State of Siege

NINETEEN

Paul Hood had composed himself and returned to the cafeteria. He reached it just as representatives from Department of State security police arrived. Since the parents were all U.S. citizens, the American ambassador had requested that they be moved at once to DOS offices on the other side of First Avenue. The reason given was security, but Hood suspected that sovereignty was the real issue. The United States did not want American citizens interrogated by foreign nationals about a terrorist attack on international soil. It would set a dangerous precedent to allow any government or representatives thereof to hold Americans who were not charged with breaking foreign or international law.

None of the parents liked the idea of moving from the building where their children were being held. But they went, accompanied by Deputy Chief of Security Bill Mohalley, DOS. Hood made Mohalley out to be about fifty. From the way he stood, with his big shoulders back, his manner clipped and commanding, he had probably come to DOS via the military. The dark-haired Mohalley reiterated that their own government could keep them better protected and better informed. Both statements were true, though Hood wondered how much the government would actually tell them. Armed terrorists had gotten through American security systems to reach the UN. If anything happened to the children, there would be unprecedented lawsuits.

As they were leaving the cafeteria and starting up the central staircase, the gunshot from the Security Council chamber echoed through the building.

Everything stopped. Then there were a few distant shouts among the otherwise awful silence.

Mohalley asked everyone to continue quickly up the stairs. It took a long second before anyone moved. Some of the parents insisted that they go back to the correspondents’ room to be close to their children. Mohalley told them that the area had been closed off by United Nations security personnel and it wouldn’t be possible to get in. Mohalley urged them to go ahead so he could get them to safety and find out what had happened. They started moving, though several of the mothers and a few of the fathers began to weep.

Hood put his arm around Sharon. Even though his own legs were weak, he helped her up the stairs. There had only been one shot, so he assumed a hostage had been killed. Hood had always felt that was the worst way to die, robbed of everything to help make someone else’s point. A life used as a bloody, impersonal exclamation point, one’s loves and dreams ended as though they didn’t matter. There was nothing colder to contemplate than that.

When they reached the lobby, Mohalley received a call on his radio. As he stepped aside to take it, the parents filed into the spotlit park situated between the General Assembly Building and 866 United Nations Plaza. They were met there by two of Mohalley’s aides.

The call was brief. When it was finished, Mohalley rejoined the group at the head. As they filed past, he asked Hood if he could talk to him for a moment.

“Of course,” Hood said. He felt his mouth grow very dry. “Was that a hostage?” he asked. “The gunshot?”

“Yes, sir,” Mohalley said. “One of the diplomats.”

Hood felt sick and relieved at the same time. His wife had stopped a few steps away. He motioned for her to go ahead, that everything was okay. At the moment, okay was a very relative term.

“Mr. Hood,” Mohalley said, “we did a quick background check on all the parents, and your Op-Center record came up—”

“I’ve resigned,” Hood said.

“We know,” Mohalley told him. “But your resignation doesn’t become effective for another twelve days. In the meantime,” he went on, “we have a potentially serious problem that you’ll be able to help us with.”

Hood looked at him. “What kind of problem?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Mohalley told him.

Hood hadn’t really expected Mohalley to tell him. Not here. The State Department was paranoid about security outside its own offices, though here they had a right to be. Every diplomat, every consulate was here to help their country. That included being “on the line,” using everything from eavesdropping to electronics to listen in on conversations.

“I understand,” Hood said. “But it’s related to this?” he pressed.

“Yes, sir. Will you follow me?” Mohalley said. It was less a question than a statement.

Hood glanced toward the courtyard. “What about my wife—”

“We’ll tell her we needed your help,” Mohalley informed him. “She’ll understand. Please, sir, this is important.”

Hood looked into the man’s steel-gray eyes. Part of Hood — the part that felt guilty about Sharon — wanted to tell Mohalley to go to hell. Lowell Coffey had once said, “The needs of a state come before the needs of estate.” Hood had gotten out of government for that reason. A delegate had just been shot, and their daughter was being held by his killers — killers who had vowed to murder another person every hour. Hood should be with his wife.

Yet there was also a part of him that didn’t want to sit around and wait for others to act. If there was something Hood could do to help Harleigh, or if he could collect intel for Rodgers and Striker, he wanted to be in there doing it. He hoped Sharon would understand.

“All right,” Hood said to the security head.

The men turned and walked briskly toward the courtyard. They headed toward First Avenue, which was blocked by police cars from Forty-second to Forty-seventh Streets. Beyond them was a wall of glare, the lights from TV cameras. Parked along the avenue were three NYPD Emergency Service Unit Radio Emergency Patrol trucks with FAT squads — Fugitive Apprehension Teams — just in case the terrorists were Americans. The bomb squad from the Seventeenth Precinct was also there, complete with their own van. Overhead was a pair of NYPD Aviation Unit blue and white Bell-412 helicopters, their powerful spotlights shining on the compound. Cleaning personnel and diplomatic aides were still being evacuated from the UN and from the towers across the avenue.

In the glow of the white lights, Hood could see his ghostly white wife being led across the street with the other parents. She was looking back, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He waved, but they were immediately blocked by the REP trucks on the UN side of the street and the wall of police on the other.

Hood followed Mohalley south toward Forty-second Street, where a black State Department sedan was waiting. Mohalley and Hood slipped into the backseat. Five minutes later, they were headed through the renovated Queens-Midtown Tunnel, out of Manhattan.

Hood listened as Mohalley spoke. And what he heard made him feel as though he’d been sucker punched, pushed into taking a big step in the wrong direction.