State of Siege

FIFTY-TWO

Harleigh’s head rose above the back of the seats and stopped. Downer was below the seats, still holding her hair tightly. The girl’s face was pale and upturned, her eyes straining from the sides. The tip of the gun barrel was pressed to the back of her head.

Mike Rodgers was at the foot of the gallery, in the center. Because of the steep slope of the rows and the intervening seats, the only target he had was the hostage-taker’s left hand. That was too close to Harleigh’s neck, and it still left his right hand free, holding the gun. He kept his gun trained on the hand, though he knew that they weren’t going to be able to let this go on for very long. The drape would only contain the poison gas for another few minutes. Even if he could get to a gas mask, that wouldn’t help Harleigh.

August was crawling up the stairs on the north side of the chamber, to Rodgers’s right. Though hobbled by the gunshot wounds to his legs and clearly in pain, the colonel had no intention of sitting this out. Behind the terrorist, the UN security agent entered the room cautiously from the back door. That had to be Lieutenant Mailman, the one who briefed Chatterjee after the failed attack on the Security Council.

Suddenly, Rodgers heard a sound behind him. He turned as Hood appeared in the frame of the shattered window. Rodgers motioned him back.

Hood hesitated, but only for a moment. He stepped away, into the darkness of the terrace.

Rodgers faced the gallery and turned his gun back to the terrorist.

“Hey, hero!” the terrorist cried. “You see that I have her?”

His voice was loud, challenging, uncompromising. They weren’t going to be able to bully this man. But Rodgers had another idea.

“You see?” the terrorist asked again.

“I see,” Rodgers said.

“And I’ll kill the bloody girl if I have to!” Downer yelled. “I’ll put a hole in the back of her goddamned head!”

“I saw you kill my partner,” Rodgers said. “I believe you.”

August stopped and looked at Rodgers. Rodgers motioned for him to stay still. August did. He was supposed to be dead.

“What do you want us to do?” Rodgers asked.

“First, I want whoever’s creeping up behind me to get the hell out of here,” the terrorist said. “I can see his feet from here. I can also see the window, so if anyone tries to sneak in, I’ll know it.”

“No tricks,” Rodgers said. “I hear you.”

“I hope so,” Downer said. “When he’s gone, I want you to put your gun down and raise your hands straight up. When you’re both out of here, I want you to send that bitch secretary-general in with her hands on her head.”

“You don’t have a lot of time,” Rodgers pointed out. “The gas will come through the—”

“I know about the gas,” Downer cried. “I won’t need a lot of time if you shut up and move!”

“All right,” Rodgers said. He looked up at the door. “Lieutenant — please make sure the secretary-general is outside and then stay out of the room. I’m coming up to join you.”

Mailman hesitated.

Rodgers moved the gun from the terrorist’s hand to Mailman’s forehead. “Lieutenant, I said I want you out of here.”

Mailman scowled and backed from the Security Council.

Rodgers squatted, put his gun on the floor, and lifted his hands high. Then he walked toward the staircase on the south side of the chamber. He quickly made his way up the stairs. He didn’t think the terrorist would bother firing at him. Until Secretary-General Chatterjee came in, Rodgers was his only means of communicating with the outside.

Rodgers continued up the stairwell. He was nearly level with the fourth row from the top, where the terrorist was hiding. He was looking at Harleigh, whose back was toward him. The slender girl was locked in place, with her hair pulled tight. She wasn’t crying, but that didn’t surprise him. From talking to POWs, Rodgers knew that pain provided focus. It was often a mercy, a distraction from danger or a seemingly hopeless situation.

He wanted to say something encouraging to Harleigh. At the same time, he didn’t want to do anything that might annoy the terrorist. Not when there was a gun barrel pressed against the girl’s skull.

Rodgers backed out the door. That gave him one last chance to glance toward the north side of the chamber. He couldn’t see Brett August from where he was standing. Either the colonel had snuggled up close to the seats or else he’d lost so much blood from his wounds that he’d passed out.

Rodgers hoped that wasn’t the case. This was going to be difficult enough as it was.

Rodgers stepped into the hallway. Chatterjee was there. She looked at him for a moment, then put her hands on her head and started toward the door to the Security Council.

Rodgers put his arm in front of her, barring her way.

“You know about the poison gas?” he asked.

“The lieutenant told me,” she replied.

Rodgers stepped closer. “Did he also tell you that one of my men is still in there?” he whispered.

She seemed surprised.

“The terrorist thinks my man is dead,” Rodgers said. “If Colonel August can get a shot, he’s going to take it. I didn’t want you to be surprised and give him away.”

Chatterjee’s expression darkened.

Rodgers lowered his arm, and the secretary-general walked past him. As she entered the Security Council and shut the door behind her, Rodgers felt like running in after her and dragging her out. He had a sick feeling deep in his belly, the feeling that despite everything that had happened, Chatterjee still believed in an unwritten United Nations policy. A policy that the world organization had upheld repeatedly against the weight of common sense and fundamental morality.

The idea that terrorists had rights.