State of Siege

TWENTY-ONE

Reynold Downer went over to Georgiev after killing the Swedish delegate. Except for a few of the children who were crying and the Italian delegate who was praying, everyone in the room was silent and still. The other masked members of the group remained where they were.

Downer stood close enough so that Georgiev could feel the warmth of his breath through the mask. There were tiny spots of blood on the fibers.

“We need to talk,” Downer said.

“About what?” Georgiev whispered angrily.

“About throwing more logs on the fire,” Downer snarled.

“Go back to your post,” Georgiev insisted.

“Listen to me. When I opened the door, I saw about twenty or twenty-five armed and shielded security guards in the corridor.”

“Eunuchs,” Georgiev said. “They won’t risk an assault. We’ve talked about this. It will cost them everything.”

“I know.” Downer’s eyes shifted to a secure phone sitting in a duffel bag on the floor. “But your intelligence source said that only France agreed to pay. We don’t have the damned secretary-general as a hostage, the way we planned.”

“That was unfortunate,” Georgiev said, “but not catastrophic. We’ll manage without an advocate.”

“I don’t see how,” Downer said.

“By outwaiting them,” Georgiev said. “When the United States starts to worry that the children are at risk, they will pay whatever the other nations do not. They’ll charge it to their UN debt, find some face-saving way to give it to us. Now, go back and do what you’re supposed to do.”

“I don’t agree with this,” Downer insisted. “I think we need to turn up the heat.”

“There’s no need,” Georgiev said. “We have time, food, and water—”

“That isn’t what I mean!” Downer interrupted.

Georgiev fired him a look. The Australian was getting loud. This was exactly what he expected from Downer. A ritualistic, confrontational nay-saying, as predictable and extreme as a Japanese Kabuki. But it was going on a little too long and getting a little too loud. He was prepared to shoot Downer, to shoot any of his people if he had to. He hoped Downer could see that in his eyes.

Downer took a breath. He was calmer when he spoke. The message had been received.

“What I’m saying,” Downer went on, “is these bastards don’t seem to be getting the message that we want the money, that we’re not going to talk. Chatterjaw tried to negotiate.”

“We expected that, too,” Georgiev said. “And we closed her down.”

“For now,” Downer grumbled. “She’ll try again. Talk is all these bloody idiots ever do.”

“And it never succeeds,” Georgiev said. “We have contingencies for everything,” the Bulgarian reminded him quietly. “They will comply.”

The Australian was still holding the gun he’d used to kill the Swedish delegate. He shook it as he spoke. “I still think we ought to find out what they’re planning and push the bastards,” Downer said. “I say that after we put down the Italian delegate, we start serving up the kiddies. Maybe torture them first, let a few screams drift through the corridors. Like those Khmer Rouge guerrillas in Cambodia who caught the family dog and cut it up slowly to draw out the family. Put pressure on them to hurry things along.”

“We knew that it would take several bullets to get their attention,” Georgiev whispered back. “We knew that even if there is a willingness to sacrifice delegates, the United States won’t allow the children to die. Not through an attack and not through inactivity. Now, for the last time, return to your post. We will follow our plan.”

Downer left with a huff and an oath, and Georgiev turned his attention back to the hostages. The Bulgarian had also expected this. Reynold Downer was not a patient man. But resolve could be tested and teamwork strengthened by conflict and tension.

Except in the United Nations, Georgiev thought ironically. And the reason for that was simple. The United Nations promoted peace instead of gain. Peace instead of testing oneself. Peace instead of life.

Georgiev would fight it until he succumbed to the peace there was no avoiding, the peace that eventually came to every man.