State of Siege

FORTY-SEVEN

Shortly after answering the TAC-SAT call from Barone, Annabelle Hampton went to the closet, took one of the last remaining Berettas, and walked into the hallway. The corridor was empty. The bastards who had tried to bully her were gone. She headed past the closed offices, custodial closet, and rest rooms toward the stairwell.

Annabelle didn’t want to take the elevator for two reasons. First, there were security cameras built into the ceiling. Second, the men from Op-Center might be waiting for her in the lobby. She wanted to take the stairs to the cellar and slip out the side door. She would reconnect with Georgiev later, as planned. She had sent the two CIA floaters to pick him up at the UN infirmary. Annabelle would tell her superior that she had Georgiev removed because of what he knew about CIA operations in Bulgaria, Cambodia, and in the rest of the Far East. She didn’t want that information falling into the hands of the United Nations. She would also tell him that the men from Op-Center were in league with the terrorists. That would keep them at bay long enough for her to collect her share of the ransom and get out of the country. If there was no ransom, she’d still use the money Georgiev had paid her up front to go to South America.

The door opened in. It was solid metal, as required by fire laws. There was no window, so the young woman opened it cautiously in case anyone was on the other side.

No one was waiting there. Annabelle let the door shut and started across the concrete landing. There were five floors to the cellar; Hood or one of his men could still be waiting for her down there. She didn’t think the police would be there. NYPD policy was to throw a tight net. They would have come up to the fourth floor to shut her in, not give her an opportunity to get away.

She started down the steps. And then the lights went off. Even the security spots went down, which could only be controlled from the utility room. The young woman thought angrily, Right next to the men’s room. Goddam whichever of those bastards thought of that. She was angrier at herself for not having checked the room.

Annabelle considered going back, but she didn’t want to waste the time or risk a showdown with whoever had cut the lights. Switching the gun to her left hand, she grabbed the handrail with her right hand and made her way down slowly. She reached the landing, turned the corner, and started down the second half of the stairs. She was pleased with the progress she was making.

Until a bright light snapped on in front of her and then a sharp, crippling pain struck her left thigh.

She fell over, unable to breathe and losing the gun as pain rocked her entire left side.

“Put ’em back on!” someone shouted.

The stairwell lights snapped back, and Annabelle looked up. She saw a beefy, black-haired man looming over her. He was dressed in a white shirt and wearing navy blue trousers. In his thick hands were a radio and a black police-style baton. He was State Department Security. The name tag on his shirt said Deputy Chief Bill Mohalley.

Mohalley picked up her gun and tucked it in his waistband. Annabelle tried to get up but couldn’t. She could barely breathe. As she lay there, she heard the door open on the fourth-floor landing.

While the State Department officer radioed for the rest of his team to come to the third floor, Hood ran down the stairs. He must have been the one who turned off the lights. Hood stopped on the landing and looked down at the young woman. His expression seemed sad.

“I thought — we had a deal,” she gasped.

“So did I,” Hood replied. “But I know what you did. I heard.”

“You’re lying,” she said. “I — saw you — in the camera.”

Hood just shook his head. Mohalley stepped over as his team ran up the stairs.

“My team will take it from here,” Mohalley said to Hood. “Thanks for your help.”

“Thanks for having given me your card,” Hood said. “Have you heard anything about the wounded girl?”

Mohalley nodded. “Barbara Mathis is on the operating table. She’s lost a lot of blood, and the bullet’s still in her. They’re doing everything they can, but it doesn’t look good.” He looked down at Annabelle. “She’s just fourteen years old.”

“I didn’t want — any of the children hurt,” Annabelle said.

Hood stepped back. Shaking his head again, he turned and ran down the stairs.

Annabelle lay back as other State Department security personnel arrived. Her thigh was throbbing painfully, and her back hurt where it had hit the stairs. But at least she was able to breathe again.

What Annabelle had said to Mohalley was true. She felt sorry that one of the young musicians might die. That wasn’t supposed to happen. If the secretary-general had cooperated, if she had done the right thing, none of the girls would have been hurt.

Without quite being able to wrap her brain around the idea, Annabelle knew that she was probably going to spend the rest of her life in prison. As disturbing as that was, however, what bothered her most was the fact that Paul Hood had outsmarted her.

That once again, a man had come between her and her goal.