State of Siege

TWENTY-EIGHT

Georgiev was carrying the panicked girl back to her seat when Barbara Mathis went down. Downer, who had fired the shot, was running from the top of the gallery. Barone was also running over. It was he who had shouted for Barbara to stop.

Heedless of her own safety, one of the Asian delegates’ wives had gotten up from the table and was walking over to Barbara. She was smart. She didn’t run. She also stopped with her back to the door; she didn’t intend to run. The Bulgarian didn’t order the woman back. She set her purse down, knelt beside the girl, and carefully plucked the blood-soaked gown from around the wound. The bullet had struck the teenage girl in the left side. Blood was oozing from the small opening. The girl wasn’t moving. The flesh of her slender arms was pale.

Georgiev continued toward the circular table. He wondered if that whole thing had been planned: One girl runs screaming to get everyone’s attention while another girl runs in the opposite direction and tries to get out. If so, it was a clever, dangerous maneuver. Georgiev admired courage. But just like some of the girls who used to work for him in Cambodia — some of whom were no older than this girl — she had acted disobediently. And she had been punished.

Unfortunately, the lesson was probably lost on the other hostages. They were already getting surprisingly bold. Some were pushed by fear, others by outrage over what had happened to the girl and the delegates. A mob mentality, even among hostages, had a way of shutting down reason. If they turned on him, he’d have to shoot them. Shooting them would rob him of his leverage, and the sound of gunfire and cries would embolden security forces to move in.

Of course, he would shoot them if he had to. All he really needed to get out of this were the children. Even one child would do, if it came to that.

Suddenly, two other delegates stood up. That was the problem with giving one person some extra leash. Everyone assumed they had it, too. Georgiev dropped the stunned Laura into her seat, where she sat sobbing. He ordered the other delegates to sit down. He didn’t want too many people on their feet or someone else might be tempted to run.

“But that girl is hurt!” one of the delegates said. “She needs help.”

Georgiev raised his gun. “I haven’t selected the next one to die. Don’t make my choice easy.”

The men sat down. The one who’d spoken looked like he wanted to say something else; his wife urged him to be silent. The other one looked sadly toward Barbara.

To their right, Contini’s wife was sobbing hysterically. One of the other wives was hugging her tight to keep her from wailing.

Vandal brought the music teacher back and ordered her to sit as well. Ms. Dorn said that she was responsible for Barbara and insisted that she be allowed to take care of her. Vandal pushed her back down. She started to get back up. Angrily, Georgiev swung toward the woman. He pointed his gun at her head and walked forward. Vandal backed away.

“One more word from you or anyone else and they will die,” he said through his teeth. “One more word.”

Georgiev watched as the woman’s nose flared and eyes widened, just like the whores in Cambodia. But she was silent. Reluctantly, she sat down and turned her attention to the girl who’d tried to run.

Vandal lingered a moment longer and then returned to his post. Downer reached Georgiev’s side at the same time as Barone. Barone got very close to the Australian.

“Are you insane?” Barone snarled.

“I had to do it!” he snapped.

“Had to?” he said, careful to keep his voice low. “We were going to try not to hurt the children.”

“The mission would have been in jeopardy if she’d gotten away,” Downer said.

“You heard me yelling, saw me running toward her,” Barone said. “I would have gotten to her before she reached the outer door.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Georgiev said. “The important thing is, she didn’t get away. Now, go back to your posts, both of you. We’ll care for her here as best we can,” Georgiev said.

Barone glared at him. “She’s a young girl.”

Georgiev glared back. “No one told her to run!”

Barone was furiously silent.

“Now we have a door unprotected, and you should be watching for the fiber-optic cable,” Georgiev said, quietly. “Or would you rather see our planning and effort lost because of that!” He pointed toward Barbara.

Downer grunted and returned to the top of the gallery. Barone huffed, shook his head in frustration, then went back to the front of the gallery.

Georgiev watched them go. Whether he liked it or not, this had changed things. Crime is a mood-intensifying effort. Close quarters heightens emotions, and an unexpected drama makes things even worse.

“You have to let me send her out of here.”

Georgiev turned. The Asian woman was standing beside him. He hadn’t even heard her approach.

“No,” he said. He was distracted. He had to refocus, get his men back. Push the United Nations harder. And he thought he knew how.

“But she’s going to bleed to death,” the woman said.

Georgiev walked toward one of the duffel bags. He didn’t want the girl to die because it might incite a rebellion. He pulled a small blue case from inside and came back. He handed her the box.

“Use this,” Georgiev said.

“A first aid kit?” the woman said. “That isn’t going to help.”

“That’s all I can give you.”

“But there may be internal bleeding, organ damage—” the woman said.

Downer waved and caught Georgiev’s eye. The Australian was pointing toward the door.

“You’ll have to make do,” the Bulgarian said to the woman and motioned Vandal over. When the Frenchman arrived, Georgiev told him to make sure the Asian woman didn’t try to get out. Then Georgiev walked toward the stairs.

He stepped up to Downer. “What is it?”

“She’s here,” the Australian whispered thickly. “The secretary-general. She knocked on the bloody door and asked to come in.”

“Is that all she said?” Georgiev asked.

“That’s all,” Downer told him.

Georgiev looked past the Australian. Focus, he told himself. Things had changed. He had to think this through. If he let Chatterjee in, her efforts would become focused on getting the girl medical attention, not on getting them the money. And if he did let the girl out, the press would find out that a child had been hurt, possibly killed. There would be increased pressure for military action, despite the risks for the hostages. There was also the chance that the girl might became conscious in the hospital. If she did, she could describe the distribution of the men and hostages to security personnel.

Of course, Georgiev could let the secretary-general in and refuse to let the girl out. What would Chatterjee do, risk the lives of the other children by refusing to cooperate?

She might, Georgiev thought. And just having her challenge his authority in here might embolden the captives or else weaken his influence among his own people.

Georgiev looked back at the hostages. He had told the UN how to contact him and what to say when they did. His instincts told him to go downstairs, get another one, and have him make the same speech the last delegate had made. Why should he change his plan, let them think he lacked resolve?

Because situations like these are fluid, he told himself.

Then it came to him, suddenly, like his best ideas always did. A way to give Chatterjee what she wanted without compromising his demands. He would see her. Only not in the way she expected.