State of Siege

THIRTY-NINE

The audio bug in the corridor picked up the shots from the Security Council chamber. The reports were muffled, as were the shouts in the corridor, but it was clear to Paul Hood and the others that one side or the other had made a move. The shouts continued after the gunfire had stopped.

Hood was standing behind Ani. Except for swinging over to a laptop on another desk — to try and boost the audio quality, she said — the young agent had stayed at her post. She was calm and very focused.

August was standing to Hood’s left. Rodgers had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and had pulled a chair from the other desk. He had asked for, and was given, a book of blueprints of the United Nations. Hood had a look at the book over Rodgers’s shoulder. The FBI had obviously assembled the blueprints in order to plant primitive eavesdropping devices in structural materials back in the 1940s. Updated notations on the pages suggested that the CIA also used the blueprints to program routes for their mobile bugs.

On the floor near where Rodgers had pulled his chair was an upright canvas case. The zippered bag was open on top, and Hood could see a TAC-SAT phone inside.

As Hood stood there listening, he heard his cell phone beep. He assumed it was Bob Herbert or Ann Farris with information. Hood slipped the phone from his pocket. Mike Rodgers rose and came over.

“Hello?” Hood said.

“Paul, it’s me.”

“Sharon,” Hood said. Christ, not now, he thought.

Rodgers stopped. Hood turned his back to the room.

“I’m sorry, hon,” Hood said quietly. “I was on my way up to see you when something happened. Something that had to do with Mike.”

“He’s here?”

“Yes,” Hood said. He wasn’t really listening to the phone. He was trying to hear what was happening in the Secretariat Building. “Are you holding up okay?” he asked.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “Paul, I need you.”

“I know,” he said. “Look, we’re in the middle of something here. We’re trying to get Harleigh and the others out. Can I call you back?”

“Sure, Paul. Just like always.” Sharon hung up.

Hood felt like he’d been slapped. How could two people be so close one night, then be totally unconnected the next day? But he didn’t feel guilty. He felt angry. He was doing this to try and save Harleigh. Sharon wasn’t happy being alone, but that wasn’t what the hang-up was about. It was about the fact that Op-Center had separated them again.

Hood folded his phone and put it away. Mike placed a hand on Hood’s shoulder.

Suddenly, they heard Chatterjee’s voice clearly. “Lieutenant Mailman, what happened?” the secretary-general asked.

“Someone shot Colonel Mott before the rest of the team went in,” he said breathlessly. “He may be dead.”

“No,” Chatterjee said while he was still speaking. “God, no.”

“They killed one of my people and then we got one of the terrorists before withdrawing,” the lieutenant went on. “We also pulled a girl out. She’d been shot. There was no way we could get in without taking a lot of casualties.”

Hood felt his knees weaken.

“I’ll find out who it is,” Rodgers said. “Don’t call Sharon. You may worry her for nothing.”

“Thanks,” Hood said.

Rodgers went to the office phone and called Bob Herbert. In order to keep track of known terrorists and underworld figures — many of whom were regularly hurt in explosions, car accidents, or gunfights — Op-Center had a program that was connected with all the big-city hospitals and interfaced with the Social Security Administration. Whenever a social security number was entered on a hospital computer, it was checked against Op-Center’s database to make sure that the person wasn’t someone the FBI or police were looking for. In this case, Herbert would have Matt Stoll check on everyone who was admitted to a UN-area New York hospital in the last half hour.

The conversation continued in the Secretariat.

“You did the right thing pulling out,” Chatterjee said.

“There’s something else,” the lieutenant said. “Two of the delegates were armed and firing.”

“Which two?” Chatterjee said.

“I don’t know,” the lieutenant replied. “One of the team members who got a good look said it was an Asian man and woman.”

“It could be Japan, South Korea, or Cambodia,” Chatterjee said.

“Both of the delegates were killed by the terrorists.”

“Who were the delegates shooting at?” Chatterjee asked.

“Believe it or not, they were firing at Colonel Mott,” he replied.

“At the colonel?” she said. “They must have mistaken him for—”

“The terrorist he replaced,” the lieutenant said.

A radio beeped as the lieutenant was speaking. Chatterjee answered it. “This is Secretary-General Chatterjee.”

“That was stupid and reckless,” said the voice on the other end. The man’s voice was scratchy and faint and spoken with an accent, but Hood was able to make out most of what was being said. Concentrating on that was a welcome distraction from thinking about the wounded girl.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” Chatterjee said. “We tried to reason with your partner—”

“Don’t try and make this our fault!” the caller snapped.

“No, it was all mine—”

“You knew the rules, and you ignored them,” he said. “Now we have new instructions for you.”

“First tell me,” Chatterjee said. “What is the condition of our officer?”

“He’s dead.”

“Are you sure?” Chatterjee implored.

There was a shot. “Now I am,” the caller replied. “Do you have any other questions?” he asked.

“No,” Chatterjee said.

“You can come and get him when we’re gone,” said the terrorist. “How soon that happens is up to you.”

There was a short, painful silence. “Go ahead,” Chatterjee said. “I’m listening.”

“We want the helicopter with six million American dollars,” he said. “We want cash, not transfers. You have our man; he may tell you our names. I don’t want our accounts frozen. Let us know when the helicopter is here. We will resume the killing in eight minutes and again every half hour. Only this time we won’t be killing delegates. We’ll continue on the young ladies.”

Hood realized he had never known hate until that instant.

“Oh please, no!” Chatterjee cried.

“You made this happen,” the caller said.

“Listen to me,” Chatterjee said. “We’ll get what you want but there must be no more killing. There has been too much already.”

“You have eight minutes.”

“No! Give us a few hours!” Chatterjee implored. “We’ll cooperate with you. Hello? Hello!”

All was quiet. Hood could imagine the depth of the secretary-general’s frustration.

August shook his head. “The troops ought to go back in now, hit them fast when they don’t expect it.”

“We ought to go in,” Hood said.

“They said they’ll release poison gas,” Ani told them.

“But they didn’t during the first assault,” August said. “Hostage-takers want to live. That’s why they’ve got hostages. They won’t give up that advantage.”

Rodgers turned from the phone. “It wasn’t Harleigh who was shot,” he said. “The girl’s name is Barbara Mathis.”

Everything was relative. Harleigh was still a prisoner, and one of her ensemble mates was injured. Yet relief washed over Hood from the inside out.

Despite the fact that Harleigh was still in there, Hood had to agree with August. The men in the Security Council chambers were not suicide bombers or political terrorists. They were pirates, here for plunder. They wanted to get out alive.

After a moment, Chatterjee informed the lieutenant that she was going to the infirmary. She wanted to talk to the captured terrorist. There was no further audio after the secretary-general left.

“She’s out of range of the bug,” Ani said.

Rodgers looked at his watch. “We’ve got less than seven minutes,” he said sharply. “What can we do to stop them?”

“There isn’t enough time to go to the Security Council and get inside,” August said.

“You’ve been listening to this for nearly five hours,” Rodgers said to Ani. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Guess,” Rodgers pressed.

“They’re leaderless,” she said. “There’s no telling what they might do now.”

“How do you know that?” Hood asked.

She looked at him.

“That they’re leaderless?” he said.

“Who else would have gone out to talk for them?” she asked.

The phone rang, and Ani picked up. It was Darrell McCaskey for Rodgers. Ani passed him the phone. Something else passed between Rodgers and the woman as well. A disapproving look. Or was it doubt?

The conversation was short. Rodgers stood there saying very little as Darrell McCaskey briefed him. When he was finished, he handed the receiver back to Ani. She turned and lay it in the cradle.

“UN Security fingerprinted the captured terrorist,” Rodgers said. “Darrell just got the intel.” Rodgers looked back at Ani. He leaned over her chair, his hands on the armrests. “Talk to me, Ms. Hampton.”

“What?” she said.

“Mike, what is it?” Hood asked.

“The terrorist’s name is Colonel Ivan Georgiev,” Rodgers said. He was still looking down at Ani. “He served with UNTAC in Cambodia. He also worked with the CIA in Bulgaria. Did you ever hear of him?”

“Me?” Ani asked.

“You.”

“No,” she said.

“But you know something about this that we don’t,” Rodgers said.

“No—”

“You’re lying,” Rodgers said.

“Mike, what’s going on?” Hood asked.

“She came to the office before the attack,” Rodgers said. He moved closer to Ani. “To work, you said.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re not dressed for work,” Rodgers said.

“I was stood up,” she said. “That’s why I came here. I had reservations at Chez Eugenie, you can check. Hey, I don’t know why I have to defend myself to—”

“Because you’re lying,” Rodgers said. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

“Of course not!” she said.

“But you knew something was going to happen,” Rodgers said. “You served in Cambodia. Colonel Mott was killed by a pair of Cambodians posing as delegates to the United Nations. Did they think they were shooting Ivan Georgiev?”

“How the hell should I know?” Ani cried.

Rodgers shoved the chair back. It rolled across the tile floor and slammed into a filing cabinet. Ani started to rise, and Rodgers pushed her back down.

“Mike!” Hood shouted.

“We don’t have time for this bullshit, Paul,” Rodgers said. “Your daughter could be the next one they kill!” He glared down at Ani. “Your TAC-SAT is on. Who were you calling?”

“My superior in Moscow—”

“Call him now,” Rodgers said.

She hesitated.

“Call him now!” Rodgers yelled.

Ani didn’t move.

“Who’s on the other end of that line?” Rodgers demanded. “Was it the Cambodians, or is it the terrorists?”

Ani said nothing. Her hands were on the armrests. Rodgers slapped one of his hands on top of hers. She couldn’t move it. He pushed a thumb under her index finger and bent it back. She screamed and reached over with her other hand to try and pry him off. He used his free hand to shove her hand back to the armrest and kept up his pressure on the other.

“Who’s on the other end of the goddamn phone?” Rodgers yelled.

“I told you!”

Rodgers bent the finger back until the nail was nearly touching the wrist. Ani screamed.

“Who’s on the other end?” Rodgers pressed.

“The terrorists!” Ani cried. “It’s the terrorists!”

Hood felt sick.

“Are there any other outside units besides you?” Rodgers demanded.

“No!”

“What are you supposed to do next?” Rodgers asked.

“Tell them if the money’s really being delivered,” she said.

Rodgers released her hand. He rose.

Hood was staring at the young woman. “How could you help them? How?”

“We don’t have time for that now,” Rodgers said. “They’re going to kill someone else in three minutes. The question is how do we stop them?”

“By paying them,” August said.

Rodgers looked at him. “Explain.”

“We get Chatterjee’s number from Op-Center,” August said. “We ask her to get on the radio to tell the terrorists she has the money. Then our lady here corroborates that. We contact the NYPD, get a chopper over there like they asked for, and have a SWAT unit take them when they come out.”

“They’ll come out, but with hostages,” Hood said.

“We’re going to have to risk the hostages at some point,” August said. “At least this way we’ll save more than we could in the Security Council — and one of them for sure.”

“Do it,” Hood said, glancing at his watch. “Fast.”