State of Siege

FORTY-SIX

The secretary-general was still standing in the corridor outside the Security Council. Little had changed since the siege began. A few of the delegates had left, and others had come up. Security personnel were more agitated than before, especially those who had taken part in the aborted assault. Young Lieutenant Mailman, a British officer who had come here after helping to plan Desert Fox, was the most restless of all. After Chatterjee had phoned the terrorists to relay Hood’s message, the officer walked over.

“Ma’am?” he said.

The silence was oppressive. Though he was whispering, his voice sounded very loud.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Ma’am, Colonel Mott’s plan was a good one,” he insisted. “We couldn’t have anticipated the variable, the other gunmen.”

“What are you asking?” she said.

“There are only three terrorists left now,” he told her, “and I have a plan that might work.”

“No,” she said adamantly. “How do you know there won’t be other variables?”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “Soldiering isn’t about predicting the future. It’s about fighting wars. And you can’t do that standing on the sidelines.”

There were sounds from behind the door of the Security Council. Whimpering, knocking, snarls. Something was happening.

“I’ve given you my answer,” she replied.

A moment later, Paul Hood called back. Enzo Donati handed her the cell phone.

“Yes?” Chatterjee said anxiously.

“She turned on us,” Hood said.

“God, no,” Chatterjee said. “Then that’s what’s happening inside.”

“What’s happening?” Hood said.

“A struggle,” she said. “They’re going to execute the hostage.”

“Not necessarily,” Hood said. “One of my men is on the way up. He’s dressed in civilian clothes—”

“No!” the secretary-general said.

“Madam Secretary, you’ve got to let us handle this,” Hood said. “You don’t have a plan. We do—”

“You had a plan, and we tried it,” she said. “It failed.”

“This one won’t—”

“No, Mr. Hood!” Chatterjee said as she cut him off. She felt like screaming. The phone beeped again. She shut it off and handed it to Donati. She told her assistant to leave.

It was as though someone had spun the world like a top. She was dizzy, electrified, and exhausted at the same time. Is this what war was like? A white-water river that carried you to places where the best you could do, the best you could hope for, was to take advantage of someone who was slightly more dizzy and exhausted than you?

Chatterjee looked at the Security Council door. She would have to try to go in again. What else was there to do?

Just then, there was a commotion from the hallway just past the Economic and Social Council chambers. Several of the delegates turned around, and members of the security force were going over to see what was happening.

“Someone’s coming!” shouted one of the security police.

“Quiet, damn you!” Mailman hissed.

The lieutenant ran over to the police line. He arrived just as the barefoot Colonel August shouldered through the crowd of delegates. August raised both hands to show the security people that he was unarmed, but he didn’t stop moving.

“Let him through!” Mailman said, his voice an insistent whisper.

The line of blue shirts parted immediately, and August stepped through. As he did, he reached into his pants pockets and withdrew both Berettas. The officer’s movements were fast and sure, no wasted action. He was less than ten feet from the door. All that stood between him and the Security Council chamber was Mala Chatterjee.

The secretary-general looked at August’s face as he neared. His eyes reminded her of a tiger she’d once seen in the wild in India. This man had smelled his prey, and nothing was going to come between them. At the moment, those eyes seemed like the only steady thing in her universe.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Leon Trotsky had once written that violence seemed to be the shortest distance between two points. The secretary-general didn’t want to believe that. When she was a student at the University of Delhi, Professor Sandhya A. Panda, an acolyte of Mohandas Gandhi, had taught pacifism as though it were a religion. Chatterjee had practiced that faith devoutly. Yet in five hours, everything that could go wrong did. Her best efforts, her self-sacrifice, her calm thoughts. At least Colonel Mott’s aborted attempt had managed to get a wounded girl to the hospital.

Just then, there was a soft cry from the other side of the door. It was a girl’s voice, high and muffled.

“No!” the voice sobbed. “Don’t!”

Chatterjee choked on an involuntary cry of her own. She turned reflexively to go to the girl, but August stopped her with a firm nudge as he rushed past.

Armed with a handgun, Lieutenant Mailman followed August. He stopped several paces behind the colonel.

Chatterjee started after them. Mailman turned and held her back.

“Let him go,” the lieutenant said quietly.

Chatterjee didn’t have the energy or will to resist. In a madhouse, only the insane are at home. They both watched as the Colonel paused at the door, but only for a moment. He turned the handle with the heel of his left hand and remained standing. Once again, his movements were clean and efficient.

A hearbeat later, he followed both guns in.