ten blocks south of the United Nations. The technicians were all volunteers.

Secretary-General Chatterjee and Colonel Mott neared the Security Council chamber double doors. They stepped a few yards away. The colonel removed the radio from the loop in his belt. It was preset to the correct frequency. He switched the unit on and handed it to the secretary-general. Chatterjee’s hand was cold as she took it. She looked at her watch. It was ten-thirty.

She’d gone over the words in her head as she walked here, made them as concise as she could. This is Secretary-General Chatterjee. Would it be all right if I came in?

If the terrorists admitted her, if the deadline passed without a death, then there would be room for talk. For negotiation. Perhaps she could convince them to keep her there in exchange for the children. Chatterjee wasn’t even thinking beyond that, to her own fate. For a negotiator, the goal was everything, the means secondary. Truth, deceit, risk, compassion, coldheartedness, resolve, seductiveness; everything was coin of the realm.

Chatterjee’s slender fingers held the radio tightly as she raised the mouthpiece toward her lips. She had to make sure she sounded strong but nonjudgmental. She swallowed to make sure the words didn’t catch. Her voice had to be clear. She moistened her lips.

“This is Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee,” she said slowly. She’d decided to add her first name to deformalize the introduction. “Would it be all right if I came in?”

There was nothing but silence on the radio. The terrorists had said they’d be listening to this channel; they had to have heard. Chatterjee could swear she heard Colonel Mott’s heart throbbing in his chest. She could certainly hear her own, like sandpaper up around her ears.

A moment later, there was a loud crack from behind the double doors of the Security Council chamber. It was followed by screams from deep within the chamber. An instant after that, the nearest of the two doors opened outward. The Swede fell out, except for the back of his head.

That was on the wall inside the chamber