State of Siege

FORTY-NINE

This is not a bottleneck operation, Mike Rodgers thought gravely as he looked across the Security Council chamber. This was proof of the Striker axiom that nothing was guaranteed.

Rodgers had crossed the rose garden the same way August had. By the time he’d reached the courtyard, however, the gun battle had begun, and most of the police who were outside the lobby had gone inside. He was able to reach the hedges on the east side of the courtyard unseen. Creeping ahead to the north-side window of the Security Council chamber, he immediately placed and detonated the C-4. He only used a small amount in order to keep the flying glass to a minimum. He suspected that once the bottom of the window was blown in, the rest of the pane would collapse. He was right.

Entering the chamber, Rodgers saw Colonel August roughly four yards in front of him. The colonel was on his knees and bleeding from both legs. Between them was a dead terrorist and a container leaking gas. Rodgers also saw the armed terrorist in the northside gallery stairwell. Obviously, something had gone terribly wrong.

Firing two shots to drive the terrorist gunman back between the seats, Rodgers turned and grabbed the drape. The blast had torn it in the middle and, yanking hard, he ripped the bottom half from the window. Many kinds of poison gas were lethal if they came into contact with flesh. He would rather try to contain the gas this way than close the canister.

Rodgers pulled the heavy fabric over the container. He figured that should buy them about five minutes in here — enough time to get everyone out. He’d have them leave through the broken window; since it was behind him, it would be easier for him to cover.

As Rodgers turned to the girls who were gathered around the table, August swung onto his back and sat up. He was facing the back of the chamber and still holding one of his Berettas.

“All right!” Rodgers said, looking at their faces. “I want all of you to go out through the window, quickly!”

Led by Ms. Dorn, the girls hurried toward the outside terrace and safety. As they did, Rodgers turned back to August.

“Where’s the third terrorist?” he asked.

“Fourth row from the top of the gallery,” August said. “He’s holding one of the girls.”

Rodgers swore. He hadn’t seen Harleigh Hood among the girls down here. It had to be her.

As August spoke, he had maneuvered onto his knees and crept back toward the stairwell. Raising himself up on the wooden banister, he started up the steps. Walking was obviously agony for the colonel, who put most of his weight on his left arm. He held his right arm out, Beretta pointed ahead. Rodgers didn’t have to ask him what he was doing; he was using himself as bait to draw the terrorist’s attention. He watched as the colonel made his way up the stairs.

Rodgers stood between the hostages and the gallery. Several of the delegates also rose and scrambled to get out, pushing the girls aside as they ran. If it were up to Rodgers, he would have shot them. But he didn’t want to turn his back on the gallery. Not with one of the terrorists still up there.

The chamber was emptying, and the thick drapery seemed to be holding down the gas for now. Rodgers wished he could move over to the north side of the chamber to cover August, but he knew he had to look out for the safety of the hostages. He watched as August limped higher.

Rodgers turned for a moment to check on the girls. All of them had been evacuated, and the last of the delegates were heading toward the window. Then, as Rodgers turned back, he heard a shot from the gallery. He saw August’s arms fly back as the colonel lost his gun and he stumbled against the wall. A moment later, August went down back-first.

Rodgers swore and ran toward the stairwell. The terrorist rose and fired at the general. Since Rodgers wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest, he had to drop to the floor in front of the gallery.

“Don’t worry!” the terrorist shouted at Rodgers. “You’ll get your turn!”

“Give it up!” Rodgers yelled back as he wriggled toward the stairwell on his belly.

The terrorist didn’t answer. Not with words. The next thing Rodgers heard were two shots and then a cry.

Rodgers swore. I’ll kill him, he thought bitterly as he rose quickly, hoping to nail the terrorist before he could turn and aim.

But Rodgers was too late. He watched as the terrorist dropped his gun, twisted, and then slumped over the back of one of the seats. There were two large red exit wounds in his back. Stepping toward the stairway, Rodgers saw August still lying on his back. There was a bullet hole in his left pocket.

“Son of a bitch should have paid closer attention,” August said as he removed the second gun from his pocket. The barrel of the gleaming Beretta was still smoking.

Rodgers was relieved, though he was far from happy as he turned toward the steep gallery. There was still a third terrorist, the one who apparently was holding Harleigh Hood hostage. He had been ominously silent throughout the exchange. A UN security officer was crouched in the doorway. Save for the muted hissing of the gas canister under the drapery, the chamber was quiet. And then they heard a voice from the aisle of the upper gallery.

“You have not won,” said Reynold Downer. “All you have done is gotten more of the ransom for me.”