State of Siege

THIRTY-ONE

Hood felt lonely and scared as he rode the elevator to the seventh-floor lounge of the State Department. That was where the other parents were waiting. There was no one else in the elevator; just his own sorry reflection, distorted and tinted by the highly polished gold-colored walls.

If he weren’t certain that security cameras were watching him and that he’d end up getting hauled away as a menace, Hood would have screamed and thrown uppercuts at the air. He was deeply worried about the rumors of a shooting, and he was miserable being on the sidelines.

The elevator door opened, and as Hood stepped toward the security desk, his cell phone beeped. He stopped walking and turned his back on the guard before answering.

“Yes?” he said.

“Paul, it’s Bob. Is Mike with you?”

Hood knew Herbert’s voice very well. The intelligence chief was talking fast, which meant that he was worried about something. “Mike went to see that local office manager you told him about. Why?”

Hood knew that Herbert would have to speak obliquely, since this was a potentially open line.

“Because there are two people in the target zone that he needs to know about,” Herbert said.

“What kind of people?” Hood pressed.

“Heavy-duty rappers,” Herbert replied.

People with rap sheets, a long history of no good. This was maddening. He had to know more.

“Their presence and the timing could be a coincidence,” Herbert said, “but I don’t want to risk it. I’ll call Mike at the other office.”

Hood walked back to the elevator and pushed the button. “I’ll be there when you do,” he said. “What’s the name?”

“Doyle Shipping.”

“Thanks,” Hood said as the elevator arrived. He folded up the phone and stepped inside.

Sharon would never forgive him for this. Never. And he wouldn’t blame her. She was not only alone among strangers, but he was certain the State Department wasn’t telling the parents anything. But if the terrorists had associates on the inside that no one else knew about, he wanted to be on hand to help Rodgers and August think things through.

On the way down, Hood pulled his Op-Center ID from his wallet. He hurried through the lobby back to First Avenue and ran across the street and up four blocks. He flashed the ID to an NYPD guard who had been posted outside the United Nations Plaza towers. Though the towers were not part of the UN complex per se, a lot of delegates maintained offices here. He went inside.

Hood was breathless as he signed the security register and went to the first bank of elevators that led to the lower floors. He still wanted to scream and punch the air. But at least he was going to get involved in what was going on. At least he would have something to focus on other than fear. Not hope, but something almost as good.

An offensive.