State of Siege

FIFTY-FOUR

When he first left the Security Council chamber, Mike Rodgers notifed the NYPD’s hazardous materials squad to tell them about the poison gas leak. The team assembled in the north-side courtyard and was ready to move in as soon as everyone was out. The entire UN complex had been closed off; now it was quarantined, the doors and windows covered with plastic sheets, the edges of which were sealed with fast-drying foam. Because there was no one left to tell the police exactly what the poison gas was, an Emergency Service mobile laboratory had been driven to the scene for on-site analysis. New York Fire Department Emergency Medical Service Command crews were on hand, setting up tents in the Robert Moses Playground just south of the United Nations. So was the FDNY’s Marine 1. The fire department presence was required by law in situations involving hazardous materials. Many terrorist groups follow a scorched-earth policy. If they can’t win, they’ll make sure that no one does. Since one of the terrorists had vanished from the United Nations infirmary, and the NYPD didn’t know if there were additional accomplices, they had to be prepared for anything. Including a final act of spite.

Paul Hood and his daughter took a long moment to embrace. Hood was crying openly. Harleigh was shaking violently. Her head was on his chest and she was clutching his arms. One of the medical technicians threw a blanket over her shoulders before leading them out to the EMSC tents.

“We’ve got to get word to your mother,” Hood said through his tears.

Harleigh nodded.

Mike Rodgers was standing behind them, watching as medics carried Brett August away. Rodgers said he’d take care of bringing Sharon over. He also told Hood that he was proud of him. Hood thanked him. But the truth was that when Rodgers left the Security Council and Hood snuck in, he knew that nothing — not his own safety, not national or international law — was going to keep him from trying to save Harleigh.

Hood and his daughter headed toward the escalators along with delegates and security personnel. As they started downstairs, he couldn’t imagine what was going through Harleigh’s mind. She was still holding him tightly and staring ahead with glazed eyes. Harleigh wasn’t in shock; she hadn’t suffered any of the physical injuries that brought on hypovolemic, cardiogenic, neurogenic, septic, or anaphylactic conditions. But the young girl had spent about five hours in that room watching people being shot, including one of her best friends. She had nearly been executed herself. The post-traumatic stress would be intense.

Hood knew from experience that what had happened today was going to be with his daughter every moment of every day for the rest of her life. Former hostages were never truly free. They were haunted by a sense of hopeless isolation, the humiliation of being treated as a thing and not as a human being. Dignity could be rebuilt, but in an unintegrated, patchwork fashion. The sum of the parts would never equal the shattered whole.

What life puts us through, Hood thought.

But his daughter was safe in his arms. As they reached the bottom of the second elevator, Hood saw Sharon running across the lobby. If anyone had tried to keep her out, obviously they’d failed. A woman from the State Department was behind her, desperately trying to keep up.

“My baby!” Sharon was screaming. “My girl!”

Harleigh broke away from Hood and ran to her mother. They clutched each other and wept convulsively, Sharon threatening to engulf the girl with her arms. Hood stood back.

Rodgers walked in, accompanied by Bill Mohalley. Beyond them, in the courtyard, Secretary-General Chatterjee was talking to reporters. She was gesturing angrily.

“I want to shake your hand,” Deputy Chief Mohalley said. He offered Hood a powerful handclasp. “You three rewrote the crisis management book today. I’m honored to have been here to see it.”

“Thanks,” Hood said. “How’s Brett?”

“He’ll be okay,” Rodgers told him. “The bullets missed the femoral artery. The wounds caused more pain than damage.”

Hood nodded. He was still looking at Chatterjee. There were spots of the terrorist’s blood on her outfit, hands, and face.

“She doesn’t seem very happy,” Hood said.

Mohalley shrugged. “We’re going to hear a lot of shit about what you did here,” he said. “But the hostages are safe, four of the terrorists are taking a dirt nap, and one thing is certain.”

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“It’ll be a blustery day in hell before anyone tries something like this again,” Mohalley said.