State of Siege

TWENTY

When the gun sounded inside the Security Council chamber, Colonel Mott immediately moved in front of the secretary-general. If there had been additional gunfire, he would have pushed her back to where his security personnel were standing. The officers had grabbed blast shields, which were stacked off to the side, and were standing behind them.

But there was no more shooting. There was only the acrid smell of cordite, the cottony deafness caused by the gunshot, and the unthinkable coldness of the execution.

Secretary-General Chatterjee stared ahead. The mantra had failed. A man had died, and so had hope.

She had seen death re-created in her father’s films. She had seen the aftermath of genocide in videos produced by human rights organizations. Neither of those came close to capturing the dehumanizing reality of murder. She looked at the body lying chest-down on the tile floor. The eyes and mouth were both open wide, and the dead face was like clay, flat on its cheek and turned toward her. Beneath it, blood was spreading evenly in all directions. The man’s arms were twisted under his body, and his feet were turned in opposite directions. Where was the shadow of the Atman her faith talked about, the eternal soul of Hinduism? Where was the dignity we supposedly carried with us into the cycle of eternity?

“Get him out of here,” Colonel Mott said after what was probably just a second or two but seemed infinitely longer. “Are you all right?” he asked the secretary-general.

She nodded.

The emergency medical technicians came forward with a stretcher. They rolled the delegate’s body on top of it. One of the medics placed a thick swatch of gauze against the gaping head wound. This was more for propriety than to help the delegate, who was beyond help.

Behind the guards, the representatives were still and silent. Chatterjee looked at them and they looked at her. Everyone was ashen. Diplomats dealt with horror every day, but they rarely got to experience it.

It was a long moment before Chatterjee remembered the radio in her hand. She quickly composed herself and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Why was that necessary?”

After a short silence, someone answered. “This is Sergio Contini.”

Contini was the Italian delegate. His normally powerful voice was weak and breathy.

Colonel Mott turned toward Chatterjee. His jaw was tight, and there was anger in his dark eyes. He obviously knew what was coming.

“Go ahead, Signore Contini,” Chatterjee said. Unlike Mott, she was holding on to hope.

“I have been asked to tell you that I will be the next victim,” he said. The words came slowly, unsteadily. “I will be shot exactly one—” he stopped and cleared his throat “—exactly one hour from now. There will be no further communication.”

“Please tell your captors that I wish to come inside,” Chatterjee said. “Tell them I want to—”

“They’ve stopped listening,” Mott informed her.

“Excuse me?” Chatterjee said.

The colonel pointed to the small red indicator light on top of the oblong unit. It was off.

Chatterjee lowered her arm slowly. The colonel was wrong. The terrorists never started listening. “How long until we have pictures from inside the chamber?” she asked.

“I’ll send someone downstairs to find out,” Mott said. “We’re maintaining radio silence in case they’re listening.”

“I understand,” Chatterjee said. She returned his radio to him.

Colonel Mott sent one of his security officers downstairs, then ordered two others to clean up the delegate’s blood. If they had to move in, he didn’t want anyone slipping on it.

As Mott spoke with his troops, several of the representatives tried to come forward. Mott ordered his guards to keep them back. He said that he didn’t want anyone blocking the path to the Security Council chambers. If any of the hostages managed to get out, he wanted to be able to protect them.

While Mott kept the crowd orderly, Chatterjee turned her back on the group. She walked toward the picture window that overlooked the front courtyard. It was usually so active out there, even at night, with the fountain and the traffic, people jogging or walking their dogs, lights in the windows of the buildings across the street. Even helicopter traffic was being routed away from midtown — not just in case there was an explosion on the ground but in the event that the terrorists had accomplices. She imagined that barge and pleasure boat traffic was also being stopped along the East River.

The entire enclave was paralyzed. So was she.

Chatterjee took a tremulous breath. She told herself there was nothing they could have done to prevent the delegate’s murder. They couldn’t have put together the ransom, even if the nations had agreed to try. They couldn’t have attacked the Security Council chamber without causing more death. They couldn’t negotiate, though they tried.

And then suddenly it struck her: what she’d done wrong. One thing — one small but significant thing.

Walking over to the representatives, Chatterjee informed them that she was returning to the conference room to notify the delegate’s family of the assassination. Then, she said, she was coming back.

“To do what?” demanded the delegate from the Republic of Fiji.

“To do what I should have done the first time,” she replied, and then headed toward the elevator.